Chapter Two: The Detective’s Last Words

“This last will and request—just hearing it, you know something’s off.”

By the bedside, Shad, whose hand was being held, showed little expression. Yet he clearly understood: the detective had precisely foreseen his death and, before dying, took in a mentally challenged homeless man, leaving all his possessions behind for a seemingly simple request. Such a simple request could never be truly simple.

The other party was likely more than just a detective, and the Shad occupying this new body was no longer the original man. Even if the original Shad did not know the truth, this foreign visitor now understood he should not easily involve himself in something that felt inherently wrong—otherwise...

“If you refuse, I guarantee you won’t get a single penny after I’m gone. Nothing here will belong to you. You’ll become a homeless man again—no gas lamps, no fireplace, no three meals a day, not even a bed. You’ll be back to your old life...”

Yet Shad had no choice but to agree; in this world, he owned nothing. Between starting over as a homeless man and getting involved in a troublesome matter but gaining property, Shad knew neither choice was good—but he had to pick one.

Besides, having heard these words already meant he was involved; there was no turning back. Shad was pragmatic and understood how to gauge his situation.

“By the way, Mr. Spiro Hamilton’s death—is it related to the supernatural? Or the voice in my head?”

He pondered silently but could not draw further conclusions. Then, unexpectedly, the voice in his head spoke again:

“It is related to the supernatural. He died because of an ‘artifact.’ It has nothing to do with you.”

The voice remained elegant and composed. Though brief, the whisper sounded like poetry being recited.

“‘Artifact’?”

In the ancient and graceful language the woman used, this was a proper noun. Different languages carried varying information loads, and in hers, this term was heavy with meaning—implying something like “sealed object,” “containment,” or “curse.”

Shad was grateful he understood the language, reading from the word a sense of “a special item capable of supernatural power but extremely dangerous.”

This led Shad to a rather ominous speculation about this world.

“So, who exactly are you?”

The voice did not explain the term, so Shad silently asked in return, realizing from the response that the voice was also a thinking entity.

“I am you.”

The whisper answered softly—its low tone sending a chill down Shad’s spine.

But Shad snorted softly; he was sure this body was male, so the voice in his head could not be the original owner.

Gazing at the bedside lamp’s glow illuminating the man’s frighteningly pallid, lifeless skin, Shad said:

“I understand, sir.”

“Shad, I have ten minutes left to live. Any questions you have, ask them now.”

The man’s words were impressive, tinged with exhaustion. Shad knew that if what he said was true, the forthcoming questions would be crucial for his survival in this world. He had to be careful.

“Your death... seems unnatural.”

The disguised voice spoke slowly, as if the speaker’s mind was foggy—making the effort to talk obvious. The first question concerned Shad’s own fate after the man’s death; he needed to be sure whether the cause of the detective’s demise would implicate him.

“We never talked about this before, and I know you’ve worried... but don’t. My death may frighten you, but you needn’t fear. It won’t affect you. I need you to complete a task three months from now, so rest assured. Whoever killed me won’t come back. After all, we ordinary people aren’t worth their attention.”

The information was valuable; the man in bed didn’t intend to hide anything.

“Ordinary... people?”

This time Shad hesitated genuinely.

“You don’t need to know. Honestly, I don’t fully understand either. Those Ring Sorcerers, wielders of the four elements—‘Miracles,’ ‘Enlightenment,’ ‘Blasphemy,’ and ‘Whispers’—the five major orthodox churches and the three great arcane academies, this terrifying world... forget what I just said; you’ll live better that way. Remember, you know nothing.”

The man in bed emphasized with effort. Shad could only note these terms and nod.

“Alright, I know nothing.”

He guessed “Ring Sorcerers” referred to the world’s mystics, and the four elements were parts of a power system. The orthodox churches and arcane academies were the main mystical factions.

An ordinary detective wouldn’t understand so much—Spiro Hamilton truly bore many secrets.

But Shad did not press further. With limited time, he needed the other’s willing cooperation, not mutual suspicion searching for lies or truth.

“After you die, how should I live? I don’t understand detecting, and I’m barely literate.”

Although time was tight, he couldn’t speak faster—not just due to disguise but because he hadn’t yet mastered the language. This forced slow pace in a race made him anxious, though he hid it well, only growing more uneasy inside.

“That’s fine. What I taught you is enough. You only need to stay here for three months. Then sell everything and move to the countryside—that’s better for you, safer, and cheaper.”

The man seemed truly weakened, unable to say more. Shad had no memories of what the man had taught, so he sought help from the voice in his head, but it remained silent.

“Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

Shad asked a third time, this question carefully considered before speaking.

“Remember what I said these past three months; remember the simple tasks I left in the memo—you can try to fulfill them to keep the detective agency running; and this deck of cards in this diary...”

The frail man pointed to the bedside. He released Shad’s hand, barely able to speak.

Shad bent down and picked up the diary. It was bound in brown leather, fastened with a magnetic clasp, well preserved.

He handed it back, but the man shook his head weakly, unable to say more.

So Shad opened it himself and flipped through. Each page bore consecutive dates, written front and back. Most entries simply said, “Nothing today, funds running low,” while a few recorded progress on cases.

In the middle of the diary, the pages rustled to a halt—a rigid card was slipped inside. Shad controlled his surprise and saw a small rectangular card, smaller than a palm.

He felt the card’s surface coated with a clear wax-like layer protecting it from damage. Yet on closer touch, it seemed more like a transparent skin—Shad inexplicably thought of human skin.

The card was thin; under the room’s light, he could see its details.

What he guessed was the back showed abstract patterns of the sun, moon, and stars overlaid in a strange combination. The front depicted a woman seated sideways on a high stool, her head turned so her face was partially hidden, holding the moon in her hand.

Silver-haired, her profile wore a faint smile, and she was robed. But the card’s colors were limited—only black, white, and cool tones near those shades.

The upper right corner bore the number 3; the upper left had a small sun symbol. Between them, at the top center, was a white circle containing a black vertical line.

Below the woman’s image, the card’s lower front was mostly blank except for a small line of text:

“When using this card, you may adjust the number within the range of 1 to 5.”

The card looked used but well cared for; the subtle damage was only visible from a side angle in the dim light.

Shad surprisingly understood the text on the card perfectly, just as he could understand the voices of the man and woman.

“How strange. After crossing over, I can understand and read, but still can’t speak.”

He thought quietly, then asked softly:

“What is this?”

“A very valuable card, compatible with the standard 54-card deck we usually use. It belongs to one of four suits—Sun, Moon, Stars, and Flowers—and represents the ‘Sun 3’ card. But this one is a special edition, rare in design and highly collectible. It’s kept in the diary to avoid water or folding damage, and you shouldn’t show it to others lightly. But if you’re truly desperate, go to the Birmingham Collection in Tobesk City; they know its worth... The Rod Cards—my most precious collection in life...”

Shad nodded, noting the term “Rod Cards.” He understood this was a common card game in this world, and the “Sun 3” card was akin to a commemorative coin or stamp. He returned the card to the diary. Though somewhat ornate, judging by the bedroom’s décor and era, this world could manufacture such items, so no need for undue suspicion.

“Sir, is there anything else you want to say?”

Shad asked again. Now, letting the other speak first was better than probing himself.

“Shad.”

Hamilton grasped Shad’s hand once more, eyes softening as he looked at the young man by the bed.

“I know I was never a good man, and I’m truly sorry for dragging you into this. In three months, leave Tobesk City—the capital is no place for you...

“But I think you’ll agree I did right by lifting you out of homelessness. Your mind isn’t sharp—remember, don’t trust others easily, especially those trying to get money from you... I’ve arranged with Tobesk Public Cemetery and chosen a grave. The morticians will come shortly; you don’t need to follow. Live in this house, follow the life skills I taught you, and stay three months.

“Shad, I am sorry... and I wish you luck.”