After explaining the funeral arrangements, the detective on the bed slowly closed his eyes. Shade waited in silence. After a moment, he cautiously pulled his hand free, then leaned closer, checking for breath and pulse.
"Is he dead?"
He found it hard to believe the man had passed so quietly. And yet, it really had taken exactly ten minutes.
Before he could even process the moment, a faint flash of black light rippled across the detective's face. Shade barely registered the phenomenon before the black light dissipated silently into the air.
As the strange light faded, something even stranger happened: the detective's body—once thin, skeletal, and shriveled as if starved—gradually returned to a healthier appearance. The skin smoothed, the cheeks filled out, and the corpse now resembled that of a man who had died peacefully, rather than through long suffering.
"How is this normal? What just happened?"
His heart raced—not from fear of the corpse, but from being in a strange world where he understood nothing. That's when the woman's voice whispered softly in his mind again, as calm as always:
[You have come into contact with 'Whispers'.]
"Whispers? What do you mean? Explain."
No answer.
But Shade recognized the term. "Whispers" was one of the Four Extraordinary Elements mentioned by the detective moments before death. Clearly, the so-called [Relic] and [Whispers] were at the heart of Sparrow Hamilton's mysterious death. Unfortunately, Shade's understanding of both concepts was still shallow.
He turned his gaze to the corpse. Strangely, he didn't feel fear.
This wasn't acting anymore. This was real.
He stood beside the bed in silence, then circled around it and quietly drew back the thick curtains. Sunlight streamed in through the window, filtered by fog and dirt-streaked glass. A faint golden glow fell across the floor.
"Morning?"
He'd assumed it was still night, judging by the heavy curtains.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
A sudden knock startled Shade. Reflexively, he dropped the curtain, then quickly caught himself and pulled it open fully. He looked outside.
Below, through the fog, he saw a horse-drawn carriage. The simple black wagon was unmistakable: a hearse. He could see the coffin inside.
"Of course... He knew exactly when he'd die. That's why the corpse transporter arrived so precisely."
Calming himself, he turned and left the bedroom.
The apartment outside looked much like the bedroom—gas pipes along the walls, solid wood furniture, piles of books and papers, a small blackboard, and a worn fabric sofa next to a coffee table. It was utilitarian, functional—everything a small detective office should have.
Unlike the bedroom, this room's curtains were open. Sunlight streamed in, casting long shadows across the floor. Dust motes drifted in the beams of light. Stepping from the dim bedroom into this bright space, Shade felt strangely disconnected, as if everything that had happened earlier was from another life.
At the door, he unlatched the locks and undid the chain. A spiral staircase stood directly opposite, leading downward. There was another door nearby—likely another apartment. Clearly, the building was structured like an old European tenement, much like something out of a Sherlock Holmes novel.
Shade descended from the second floor, reaching the ground floor entrance. The foyer was small, the hall beyond sealed with wooden planks. The entire first floor was unusable.
"No landlady or a housekeeper. Then why is the first floor sealed off?"
He passed the shoe cabinet, righted a fallen umbrella, glanced at the gas lamp overhead, and opened the main door.
A silent old man in a long black coat stood at the threshold, a silver emblem of interwoven leaves hanging from his chest. His expression was grave as he looked at Shade.
"Shade Hamilton?" he asked, speaking the language Shade now understood—the Delarion common tongue.
"Yes."
Shade nodded carefully, stepping aside to allow the man in. Without further words, the old man gestured to the middle-aged man waiting by the carriage. Together, they followed Shade up the stairs.
He remained silent, leading them to the bedroom marked "1".
Inside, the two men checked the corpse. Satisfied, they produced a document for Shade to sign.
It was a standard body handover confirmation form—an official document from the City Public Cemetery Management Office, bearing both their seal and that of the Funeral Committee.
As the men examined the body, Shade sat at the desk, pen in hand.
It was only then that he realized: though he could understand their language, he didn't know how to write it. Thankfully, the knowledge forcibly implanted in his mind moments earlier included basic literacy.
He translated his name into the local language, then hesitated. The form required a full name: first name, middle name, surname. He could follow "Hamilton" as his surname and "Shade" as his first name, but as for a middle name...
Did the original Shade Hamilton even have one?
There was no time to search the house.
[Suellen]
The woman's voice whispered again. The word appeared in his mind—a term that existed in both the ancient language she spoke and the common tongue. Its meaning: "silver moon."
"I can use that. But... why?"
The voice answered like a poem:
[It is destiny, stranger. The silver moon is your fate. When you gather the Four Elements and open the door to the extraordinary, its meaning will become clear.]
Shade frowned.
But he didn't have time to argue.
He signed: Shade Suellen Hamilton.
The two men didn't ask for a death certificate, nor a report of the cause of death. They didn't even verify whether Shade was truly Shade Hamilton: no questions, no police, no autopsy.
They accepted the document silently, handed him a receipt with the grave location, and began removing Sparrow Hamilton's body from the house.
Shade escorted them downstairs, but didn't step outside. He watched in silence as the body, now dressed in its death clothes, was placed into the coffin and loaded onto the carriage. Without a word, the middle-aged driver flicked the reins, and the hearse disappeared into the morning fog.
"Farewell, Mr. Sparrow Hamilton."
The door closed behind him with a soft thud.
Shade stood in the entranceway for a long moment, alone.
The corpse and its secrets were gone.
This house now belonged to him—a stranger from another world, occupying a borrowed body.
Countless questions burned in his mind.
But dead men told no tales.
And so, he turned and climbed back upstairs. His steps felt heavy, yet oddly relieved. No one was watching. No one was here.
"It went easier than I thought. No one asked about the cause of death. No one even confirmed if I'm really Shade Hamilton. They didn't even ask for a tip."
Was this world just that straightforward?
Or had Sparrow Hamilton arranged everything before death?
Standing there alone, Shade felt the truth: the detective had taken all his secrets with him.
And this place—the detective's home, his agency, his life—now belonged to Shade.
For now.
The second floor's bedroom marked "1" was his. The room next door was locked from the outside. The staircase to the third floor had collapsed. The first floor was sealed.
In short, he was alone.
Shade searched every room again—study, living room, bathroom, bedroom. After confirming no one else was present, he finally relaxed and slumped into the sunlit sofa, gazing at the smog-choked morning outside the window.
It wasn't fog.
It was smog.
Now, finally, he had a moment to think.
"I've transmigrated. Inherited a detective agency. My body's previous owner had issues—simple-minded, homeless—and was brought here to fulfill some 'simple' task after the detective's death... which obviously isn't simple."
He rubbed his face.
"This world has extraordinary powers. The detective's death, and the voice in my head, prove that."
He reviewed what he knew:
- There are Four Extraordinary Elements: Miracle, Enlightenment, Blasphemy, and Whispering.
- He had already come into contact with Whispering.
- A task awaited him in three months.
- He needed to gather the Four Elements.
"And... the silver moon is my destiny."
He closed his eyes, breathing steadily.
The situation wasn't good.
But at least it wasn't hopeless.
He had shelter. A foothold.
A new life in this steam-and-smog world.
The voice in his head remained silent now, but Shade didn't feel lonely.
Sitting there, in the sunlight filtering through the haze, he whispered:
"Since I'm here... might as well see how extraordinary this world really is. The mysteries of the steam age... the rituals, the spells..."
He smiled faintly.
"How could anyone settle for an ordinary life?"
The woman's gentle laughter echoed in his mind—soft as the breeze through a lavender field.