"I know you're curious, but don't be curious just yet."
On the narrow path leading to the park, Sylas spoke in the rhythmic, nonsensical cadence of internet "brain-rot" literature. Conan, who had spent his life in the logical pursuit of truth and hadn't yet been baptized by the chaotic irony of domestic web novels, found himself utterly unable to formulate a response.
"I don't even know the name of the Black Organization," Conan began, trying to steer the conversation back to his reality. "How did you—"
Sylas cut him off with a dismissive wave. "Relax. I don't have mind-reading powers. And while I don't care about their official name, you might as well call them 'The Distillery.'"
"Why...?"
"Because every one of their operatives is named after a bottle of booze. For instance, the tall, pale man who knocked you out and force-fed you that experimental poison? That's Gin. The thick-headed one with him is Vodka. See the pattern?"
"You... how could you possibly—"
"As for how I know, that's a secret. But rest assured, I'm not a part of their little cocktail club."
And you still claim you can't read minds? Conan thought, his jaw tight. He was a genius, but every time he tried to take the intellectual lead, Sylas simply bypassed his logic entirely. He decided to stop speaking for a moment; the man was a walking enigma.
Sylas chuckled as they rounded a corner, sensing the boy's frustration. "Come now, Conan. Isn't there anything else you want to ask?"
If I wasn't seven years old, I'd definitely punch you, Conan fumed. It had been decades—at least in spirit—since he had felt this level of pure exasperation.
"Who are you? Really? And what is that space behind the door?"
They reached the park, a quiet urban oasis filled with lush, towering trees that stood like silent sentinels in the dark.
"All you need to know is that my name is Sylas," he replied, touching the rough bark of a massive oak. "And that I don't harbor 'too much' ill will toward you. Everything else is beyond your current understanding."
Discussing the Backrooms or Minecraft mechanics with the world's greatest detective seemed like a waste of breath. Conan only became more bewildered. 'Not too much' ill will? Either you're an enemy or you're not!
"This should do," Sylas murmured, ignoring Conan's brewing identity crisis.
Conan, clutching his soccer ball, watched him closely. "What are you doing?"
"Cutting down a tree, obviously."
With a flick of his wrist, the pixelated Stone Axe appeared in Sylas's hand. Conan jumped, his eyes widening at the impossible sight. He watched, mesmerized, as Sylas swung the blocky tool.
Thud.
Conan felt his grip on reality slipping. He stared at the trunk, watching as jagged, black, cubical cracks began to spiderweb across the wood.
This... this violates every law of physics...
"It's a tough one," Sylas grumbled. The cracks spread slowly. It took more than a dozen strikes before the damage reached a critical point.
Thump... Thump... Thump...
POP!
With a soft, localized explosion, the massive tree vanished. The entire trunk transformed into fist-sized wooden blocks that hovered in the air for a fraction of a second before being magnetically pulled into Sylas's body.
"It really works," Sylas grinned, checking his Inventory Management screen. He had plenty of logs now. As he gathered the Oak Saplings and Apples that had dropped to the grass, he mused to himself: So, real-world trees convert to Minecraft logic the moment they're harvested. If that's the case, I should see if I can buy some coal or charcoal later...
The Overworld was still a barren wasteland. He needed materials, and he needed them fast. He checked his HUD.
[Detective Conan World Exploration Progress: 10.013%]
Compared to the stagnant progress in the Backrooms, this world was moving at light speed. It had started at a measly 0.001%, but merely interacting with the protagonist had caused a 10% surge.
If progress is tied to 'Plot Characters,' then I wonder if visiting a graveyard would count? This world has a higher body count than most war zones.
Shaking off the dark thought, Sylas looked at Conan and smiled. "Hey, kid. Close your mouth. You'll catch flies."
"How... how did you do that?"
"Cut the tree?"
"How did it just disappear? And that axe—where did it come from?"
Sylas didn't give him a straight answer. Instead, he asked, "How do you breathe?"
Conan blinked, thrown by the non-sequitur. "How do I breathe? I... inhale, exhale..."
"Exactly. To you, breathing is a fundamental constant of your existence. To me, manifesting an axe and harvesting resources is just as natural. It's just the way the world works for me."
Sylas pulled a perfectly red, unnaturally flawless Apple from his backpack and handed it over. "Thanks for the directions. Consider this a gift."
Conan didn't refuse. He took the fruit, marveling at its impossible symmetry. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it. I'm heading out. I'll look for you tomorrow."
Sylas whispered "Open Door," and the oak portal shimmered into existence beside him. Just before stepping through, he remembered something. He reached into his inventory and tossed the Stun-Gun Watch back to the boy.
"Be careful on your way home. It's a dangerous world for a child."
"Bye-bye!"
Sylas stepped through, and both he and the door vanished into thin air. Conan stood alone in the park, clutching his watch and staring at the empty space where a tree had been moments before.
"Sylas... who exactly are you?"
Back in the Overworld.
Eri was still snoring, blissfully unaware of the multiverse hopping. Sylas walked to his Crafting Table and began processing the logs into planks.
"First a Shield, then some Signs. I'm going to have a lot of doors in here soon; I need to start labeling which world leads where or I'll lose my mind."
Signs were the ultimate organizational tool. As his hoards of stone, iron, and exotic materials grew, he couldn't afford to waste time rummaging through unlabeled chests.
He glanced at the exploration bar again. I wonder what happens at 100%?
As a natural-born completionist, the itch to fill that bar was becoming unbearable. Even if there was no reward, he couldn't stand seeing a number that wasn't 100. It was the "Price of Fate"—his greed for order in a chaotic multiverse.
After a quick inventory sort, he turned toward the door leading back to the Backrooms.
"Time for more iron. And maybe some entities to kill."