Chapter 3: Funeral |
After making his final arrangements, the detective on the bed closed his eyes. Shade pursed his lips and waited for a moment, then pulled his hand free and tentatively checked for breath and a pulse.
"Dead?"
He couldn’t believe the other party had died so easily—and right at the predicted ten-minute mark.
Before he could react further, a streak of black light flashed across the corpse's face. Shade’s heart clenched involuntarily, and an overwhelming wave of terror surged over him.
But when he came to his senses, the black light had dissipated into thin air.
As the light vanished from the body, the corpse, which had been shriveled as if starved to death, began to fill out at a visible pace, as though being inflated from within. It returned to the appearance of a normal corpse.
“Normal? This doesn’t seem normal at all. What’s going on?”
In the silent room, Shade looked around uneasily. It wasn’t the fact of being alone with a corpse that unsettled him, but the unfamiliarity of his surroundings. This world was not the one he once knew. He had already glimpsed a corner of its mysteries and dangers.
The voice of the woman in his mind rang out again, as though to remind him that this place was no longer human:
“Encountered? Whispers? Can you explain more?”
But the voice offered no further response.
Whispers were one of the "Four Mystical Elements" the detective had mentioned earlier. It seemed that both Relics and Whispers were directly linked to his death.
The oppressive and enigmatic truth left Shade at a loss, but surprisingly, he didn’t feel much fear as he looked at the corpse on the bed.
“If this is someone’s idea of a joke, it’s too much.”
At this moment, he wished it was all an act, but rationally, he knew that was impossible.
Standing silently by the bed for a while, he kept as quiet as possible while moving around the four-poster bed to the window. Cautiously and calmly, he pulled open the heavy curtains. Instantly, the faint morning sunlight filtered through the foggy streets and the glass window, bathing the room.
This light temporarily dispelled the unease in his heart.
“It’s morning?”
Because of the thick fabric of the curtains, he had assumed it was night.
Knock, knock, knock—
The sound of knocking on the door startled him. He instinctively let go of the curtain but quickly grabbed it again, fully drawing it open. Squinting at the view outside, he saw a street beyond the window. There was no time to admire the strange, steamy aesthetic of this era’s foggy streetscape. He first looked down and confirmed that it was a body collector knocking at the door. A horse-drawn hearse for transporting corpses was visible below. Only then did he turn to open the door.
“They can pinpoint the exact time of death, so the body collectors can arrive precisely.”
He thought this as he opened the bedroom door. Outside was a sitting room, with gas pipes climbing the walls in a manner characteristic of the steam era. Hand-carved wooden furniture and stacks of books, papers, and documents were scattered around.
A small blackboard on the wall, a formal coffee table, and a fabric sofa ensemble created the style of a detective agency.
The sitting room's curtains were not drawn, allowing the dim morning light from the mist outside to slant onto the floor at Shade’s feet.
In the light, specks of dust drifted silently, like strange, tiny creatures swimming through the air. The realism of it made Shade feel a chill.
Unfastening the cold bolt and chain of the door, Shade opened it to reveal a dark spiral staircase leading down. There was another door adjacent, indicating that this floor had two residences, reminiscent of apartment buildings in Sherlock Holmes stories.
Failing to find any lights, he descended the oppressive, dark staircase. His heart seemed to pound with each step. The dim surroundings and his overactive imagination made Shade feel as if something terrifying was watching him.
From the second floor, he reached the ground floor, where the staircase led directly to the foyer. One side of the foyer connected to a passage completely sealed off by wooden boards, like a coffin that had been nailed shut, leaving only the foyer usable.
This sight heightened the foreigner’s already frayed nerves:
“Why seal off the ground floor? What’s going on here?”
Passing by the shoe cabinet, he picked up a fallen umbrella, glanced at the gas lamp on the wall above the cabinet, and carefully turned it on. The light brought a sense of calm.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.
Standing outside was a silent old man in a black coat, wearing a badge of interlocking leaves on his chest. Behind him loomed a gloomy sky and choking mist. The old man raised his eyes to Shade and spoke in a voice as low as leaves scraping against a wet, cold ground:
“Shade Hamilton?”
He spoke in the same language as the deceased detective—Drarian, the Kingdom’s Common Tongue.
“Yes.”
Shade nodded somewhat stiffly, signaling the detached-looking old man to follow him upstairs.
The old man gestured to a dispirited middle-aged man tending the horses behind him. The latter, with a sullen face matching the weather, joined them.
The three climbed the stairs together. Unsure of what to say, Shade remained silent as he led them to the bedroom labeled “Room 1” on the second floor.
The entire process was almost wordless. The old man and the middle-aged man smelled of corpses. They donned gloves and confirmed the detective’s death before handing Shade a document to sign.
It was a form acknowledging the transfer of the body to the city’s Public Cemetery Management. The document bore dual stamps from the Public Cemetery and the City Funeral Committee. At the bottom was a prayer for the deceased, the translation of which made Shade distinctly uncomfortable.
After examining the corpse, they gave Shade a receipt with the burial plot location. Without any further ceremony, they silently moved the detective’s body—still clad in sleepwear—into the hearse outside.
Shade closed the door, watching the carriage fade into the dense fog of the street.
“Goodbye, Sparrow Hamilton.”
He stood in the dim foyer for a while before returning upstairs.
Returning upstairs, Shade’s steps felt heavy. Alone again in the empty house, he was both tense and strangely relieved. The oppressive atmosphere persisted, but with the departure of the corpse, a small sense of ease settled in.
“This went easier than I expected. No one questioned Hamilton’s cause of death, nor did they seem to care if I was really Shade Hamilton. They didn’t even ask for a tip to move the body... Sparrow Hamilton truly had everything arranged beforehand.”
The body had left, carrying its secrets, leaving the outsider Shade with countless unanswered questions. He had so much he wished he could have asked Hamilton and countless mysteries still waiting to be solved.
But the dead could not be brought back to life. Shade had to accept Hamilton’s death and focus on surviving in this strange, unsettling world.
The only piece of good news was that Hamilton’s second-floor apartment was now his. In this world that resembled a mid-nineteenth-century Victorian era, Shade had unexpectedly become a homeowner.
The ground floor was sealed, the adjacent “Room 2” on the second floor had a lock hanging on the outside, and the staircase to the third floor had completely collapsed. For now, the entire house was his alone.
He returned to the apartment labeled "Room 1" on the second floor, carefully checking every corner of the study, sitting room, bathroom, and bedroom, ensuring no one lurked in the shadows. Only after confirming he was truly alone did he breathe a long sigh of relief and settle on the sofa in the sitting room.
From there, he leaned his head slightly, gazing out at the morning fog through the window. Finally, he had a moment to piece together his current situation.
“I’ve crossed over. I’ve inherited a detective agency. The body’s original owner seemed mentally unwell and was trained by the late detective to complete a seemingly simple task after his death... Sparrow Hamilton had secrets. This world harbors mystical forces. The detective’s death and the voice in my head both confirm this. I need to gather the Four Mystical Elements, and the detective’s death has already exposed me to ‘Whispers.’”
Rubbing his face, Shade sighed. Despite his concerns, his situation wasn’t entirely bleak. Though Sparrow Hamilton’s death had been abrupt, it had given Shade a foothold in this new world.
This was enough for now—to live, to uncover the secrets of this world, and maybe, just maybe, to find a way home.
Shade wasn’t someone who blindly accepted his fate, but he also wasn’t one to wallow in complaints. Being torn from his homeland and thrust into this place was undoubtedly unfortunate. Yet, all he could do now was adapt, live well, and strive for something greater.
“While I’m at it, why not explore this world of the extraordinary? A steam-powered era filled with mysteries, rituals, and magic... How could I possibly resign myself to an ordinary life here?”
Shade murmured to himself, a hint of excitement creeping into his voice. In response, the woman’s laughter echoed in his mind, light and pleasant, like a breeze brushing through a lavender field.
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