As darkness fell upon Shandria, Dave had dinner with Remicra and retreated to the second floor of the caretaker's cottage, seeking the solace of sleep.

For the first time since his arrival in this strange world, his dreams did not transport him to the futuristic city of neon lights that had normally occupied his slumber. Instead, he found himself standing amidst an excessively lavish room within the Rimzadria Estate, now filled with opulent furniture, its walls adorned with exquisite oil paintings the biggest of which was depicting a proud young man standing in front of the city of Shandria, verdant fields of hay fluttering in the wind.

An elderly man with black eyes and wispy gray hair sat in a plush, high-backed chair, his piercing, dark gaze trained on Dave. The man's wrinkled face bore the weight of countless years, his eyes reflecting a lifetime of knowledge, power, and... exceptional sorrow. As Dave beheld the figure before him, he realized with a start that this was none other than Lord Alaster Rim.

The air in the room was heavy with the scent of aged parchment. The flickering light from the fireplace cast a warm, golden glow across the chamber. Dave felt a sense of trepidation, knowing that he was in the presence of the very man whose memories had been seeping into his own mind.

Lord Alaster Rim regarded Dave with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, as if trying to discern the intentions of this unexpected visitor in his private sanctum.

"Who are you, and what are you doing in my Estate?" The Archmage asked, his voice carrying an air of authority.

Dave took a deep breath, knowing that he needed to tread carefully in this situation. "My name is Dave, and I'm... well, I'm a summoned hero from another world. As strange as it may sound, we're not actually in Rimzadria right now." He hesitated for a moment, gauging the old man's reaction before continuing. "You see, Lord Alaster, you're no longer among the living. You've passed on, and what you are now is a spirit that I've unintentionally brought back to life tonight, using my Phantomancy skill."

The Archmage's eyes widened as he processed the information.

Alaster lifted his hand and waved it at Dave, as if attempting to manipulate the gravity around him. After a few seconds, he lowered it with a frustrated look, realizing that his once fearsome power had deserted him.

"Since you're not flattened to the floor," he sighed, his voice heavy with resignation, "it seems that my skill is no longer functional. Perhaps I am indeed dead." He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts before continuing. "Do tell me, mage Dave, what became of my Estate after my passing?"

Dave hesitated for a moment. He decided that honesty was the best approach, hoping that it would foster a sense of trust between them. If Alaster functioned like Sherlock, he would know everything soon enough, anyway.

"Lord Alaster, after your death, your once magnificent Estate fell into disrepair. After you took your own life, your body crystallized and turned into a dungeon core. Lord Nelvash, your cousin who inherited the land, could not repair the building because the dungeon core attacks anyone who goes inside it. Rimzadria Estate was abandoned for thirty years and left to the ravages of time. The once pristine gardens have become overgrown with weeds and brambles, the halls and chambers empty."

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The Archmage's eyes, which had been searching Dave's face for any hint of deception, now seemed to mist over with sadness. "I see," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

For another minute silence stretched between them.

"What do you want from me, Phantomancer?" Lord Rim stared at Dave, his eyes searching for the answer that lay hidden beneath the surface. "Why have you brought me from the veil of death?"

"I need the passwords for the wardstones," Dave said, his voice firm yet respectful. "I was hired by Lord Nelvash. My job is to rid Rimzadria Estate of the dungeon core currently infesting it."

"Ah, so you're the one who has to clean up the mess I've made," Alaster sighed, a wave of regret washing over his features.

"It would also be nice if you could give me some advice on magic or local politics," Dave mulled thoughtfully. "Since you've delved so deeply into the first subject and likely know about the second… even if your information is three decades out of date."

"It seems that I am missing many of my most recent memories," Lord Rim admitted after a brief pause, his gaze distant and pensive.

"I will be draining the dungeon core of its power," Dave explained, determination clear in his voice. "It should give you more pieces of yourself to aid me."

Lord Rim nodded slowly, his sharp, dark gray eyes examining Dave with renewed interest.

"First thing… I suggest, is to take that damn thing off," he pointed at the black bracelet on Dave's wrist.

"Why?" Dave inquired.

"It is a focus tool, a skill tabulator, and a translator, but it is also mass-produced and controlled by the Banking conglomerate, not personally aligned to your soul," the old Archmage elucidated. "I would suggest crafting your own, personal artifacts to replace it. This bracelet marks you as a follower and not as a highborn leader, which is what you’re trying to become. A Lord should rely on their own skill to wield their power with precision and authority."

"I see," Dave said as he considered the implications of what Lord Rim had revealed.

"From what I can recall, this bracelet is a replica of an ancient artifact, copied ad nauseam by a duplicator mage employed by the Bankers," Lord Rim elaborated. "Using it drains a significant portion of your mana and also sends the tiniest fraction of it to the Bankers anytime you use it."

"What?" Dave blinked, the realization dawning on him.

"Employing it as a crutch. The bracelet binds you to the Bankers and those to whom they lease it, interfering with your personal growth as a mage," Alaster explained. "It is a common ploy amongst rulers to bestow it upon their soldiers who are destined for death in battle. When someone perishes while wearing this accursed trinket, their soul is torn asunder, much like cheese through a shredder, sending a lot of magical power to the Bankers and the ruler who dispensed it."

Dave stared at the bracelet on his wrist, suddenly feeling the weight of its implications.

"Damn," he whispered. "It's a good thing I started learning Shandrian on my own."

"I will give you the ward passwords if... I can recall them all. Also, I shall teach you the secret language of her Divine Shadow," Lord Rim intoned, his voice resonating with the wisdom of ages past. "In addition to the other languages of Shandria. You are young, and you must sharpen your mind, refusing to rely on foreign artifacts. Your mana must be your own. Your artifacts must belong to you. You must learn to take control of your primary skill, for if you do not, it will begin to meddle with your emotions. From what I can tell, unlike me, you are not an Imperially trained mage, you lack the finesse, act more like a hedge wizard..."

Dave's thoughts drifted back to his altercation with Cedez, recalling how he had yelled at her, accusing her of being a useless goddess as the multi-phantom barrier buzzed around him, stoking his anger and amplifying his frustration.

He suddenly understood that Lord Rim's guidance held profound truth, and it was essential for him to heed the Archmage's words if he was to interact with the charismatic girl once more.