Dave found himself in a chair of rather suspicious comfort. He faced an imposing desk, its surface made from gleaming metal.
To the side, stood a silver-haired man, his gaze fixed upon the raindrops that meandered down the windowpane, painting the glass with watery trails amidst pink-tinted clouds. The blinds cast ephemeral shadows across the room that flickered and vanished. Overhead, halogen lights hummed their discontent, adding an electric grumble in the otherwise hushed atmosphere.
A lamp of unmistakable 1970s provenance sat on the metal desk, its light a nostalgic reminder of a time when such things were considered the height of design sophistication. As Dave turned his head, much like a bewildered owl caught in the throes of existential crisis, he took in a multitude of inexplicable details of the modern interior, a computer screen and cabinets bursting with folders.
"Eh?" Dave finally managed to vocalize.
Unperturbed, the silver-haired man walked with purposeful grace to a large cabinet, from atop which he grabbed a wooden violin. The instrument seemed to come alive in his hands as he began to play, the hauntingly beautiful melody weaving through the air with the finesse of an expert. Beneath the unassuming lenses of his dark spectacles, green eyes bore into Dave's very soul.
"...Sherlock!" Dave exclaimed. "But how?"
The question hung in the air, as the strains of the violin continued to play their beguiling tune.
With a practiced motion, the detective laid the violin to rest within its velvet embrace and turned his attention to Dave.
"And how do you suppose I find myself in your presence?" the detective inquired.
"Phantomancy?" Dave ventured.
"Pray tell, what is Phantomancy?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow, looking bemused.
Dave hesitated. "It's a kind of magic, I think. One that allows me to bring the dead back to life, or, at least their ghosts, in some form. Maybe you exist within my mind as some sort of magical construct?"
Sherlock contemplated this notion. "My duty, as it has always been, is to observe my surroundings and gather as much information as possible before drawing any conclusions. In this instance, I find myself in a rather unusual situation. According to your account, Dave, I am a ghost, brought forth by the powers of Phantomancy. While the idea may seem far-fetched, I must consider all possibilities and deduce the truth."
A muffled tapping echoed throughout the room as Sherlock drummed his fingers upon the desk, lost in thought. "Firstly, I examined my own existence. Am I truly alive, or merely a construct of Dave's imagination? To test this, I attempted to interact with my environment. I picked up my violin and played a song to see if I could feel the weight and texture of it. I listened and observed any movement in the room.
"Next, I considered the possibility that Dave is not entirely sane. Perhaps he is suffering from a mental illness or is under the influence of drugs. To test this, I observed his behavior and listened carefully to the cadence in his words. I looked for signs of erratic behavior or unusual speech patterns."
Dave nodded, eager to discover the outcome of this investigative journey.
"Assuming that Dave is telling the truth and that I am indeed a construct of his magic, I must then consider the nature of Phantomancy. Did Phantomancy copy me after my death, and if so, how did I perish?"
"The Dragon God-Emperor summoned a corpulent woman into you... or summoned you into her," Dave said, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I'm not entirely sure. By the time I reached you, she was long dead, and you were dying."
A sudden flicker of blue light illuminated Dave's arm, casting eerie shadows upon the timeworn walls.
[Phantomancy Level 2 skill Unlocked: Dreamspace Communion]
The ethereal screen announced.
Sherlock and Dave exchanged a glance, both able to notice the holographic message.
"This environment is indeed peculiar, flawed in the manner of a dream," Sherlock mused. "I cannot recall my name, and most of my memories are gone, as if carved away by some unseen force. Thus, I must consider the implications of my existence in Dave's mind. Why am I here? What purpose do I serve? What am I?"
Dave, his voice firm with conviction, replied, "You're a detective. The spirit of a man I tried to save."
"I have deduced as much," Sherlock nodded. "While I am still uncertain of the true nature of my existence, I will continue to observe and process as much information as possible. Through careful observation and rational deduction, I hope to uncover the truth of the matter and understand the nature of magic."
"You talk a bit odd," Dave remarked, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Perhaps this is how the dead talk," Sherlock replied with a sardonic smile. "It is probable that I am less like a man and more like a sophisticated large language model, artificial intelligence software that manifests an answer only when prompted, bound to a single user's desires."
"You know about language models?" Dave inquired.
"Ah, well, you see," Sherlock began, "I am somehow privy to what you know, and I experience the world as you do. In essence, my very being is intricately woven with your comprehension of the universe and the knowledge you possess. I am more of an extension of you than an individual entity, a conceptualization of a detective rather than a fully formed person."
Dave pondered for a moment before continuing, "Do you recall guiding me to the waterfall?"
"I do," Sherlock affirmed. "Now that you've brought it to the forefront of your thoughts, I can indeed remember your hapless, barefooted journey to the quaint town of Shandria."
"So..."
"In this present moment," Sherlock continued, gesturing to their surroundings, "you slumber within the dragon's den, which has curiously taken on the form of a lighthouse smithy. This dreamscape is a fusion of a fragment of my prior existence and your current reality. Perhaps this was my former office, a place where I worked. Each raindrop that graces my windowsill, every glimmer of light illuminating my study, is a complex illusion, fueled by the souls of the departed that you have absorbed on the bloodstained battlegrounds of the Dragon God-Emperor."
"Right," Dave murmured, his gaze drifting towards the window. The objects in the distance seemed to defy the laws of motion, suspended as if frozen in time. "And those... are those flying cars?"
"They are indeed," Sherlock confirmed. "Perhaps I hail from a world far beyond your own, a distant alternative future in which humanity not only succeeded in constructing airborne automobiles but also conquered the very stars themselves."
"That’s pretty neat," Dave said.
"Now," Sherlock declared, as he removed his hat and placed it ceremoniously upon the desk before him. "For what manner of inquiry have you roused my spirit from its slumber tonight?"
"Uhhh," Daved hesitated. "Ah, right! I wanted to know how you figured out that our charming blacksmith hostess is, in fact, a slave. I would never have guessed that her collar binds her to the lighthouse."
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
"Elementary, my dear Watson," the detective from an alternative tomorrow replied, immersing himself in the roleplay. "You and I have been observing the motley throng at the market today. While your attention may have strayed, I, on the other hand, absorbed the conversations unfurling around us, weaving a tapestry of facts."
"Oh?"
"There was a shop, manned by a wizened, pale, and gaunt figure of approximately sixty years, his eyes of silver color. He wore a black cloak that billowed about him ever so slightly without wind, and had black leather boots that whispered of midnight secrets with dark, rusty stains. He was peddling slave collars with pyramidal runes, like the one encircling the delicate neck of our dear Remicra. It is also quite remarkable how I could decipher every word inscribed upon the shop's windows as if penned in the Queen's English."
"Huh? You don't think that the signs are actually in English?" Dave asked.
"No, my dear Watson," Sherlock retorted as he gestured towards the black bracelet on Dave’s wrist. "I am inclined to believe that this unassuming device possesses the extraordinary ability to translate all languages into English, drawing upon the very magic that courses through your soul."
"It's consuming my magic?" Dave’s gaze fixated on the obsidian, hexagonal bracelet embracing his wrist and then trailed back to Sherlock’s glasses across the neo-noir office.
"Indeed," Sherlock affirmed. "For everything necessitates power to function. I too am utilizing your magic at this very moment to answer your inquiry."
"Is that bad for my health?" Dave asked.
"Not unless you run out of gathered spirits and start burning through your own soul," the detective responded. "Nevertheless, you should figure out how to switch the translator on and off a few times whilst in the market, you and I could acquire the knowledge of Shandrian and other languages. Also, if we were to request our benevolent hostess to teach us her native tongue, it would inevitably draw her nearer to us."
"You think I should spend more time with her?"
"Indubitably," Sherlock retorted. "She, unlike you, was most likely born here. She is a manifestation of this inverted world and, as such, harbors the knowledge of its clandestine intricacies and arcane histories. This lighthouse may present itself as a decaying relic of some distant past, but it could serve as a bastion for us, should we succeed in binding Remy to us as our loyal companion. I find it necessary to remind you, Dave - you find yourself solitary in this land, bereft of resources. An ancient smithy on the town's outskirts, brimming with metalworking tools, could prove an invaluable asset to a keen mind endeavouring to enhance their likelihood of survival."
"You're right," Dave conceded. "However, I have a distinct impression that she hates me."
"Appearances are often deceiving," the silver-haired detective remarked. "She could have effortlessly abandoned you to the ravenous appetites of the shadows."
"Did you know about the Shadows too?" Dave asked.
"I learned of them through marketplace discourse," Sherlock disclosed. "A mother warned her young child that should the boy persist in his misbehavior, she would forsake him to be devoured by the shadows. The threat proved quite effective as a means of parental reinforcement."
"I see," Dave murmured, as he reevaluated his day.
“Wait a minute…” The ex-programmer looked at the detective with sudden realization. “You used your violin to make me cry in front of Remicra on purpose?”
“But of course,” Sherlock nodded. "It was incredibly imperative that she recognized you as a fellow misfortunate laboring beneath the crushing weight of an indifferent cosmos."
Dave exhaled as he regarded Sherlock's deft machinations with a mild undercurrent of irritation.
"What other deductions have you made?" He asked.
"Your personal sorcery," Sherlock observed, "is of a singularly exceptional nature."
"How do you figure that?"
"Well," Sherlock began, "it appears that the august Dragon Emperor, in his infinite wisdom, saw fit to abandon the very souls you chanced upon, leaving them ripe for your absorption." He paused, allowing the weight of his words to permeate the atmosphere before continuing. "Had his imperial majesty been in possession of another skilled Phantomancer, it stands to reason that he would have harnessed the potent energies of those departed spirits, not to mention the wealth of knowledge contained within, to reinforce the formidable bastion of his dominion."
"A solid hypothesis," Dave conceded.
“These bracelets are likely produced by some powerful entity or an organisation with purpose yet unknown,” Sherlock pointed out, pointing at the bracelet on Dave’s wrist. “You ought to investigate whether it is possible to speak to the departed without the bracelet or whether it is possible to remove at all. Discover its functionality and test its limits.”
“I shall,” Dave agreed.
"Furthermore," Sherlock continued, "the guards stationed at the threshold of Shandria seemed to possess an inkling of the nature of your mystic capabilities, albeit bereft of any awareness of phantomancy's existence. Their conjecture was informed by some manner of communication with the gate's wards, suggesting a similarity between your art and the darker craft of necromancy."
"A good observation," Dave consented. "Anything else?”
"I surmise," Sherlock postulated, "that the act of assimilating disembodied essences serves to augment your own strength and fortitude."
"Is that so?" Dave mused.
"Indeed," the detective affirmed. "Had you not assimilated the spectral remnants of thousands, the razor-sharp talons of the formidable dragon-bat would surely have wrought far greater havoc upon your person than a mere fractured rib. Moreover, it is nothing short of miraculous that your fall resulted in nary a fractured bone."
"Lucky me," Dave sighed.
"Yes, Dave," Sherlock intoned, his voice laden with the gravity of his words. "Your flight from the tyrannical grasp of the Dragon Emperor proved most providential, for had you remained within his domain, you would doubtless have found yourself shackled, like the unfortunate Remycra, and your singular magical prowess exploited for nefarious ends. As to the rarity of your arcane gift," he continued, "I am inclined to believe that it is inextricably linked to the peculiar circumstances of your own resurrection, having twice been subjected to the cruel and capricious whims of fate in the form of vehicular calamity. Let this knowledge remain a closely guarded secret, lest you draw unwanted attention to the true extent of your abilities."
"Agreed," the ex-programmer nodded.
A sudden, piercing howl reverberated through the detective’s office, causing Dave to shudder involuntarily.
"What on earth was that?" he gasped, his heart thundering within his chest.
"If I were to hazard a conjecture," Sherlock mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "it's a particularly big shadow outside, reveling in its repast."
The howl echoed once more, much louder, and the illusion of Sherlock's office fell apart into wispy smoke. Dave sprang from his bed, his body quivering. He approached the dusty, stained glass window, peering into the inky abyss beyond through a shattered gap.
There, amidst the gloom, beneath the ring of clouds circling the town loomed an immense entity - a shadow stretching a thousand meters high. It moved with a sinister elegance, its unnaturally elongated appendages reminiscent of a misshapen centipede slithering beneath the swirling darkness that enveloped the town.
Dave's eyes widened in horror as he perceived a dragon-like beast beneath the monolithic shadow, attempting to reach the town's daunting stone wall. The monstrous shadow suddenly ensnared the ten-meter long creature, and with a chilling wail, obliterated it within its grip as effortlessly as a man dispatching a mosquito with his fingertips.
A myriad of eyes, akin to the glimmering pinpricks of starlight strewn across the ebony shawl of night, suddenly fixated upon Dave from the shadow's unfathomable form.
"Nope, nope, nope," the isekai'd programmer stammered, hastily retreating from the window, seeking refuge beneath the crimson glow of the protective rune. His entire body was now drenched in sweat, a testament to the pure terror that held him in its icy embrace.
There was something profoundly disquieting about the shadow beast, an alien intelligence, an abyssal darkness that seemed to consume all light and hope in its presence.
Dave sought solace within the confines of timeworn blankets, his body convulsing in uncontrollable shivers as the cold tendrils of fear crept into his very being. Above him, a crimson rune flickered erratically, its ancient power waning, unable to fully extend its protective aura to the extremities of the dilapidated chamber where tenebrous malevolence stirred.
With bated breath, Dave peered into the murky gloom, staring into the void for what felt like an eternity. Gradually, as if materializing from the very fabric of darkness itself, three gleaming silver orbs emerged, their unblinking gaze fixed upon him.
Dave's fingers instinctively sought the familiar comfort of his bone knife.
A sinister form, woven from the shadows themselves, danced towards him with an eerie, fluid grace. It was a creature both feline and centipede-like in aspect, its sinuous movements at once mesmerizing and uncanny. The malevolent, small apparition slammed into the barrier of the rune's sanguine light, as though it were an impenetrable shield, and emitted a guttural hiss of frustration.
"Nice try," Dave taunted. "Now scuttle back to your mommy and leave me be."
Undeterred, the nocturnal interloper continued to prowl the periphery of the rune's protective glow, its gaze never leaving Dave, as if daring him to venture beyond the safety of the crimson light.
Dave sighed, resigning himself to the interminable vigil that lay ahead. As the hours crawled by, a silent battle of wills ensued between man and small shadow, each determined to outlast the other.
Eventually, however, fatigue claimed its inevitable victory, and Dave's consciousness succumbed to the irresistible lure of slumber, the small spectral beast still lingering at the edge of his thoughts.