Dave found himself sitting in a leather chair of rather suspicious comfort. He faced an imposing, gleaming metal desk.

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 1920s copper and green glass Barristers lamp sat on the metal desk. As Dave turned his head, much like a bewildered owl, he took in a multitude of inexplicable details of the otherwise modern interior, a holographic computer screen and cabinets bursting with a multitude of tagged folders.

"Eh?" Dave finally managed to say.

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 stared back at Dave.

"...Sherlock!" Dave exclaimed, recognizing the face of the dead man from the killing field of the God Emperor's Citadel and the music that's been playing in his soul for the past several days. "But how?"

The question hung in the air, as the strains of the violin continued to sing.

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 asked.

"Phantomancy?" Dave offered.

"Pray tell, what is Phantomancy?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

Dave hesitated. "Magic 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?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock mused, looking around. "This room, while appearing solid, lacks certain... consistencies. The edges aren't exactly perfectly sharp, as if smudged by a painter's brush. And the sound..."

He plucked a string on the violin, letting the note hang in the air. Dave listened in, but was unable to determine anything of value.

"It is as I desire it to be, but not exactly as it should echo in the confines of this office. It is indeed as if we're in a facsimile of reality," Sherlock continued. "A construct, perhaps, of your mind or this... Phantomancy you speak of. Do, tell me, Dave, what do you know of quantum mechanics?"

Dave blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. "Uh, not that much. Something about cats in boxes?"

"A crude memetic over-simplification, but not entirely inaccurate. The point is, reality at its most fundamental level is far more malleable than we perceive it to be."

"So, you're saying magic is just... advanced physics?" Dave speculated.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Sherlock nodded. "Your ability to redistribute your 'points,' for instance. It's possible that you're tapping into some sort of quantum superposition, existing in multiple states simultaneously until you 'collapse' into one specific configuration."

"So... is this a dream?" Dave asked.

Sherlock's gaze sharpened. "An excellent question. This space does posses some dream-like quality to it. As evidenced by your lack of knowledge on quantum mechanics, I possess memories, knowledge, and some sense of self that seems distinct from your own. Yet I exist within your mind. Perhaps I am a quantum echo of a detective, plucked from some parallel universe by the Isekai spell of the Gold Dragon God-Emperor and then further replicated and preserved by your Phantomancy. A Theseus ship of a man that has been disassembled and remade twice."

"The Dragon God-Emperor summoned a corpulent woman into you... or summoned you into her," Dave nodded. "I'm not entirely sure. By the time I reached you, she was long dead, and you were dying. Say, how did you even last for so long?"

Sherlock tapped his chest. "I have an atomic heart and metal bones. They permitted me to survive longer than an unmodded human would otherwise."

A sudden flicker of blue light illuminated Dave's arm.

[Phantomancy Level 4 skill Unlocked: Dreamspace Communion.]

The ethereal screen announced.

Sherlock and Dave exchanged a glance, both clearly able to observe the holographic message.

"This environment is indeed peculiar, as am I," Sherlock considered. "Sadly, 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 your mind. Why am I here? What purpose do I serve? What am I?"

Dave 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 rational deduction, I hope to uncover the truth of the matter and eventually understand the nature of magic."

"You talk a bit odd," Dave remarked.

"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.

"Indeed," Sherlock affirmed, "As I exist within your mind, I am privy to what you know, and I experience the world as you do. However, my sense of self is incomplete, hollow. It is also intricately woven with your comprehension of the universe and the knowledge you possess. From what I can discern, I am more of an extension of you than an individual entity, a conceptualization of a detective rather than a fully formed person."

"Do you recall guiding me to the waterfall?" Dave asked.

"I do," Sherlock affirmed. "I can clearly remember your hapless 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."

"You think so?"

"It doesn't match anything from your memories," Sherlock pointed out. "So perhaps this is a piece of my world."

"Right," Dave nodded. He got off his chair and came closer to the window and looked out of it at what looked like an absurdly large city. "Hang on... are... are those flying cars?"

"They are indeed," Sherlock confirmed. "Perhaps I hail from a world far beyond your own, a distant parallel Earth in which humanity not only succeeded in constructing airborne automobiles but also conquered the very stars themselves."

"That’s pretty neat," Dave said. " I guess that the God-Emperor summons people from different dimensions or something?"

"A reasonable deduction," Sherlock nodded. "Consider this, Dave. You were summoned from a world without magic, a place where technology was the driving force of progress. I, it seems, come from an Earth where technology has advanced far beyond your own. Yet, we both found ourselves in this new realm of magic and mythical creatures."

"Yeah, that is pretty wild," Dave agreed, settling back into his chair.

"But that's not all," Sherlock continued. "While we hail from parallel Earths, nevertheless we are both human. Have you noticed something peculiar about the inhabitants of Shandria?"

Dave thought of Remicra and Cedez and the many Healers from Healer's Hall that he's befriended. "They're all pretty... diverse. Lots of different races and species."

"Precisely," Sherlock nodded. "But more specifically, they all seem to be fusions of humans and various animals, concepts or mythical creatures."

"Now that you mention it, yeah," Dave said. "But what about it?"

Sherlock leaned against the desk, his fingers drumming against the metal surface.

"Consider the vast diversity of xenotypes we've encountered in Shandria," Sherlock began, his voice taking on a lecturing tone. "We've seen foxgirls, dragonkin, owlkin, and countless other hybrid beings. At first glance, one might assume this is simply a world where evolution took a different path."

"But that's not the case?" Dave prompted.

"Precisely," Sherlock nodded. "Evolution, by its very nature, is messy. It makes mistakes, creates inefficiencies, and often results in creatures that we, as humans, might find incompatible with our aesthetic sensibilities."

"Like the blobfish?" Dave offered.

"Sure, although the blobfish is less of a blob when it's deep underwater," Sherlock said. "I was thinking of something like the star-nosed mole. My point is that many Earth creatures, while perfectly adapted to their environments, are far from what most humans would consider aesthetically pleasing. Consider arachnids, various quirky insects and crabs of Earth. Many people have an innate fear of spiders."

The detective paused. "Yet in Shandria, every hybrid we've encountered is essentially human with two legs and two arms with carefully selected animal or conceptual traits added in a way that makes them particularly appealing to human observers."

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Dave thought about the pretty gem-covered dragoness working the forge and even the owl maid with her large, expressive eyes.

"You're right," Dave said. "I hadn't really thought about it, but it is as if they were... made to be appealing, aren't they?"

"Indeed. And that's not all. These hybrid beings often possess traits that, from a biological standpoint, just shouldn't work together. The combinations we've observed at the Shandrian streets pretty much ignore the basic principles of biology and physics as we understand them."

"So what are you saying?" Dave asked.

"I'm saying," Sherlock replied, "that the inhabitants of Shandria appear to be artificially designed. Created, if you will, by some intelligence with the power to merge different species at will, ignoring the constraints of natural evolution. Beauty in the eye of the beholder. A quantum state that changes when being observed."

"Observed by... humans like me?" Dave tilted his head, guessing what Sherlock was implying.

"Now, let's consider Remicra," Sherlock waved a pale hand in the air. "You've noticed her intense dislike for humans, correct?"

Dave nodded slowly. "Yeah, she's made that pretty clear."

"Her hatred for humans stems from the fact that she is owned by a human," Sherlock explained.

"Right," Dave nodded.

"From what Cedez Astra told us, we can deduce that the High Lords of Shandria are, in fact, humans like yourself," Sherlock pointed out. "Pure humans, untouched by the mythical traits and conceptual changes we see in the general lowborn population."

"Are you sure?" Dave asked.

"I've also noted their portraits through some of the shop windows," Sherlock nodded. "The High Lords are all human and they own most of the shops in Shandria."

"And?" Dave squinted at Sherlock.

"I believe it's a matter of observation and reality manipulation," Sherlock explained. "These high mages, through their immense magical power, may be able to alter reality simply by observing it. Generation after generation, they maintain their human form at the top of the social hierarchy, while the lower classes gradually change."

Dave's eyes widened as he processed this information. "So you're saying... the world changes around them, but they stay the same?"

"Precisely," Sherlock nodded. "It's a form of 'observational evolution', if you will. The High Lords observe the world, and their observations shape it. But they maintain their own human forms, perhaps out of a desire to remain 'pure' or simply because that's how they see themselves."

"But why would they change everyone else?" Dave asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Think about it, Dave. If you had the power to shape the world around you, wouldn't you be tempted to make it more... interesting? More diverse? Perhaps even more appealing to your own aesthetic sensibilities? Would you prefer a mundane human serving you lunch or... a catgirl maid?"

Dave sputtered.

"Your observation-evolution theory... it makes a disturbing amount of sense," he admitted after a deep, thoughtful pause. "So, what else have you deduced about this world?"

Sherlock paced the room, his footsteps silent on the polished floor. He paused by the window, his silhouette framed against the backdrop of flying cars and towering spires.

"I've made several observations," he began, turning back to face Dave. "For instance, have you noticed the peculiar nature of the quests in this world?"

Dave nodded, recalling the various tasks he'd been offered since arriving in Shandria. "They do seem a bit... odd at times. Like the one Cedez gave me about slaying a dragon and freeing a princess."

"Precisely," Sherlock said. "These Quests often follow narrative structures reminiscent of fairy tales or perhaps games. They're designed to be engaging, to provide a sense of purpose and progression. The same goes for these dark stat-calculating bracelets, the true purpose of which we have yet to uncover."

"So you're saying the quests are... artificial too?" Dave asked. "Influenced by magic of the Highborn observers?"

"Maybe," Sherlock replied. "They appear to be constructed to maintain a certain societal structure while providing entertainment and challenges for the populace. It's as if the entire world is designed to be a grand adventure playground."

"But why?"

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, his gaze intense. "That, Dave, is the million-dollar question. Why indeed? Perhaps it's a form of control, a way to keep the population occupied and content. Or maybe it's something more... something far greater, something that I have not understood yet. More evidence is required. This is all of course, mere speculation, for I am unable to preform complex scientific experiments out in the real world, as I am just a shard of a man bound to your subconscious."

"What other deductions can you offer me?" Dave asked.

"Your personal sorcery," Sherlock said, "is of a singularly exceptional nature."

"I figured as much," Dave nodded. "From what the Healers, Cedez and Remicra told me."

"Ah, but it is even rarer than you think," Sherlock said. "Evaluate the following - the august Dragon God-Emperor, in his infinite wisdom, saw fit to abandon the very souls you chanced upon, leaving them ripe for your absorption. Had his imperial majesty been in possession of another skilled Phantomancer, it stands to reason that he would have harnessed the potent energies of all of the departed spirits, not to mention the wealth of knowledge contained within, to reinforce the formidable bastion of his dominion."

"A solid hypothesis," Dave conceded. "So Phantomancy is insanely rare?"

"I suspect it is rarer than necromancy," Sherlock said. "On the account that none of the millions or perhaps even billions of summoned procured it for their God-Emperor Master."

"Could Shandria have a Phantomancer though?" Dave asked. "Why are there no ghosts in town?"

"From my observations with you absorbing the Prismatic Beetles, ghosts are attached to bodies," Sherlock pointed out. "They don't just hover in place after a body is moved. From what I overheard at the market, Shandrian officials burn all corpses and then deliver the remaining crystal heart-cores to the Adventurers Guild. As to what the Guild does with the crystal cores, now that is a mystery that is worth solving."

"So, you're saying that souls might actually be attached to these crystal cores?" Dave asked

"It's a distinct possibility. The Guild collects these cores and we've seen no ghosts in Shandria. It's logical to assume there's a connection."

"And if I could find where they store these cores..."

"Then you could potentially access a vast wealth of knowledge and power," Sherlock finished for him. "The souls of countless individuals, each with their own skills, memories, and experiences."

"Yeah," Dave nodded. "That does sound nice. Maybe if I build up enough rep with the Guild I could get a core disposal job or something?"

"Maybe such jobs exist on the higher level of the cathedral," Sherlock contemplated. "Given to trusted adventurers. However, to become a person of trust, you must learn to better conceal your 'necromantic' affiliation."

"How?" Dave asked.

"That I don't have an answer for," Sherlock spread his hands.

Dave thought of what else to ask his mental detective and then his mind drifted to the odd fox.

"Cedez," he said. "What do you make of her? She claims to be a 'princess in training,' but something about that doesn't quite add up."

"Ah, yes," Sherlock nodded. "Let's examine the facts, shall we? She presents herself as a simple cafe maid, yet she possesses knowledge and abilities far beyond what such a position would typically entail."

"She did seem to know an awful lot about me," Dave said. "Like my name."

"Perhaps she is a practitioner of Foresight," Sherlock contemplated. "Maybe she 'foresaw' meeting you before you actually met her."

"Maybe," Dave muttered.

"And then there's her claim of being a 'princess in training.' Now, reference what we've deduced about the social structure of Shandria. The ruling class, the High Lords, appear to be pure humans. Yet Cedez is clearly not human, given her fox-like attributes," Sherlock pointed out.

"So she can't be a real princess?" Dave asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "Not in the traditional sense of being a collateral descendant, no. At least, not if our deductions about the Highborns are correct. However, her use of the term 'princess' is intriguing. It suggests a level of importance or desire that goes beyond her current role."

"But if she's not a real princess, and she's not just a cafe maid, what is she?"

"That, my dear Dave, is the crux of the mystery. Her strange ability to amplify your Attributes, her vast Earth knowledge, plus her interest in you are a tantalizing mystery."

"Could she be some kind of... I don't know, magical creature disguised as a foxgirl?" Dave ventured.

"An interesting hypothesis," Sherlock mused. "It's certainly possible. Or perhaps she's a creation of the High Lords, designed for some specific purpose in mind. Her role at the cafe could be a cover, a way to observe and interact with new arrivals to Shandria flowing through the Adventurers Gate. Cedez is rather perfectly positioned to gather information and perhaps even influence events."

"So you're saying she could be some kind of... spy? Or maybe an agent of the High Lords?"

"It's certainly a possibility," Sherlock said. "If she is, then perhaps she wishes to be free from her position without stating so in an obvious fashion. She could be a magical construct of sorts, a guardian of the front gate, considering that she herself wields no Kitlix."

"Right, but there's still something I don't understand," Dave said. "Why is Cedez so insistent on pushing me towards Remicra?"

"Her insistence on you pursuing Remicra could be a roundabout way of achieving some goal of her own," Sherlock pointed out.

"So Cedez might be using me to... what? Get Remicra? But why?"

"Another mystery to solve," Sherlock said. "What if Remicra possesses something Cedez needs? Something she can't obtain directly?"

"Like what?" Dave asked. "Remicra is a collared blacksmith."

"That, I'm afraid, does not provide me enough information to make a logical deduction," Sherlock admitted. "But it's clear that Cedez sees you and Remicra as a means to an end. Your unique abilities make you an incredibly valuable pawn in whatever game she's playing. Perhaps the dragon smith holds the key to liberating Cedez from her job as the Gate spirit? Perhaps she is bound to the cafe with Metallomancy?"

"And what of the dragoness?" Dave asked. "Should I trust Remicra? I mean, she's grumpy and seems to hate humans, but at least she's been straightforward about it."

"Trust is a complex issue," Sherlock nodded. "Remicra may be more honest in her disdain, but that doesn't necessarily make her trustworthy. Remember, she's bound by her own constraints and motivations."

"Right. But she did give me bandages and let me stay the night, even if it was in a dusty old room."

"Indeed," Sherlock said. "Her actions suggest a level of compassion that goes beyond mere self-interest. However, don't mistake momentary kindness for lasting loyalty."

Dave sighed. "So what should I do? I need her help with these Felislice flakes, but I can't afford to pay her, and Cedez's suggestion of 'winning her heart' seems... well, rather absurd."

"Perhaps the key lies not in grand romantic gestures, but in finding common ground," Sherlock offered. "Remicra, like you, is trapped in a situation not entirely of her own making. She may respond better to empathy and understanding than to overt attempts at courtship."

"Okay," Dave said. "So maybe I could... I don't know, offer to help her with her work? Show her that not all humans are terrible?"

"That could be a start," Sherlock agreed. "But remember, your ultimate goal is to secure her assistance with your Felislice problem. Every interaction should be weighed against that objective."

"Right, right. So I need to be helpful, but also make it clear that I need her help in return. But how do I do that without coming across as manipulative?"

Sherlock's lips quirked in a small smile. "That, Dave, is where the art of diplomacy comes in. You must be honest about your intentions while also appealing to her self-interest. Perhaps there's something you can offer her in return, something that only your unique abilities can provide."

“Wait a minute…” The ex-programmer looked at the detective arriving at a deduction of his own. “You used your violin to make me cry in front of Remicra on purpose yesterday?!"

“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 mild irritation.

"Remicra, unlike you, was born here," Sherlock added. "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."

Dave raised an eyebrow at the nickname. "Remy?"

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "A mere shorthand. Focus, Dave. I find it necessary to remind you - you find yourself solitary in this land, bereft of resources and under the ever-growing suspicion of authorities. An ancient smithy on the town's outskirts, brimming with metalworking tools, could prove an invaluable asset to a keen mind endeavoring to enhance their likelihood of survival."

Dave nodded slowly, understanding dawning on his face. "So you're saying I should try to... what? Make this place my base of operations?"

"Precisely," Sherlock affirmed.

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 said, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "it's a particularly big shadow outside, enjoying its dinner."

The howl echoed once more, much louder, and the illusion of Sherlock's office shattered into wisps of green sparks.

Dave jolted awake, his heart trying to leap out of his chest. Cold sweat clung to his skin as he sat up, the musty smell of the abandoned loft filling his nostrils.

The howl resounded once again, much closer, leaking through the holes in the roof and cracks in the windows.

The rough blanket fell away as Dave stumbled towards the nearest window, drawn by a morbid curiosity to see what could possibly be making such an unearthly noise.

The glass was clouded with age and grime, but as he leaned forward finding a missing piece to peer though, he witnessed a scene that stopped his heart.