Chapter 11: St. Byron's College |
Since he was sleeping in an unfamiliar place, Shade woke up early the next morning. Reaching for the pocket watch on the bedside table, he saw it was 6:30. He thought of checking downstairs to see if the newspaper had arrived, knowing that the people of Tobesk City generally had the habit of subscribing to newspapers.
The previous detective, by any measure, could be considered middle class, and his work likely required staying updated with the news. Therefore, it wasn’t impossible that the current Shade might inherit his newspaper subscription.
Wearing slippers, he descended the stairs to the first-floor hall, curiously glancing at the boarded-up first floor. He thought he might remove a wooden board to peek inside when he had the time.
Turning on the gaslight in the hallway, he was disappointed not to find a newspaper slipped through the mail slot onto the doormat.
Shaking his head with a hint of regret, he planned to change clothes and head out for breakfast. But as his slipper touched the first step of the staircase, he unexpectedly heard the sound of a bell.
The apartment building’s exterior door had a pull rope connected to a gear mechanism inside that rang a bell—a simple doorbell system.
“Could it be the newspaper delivery?” he wondered. “No, why would the newspaper deliverer knock... Could it be a reminder to pay for next month’s subscription?”
Shade felt a pang of anxiety, considering his meager savings. Nervously, he calculated his remaining funds, uncertain about the visitor at the door. He figured it was unlikely to be someone asking for money but more likely someone looking for the previous tenant.
“Could it be a new client?” Or worse, perhaps the landlord here to collect rent.
The response came immediately. The voice was familiar: “Is this Hamilton’s Detective Agency? I’m Bill Schneider—remember me? The psychologist from yesterday. We exchanged business cards outside the newspaper office across from the Nightingale Club.”
In the same fog-shrouded morning, one of the few people Shade knew by name in this world had come to visit him.
Unprepared for the visitor to be Dr. Schneider, Shade hesitated behind the door, unsure whether to open it. His pause was brief but enough for the doctor to sense his wariness.
“Mr. Hamilton,” the psychologist said reassuringly, “there’s no need to worry. Although it’s strange to visit at this hour, I mean no harm. Time is short—please take a look at this.”
With that, the man outside slipped a sheet of paper through the mail slot.
“Do you remember what I mentioned yesterday? Adult education, correspondence courses. Detective, you have a very unique talent.”
Shade bent down to pick up the paper and turned up the gaslight slightly to read it. Under the light, he saw it was an enrollment brochure.
“Huh?” He questioned if he was still half-asleep or misreading the situation.
The paper, approximately A4-sized, had silver-edged designs outlining the shape of a parchment scroll. It was a promotional document from a higher institution called “St. Byrons Comprehensive College.” Aside from the chain-bound book emblem at the top, there weren’t many other designs. Printed text occupied most of the page.
St. Byrons wasn’t recruiting ordinary students—it was enrolling adult correspondence students. The page detailed its ten departments, tuition fees, enrollment dates, academic terms, admission requirements, and application processes. At least on the surface, it seemed like an ordinary school.
“But why is there no address for the school?” Shade asked after a long pause. Then he wondered why he hadn’t asked whether the person outside had a mental illness, coming so early to deliver enrollment papers to a stranger.
“Your observation is sharp,” the psychologist praised, then added, “Now, at least let me come in so we can talk. Perhaps I can answer your questions, especially about… the other you in your mind.”
The voice in his head did not appear upon being mentioned, and Shade, standing behind the door, hesitated. Ultimately, he opened it.
The middle-aged psychologist stood outside holding a briefcase. He wore a brown coat and a silk cap and had thick black boots on his feet. His neatly groomed mustache and blue eyes gave off an amiable impression.
“Don’t forget your milk,” Dr. Schneider said, pointing to the milk box beside the door. His accent was standard, suggesting he was a local from Tobesk City. “The milkman just left as I arrived.”
“Alright, come in.” Shade hesitated before nodding and attempting a friendly expression. He grabbed the key from the shoe cabinet to unlock the milk box, while the psychologist waited patiently for him to retrieve the milk bottle before stepping inside.
Dr. Schneider was equally puzzled by the boarded-up first floor but said nothing. Together, they climbed the stairs to Apartment 1 on the second floor.
Shade asked him to wait briefly as he changed into fresh clothes in the bedroom and then boiled water to serve tea. Though the kitchen lacked any food, at least he had red tea, which he could offer to clients seeking a detective. Otherwise, plain water would have been his only option.
Once everything was arranged, the two sat down to talk.
The fabric-covered sofa set in the living room seemed antique, possibly an heirloom. It consisted of two long and two short sofas surrounding a wooden coffee table—ideal for business discussions with clients.
Shade and the doctor sat on opposite sofas.
“No need for introductions. First, I need to earn your trust,” Dr. Schneider began with a smile, thanking Shade for the tea. “This visit is genuinely about the promotional leaflet I handed you. Let me first describe your symptoms—”
“Wait,” Shade interrupted, “what do my symptoms have to do with the school?”
“They’re directly related. Hear me out, Mr. Shade Hamilton. Can you hear another voice in your head?”
Shade tried to control his expression, but the psychologist’s amused smile indicated he had failed.
“That voice says strange things, doesn’t it? Some of its words are even helpful. It whispers unexpectedly but has no malice,” the doctor continued.
Knowing it was pointless to deny, Shade nodded.
“And, Detective, this symptom must have appeared within the last 72 hours.”
“To be precise, 24 hours,” Shade corrected.
“Even better,” Dr. Schneider said with relief. “That gives us plenty of time. Awakening the talent lasts only 72 hours, so I’ll have more time to explain.”
He smiled. “These symptoms resemble schizophrenia, but in my eyes, they’re not. For certain people, the presence of ‘another you’ is a remarkable yet dangerous talent. Or rather, it’s the early manifestation of a talent. With proper guidance, you’ll see the real world—a mysterious and perilous one. Without guidance…”
“Does it fade into normalcy?” Shade asked.
“No, something worse,” the doctor replied. “I won’t deceive you—it’s unnecessary now. This is the sign of awakening as a ‘Ring Warlock.’ It’s an exceptionally rare talent. Whether you see it as a gift or a curse from fate is up to you. Think of ‘Ring Warlock’ as a special profession, one that uses… mystical powers. I hope you understand.”
Shade hesitated but nodded. His inner composure surprised him—perhaps the pressure from yesterday had left him numb. He attempted to feign astonishment, as any ordinary person would, but inwardly, he was unnaturally calm.
“So, hearing strange voices is part of a… system, a manifestation of a power system? Do many people experience this? Like some can see farther or hear more?” he asked.
“Yes. ‘I am you, and you are me.’ Every Ring Warlock experiences this. Once you succeed, the voice will accompany you for life, aiding you forever. It’s another perspective of yourself, helping you engage with this chaotic, noisy world in a deeper, more truthful way. Knowledge, information—even words—carry dangerous power. Beyond the safety of the ordinary world, we cannot recklessly expose our souls to forces that can distort us.”
Dr. Schneider paused, giving Shade time to absorb his words.
“But the awakening of Ring Warlock talents is fleeting. From the first whispers to the voice fading completely, it typically lasts 72 hours. Not everyone recognizes the voice as separate from their thoughts. Most dismiss it as hallucinations or ear trouble.
“Detective Shade Hamilton, this is why it’s so challenging for the Three Grand Arcane Academies or the Churches to recruit and train new talents. That’s why I said we’re fortunate.”
