Chapter 43

Chapter 43: Good Morning, Mr. Duncan

Duncan put the book back, then checked the rest of the furnishings in the room. He did not find anything else of real value. There were pitifully few belongings in this small bedroom, and it did not seem to be used often. The most useful clues were still that textbook and the two old notebooks in the desk drawer.

The notebooks were filled with notes on steam engines and engineering principles, with a few complaints about certain teachers or classmates scattered between the pages.

It was easy to reach a conclusion from that: the person living here was a young student still in school.

Duncan slowly sorted through the fragments of memory in his head. After he put everything in the room back where it had been, he returned to the main bedroom.

He sat on the edge of the bed and thought for a while. Then he stood up and walked to the standing wardrobe beside him, opening its door almost by muscle memory and pulling out one of the drawers.

A few bottles of strong liquor lay hidden in the back of the drawer, along with half a box of pills used to ease pain and calm the nerves. These were things the cultist named Ron had left behind in the world.

He had suffered from a serious illness that had already worsened beyond any cure. Cheap liquor and painkillers that only helped for a while were always kept in the drawer, but such things obviously did nothing to extend the life of a man trapped in sickness.

So this man, who had lost all hope in life, turned to the Church of the Sun. The preachers told him that the healing power of the Sun could cure all stubborn illnesses in the world and purify the body and mind of those who converted. And to a certain extent, those cultists really did keep that promise:

They had bloody, twisted rituals that used fresh blood as a medium, channeling the life force of innocent people into the bodies of sick believers. Duncan did not know how those rituals worked, or whether they could truly cure incurable diseases. He only knew, from the fragments of memory that remained, that after one such ritual the cultist named Ron had indeed improved, and so he became even more devoted to the Sun, going so far as to donate more than half his property to the “Envoy”.

But Duncan was not very interested in what had happened among those cultists who were already dead.

He reached deeper into the drawer and soon felt a hidden compartment. After fiddling with it for a moment, he found a revolver and a box of bullets still in good condition.

The city-state of Pland did not forbid citizens from owning guns, but they needed proper paperwork. A fake antique dealer living in the Lower City clearly lacked the money and status to get a gun license, so this was without a doubt an illegally owned weapon. Out of caution, the original master of this body had left the gun in the room instead of taking it to the gathering. He probably used it to protect his shop in daily life. But now, it belonged to the captain.

Of course, Duncan knew this was just an ordinary weapon. Compared to the “anomaly” creatures on the Vanished—or even to the old-fashioned flintlock on his ship, which might have special powers that surpassed this revolver—it was nothing. But he was someone in the Mortal Realm now. He knew moving around the city-state of Pland was not the same as acting on his ship. The body he was using now was made of flesh and blood, and many parts of this city were far from safe.

After all, he could not solve every problem by having the pigeon take care of people—when AI moved in earnest, she made too much noise and would easily draw unnecessary attention from the Church’s forces in the city.

Just then, a faint sound suddenly caught Duncan’s attention.

He heard the scrape of a key from the direction of the shop’s front door downstairs, followed by the sound of the lock turning and hurried footsteps.

Duncan quickly tucked the revolver against his body, and only then did he notice that it was already broad daylight outside the window—he had been busy in the antique shop all night. The pigeon AI suddenly started chattering on his shoulder: “You have a new short message!”

“Quiet,” Duncan said quickly, glancing at the pigeon as he walked toward the door. “Stay in the room until I give the word. And if there’s anyone else around, don’t speak.”

AI flapped her wings at once and flew to a nearby cabinet. “Aye, captain!”

Duncan hurried out of the room, and just as he reached the top of the stairs, he heard the quick footsteps already coming up. A young, breathless girl’s voice rose from below: “Uncle Duncan? Is that you back?”

A moment later, a girl in a brown long skirt and white blouse, with long dark brown hair, came into Duncan’s view.

She looked only seventeen or eighteen, slender and small, with what seemed like a bit of morning dew still clinging to her hair. Her features were not especially striking, but she had the fresh prettiness of her age. She stared up at Duncan standing at the second-floor landing, eyes wide, her face full of happy surprise.

Duncan did not answer. He simply stood there on the second floor. sunlight from a narrow window behind the stairs shone against his silhouette, hiding his expression in the glare. He silently looked at the girl for several seconds before finally speaking, slowly: “What did you just call me?”

“Duncan… uncle?” The girl looked puzzled for a moment, then grew a little nervous. She grabbed the stair rail beside her and peered up carefully, as if trying to see the middle-aged man’s face through the backlight. “Did I say something wrong? Did you… did you drink again? You haven’t come home for days… I just saw the light on downstairs…”

Her face and voice were all too clear to Duncan. She obviously did not yet know how—or had never thought—to hide her emotional reactions.

From the memories he had devoured, this girl should be the original owner of this body’s niece, and his only living relative.

Duncan could faintly tell that the girl did not think anything she had said was strange. She had no idea that the way she had addressed him—“Uncle Duncan”—was wrong from the very start.

Where had things gone wrong? Why would this young lady, who in theory could not possibly know his secret, so naturally call him “Duncan”?

Countless guesses surged through his mind. At the same time, he also found a few matching fragments in his memories related to this young lady—the child with dark brown hair, the last figure the original master of this body had been reluctant to leave behind in the living world.

“Nina,” Duncan said. His expression did not change and his voice stayed calm; the storm of thoughts in his head did not show at all. “Did you stay at school last night?”

“I’ve been staying at school these past few days,” the girl on the stairs answered at once. “I thought you’d be like before, gone for at least a week, so after I tidied up the house I went to stay with a classmate… Madam White, who manages the dorms, agreed. I only rushed back today because I suddenly remembered I left a book at home… Are you okay? You seem… a bit strange…”

“I’m fine, I was just a little groggy from sleep just now.”

Duncan answered in a natural tone and then started down to the first floor. An unbelievably wild guess had already formed in his heart, and now he had to confirm it.

He passed by Nina on the stairs. The young girl turned sideways to let him by, watching his eyes curiously. When he was almost down to the first floor, she suddenly asked, “Uncle Duncan, are you going out again later? Are you… going to stay home for a few days?”

“…It depends,” Duncan said without looking back, still unsure if his expression was natural enough. He only followed the tone that should exist in his borrowed memories as he answered his “niece”. “I’m just going to check the door. If nothing’s wrong, I’ll be home for the next few days.”

“Ah, okay. Then I’ll go buy some groceries later. There isn’t much food left at home…”

The girl spoke quickly as she thumped up the stairs, her footsteps fast and her voice carrying a light, cheerful note.

Duncan had already reached the shop’s front door. He took a light breath and pushed it open.

He turned around and looked up at the sign hanging over the entrance. On the old, grimy board, a line of letters stood out clearly: Duncan Antique Shop.

The first few letters were just as old as the rest. There was no sign they had been added later. It was as if they had always been there from the very beginning.

Duncan frowned and slowly walked over to the display window. Leaning forward, he studied his own face in the reflection on the dirty glass.

It was indeed a stranger’s face. It did not belong to the stern, gloomy ghost captain, but to a middle-aged man with a scruffy beard, sunken eyes, and a tired look—the face of the cultist named Ron who had died in the sewers.

Duncan slowly straightened up. He could hear the district coming to life around him. The clear jingle of bells came from shop doors opening onto the street. Bicycle bells and the murmur of people talking gradually filled the road. Someone walked past the antique shop—probably the neighbor from next door—and called out to him:

“Good morning, Mr. Duncan—have you read today’s paper? The Deep Sea Church seems to have taken down a big cultist hideout. That’s quite the event!”