A thick layer of soundproof glass blocked out the raucous celebration's uproar from behind them. Here, at the very depths of New Chaldea, was an observation deck.
Although it was called an observation deck, there was no scenery beyond the window. Instead, it looked out onto nothing but the unchanging, time-frozen stone walls of the Wandering Sea.
Steve deliberately designed this locale to resemble the room where the Simulated Global Environment Model Chaldea was once observed in Old Chaldea. Yet now, where a giant sphere should have floated, there was only an empty, dark space.
"Don't you think this is a wonderful place, Holmes?" Steve stood with his back to the door, absently tapping the railing with his fingertips as he gazed into the gloom. "The ever-glowing red sphere is gone, but this darkness is actually perfect for thinking—especially... about the prisoner, about our questions."
From behind, the click-clack of leather shoes echoed on the floor—a calm but slightly hesitant rhythm.
"You called me here specifically, avoiding Ritsuka and Mashu, didn't you…?"
Sherlock Holmes lit his pipe. Blue smoke swirled in the dimness. "It seems this is a subject not suited to broad daylight, Steve."
"An honest man doesn't beat around the bush." Steve turned, his eyes, sharpened behind his sunglasses, fixed on Holmes. "About the real culprit behind Humanity Freeze—or rather, the Bleached Earth... If you truly are the world's greatest detective, you must already have some clues."
Holmes took a thoughtful breath of his pipe and paused.
"This is a very dangerous question," he said in a low, familiar, but somehow enigmatic voice. "At present, we have far too few clues."
"The Alien God. The Imaginary Tree. The ones called the Crypters—traitors, all of them. The pieces of this puzzle are scattered everywhere."
"Without solid evidence, any deduction is just speculation. I can't—"
"You mustn't say it—not even think it," Steve interrupted, not bothering to hide his impatience. "It's not that there are too few clues—it's that there are too many." He took a step forward, voice lowering. "There are so many that you, the detective, are forced to feign ignorance for your own protection."
The air froze.
Holmes's eyes, always alive with intelligence, narrowed with unprecedented sharpness—a primal response to a secret being touched upon.
"You're not just guessing, are you?" he said quietly.
"Of course not." Steve smiled—not with mockery, but calm certainty, as if seeing through everything. He reached into his seemingly bottomless white pocket and brought out a tiny, antique golden pair of scissors.
"Detective, I understand your worry. You're afraid of force majeure, aren't you? The moment you touch upon the core truth, some protective mechanism will instantly activate, erasing your mind, your origins, even your thoughts."
Steve lifted the scissors, their golden blades glinting with a cold, dangerous light.
"These are called the Dimensional Scissors. At first glance, they look like a tailor's tool, but they can cut far more than just cloth."
He stepped closer to Holmes. "They can sever space, slice time, and even cut the causal bonds deep within your spirit—what you might call contracts or curses."
"If you trust me, I can help cut the collar that's strangling you and making it hard to breathe."
Holmes fell silent.
He didn't answer right away, nor did he back down. He simply stared at the scissors, and at the man holding them.
As a ruler-class detective manifest in this world, he was supposed to see through every truth. But for that very reason, he was also the first to sense a fear that was vast, ineffable, indescribable—not from some distant star, but from somewhere close, something intimately familiar.
So as not to alert that fear to his gaze, Holmes had to shut down his faculties and play the riddler—always still searching for clues. For one who lived to solve truths, that was an insult almost too bitter to endure.
"…Do you even know what you're saying?" Holmes finally rasped, breaking the long silence. "If this collar really exists, its owner might… have the power to rewrite the very surface of this planet."
"If you really lift those limits, the backlash might—"
"That's why I'm here." With calm arrogance, Steve stopped Holmes mid-sentence. "Before I came, I understand you had to play the fool to protect yourself. I get it. After all, Chaldea then was far too fragile—any touch from that existence could've destroyed you all."
He looked upward, as if staring through the Wandering Sea's rock walls and at the phantom, missing sphere.
"But things are different now. As long as I'm involved, as long as I've decided to make this place our New Chaldea—no matter if it's alien gods or some other something masquerading as human reason—I have methods to deal with it."
"Maris Chaldea…"
Though unspoken, the name's meaning was confirmed in their eyes.
"…Oh." Holmes suddenly laughed—not his usual polite smile, but a relieved, almost manic grin. He removed the pipe from his lips and knocked ash lightly against the railing.
"So this is the source of confidence in the savior from the future. I see I've underestimated your astonishing wisdom, Steve."
Holmes lifted his collar, straightened up, and turned his neck toward Steve like a knight before a coronation—or an execution.
"Well then, I leave it to you. Honestly, knowing the answer but being unable to say it is a hundred times more painful than a cigarette sore throat. If you can relieve this constipation, even if thunder from another planet strikes me in the next second—I'll accept it."
"Don't worry. With me here, lightning strikes are the least of your problems." Steve gave a faint smile and delicately spun the golden scissors in his hand. Click—the blades made a crisp snap in the air.
There was no flash of light, no magical quake to shake the earth.
But for Holmes, the mechanism that had been firmly bound to the core of his mind—suspended over his head like the Sword of Damocles—began to crumble at that moment. An unprecedented sense of relief washed over him.
As the fog in his thoughts cleared, clues and logical sequences that had been forcibly locked away by fear now reconnected, one after another.
"…Phew…"
Holmes exhaled a long smoke ring. His eyes changed. The former indifference and detachment melted away—replaced by a gaze so sharp and calm it seemed capable of dissecting the world: a true detective's eyes.
"How are you feeling?" Steve stowed away the scissors and asked.
"Wonderful." Holmes turned, surveying the empty observation chamber with a provocative smile.
"I can't fully grasp the workings of that black box—but at the very least, its outline is clear now." He looked at Steve and dipped his head respectfully.
"Steve, thank you for the operation. From this moment, Sherlock Holmes is no longer a mere bystander, uttering riddles—but a true advisor and detective of New Chaldea."
"Very good." Steve nodded in satisfaction. "Now then, Consulting Detective, do you have any particular advice regarding our upcoming trip to Russia?"
"Indeed." Holmes took up his pipe again, eyes glittering. "I have some interesting theories about the Kadoc Zemlupus and his Lost Belt. Moreover, I suspect that the historical divergence at that Lostbelt is both ancient and cruel—far more than we imagined."
The two figures remained side by side in the dim chamber.
And so, at this very moment, the mind of New Chaldea finally awakened completely.
…