Norbury

The power of Intent that humans possess connects to the divine, and there is nothing it cannot achieve.
However, for that, one must be humble and not arrogant, endure without becoming carried away.
One must keep to the middle way without leaning to extremes, show tolerance, and cultivate oneself so as not to hold prejudice.

Because the scripture says so.

心如工畵師
能畵諸世間
五蘊實從生
無法而不造

The mind is like a painter, drawing all things in the world.
Because the five aggregates arise following the mind, and there is nothing it cannot make.

That is.

若人知心行
普造諸世間
是人則見主
佛眞實性

If a person awakens to how the mind makes the world.
He has seen the Lord and known the Lord’s truth.

若人欲了知
三淸一體主
應觀法界性
一切唯心造

If a person wishes to know the Trinity God.
He should observe the nature of the Dharma-realm.
Because all things are made by mind.

-Samuel Smiles, -

“Holmes, what am I looking at right now?”
“Keep calm, Watson. First, we have to read the entire reply.”

To be honest, I was more shaken than Watson, but I could not bring myself to show it.
Watson wrote the manuscript, but the protagonists of that story are the two of us, and the detective is me.
For a detective to appear shaken before his assistant leads to the collapse of trust.
I must be a superhuman who reveals the truth of any case.
At least before Watson, I must live up to her expectations.

Of course, I am London’s one and only genius consulting detective.
Meaning my training is not so lacking that I would lose my composure over an irregularity like this.

“Excuse me for a moment.”

I took the envelope from Watson and pulled its contents out onto the table, one page at a time.

“…Strange.”

The magazine editorial office’s reply boasted a total length of around sixty pages.
For a rejection, the content was remarkably earnest.

[Reason for rejection: A manuscript extremely similar was recently submitted. Plagiarism is an unethical act, so refrain from it.]

The reason for rejection was only one or two lines, yet the rest of the letter was filled with pages specifically pointing out similarities.

The original of the manuscript Watson submitted, and a copy of the manuscript the editorial office claimed had been submitted before it.

Over a full three pages, the writer of the reply pointed out, one by one, the common points between the submitted manuscript and the manuscript he assumed was the original.
Similarities in plot and characters, key lines, even minor things like the narrator’s habits.

As if that was not enough, he even marked, one by one in vermilion ink, the parts suspected to be plagiarized across the two manuscripts.

“Hm…”
“Don’t tell me the editorial office coveted my manuscript and, because they didn’t want to pay me, fabricated a plausible manuscript and forced a rejection…?”

Watson asked me in an enraged tone, as if it were absurd.

“Well. There are too few clues, so I cannot judge yet.”

It was a lie.
I was sorry to Watson, but the possibility that her hypothesis was true was small.

When reading a letter, I could draw out far more information than others.
While ordinary people paid attention only to the content, I had the habit of examining not only the writer’s handwriting, but also the paper used and the scent soaked into it, the type of pen and ink, and even where the letter had been kept and what the weather was like on the day it was written.

“Still, if everything the magazine editor says is true, then we are experiencing something quite mysterious. For my part, I think I would be glad, because that reeks strongly of adventure.”
“Aren’t you speaking too carelessly because it isn’t your manuscript?”
“Please, do not be angry. It is true that a sliver of possibility still remains, is it not? When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
“Hmph. It must be nice, living with your mind open to every possibility.”
“Thank you for the compliment.”
“A man with no tact is never popular. At this rate, every possibility will close, and only same-sex marriage will remain open to you.”
“Another absurd thing to say.”

Just by the handwriting, it was perfectly clear what kind of person the magazine editor who wrote this letter was.

Letters squared off without any rough edges.
The vertical spacing was even, and it didn’t slant.
Timidity revealed in the most frequently used lowercase e.

There was not even a trace of the pen trembling when recording important parts.
Meaning there were no traces of falsehood.

In addition, I dampened my fingertips and touched the first and last pages of the reply.
From the way the ink bled, it was certainly not written over several days, but a reply dashed off in one night, taking up the pen and writing in one continuous sweep.

From this, the editor’s disposition could be inferred as follows.

A type of talent the world needs most, and the practical owner of all under heaven, living day by day while doing his best at the work entrusted to him.
Timid but meticulous by nature, needing a long time to decide, yet when able to present his position without outside pressure, he moves the pen without hesitation.

It did not seem likely that this type of person would shoulder enormous risk to snatch someone else’s manuscript by writing a similar fake manuscript.
The reason he took sufficient time before sending the reply must have been that he suspected similarities between Watson’s manuscript and the one previously submitted, and put effort into comparing the two works.

‘It must mean the similarity between the two manuscripts was so clear that he could definitively conclude it was plagiarism.’

This conviction of mine grew stronger the more carefully I read the reply (and I say again, I am truly, truly sorry to Watson).

Astonishingly, the meaningful differences between the two manuscripts did not even exceed ten places.
At most, the characters’ names were different, the places visited differed, and in the copy the editorial office claimed was plagiarized, Kung-Fu did not appear.

Wait. Just now…

“Show me too, Holmes. Why are you reading the reply that came to me all by yourself?”
“Wait just a moment. It keeps feeling like this letter reeks of a case.”

My instinct whispered.
That something bizarre was happening that I did not know.

“Stay seated. I will be right back.”

Leaving Watson in the living room, I took the editorial reply into the bedroom and shut the door.

“Could it be…?”

An impossible hypothesis came to mind.

Why would a person of this world record a story about crimes occurring in a London where Kung-Fu does not exist, and a detective digging into them?

In the world where I originally lived, adventure novels were published that dealt with a future where science was even more advanced than now, or with a fabricated reality.
The type commonly called science fiction, novels made purely for people’s enjoyment.

For example, before I attempted mutual destruction with Moriarty, I met a young science-school biology teacher candidate, Herbert George Wells, through an acquaintance’s introduction. He was deeply absorbed in planning a long novel, and he said the main content of his new work would be a machine that freely moved to the past or the future.
At the time I laughed inwardly at the idea, but since I had now experienced an incident similar to the novel he was planning, I had reason to reflect.

Thus, creative works dealing with fabricated technology cannot simply be dismissed as pure nonsense.
Both novels and new technology are born from human imagination.
On the day that vision becomes reality in the near future, the creator of the work receives even higher recognition.

But the copy of the manuscript the editorial office attached had an entirely different direction.
The city where the characters in the manuscript lived was London, yet in that novel’s worldview, Kung-Fu did not exist.
Just like that other world where I lived together with John Watson.

Not a reality with new technology added, but a world lacking something that exists in reality.
In other words, it was writing that walked the exact opposite path of science fiction.

“A person likely to write something like this… there are three types.”

First, a novelist whose elixir field was ruined or whose personal Kung-Fu was weak, who was treated harshly, and who came to hold great dissatisfaction toward Great Britain and European Murim itself, a seniority-by-cultivation society where social status is decided by realm and by the superiority of Kung-Fu.

Second, a duelist with a twisted way of thinking who imagines another relatively bland world where Kung-Fu is simply removed from reality, and finds it entertaining to watch weakened humans somehow overcome crises with guns and muscle alone.

Considering up to that point, how likely was it that either of those two types could record in such detail the incidents Watson and I experienced, to the point of making her manuscript look like plagiarism?

The premise is that the author must know nothing about me and Watson.
Because if someone had been following us and recording our every move, it would be somewhat understandable for similarity to occur between the two manuscripts.

But since crossing into London Murim, had I not had almost no experience of being tailed?
Above all, even if someone grasped all of Watson’s and my actions, differences should naturally arise in the method of narration, the order of scenes, and the style of description.
But in the copy the editorial office attached, those three things were remarkably similar to Watson’s manuscript.

Then the remaining possibility is the third.

“I know it sounds absurd, but if this hypothesis is correct…”

The third possibility is.

That someone, like me, crossed into London Murim while carrying memories of the other world.

It was astonishing, yet at present, this last hypothesis held the most plausibility.

The adventures of John Watson and me were published in the world where I used to live as well, and they gained great popularity.
If someone remembered the content in enough detail to submit a manuscript to a magazine, then in this world, with Jane Watson acting no differently from John Watson, it would be possible to write a similar manuscript.

And I.

“John…”

I was desperately hoping that person’s identity was John Watson.

“No. Is it still too early to be certain…?”

I hesitated.
I still lacked clues that would let me conclude that the person who submitted this manuscript to the magazine was John.

But.

A moment later.

As I turned through the typewritten copy of the manuscript page by page, with a tangled heart.

Seven letters of the alphabet, written in familiar handwriting, appeared.

“…So it was you.”

Norbury.

It was unmistakably Watson’s handwriting.

Hot tears ran down my cheeks.