《The Great Demon Holmes》


 Chapter 1: Old Jack

    Chapter 1: Old Jack


    Old Jack had two things to do today.


    First, he had to pay the water bill.


    Second, he had to kill someone.


    Due to his procrastination tendencies, he always liked to leave difficult tasks until thest moment.


    Therefore, he decided to kill the person first.


    ...


    ...


    6 o''clock in the morning.


    Year 288 in the Saint''s Calendar - London.


    Early morning was not much different from dusk; the visibility was poor. Berlin-made airshipszily floated overhead like giant whales, blocking what little sunlight there was. The entire city seemed enveloped in descending dust.


    But strangely enough, if you looked up, you could still see distant chimneys continuously spewing thick smoke.


    These chimneys were like gs, showcasing the supreme power and wealth of the empire. After the gates of hell opened, these chimneys worked even more diligently.


    As the newspaper put it... "If the factories don''t work harder, what will happen to the government''s expenditure? Who will support the army? Who will produce weapons? Who will deal with those demons that run out of the gates?"


    It sounded noble, but even people like Old Jack, who hadn''t read many books, knew that what those chimneys spewed out was the blood and sweat of the poor.


    As for the money, it all ended up in the capitalists'' pockets.


    Oh, at this time, the term "capitalist" hadn''t be popr yet, so Old Jack was ustomed to using other terms to refer to them...


    For example, "bastards without an asshole."


    ...


    On Xiann Street in the Lower City District, a small street about two kilometers from the Thames River.


    It took Old Jack three hours to get here, and now the morning fog had mostly dissipated. Looking around, he could see not-so-fresh cow dung on the ground, garbage bins that hadn''t been cleaned for months along the roadside, steam rising from the sewer, and two rats running past a stray cat, whichzily yawned.


    At the end of the street was a grocery store, still hidden in the shadows of surrounding walls even though the fog had cleared.


    All of this indicated that it was a good ce for murder...


    Old Jack was very pleased.


    He stepped over the cow dung on the ground and walked straight into the entrance of the grocery store.


    "Morning!" he greeted a big-bellied shopkeeper behind the counter.


    The shopkeeper, holding a newspaper, nced over the top of it, didn''t say anything, and looked grumpy, very unfriendly.


    Old Jack looked at those clearly cirrhotic eyes filled with bloodshot veins and the prominent beer belly, confirming that this guy was the one he was going to kill today.


    "Excuse me, do you have a fruit knife here?" he asked.


    "Over there..." The shopkeeper pointed in a direction with an unfriendly gaze.


    "Thank you," Jack said, expressing his gratitude before walking over and picking a knife that felt suitable. He then returned to the counter.


    "7 pence," the shopkeeper continued in that unfriendly tone.


    Jack thought to himself that with such an unpleasant attitude, it was reasonable for someone to want to buy his life.


    Of course, he didn''t care who this guy had offended; he didn''t want to get involved. He just wanted to finish this job quickly and then pay the water bill.


    "Excuse me, is there a police station nearby?" he asked, cing a shilling on the table.


    "There isn''t one."


    "Well... Are there usually many customers here?"


    "There''s no one on the street, so where would the customerse from?!" grumbled the shopkeeper, turning around to get change.


    Jack nodded reassuringly and picked up the knife.


    Smoothly, he thrust it into the other person''s neck.


    ...


    Sometimes, Old Jack wondered why humans were so fragile. One stab with a knife could kill them, yet they could still rule the whole world.


    And those demons, clearly powerful one by one, had been stuck by humans on the Antarctic continent for two hundred years since the gates of hell opened, unable to cross the Drake Passage.


    Could it really be because of those steam-powered tanks that can only move when heated?


    Or... was it because of the contractors who formed symbiotic rtionships with the demons?


    Whatever it was, he was just an unknown assassin, taking jobs and living day by day. Maybe one day he wouldn''t be able to work anymore and starve to death in his own home. He didn''t have the mental energy to concern himself with matters on the battlefield.


    These days... no one had it easy.


    But fortunately, today''s job was quite easy. The knife was sharp, and it easily pierced the other person''s neck, tearing through the neck muscles and reaching the windpipe. With a gentle flick, the entire airway was cut open...


    Watching the shopkeeper staring at him with terrified eyes, clutching his neck and copsing to the ground, writhing like a fat maggot, Jack sighed helplessly. He turned around, flipped the sign on the door to "CLOSED," and pulled down the curtain while locking the door.


    With his weight, it would be difficult to carry him outter. Fortunately, there weren''t many people on this street now. In about ten minutes, he should be able to dispose of the body in the sewer.


    Just as he was thinking...


    Suddenly, Jack had a bad feeling. He saw the person on the ground, while clutching his own throat, pressing his fingers into the wound due to the force, with those thick joints poking and prodding inside the bloody gap.


    "Uh... Could it be..."


    Before he could finish his sentence, his intuition came true.


    The shopkeeper sessfully punctured his own artery.


    Fat people generally had high blood pressure, and the blood vessels of hypertensive individuals were fragile...


    In an instant, blood viciously spurted out from the wound, like a small fountain, shooting up to the ceiling, then shattered intorge blood stters, sshing onto the ground with a sttering sound.


    It was widely known that killing someone was actually a simple matter, but if the body started spurting blood everywhere, the clean-up became troublesome... It was like cooking being easy, but doing the dishes being a hassle.


    So, at that moment, Old Jack felt utterly defeated.


    He leaned against the door, rubbing his head in agony, and once again, the idea of retiring as soon as possible sprouted in his mind.


    "How am I supposed to handle this?!"


    ...


    And in the midst of his excruciating pain...


    "Ring, ring, ring..."


    A series of telephone rings suddenly echoed.


    Old Jack was taken aback, following the sound to locate the phone. Finally, he found it beneath a pile of newspapers on the counter.


    It was a standard "Scond Younger" telephone, quite popr in this era but not cheap.


    Staring at the phone, which continued to make noise, Jack hesitated about whether to answer it or not.


    After weighing his options in his mind, he decided to pick it up, even if he didn''t speak, just to hear who the other person was.


    So... he brought the receiver to his ear...


    A clear male voice came through the phone.


    "Hello, is this Mr. Jack? I apologize for disturbing you, but I wanted to confirm... Have you... finished the job?"


    "???"


    Jack felt his mind go nk for a moment, followed by a wave of absurd and eerie sensations creeping up his forehead.


    "p!"


    He hung up the receiver.


    To be honest, he was a bit bewildered...


    What was going on? The person on the phone called me "Mr. Jack," right?


    Was he talking to me? But how did the other person know I was here?


    And what did he mean by "finished the job"?


    Lost in thought, he suddenly heard a knocking sound, "Thump thump thump," at the door.


    Old Jack immediately turned his head, an assassin of over thirty years, but at this moment, he uncharacteristically held his breath.


    "Who could it be outside?"


    He wondered, subconsciously relieved that he had locked the door from the inside...


    "It must be a passing customer. As long as they don''t make a sound, they''ll understand to leave," he hoped.


    However... before he could finish his thoughts...


    "Click! Click!"


    The lock made a few soft sounds!


    Then... the doorknob slowly turned...


    And then, it was pushed open.


    ...


    Outside the door stood a man wearing a trench coat, tall but thin, around thirty years old. He had a typical British face, with a slightly prominent nose that made his features overly three-dimensional.


    The grayish sunlight shone in from the edges of his body, casting an eerie golden hue over the room filled with blood.


    The man nced at the still-spraying fountain of blood without showing any panic. Instead, he seemed to have a sudden realization and let out a sigh of relief.


    "Phew... I did say so. I waited outside for a good five minutes and didn''t see youe out. I thought you had failed, but it turns out his artery was severed. No matter, as long as you finished the job, it''s considered capturing the culprit."


    As the man spoke, he directed his gaze toward Old Jack, who wore a bewildered expression. He casually took off his old top hat and held it against his chest, slightlyzily bowing:


    "Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Sherlock Holmes, a detective."

 Chapter 2: Time Waits for No One

    Chapter 2: Time Waits for No One


    After the gates of hell opened, humanity exhibited a rare attribute: unity. There were no longer any divisions among nations, and the world was unified under a single empire.


    However, London was one of the few cities that still retained its original name.


    Of course, it also preserved the perpetually gloomy and hazy atmosphere.


    Noontime...


    The concept of "bright sunshine" rarely existed here.


    The entire underground of the city had been hollowed out to construct massive steam pipes and furnaces. A group of esteemed mad scientists had dug through the River Thames, continuously channeling its water deep underground. They tirelessly boiled and burned day and night, releasing thousands of tons of steam into the sky every day, only for it to transform into acidic rain as it descended.


    ording to those so-called "scientists," this was a form of recycling, so there was never a need to worry about running out of steam.


    Of course, they never mentioned the dwindling number of trees.


    But the citizens didn''t concern themselves with such matters. They only knew that this was London, the home of thergest and most advanced steam furnace in the world. The entire city was enveloped in mechanical pipelines, and steam was their productivity. It was undoubtedly a source of pride.


    If only the air could be a bit fresher, that would be even better.


    And at this moment, Sherlock Holmes traversed through this city of machinery. He rode in a cheap carriage that stopped on demand, costing only five pence per kilometer. Next to his feet was a huge suitcase that was half the height of a person, making the already cramped space even more crowded. Outside the carriage window, there was a cacophony of voices, asional roars from operating factories, and the distant tolling of church bells.


    Actually, sometimes he truly couldn''t understand people''s thinking.


    For example, even though these mechanical contraptions were bing more cumbersome and inefficient, people still had boundless confidence in them, believing that "boiling water" would eventually save the world.


    For example, even though they knew that no matter how much they shouted, the road would never be clear, almost everyone urged the car in front of them to go faster!


    For example, even though that uncle named Jack was well aware that as an assassin, he would definitely not have a good ending, when Sherlock tried to arrest him, he still yelled and swung his knife at him.


    Sherlock was desperately broke. He just wanted to apprehend a few murderers and make some money. What was wrong with that?


    But old Jack didn''t cooperate at all; he treated him so roughly. Sherlock was terrified at the time and instinctively snatched the knife from him. In one swift motion, he thrust the entire de into Jack''s waist.


    Well... luckily, humans have two waists, so even if one is shattered, they can still live... at least for a while.


    To save time going to the police station, Sherlock specially called for a carriage. This also prevented the prisoner from losing too much blood and going into shock or experiencing excruciating pain.


    He had always been considerate like this, even when dealing with murderers.


    ...


    At two-thirty in the afternoon, the carriage stopped at the main entrance of Scond Yard.


    "Scond Yard" was actually a nickname for the London Police Department. Sherlock didn''t know why it had such a name, and he didn''t care. He just carried the enormous suitcase and got off the carriage.


    While paying, the carriage driver inevitably cast another nce at the suitcase.


    It was just too big, and he had no idea what was inside. It bulged and strained the wooden handle, but the customer holding it didn''t show the slightest sign of exertion.


    "Sir... Sir?!"


    "Oh!" The carriage driver snapped out of his daze. "Apologies, that will be 25 pence."


    Even if the fare was cheap, it still added up over the course of the journey, bing a significant expense. Sherlock reluctantly took out a few coins and handed them over, feeling a pang of regret.


    "May the Holy Light bless you," the carriage driver said out of habit.


    "The Holy Light doesn''t have the time to bless me."


    Sherlock responded with a weary tone, paying no attention to the driver''s astonished expression. He walked straight toward the police station, his tall and lean figure contrasting with therge suitcase he carried. The driver stared in a daze, for a moment thinking he was seeing things, as if he had witnessed something inside the suitcase struggling.


    ...


    Entering the police station, the mor and noise inside surpassed that of the streets. Since the second demonic invasion, London''s public order had been consistently poor. Murders, thefts, and robberies urred frequently. The citizens believed that even if they remainedw-abiding, they might be bitten to death by small demons crawling out of the rifts in the void. As a result, they sought revenge and settled scores.


    "Get out of the way, you bastard!"


    A shout emerged from the crowd, followed by a drunken tramp stumbling out, his hands shackled in handcuffs, clearly havingmitted some offense.


    At the same time, the man was clearly intoxicated; otherwise, he wouldn''t have foolishly attempted to escape the police station solely based on his ample flesh. Sure enough, the next moment, a policeman tackled him to the ground, viciously jabbing his electric baton into the man''s armpit. Apanied by the sound of electric current, the criminal convulsed, and a whiff of urine filled the air.


    Such scenes weremonce in Scond Yard, and the surroundingw enforcement officers paid no attention, even using their batons to prod the nearby prisoners, gesturing for them to behave or else.


    "What a damn streak of bad luck."


    The policeman who tackled the drunkard got up, shaking off the urine stains on his uniform. Seeing a decently dressed person standing nearby, heined instinctively:


    "Sorry, sir, the recent criminals aren''t very cooperative..."


    But before he could finish, he suddenly froze.


    He recognized the person holding the enormous suitcase. His eyes involuntarily flickered with a hint of fear, but he still held a glimmer of hope as he raised his head...


    Following his line of sight, he also saw the person''s face and those eyes that seemed forever asleep.


    At that moment, the once intimidating expression of the officer who had just electrocuted the criminal instantly softened.


    "Sher... Mr. Sherlock..."


    His voice was not loud, just a soft murmur from his throat.


    But the instant that name floated out, the surrounding mor suddenly subsided, and then, a wave of gazes turned toward them, apanied by faint gasps of astonishment.


    Sherlock paid no attention to the surrounding crowd''s odd behavior. In fact, he had long been ustomed to it. He just sleepily looked at thepliant officer in front of him and handed therge suitcase forward.


    "Here, a murderer caught directly at the crime scene. He seems to be called Jack... or maybe Mike. Anyway, you can check his criminal record."


    Casually, he spoke as if nothing had happened, noticing the officer''s hesitation to take the suitcase. So, he simply let go.


    "Thunk!"


    The suitcasended heavily on the ground, like a lump of waterlogged pork. Some blood sttered from the seams of the leather, causing the people nearby to instinctively step back


    a few paces.


    "Is Commissioner Lestrade in his office?" Sherlock continued to ask.


    The officers present didn''t dare to think too much and hurriedly nodded.


    Sherlock replied, "Thanks."


    Since he had apprehended a criminal, he naturally had to discuss the reward with themissioner.


    In fact, in normal circumstances, if someone else caught a criminal, there was no need to bother themissioner in such a grand manner. They could simply register the case with the police department. Only Sherlock was an exception.


    He walked toward the outside of the crowd, and naturally, a path was cleared for him. Suddenly, an officer seemed to recall something and quickly shouted, "Mr. Sherlock, please... please wait."


    "Hmm?" Sherlock turned back.


    The officer summoned up his courage, not avoiding eye contact, and said formally, "Themissioner is currently receiving a very important guest. It would be better for you not to disturb him right now."


    "A very important guest?" Sherlock pondered. "Alright, I''ll wait for him in the reception room."


    Passing through the quiet crowd, he walked down an empty corridor and entered the elevator...


    Although it contained the word "electric" in its name, its operation still relied mostly on steam. There was no other choiceno matter how fashionable electricity was, its scope of application was still too limited. It remained a mere apaniment to the era, just like those conservative veteran soldiers on the battlefield who tried to fend off demons with guns.


    "Click~"


    A lighter made a soft sound, and the feeble me of the cigarette trembled as it approached. It seemed fearful, yet unable to retreat.


    And at that moment...


    "Wait."


    A soft call came from down the corridor as a woman hurriedly walked toward the elevator. She appeared to be around 25 years old, dressed in an unusual nun''s attireno cumbersome long skirts or headscarves. Instead, everything was tailored to facilitate movement.


    Sherlock exhaled a long puff of smoke, enveloping his entire face in a haze.


    He didn''t reach for the elevator button... allowing the elevator doors to close slowly.


    "Time waits for no one, beautifuldy..."

 Chapter 3: One Detective

    Chapter 3: One Detective


    London Police Headquarters, 5th floor, Chief''s Office.


    As the highest-ranking official of the London Police Department, Chief Lestrade was currently lowering his head humbly, trying his best to disy respect in his smile. However, due to his usualck of humor, his expression appeared more like a peculiar twitch.


    Facing the diminutive old man on the couch, he hesitated for a while, ncing at the clock on the wall out of the corner of his eye. Finally, he spoke up:


    "Your Excellency, Scond Yard has undergone four expansions already. The corridors and stairs are in disarray. Miss Catherine, will she... get lost?"


    He didn''t dare to utter the words "get lost" as that could be misinterpreted as being directionally challenged or mentally incapable.


    The old man in front of him clearly didn''t care about such matters. He simply smiled and waved his hand dismissively, saying, "Don''t worry, she should be arriving soon."


    Sure enough, a few minutester, the office door was pushed open, and the young woman dressed in peculiar nun attire walked in.


    Her jet-ck hair was tied up behind her neck, and her eyebrows and eyes were sharp, naturally exuding a sense of pride and severity that didn''t match her age.


    At this moment, her face revealed clear anger, making Chief Lestrade feel uneasy.


    "What happened?" the old man on the couch stood up and asked.


    "Nothing, just encountered an ill-mannered bastard," Katherine closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to suppress the anger in her heart.


    Chief Lestrade''s heart sank, mentally scolding everyone in the entire police station from top to bottom.


    He had clearly given instructions that they were receiving an important person today, and they should be polite to unfamiliar faces. How could someone still be so brainless!


    "I assure you, anyone who offends the sanctity of the Church will face the severest punishment!" he hurriedly said.


    Katherine shook her head, not wanting to dwell on the matter any longer. She turned to the Chief and said seriously, "Have you found the suspect?"


    The Chief''s smile froze, and he was in a precarious situation, on the verge of tears. "Miss Katherine, I am the Chief of the London Police Department, but your request... is too difficult."


    ...


    In fact, it wasn''t a major issue to begin with. It was just that a serial killer suddenly emerged in the old city district, brutally ughtering twelve women in the span of two weeks. Each victim was subjected to heinous acts of violence, dismemberment, bloodletting, and the tearing apart of internal organs, leaving a gruesome scene.


    That was all.


    In an era where "Hell" invaded the real ne, demons roamed everywhere, and walking on the streets at night could result in instant death, it was difficult to garner enough attention for a serial killer.


    However, the problemy in the fact that this individual seemed to have be addicted to killing...


    No longer satisfied with continuing the spree in the lower city district, the killer had set their sights on the upper city district. Justst night, they had brutally murdered a beautiful woman.


    If it were just a resident of the upper city district, it wouldn''t be much of an issue, at most raising the reward money. But unfortunately, this victim in the upper city district... was the wife of an executive officer of the Church!


    Now, things had be serious!


    It was widely known that since the gates of hell opened, the Church became the only hope for the survival of the human race. Whether it was the countless churches built within the city districts or the fanatic warmongers in the south who used their own flesh and blood to resist demonic invasions, or even the omnipresent "Holy Light," they were all thest support for humanity struggling on the brink of extinction.


    "The Church is invible."


    Even before children could read or their worldview had fully formed, this phrase had already be ingrained in their young hearts, like the rising and setting of the sun, an established rule of this world.


    "I don''t care what methods you use." The woman''s face darkened. "Someone has killed a family member of the Church, an affront to the Holy Light. The killer must be found within 24 hours."


    "But... but you only gave me one slot, and..." Chief Lestrade mustered the courage to exin, but when he saw Miss Katherine''s slightly furrowed brow, he quickly swallowed the rest of his words.


    There was no choice. The wife of an executive officer being brutally murdered was more shocking than the mayor of London engaging in bestiality. If the news got out, it would tarnish the supreme authority of the Church.


    Therefore, this matter had to be resolved as quickly as possible, with as few people as possible knowing about it!


    But


    Sending someone to investigate a series of murders and catch the killer within 24 hours, isn''t that an impossible task?


    Unless...


    Unless!!!


    Director Leistride swallowed hard, feeling extremely helpless and uneasy as a name crossed his mind.


    In that instant of realization...


    "Oh? Could it be that you''ve thought of someone?" spoke the small elderly man before him. His droopy eyelids concealed lifeless gray eyes.


    Director Leistride didn''t know what hade over him, but he instinctively nodded, "Yes, if anyone can do it, it''s only him."


    As the words left his mouth, he abruptly snapped out of his daze, drenched in cold sweat. Looking at the small elderly man who had been smiling all along, a hint of fear seeped through his previously respectful demeanor.


    He had definitely not intended to say those words.


    He had beenpelled by some kind of abyssal force...


    So, this honored sacrificer wasn''t merely a contractee but had already evolved to the second stage?!


    "Has someone finally been chosen?" Miss Katherine asked.


    Director Leistride clenched his hands, sweat trickling through his fingers. He knew that there was no point in concealing the truth any longer. He could only nervously reply, "Yes, there is someone chosen... a private detective..."


    ...


    Several minutester, within the police station''s holding cell.


    An old gasmp sizzled, casting a dim light in the dampness.


    Several officers struggled to carry arge bloodstained suitcase, and if it weren''t for the asional eerie movement emanating from within, no one would believe that a person was crammed inside.


    The individual''s pelvic bone had been shattered, their legs twisted in an unimaginable manner and forcefully brought up to their chest. Ribs were likely broken, shoulders dislocated, and the tendons in their elbows torn apart, resembling two strands of hemp rope, cruelly tied below their neck.


    In short, a living person had beenpressed into a lump of flesh, and what was even more horrifying was that this person was still alive.


    ording to the Empire''sws, death row inmates had no civil rights, so even if they were treated roughly, there was no recourse forint.


    After all, these people were already destined for the execution ground.


    But... but this was still too cruel.


    "Zip--"


    The suitcase''s zipper was opened, and the sound of bones rubbing against each other sent shivers down their spines, followed by the gasping breath of lungs finally expanding.


    No screams for help, only the faintest miserable moans. The person, like a pile of mud, oozed out slowly.


    The robed, small elderly man in front of the suitcase froze, then looked at the police officers beside him, only to find them averting their gaze, unable to look at the person sprawled on the ground.


    "Does your detective always arrive like this?" one officer timidly nodded.


    "Yes, Your Excellency, ording to him... it''s more convenient to transport prisoners this way."


    Meanwhile, on the third floor of the police station, Director Leistride and Miss Katherine stood at the entrance of the lounge.


    The director pointed to a couch, where a man was sitting. He wore a trench coat, had a lean figure, and held a book in his hand, seemingly reading with half-closed eyes, like a fallen noble who had lost all interest in life.


    "It''s this person..." humbly stated the director.


    Before he finished speaking, he suddenly noticed the expression on thedy''s face.


    "Um... Miss Katherine, yourplexion... doesn''t seem too good."

 Chapter 4: The Contractee

    Chapter 4: The Contractee


    Dusk in London began at half-past three. Due to the umted water vapor in the clouds, the greyish sunlight passed through the mirrors, tinted with a vibrant crimson hue. The distant church bells gradually ceased, marking the end of the day''s worship.


    Inside the office, the venerable High Priest sat with closed eyes, his sparse hair resembling the legs of insects, subtly and imperceptibly wriggling...


    Director Lestrade slightly lowered his body and whispered, "Miss Katherine, do you know that detective?"


    "I don''t."


    "But... it seems like you''re very dissatisfied with him."


    Recalling the detestable face she saw in the elevator, Katherine spoke coldly, "The family member of a clergyman was murdered! What we need now is the strongest and most professional elite who can single-handedly solve the entire case, catch the killer, and have their blood stain the court''s announcement before tomorrow''s sunset!


    And what did you do? You found such azy, shameless scum who is always dazed, as if he''s under the influence of hallucinogens?"


    Director Lestrade stared at her in astonishment, surprised at her evaluation of Sherlock, which... was actually quite urate.


    "But, esteemed Miss Katherine, I can assure you, as the highest-ranking officer of Scond Yard, that the only person who can meet your requirements is him, even if we search all of London."


    He cautiously countered, as the highest authority in the Londonw enforcement system, he instinctively disyed a stubborn and proud side in his own field,pletely forgetting that less than half an hour ago, he was unwilling to even mention the name Sherlock.


    ...


    After Lestrade left, the old High Priest slowly opened his eyes.


    The previous moment of meditation seemed to have brought him great enjoyment, and the crimson rays of the setting sun shone on the edges of his robe... Suddenly, right there, a pitch-ck crack appeared out of thin air, and a giant hairy spider emerged silently.


    It was asrge as a handcart, its eight eyes resembling eight ck beans, emitting a chilling glow under the evening sun.


    The old priest extended his hand and affectionately rubbed the fur on the spider''s abdomen, causing it to emit a nauseating hiss:


    "During the second demonic invasion, Lestrade was responsible for the security of the lower city alone, and he managed to reduce the civilian crime rate there to a level that satisfied the Church. It seems his judgment shouldn''t be too poor..."


    "I just feel that such azy person doesn''t seem to possess any outstanding qualities," Katherine wrinkled her brows in confusion.


    "Haha, that detective captured a murderer today, whom he used to im a reward for. He... stuffed the criminal into a box."


    "A... box?" Katherine questioned.


    "Haha, that''s right, a suitcase." The old priest chuckled and gestured with his hands, outlining the shape, "I have never seen a person so contorted, yet still alive. Even the lunatics from the Academy of Vitality Research would require a considerable number of instruments to achieve that. Moreover, the captured murderer isn''t a simple character. The reward has already reached 200 pounds, and I heard that he captured him in just two or three days... and caught him in the act ofmitting a crime."


    "For an ordinary person, aplishing something like that is already exceptional."


    Katherine pondered the old man''s words for a while before saying, "Nevertheless, exceptional or not, he is ultimately just an ordinary person."


    There was a natural sense of disdain in her tone. It wasn''t the disdain of those in power towards the lower ss; it was a reasonable and logical condescension, unrted to politics, character, money, or even social status.


    It was more like the attitude of an eagle towards a rabbit, stemming from the intery between different species.


    Ultimately, he was just an ordinary person...


    Not a contractee...


    In this era where abyssal forces influenced everything, the Church had long discovered the method of controlling abyssal forces through human bodies a century ago... Thus, it was natural for an ordinary human to be subject to doubts regarding their abilities.


    Fortunately, the old man''s words had a certain persuasiveness, and Katherine''s expression remained icy, ultimately nodding her head.


    ...


    Inside the lounge, Sherlock slouched on the couch, drowsy.


    He held a book in his hand.


    "How to Survive Encounters with Small Demons in the Wilderness," written by someone named Bell Grills.


    The cover was made of the cheapest cardboard, featuring an illustration of amon hellhound spewing acidic fluid at a beautiful woman in a dress. The artwork was rough, and the ink had smudged during printing.


    During a certain period, these self-help books were quite popr since no one knew where a Void Rift might appear. What if, while you were relieving yourself, the space in front of you suddenly tore open, and a disgusting giant fly emerged, desperately trying to suck your brain marrow? Reading more books like this might increase your chances of survival.


    After more than a decade of market validation, people gradually realized that these books werepletely useless. When encountering void creatures, either you have a Lestrade shotgun and enough ammunition, or you simply run away.


    The fastest option is to run to the nearest contractee and request their assistance, or run to the nearest church. That''s all there is to it.


    If you have nothing and still expect to engage inbat with the creatures using the knowledge from the books, you will definitely end up being amusingly defeated. There was once an author of a self-help book who, in a moment of foolishness, threw himself into the freshly torn chest cavity of a putrid monster.


    Delivery right to your doorstep, one step to the stomach.


    "Care for a smoke?" a voice said.


    Sherlock was momentarily taken aback. He raised his half-asleep eyes and saw Director Lestrade holding a cigarette, offering it to him.


    "No, thanks. I have my own," Sherlock yawned without any semnce of grace and pulled out a pack of "Blue Note" cigarettes from his pocket.


    "I still don''t understand why you only smoke Blue Note. It''s such an old brand, hard to find, and so harsh."


    Sherlock nonchntly lit his cigarette, took a deep drag, and didn''t answer the question.


    "You see, that''s why people don''t like you. You have too many enigmatic qualities about you, and you never exin them," the director stated while observing Sherlock''s expression. He had expected at least a slight surprise upon hearing the word "Church," but Sherlock only furrowed his brow slightly and returned to his perpetually drowsy demeanor.


    "Why don''t you have any reaction at all!?"


    "Oh, well... thank you very much," Sherlock replied indifferently.


    Theck of sincerity in his tone greatly irritated Director Lestrade. He angrily extinguished his cigarette butt.


    "This is precisely what I dislike about you... You have no reverence for the Church at all!"

 Chapter 5: No Smoking Allowed!

    Chapter 5: No Smoking Allowed!


    Director Lestrade despised Sherlock.


    In addition to the two points mentioned earlier, there was also a third point, a fourth point... and many more points thereafter.


    Even though this detective had caught the murderer of the director''s daughter and skinned the culprit alive right in front of him... Director Lestrade still disliked Sherlock.


    Because he could sense clearly that this guy wasn''t capturing criminals for the sake of justice, and it wasn''t even about money... Sherlock had a habit of turning those criminals into indescribable messes. Although criminals had no human rights, they shouldn''t be left to die in prison, and they certainly shouldn''t appear in the execution yard in such a disturbingly gruesome manner, capable of "disturbing public sentiment."


    Dealing with such matters required a lot of money, which meant Sherlock''s bounty was always meager.


    But!


    He continued doing it tirelessly... Director Lestrade strongly suspected that Sherlock''s motives were driven by a need for catharsis, amusement, or some other unspeakable reason.


    "If it weren''t for the possibility that my daughter''s soul might hold some gratitude towards you, I would have longbeled you as the most heinous criminal!" the director vented his anger.


    Sherlock chuckled indifferently, "Come on, over the years, I''ve resolved so many troublesome criminals for you. You know it well, and you can''t even ssify me as a criminal. I have never vited imperialw... or at least, you haven''t caught any evidence..."


    Director Lestrade stifled his anger!


    Indeed, there was no evidence to prove that Sherlock hadmitted any crimes... but he knew deep down that this guy was undoubtedly the most terrifying, most evil criminal. The things he did were more depraved and insane than all the death row inmates in the underground prisonbined.


    But frustratingly, no one knew what he was up to.


    No one knew where he came from, his age, his past experiences, or even if the name "Sherlock Holmes" was real.


    All anyone knew was that he imed to be a detective, residing in a small rented house on Baker Street.


    Every so often, he would show up at the police station with that blood-soakedrge leather case, exchanging it for a bounty in return for some criminal whose luck had run out.


    That was all.


    And if you asked him what he did in his spare time, or about his ideals, goals, or why he became a detective, he would simply shrug, smile, and answer with an air of nonchnce, "Life is too dull. I just don''t want my brain to rust, and I''m looking for some amusement..."


    ...


    A few more minutes passed, and Director Lestrade didn''t ask any further questions. After all, the scoundrel in front of him wouldn''t divulge much. Then, the sound of footsteps echoed in the corridor outside the lounge, gradually approaching.


    Director Lestrade and Sherlock instinctively turned their gazes in that direction... and soon, a tall figure dressed as a nun and an elderly priest appeared at the entrance of the reception room.


    It was Miss Catherine and the high priest.


    Director Lestrade immediately stood up and respectfully inclined his body.


    ...As for Sherlock, he remained seated.


    It wasn''t because he wanted to disy a cold and disrespectful attitude in front of the clergy, but because his gaze inexplicably fell on the modified nun''s habit!


    And for the first time in a long while... he disyed a hint of awkwardness and astonishment.


    "Let''s go, Mr. Holmes," Catherine said, raising her head to meet his gaze. "...Time waits for no one."


    ...


    ...


    The setting sun seeped through the cracks of the carriage window, and the airborne dust particles seemed like eerie tiny creatures, making one unconsciously want to hold their breath.


    Sherlock sat inside the carriage, cushioned by thick woolen nkets beneath him and around his feet.


    He never expected that he would find himself boarding the Vatican carriage in this manner, nor did he anticipate that the nun he encountered earlier would possess such a lofty status.


    Looking out the window, the bustling square was still teeming with people. This was the lower district, and everywhere he looked, there were porters carrying wooden crates, newsboys shouting at the top of their lungs, and a few scantily dressed women in the alley near the tavern. Their business must not be doing well this month, or else they wouldn''t be out soliciting customers at this hour.


    The carriage had shock-absorbing technology on its wheel axles, making the ride smooth without feeling any bumps. Along the way, they passed through several city checkpoints and massive gear-operated gates. The mor gradually faded as they entered the upper district.


    The streets became wide and t, and the buildings on both sides appeared solemn and orderly. Delicate metal pipes clung to the walls, resembling meticulously trimmed ivy, glimmering in the fading sunlight.


    After approximately half an hour, when the sun hadpletely vanished, gasmps illuminated the surroundings, and only then did the carriagee to a stop.


    Sherlock, feeling a bit drowsy, stepped out of the carriage. The night breeze was chilly, and before him was a clean, narrow street. Due to its long-standing closure, there were no pedestrians in sight, only security guards in steam-powered armor patrolling the area. The heavy sh of steel and the sound of high-pressure steam asionally covered the surroundings.


    "Officer!"


    Upon seeing the carriage, a constable quickly approached, his mechanical arm clenched to his left chest, half-kneeling before Catherine.


    This was the inherent etiquette subordinates in the Church showed to their superiors, though the steam armor made the constable still tower over Catherine.


    "Your Eminence."


    He then respectfully saluted the frail old priest who had just stepped out of the carriage. However, during this brief moment, his gaze inadvertently passed over the old priest''s shoulder and fell upon Sherlock, who had lit a cigarette.


    His eyes almost popped out of their sockets!


    Even with his superior present before his eyes, he couldn''t hold back his shout:


    "No smoking allowed here!!!"

 Chapter 6: Study of the Blood Character (1)

    Chapter 6: Study of the Blood Character (1)


    With so many people patrolling, it was obvious that this was the crime scene. The body of the church official''s wife, who had been tortured and killed, was just around the corner of the street, about 20 meters away.


    The entire security squad had worked tirelessly to seal off the area to preserve the crime scene, and yet this person, who appeared out of nowhere, was smoking here!


    The constable quickly approached Sherlock, confirming that he didn''t have any markings associated with the church or the aristocracy. Naturally, he assumed Sherlock was a member of the carriage party.


    The constable''s colossal three-meter-tall mechanical body stared fiercely at Sherlock. "You! Put out that cigarette immediately!"


    The mechanical arm couldn''t perform delicate operations like snatching away the cigarette. But judging from this guy''s tone, he didn''t want to snatch it away; he wanted to tear Sherlock''s head off along with the cigarette.


    "Don''t be so nervous, buddy. Smoking a cigarette won''t do any harm," Sherlock said, tilting his head back and waving his hand nonchntly. "Even if it does, you steam iron skins have been releasing steam nearby for hours. Anything that needed destroying would have been destroyed by now."


    "Uh..." The constable''s voice faltered.


    The exhaust pipes behind his armor emitted a series of hissing sounds at just the right moment.


    As a constable, he mostly dealt with tasks like "assisting in cleaning up small-scale demons" or "escorting church members." Protecting a crime scene was not his strong suit.


    He turned around and saw Miss Catherine standing not far away. At this distance, they could surely hear each other''s conversation clearly.


    A sense of embarrassment surged through him.


    Undoubtedly, he admired Miss Catherine. Or rather, any man who had some understanding of this judgmental nun would be attracted to her.


    Young, beautiful, devout, courageous, educated, from an excellent family and bloodlinevirtues of all kinds could be found in her. What was even more remarkable was that she was a second-stage Contractee.


    This natural gap prevented countless admirers from daring to turn their admiration into affection, leaving them to disguise it as reverence for a strong woman.


    This made the constable even more infuriated! But he forcibly disyed a bit of chivalry and gritted his teeth, "Leave this ce immediately,moner! This is not where you should be!"


    Before he could finish his sentence...


    "He cannot leave." It was the first time Catherine spoke since arriving here.


    The constable turned back, shocked.


    The blurred and delicate face in the light momentarily perplexed him, making him unsure if he had heard correctly:


    "Though it''s unbelievable, from now on... this man is the main suspect in this murder case."


    The constable stared at the beautiful woman in the light, then lowered his head and looked at Sherlock, who was calmly smoking.


    He knew that Miss Catherine would bring back someone capable of solving the case, but he never expected it would be such an inconspicuousmoner.


    He couldn''t fathom the reason behind this, so he stood there dumbfounded for a few seconds.


    However...


    He seemed to sense that Miss Catherine had no favorable impression of thismoner, nor did she have an ounce of respect for him. This made the young constable''s mood considerably morefortable.


    "Sorry," he concealed his inner resistance. "How should I address you?"


    "Sherlock... Private Detective."


    "Alright, Mr. Detective." He didn''t address Sherlock by name, nor did he reveal his own name. He continued in a procedural manner, "Since that''s the case, you should already be aware of the nature of this incident. Before you view the body, you need to make an oath to the God of Order, promising not to disclose any details of this case to anyone, including your closest loved ones..."


    He skillfully recited a long string of oaths, but the general content was simple: keep this matter to yourself!


    Sherlock had long anticipated this procedure. For the upper district residents,moners generallycked credibility.


    He understood this perception himself, considering that most people in the lower district were busy with their livelihoods, where reputation held little value.


    So he went through the motions and repeated the oath.


    After the oath was finished, there was a series of clicking sounds, and a thin, ck card about the length of a thumb popped out from the constable''s armored forearm.


    It was a miniature phonograph that recorded the just-recited oath. All oaths would be sent to the Church''s Tribunal of Judgment. If anyone vited the oath, the Inquisitors would issue a warrant for their arrest and trial.


    Under the church''s authority, oaths were not mere empty words that could be muttered while waving three fingers. They were recorded, tangible, and carried the real effect of punishment.


    Of course, the Tribunal of Judgment wouldn''t actually investigate every oath. In their words, the Holy Light wouldn''t pay attention to those who were irrelevant or insignificant.


    Therefore, the Tribunal of Judgment never initiated investigations on individuals. The institution operated independently of the social system. Even if it were the mayor, the general, or even the Emperor or Pope of the Empire, they would require a justifiable and necessary reason to examine someone''s oath.


    ...


    The constable handed the newly generated oath to a subordinate and turned around, gesturing for Sherlock to follow.


    Just a few steps away, in the area where the gasmp''s light couldn''t reach, a dark and quiet alley hid in the shadows.


    At the border between light and darkness, several individuals dressed in priestly robes stood piously and humbly. Their heads slightly bowed, they held brass pendants engraved with sacred scriptures, rhythmically reciting them.


    Standing in front of these individuals was a tall middle-aged man, nearly two meters tall, bald but with a full beard. He wore a predominantly blue robe, but there was a wide and conspicuous blood-red cloth that extended from the cor to the hem, swaying gently in the night breeze, asionally outlining the exaggerated muscr contours beneath the robe, which seemed inhuman.


    This attire indicated that he was an executioner of the Adjudicators!


    Under the church''s authority, they were the purest enforcers of violence.


    Unlike the Saint Church Legions along the Redcreek Strait, these individuals focused on cleansing within the Empire itself: oath-breakers, rebels, sphemers of the Holy Light, and those Contractees whomitted unforgivable sins, among others.


    They possessed the cruelest tortures, bloodiest methods, strictest execution capabilities, weaponsparable to the Saint Church Legions, authority that exceeded the Empire''sws, and almost everything except mercy.


    Therefore, these guys with blood-red cloth were even more terrifying in the eyes of most Empire citizens than demons.


    "Lord Bader," the constable bowed his head as much as he could, despite his much higher stature with the addition of the steel armor, showing a visible sense of humility. "This is Sherlock, a detective. He was brought here by Miss Catherine..."


    The man known as Bader raised his hand, gesturing that there was no need to continue. He then turned his head, his high brow covering his eyespletely in darkness, and stared at Sherlock.


    After a few seconds...


    "I don''t care about your identity, profession, mortal or Contractee. I don''t even care if you''re a citizen. My wife is dead, and I need the killer... alive!"


    His voice was deep, devoid of any trace of sorrow. But Sherlock noticed that when the word "alive" left his mouth, the constable beside him instinctively shuddered.


    He must have remembered the cruel tortures in some church blood chambers that made people wish for death.


    With that, Minister Bader turned his body to the side, allowing the light from the streetmp to shine into the alley.


    A scene that was shocking to the eye unfolded before Sherlock.

 Chapter 7: The Study of Blood Characters (2)

    Chapter 7: The Study of Blood Characters (2)


    The pooled blood on the ground had already coagted, and a stark white body stood out amidst the scene.


    Even in the dim light, it was evident that the deceased woman had an enchanting fairplexion, untainted golden hair, slender limbs, ample bosom, and a delicate face that surpassed the streetwalkers in the Lower City.


    However, this beautiful body had beenpletely split open from the chest to the lower abdomen, with a gaping wound that revealed the empty blood cavity inside. There were also horrifying wounds spread across her limbs.


    Sherlock just stood there...


    He didn''t approach to examine, nor did he utter a word.


    Twenty seconds passed...


    Minister Bader''s high brow furrowed slightly, and the constable beside him even wondered if this guy had been frightened into stupidity by the gruesome scene.


    At that moment, Sherlock finally made a move. Quite impolitely, he flicked the spent cigarette butt into a gap between the steam armor tes on his knee:


    "What about the clothes?" he asked abruptly.


    "What... What do you mean?"


    "The clothes of the deceased," Sherlock nced around again. "I didn''t see any clothes on the victim."


    "Well..." The constable hesitated for a moment.


    "The crime scene was not tampered with by anyone, and there were no clothes from the beginning. They must have been taken by the killer..." Catherine walked over, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. As she answered, she stared at Sherlock with an expressionless face. "The constables'' responsibility is only to protect the scene. They have no knowledge of the details of the murder. If you have any questions, you can ask me."


    Sherlock, for once, disyed a touch of gentlemanly demeanor. "Thank you, my beautifuldy."


    "No need to thank me. I don''t like you. I only hope that you can find the killer quickly," she didn''t conceal her coldness in tone. "I just hope your abilities won''t be as inferior as your character..."


    Perhaps due to the immense ss difference, Catherine didn''t want to hide her dislike for the detective. But at the same time, she didn''t make things difficult for him simply because of her dislike. Thismoner didn''t have the qualifications to be harassed by a Judgment Nun.


    So she simply disregarded him with disdain but also, in an extremely serious manner, provided him with all the clues she had obtained.


    As for Sherlock, he naturally didn''t have any resistance to this. He wasn''t foolish, and he wouldn''t, like the constable behind him, anticipate some kind of cross-ss interaction.


    He knew what he should do and understood that he hade here to try his hand at this case involving the Church. If he could bring about a sense of novelty for himself...


    Of course, since the Church had chosen him, whether he wanted to or not, he had to be here.


    In any case, he calmly listened to the clues Catherine ryed.


    One spoke, the other listened.


    Thus, this pair of individuals, with a vast difference in status, disyed a certain kind of peculiar understanding at this moment.


    A few minutester...


    Sherlock finally frowned awkwardly. "You... haven''t really found out much about this, have you?"


    Catherine remained expressionless. "As I mentioned before, the fewer people who know about this, the better. If we wanted to involve the Tribunal of Judgment, why would we bother bringing a private detective like you to handle this?"


    "You have a point." Sherlock didn''t feel discouraged at all. Instead, a brilliant smile appeared on his face, and then he walked into the alley alone.


    Catherine and Minister Bader exchanged a nce and followed behind at a leisurely pace. As for the short old priest, he had been standing still in the same spot ever since he got off the carriage, like a statue. If one were to approach, one could even hear faint snoring.


    In the narrow alley, the figures of the few individuals fragmented the light from the gasmps.


    Sherlock stepped over the muddy bloodstains, bent down, and casually picked up a piece of flesh. In the dim light, he nced at it.


    "A piece of sliced liver, the tissue so fragile yet cut so neatly. The killer has decent skills," he said, not addressing anyone in particr but rather engaging in his habitual self-talk.


    "A sternum with two attached ribs, the cut is equally precise," he picked up a bone and continued, "This kind of dismemberment couldn''t have beenpleted in a short time. Judging by the coagtion of the blood, the time of death was around 5 a.m. today... By the way, why is the killer suddenly so fixated on the number ''four''?"


    "Four?" Catherine looked slightly puzzled.


    "Yes, this person has cut almost everything into four pieces," he said while picking up several chunks of flesh and skillfully assembling them into aplete lobe of lung, which he then ced into the exposed chest cavity of the body.


    "What are you... doing?" Minister Bader, who had remained silent, finally spoke. His voice was not loud, and no resentment could be heard, but the crimson announcement draped on him emitted an eerie and oppressive aura.


    Most of the Executors of the Tribunal were contract holders, and they had reached the second stage. After all, only those with great power could handle the cruel and dangerous tasks.


    However, Sherlock didn''t panic due to this oppressive feeling, and his hands didn''t stop their movements.


    "Apologies, Mr. Bader. I know this may seem disrespectful to your wife, but the killer seems to have left us some clues... Look here," he pointed rapidly at a section of freshly coiled intestines. "A shallow wound that goes through from top to bottom... After the killer opened the chest and abdomen, they didn''t rush to cut it into pieces. Instead, they used a knife to make some marks on the organs."


    In just a few sentences, Sherlock had already assembled the scattered innards quite skillfully.


    The constable stood at the entrance of the alley, observing from a distance, and several times he seemed to have something to say but held back.


    An ufortable thought lingered in his mind: A normal person, even a doctor, shouldn''t be able to assemble the sliced organs so adeptly. Could thismoner detective from the Lower City be ustomed to cutting open organs and thus skilled at it?


    "Alright..."


    Two minutester, Sherlock had finished arranging everything that remained...


    And among the uneven innards, faint traces of knife wounds could indeed be discerned.


    "Yes?"


    Minister Bader''s gaze was clearly different from an ordinary person''s. In such dim lighting, he quickly identified the traces between the pieced-together organs.


    A blood-soaked word carved with a de between the organsYES.

 Chapter 8: The Study of Blood Character (3)

    Chapter 8: The Study of Blood Character (3)


    In just a few minutes, Sherlock found the clues that the constables hadn''t discovered all day. Although he had his area of expertise, his efficiency seemed unusually fast.


    "Perhaps what the Commissioner of the London Police Headquarters said is true. There''s only him who can solve this case within 24 hours," Catherine reluctantly thought, but she didn''t voice her thoughts. Instead, she focused on the matter at hand and asked, "YES? What does it represent?"


    "I don''t know," Sherlock stood up. "But I can sense that this word holds significant meaning for the killer. Also..." He paused for a moment, then walked to the other side of the corpse, bringing his face close to the space between the legs of the body.


    To be honest, the posture seemed somewhat indecent, but Minister Bader, for once, didn''t interrupt with anyment.


    "Why were all the organs cut into pieces, yet the uterus remains intact?" Sherlock asked.


    "Perhaps it''s the killer''s habit," Catherine said casually.


    "No," Sherlock immediately dismissed her suggestion. "This killer is a serial murderer who has already brutally killed more than a dozen women in the Lower City. Such skillful knife work is rare. In the previous cases, the killer removed all the organs, including the uterus. This time, however, they deliberately left it intact while cutting the rest of the organs into four pieces... Furthermore, this killer doesn''t usually take the victims'' clothes."


    Tsk tsk... Why did they change their habits when dealing with thisdy?" Sherlock murmured to himself.


    Observing his intrigued expression, Catherine quickly voiced a question that everyone present had. "You... seem to be quite familiar with this killer?"


    "Because I have been following their activities," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "This is what I do. I have some knowledge about all the murderers listed in the wanted notices. If things had gone normally, I would have started working on their case in four months."


    "...," Catherine was momentarily speechless, even though his exnation made sense.


    "Well... What are you nning to do next?" she asked.


    Sherlock put his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. "The killer is fixated on ''4''," he began. "They inexplicably preserved the uterus. They took the victim''s clothes. And the word ''YES'' carved on the organs..."


    He started slowly pacing in ce, muttering under his breath.


    This continued for a while.


    Suddenly, he reached out and vigorously rubbed his neck and shoulders. "The best next step is for me to go home and get some sleep."


    "....??" Everyone around was momentarily stunned.


    Even the elderly priest, who had been emitting light snores in the distance, slightly opened his eyes.


    "Go home... and sleep?" Minister Bader''s tone finally showed a hint of fluctuation.


    In themoners'' perception, the Executors of the Tribunal were generally emotionless enforcers, synonymous with bloody purges and brutal torture.


    They were allowed to have marriages, although this was most likely a means to continue their noble bloodlines. However, even so, Sherlock couldn''t ignore the identity of the victim in this murder case.


    Because Minister Bader, the person before him, undoubtedly had feelings for his wife. Whether this feeling was possessiveness over his private property or something else didn''t matter.


    After all, his wife had been cut into pieces and strewn all over the ce. And at this moment, Sherlock said he wanted to go home and sleep?!


    "Watch your words! This is disrespectful to the clergy!" The young constable at the mouth of the alley almost immediately shouted in a low voice.


    There was nothing he could do. It was his duty, to be a loyal, angry hound eager to disy devout faith, or perhaps to be cannon fodder.


    However, without receiving orders from his superiors, he could only stand at the mouth of the alley, seething with anger, afraid to step a foot inside.


    Sherlock inclined slightly in a nonchnt manner. "Apologies, Minister. I have no intention of offending the clergy, yourself, or yourte wife. It''s simply that I no longer have a reason to stay here."


    "What do you mean?" Compared to the taciturn Minister Bader, Catherine was undoubtedly the moremunicative one.


    "I mean that I have already examined the crime scene... Staying here any longer would be a waste of time. It''s better to return to my familiar apartment and allow myself somefortable solitude. It will aid my thinking process." Sherlock pointed to his temple with his index finger.


    Catherine''s brow furrowed. She understood the concept of afortable environment aiding in thinking, but...


    "You have examined the crime scene already?"


    "Of course," Sherlock replied. "My observational skills regarding crime scenes are quite good. I have observed every detail here. Um... for example, I can deduce that the killer is approximately 190 centimeters tall, male, with a sturdy physique. Theye from an affluent background, are ambidextrous, have a high sex drive, and spent their childhood in the town of Rochester, enduring various unfair treatments or torment. They have a strong sense of revenge. They are strict with themselves but arrogant, enjoying the act of killing. They like to eat raw beef, reside in arge residence, possibly a mansion, adorned with numerous portraits. The interior decoration is exquisite, and they have a hobby of raising livestock. They have minimal body hair, prefer to wear tight-fitting cotton clothing, and have an old injury on their right rib..."


    He spoke faster and faster, until the constable''s suppressed growl erupted, "Commoner! You... You cannot spout nonsense in front of the clergy! You have no piety!"


    No one stopped the constable''s anger because, whether it was Catherine, Minister Bader, or the elderly priest, they all felt that... this detective was simply bbering nonsense.


    It made sense to deduce the killer''s physical characteristics and personality traits based on the method of dismemberment, blood stter patterns, and other such details.


    But to deduce what the killer liked to eat, where they lived, what they wore, and even an old injury? Something just didn''t add up.


    Besides, you''ve only been standing in this ce for half an hour.


    Sherlock chuckled knowingly. He had anticipated this. Of course, he had no intention of exining himself. However, judging from the situation, if he didn''t rify matters, he wouldn''t be able to leave this ce today.

 Chapter 9: Studying the Blood Character (4)

    Chapter 9: Studying the Blood Character (4)


    "It''s actually quite simple to deduce all of this," Sherlock said as he walked back to the corpse and pulled up one of the woman''s arms. "Look, the entire arm is stiff like a wooden stick, and it slightly bends outward. This isn''t rigor mortis but a result of the tendons in the armpit being cut. It renders the victim''s armpletely immobile."


    As he spoke, he casually gestured towards the legs of the body. "The same method was used to sever the inner muscle group in the lower limbs. This leaves the victim paralyzed on the ground, unable to struggle or even scream, as the killer used a hook to damage the vocal cords and glottis."


    His tone carried a profound sense of despair and agony in every word he uttered.


    "And this method is a traditional way of preparing beef in the town of Rochester," he continued. "To ensure the freshness of the meat, they would do this to live cows. While cutting the meat, they would use the juice of the Euphorbia nt to stop the bleeding. The cow''s body would still twitch during the processit''s quite fascinating. But this practice was banned over 20 years ago by the local authorities, who deemed it animal cruelty. They just had to meddle... However, if you''re interested, I can introduce you to some excellent underground restaurants in London that serve this type of cuisine, although they can be quite pricey." Sherlock smiled as he spoke to Catherine.


    "Focus on your case!" she snapped.


    "Right." Sherlock continued, "In any case, the killer''s skill is not something that can be acquired in just a few days. If the arteries in the armpit were cut, the victim would quickly bleed to death. The killer has extensive experience and extreme patience in this regard, likely deriving pleasure from it."


    "But the underground restaurants in London wouldn''t provide the necessary environment for such training. The killer must have their own methods or perhaps even raisesrge livestock themselves. I lean towards thetter, as it would be more discreet... The juice of the Euphorbia nt is effective in stopping bleeding, but prolonged contact can cause itching and hair loss on the skin. Wearing close-fitting cotton shirts can alleviate this itching sensation."


    "And about the victim''s mouth," Sherlock continued. "As I mentioned earlier, the killer damaged the glottis because there is a clear tearing mark around the mouth. You see, to damage the glottis, the hook needs to be pressed downward. It''s difficult to achieve that angle without opening the mouth."


    No one responded to him. Perhaps they couldn''t keep up with his rapid speech, or perhaps... who knows what they were thinking.


    Sherlock didn''t mind. His pace quickened even more as he continued, "In the process of dissection, the victim''s face bes incredibly distorted due to pain and the tearing of the mouth. But afterward, the killer meticulously rearranged the facial muscles to their normal position."


    "I said earlier that it was around five or six in the morning. The killer persisted inpleting this task at that time, likely due to an obsession with the beautiful faces of women. It''s something like ''ugly women don''t deserve to be killed'' or a simr sentiment. They even risked leaving witnesses behind."


    "Such a person, even if theye from an affluent background, would either frequently invite beautiful women to their home for pleasure, which is a cruder solution, or they would collect portraits of beautiful women. I even suspect that they might be skilled in painting themselves. In any case, these are the mostmon methods to satisfy such a preference and still maintain a public image."


    "But what you''re saying has no evidence. It''s just wishful thinking," Catherine attempted to argue.


    "I never imed to have evidence," Sherlock chuckled. "These are just the most reasonable spections at the current stage. You might as well put some effort into exploring this direction. I don''t believe you are the kind of people who need concrete evidence before taking action."


    "Oh, by the way, the killer has an injury on their right rib. I can be certain of that because there are noticeable marks of hesitation on the sternum incision of the body. Their arm trembles slightly when performing delicate horizontal movements, as the muscles are adhered."


    Sherlock mimicked the action of holding a knife and cutting through something.


    This lengthy exnation actually contained a vast amount of information, but it only took about a minute to say. Sherlock spoke with a clear tone, but at a speed triple that of a normal conversation,pletely disregarding others'' feelings. It was as if he didn''t want people to keep up with his train of thought or be amazed by it. He treated this deductive analysis ability as something exceedingly ordinary.


    To be honest, this response from the surrounding crowd took Sherlock by surprise. He had always held the inherent impression that members of the Judicators were the kind who would engage in brutal pursuits, only needing the name of the culprit to embark on a merciless hunt. However, they actually listened carefully to his deductions.


    Catherine''s expression shifted from her initial aloofness to contemtion, eventually bing quite fascinated. Even the usually silent Bailiff Bartholomew alternated between furrowing his brow and rxing it.


    Sherlock hadn''t anticipated this reaction at all.


    From his understanding of the Judicators, he had thought they were the type who wouldunch into ruthless pursuit and bloodshed once they knew the name of the culprit. But now, they were carefully considering his deductions, and even nodding slightly at the end, indicating that they had followed his train of thought and affirmed it after digesting the wealth of information.


    In contrast, the young constable in the steam armor standing outside the alley looked utterly perplexed, mouth agape.


    "Based on the scene, we can only specte to this extent. That''s why I said I''m no longer needed here," Sherlock finally brought the topic back to the beginning. "So I will take some unanswered questions back home and contemte them. It''s the most helpful course of action for the case at the moment."


    Catherine hesitated for a moment, her gaze shifting back and forth between the body on the ground and Sherlock. After a few seconds, her eyes settled on the face of the grieving Bailiff.


    After a short while, she spoke slowly, "Remember, you have less than 20 hours. If you seed, you will naturally receive the Church''s gratitude. But if you fail, you will face the appropriate punishment."


    "Punishment?" Sherlock''s tone didn''t reflect much confusion. "Forgive my frankness, but given the stringent conditions you have imposed, it seems logical that not finding the killer would be the reasonable oue. So why the punishment?"


    "Pressure makes people more focused on their work," Catherine replied calmly, giving him this statement.


    This indicated that she knew these demands were unreasonable, but she didn''t care. There was no need for any reason to punish amoner. In fact, Sherlock felt that if he were to be stabbed to death right now, it would instantlypel the culprit to reveal themselves. The people here wouldn''t hesitate to chop him to pieces.


    However, such unreasonable and even dehumanizing behavior seemed perfectly reasonable to everyone present. It was a crushing disparity ingrained in the societal structure that went beyond ethics and morality. No one would question why a member of the clergy would indiscriminately hack an innocent person to death, just as no one would care if a wild grass was sentenced to death for being trampled on during a walk.


    Of course, Sherlock had no interest in evaluating the merits or drawbacks of this social hierarchy. He was just an ordinary detective, so he politely smiled and said, "Then... may I request a carriage to take me home? It''s quite far, Baker Street in the Lower City."

 Chapter 10: Baker Street

    Chapter 10: Baker Street


    To travel between the Upper and Lower City, one needed to cross arge bridge spanning the River Thames. Heavy gear gates stood on either side of the bridge, rarely opened after curfew, but such rules outlined in London''sw enforcement never applied to the Judicators.


    Listening to the thunderous sound of mechanical gears outside the carriage window, Sherlock slowly shifted his gaze towards the night sky. A colossal portrait of Nightingale hung from the steel cables on the bridge, depicting the girl who woulde to London in a few months, bringing healing and blessings to many.


    Looking at the beautiful face disyed on the canvas, Sherlock didn''t exhibit the human fascination and longing for beauty like all the other citizens. He sat silently as a few rare stars appeared in the London sky, representing distant celestial bodies being born or destroyed.


    But he knew well that if there were still admirable people in this wretched world, this young girl would undoubtedly be one of them.


    Half an hourter, after passing through several alleys shrouded in steam from manhole covers, the carriage finally arrived at Baker Street.


    It was an inconspicuous street, rtively cleanpared to the main roads in the city... At least apart from the perpetually uncleaned garbage bins, never repaired gasmps, and the orphan pickpockets roaming about, there was hardly any congestion here, nor the hissing of leaking pipes.


    Even murderers wouldn''t dump their victims here... probably because they felt it was beneath them.


    Of course, asionally, some badly mutted bodies, bitten by demons, would appear on the streets. It couldn''t be helped. Lesser demons generallycked intelligence and would instinctively attempt to gnaw on anything that moved, hoping to swallow it.


    For Sherlock, however, this ce was rtively peaceful.


    ...


    Entering Building A at 314 Baker Street, a musty smell greeted him.


    The building was clearly quite old. Walking up the stairs, the creaking floorboards groaned under his weight. His home was on the second floor.


    He ascended and pushed open the door, extending his hand to twist a knob on the wall. Gas seeped into a ss fixture from the concealed pipes, and the light slowly illuminated the room. The dim, yellowish light filtered through the faded carvings on thempshade, casting an air of disorder and loneliness rather than warmth in the small room.


    Before him was a living room, notrge enough to require a second nce. The sofa was casually ced, the carpet had lost its original color, and the wooden cab was unpolished. The window was small, facing a neighboring building with patchy red brick walls.


    It was a standard budget apartment.


    And apart from that, the room was filled with books...


    "The Memoirs of a Butler to a Contractee," "Compendium of Abyssal Creatures," "Hypotheses on the Abilities of High-Ranked Contractees," and numerous clippings aboutmoners working together to repel or even kill demons.


    These books were scattered in various corners of the room, each one worn and tattered from countless readings.


    As mentioned before, Sherlock was an ordinary person. He wasn''t a devout believer, and he hadn''t participated in the Church''s contractee consecration ceremony. But he didn''t mind. He would flip through books from time to time, read briefings about abyssal demons, and entertain his idle mind.


    "Ah~"


    Hanging up his coat and hat, Sherlock walked over to a sofa and sat down. He let out afortable groan.


    The sofa was also old, its red leather cracked and a portion of the middle cushion had copsed, allowing the person sitting on it to half-reclinefortably. Sherlock quite liked this posture.


    He was exhausted today...


    First, he caught a murderer, then encountered clergy members of the Church, visited the Upper City, and inadvertently offended a nun.


    Oh, speaking of the inquisitor named Catherine, Sherlock found her... quite interesting.


    Through some half-hearted observations, he discovered that she had a sweet tooth, was a bed-sleeper, and didn''t bother to make her bed! Living alone, she enjoyed drinking and slept hugging arge body pillow, probably a plush rabbit with long ears or something.


    Tsk tsk, it was a bit different from her usual cold and aloof image in front of others.


    But it didn''t matter. Nowadays, who didn''t have some contrasts... Even old-fashioned detectives like Lestrade secretly enjoyed wearing T-shaped underwear that tightened the buttocks. Sherlock never found anything inappropriate about it and never exposed it.


    Now, back to the Bailiff who lost his wife...


    Sherlock was quite interested in him. After all, he was closely rted to the deceased and belonged to the violent arm of the Church that controlled the Empire''s internal affairs. He deserved more attention.


    However, to Sherlock''s surprise, he couldn''t gather even a shred of information about this man... Nothing about his personality, daily routine, food preferences, physical condition, habits. It was as if he were a nk te. If it weren''t for his slight reaction to his wife''s death, Sherlock would even suspect that he was truly emotionless, as the rumors suggesteda machine devoid of feelings.


    Lost in his thoughts, Sherlock turned his gaze to the clock on the wall...


    It was already two o''clock in the morning, and Sherlock needed rest.


    Outside the window, there was no light, enveloping the entire apartment in darkness. There were no street vendors or traffic, only the distant sound of bells echoing as always. He closed his eyes... ready to fall asleep on the sofa.


    And as he entered slumber, he could also contemte the puzzles of the murder cases.


    Hmm... yes, deductions... are for after falling asleep.


    So, he rxed his body, pouring all his weariness into the worn-out sofa beneath him.


    Less than 10 minutester.


    Soft snores filled the room.


    A gentle, rhythmic luby, akin to the ringing and prayers of a church...


    ...


    Meanwhile, in a world of white, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes.


    He twisted his neck and stood up... unstartled by the bizarre environment around him, as if he were ustomed to it, yawning.

 Chapter 11: Deductions After Falling Asleep

    Chapter 11: Deductions After Falling Asleep


    This is a bleak white world.


    Or rather, it is a white unfamiliar living room.


    It appears to berger than the ce Sherlock is currently living in. There are two closed doors on either side, no furniture, only a tea table, a hanging kitchen, and a few chairs.


    That''s all there is...


    And Sherlock is standing in this white space, like an alien who suddenly intruded into a world where he doesn''t belong.


    Because he is the only one with color.


    And he is the only one who can move.


    As for everything else, it is as if they are welded into this eerie white space. Not even the extremely delicate cobwebs in the corners can be disturbed, let alone destroyed.


    Sherlock doesn''t know where this ce is or why he has ended up here. Ever since he was young, every time he falls asleep, he wakes up in this white room. It has been going on for almost 30 years.


    What frustrates him even more is that he is trapped in this small room... The door won''t open, he can''t leave, his voice cannot pass through the walls and windows, and he might not even be able to escape the light. When he looks out the window, he sees nothing but his gaze colliding with the ss and being mercilessly reflected back into his pupils.


    Enclosed, silent, no way to escape...


    Fortunately, in this white room, he doesn''t feel hungry, nor does he feel tired. And when he wakes up, he even feels satisfied with the quality of his sleep.


    After consulting many materials, he still can''t figure out what this is all about. So, reluctantly, he just stays here, unwillingly attributing it all to a peculiar recurring dream.


    But Sherlock, as a detective, always has some intuition, and he can feel that this strange dream is definitely more than what it appears to be.


    One day, it will transform into something else.


    But he doesn''t know what that change will be, and he doesn''t know when that day wille.


    ...


    After yawning, Sherlock, as usual, sits on a chair and starts pondering.


    First, there''s the first question... the blood-red "YES."


    Why was this word written?


    The simplest idea is that the killer believes this word has some significance to them.


    But in what circumstances would "YES" possess such extraordinary meaning? To the extent that the killer would carve it onto a corpse... and what does the killer want to express?


    The Vatican prohibits the disclosure of any information about the family members of clergy, so Sherlock knows very little about this beautiful deceased woman. It''s quite challenging to solve a case relying only on a corpse.


    But he doesn''t panic. He just sits quietly,zily contemting.


    After an unknown amount of time...


    Suddenly, a slight sound breaks the silence of Baker Street.


    ...


    In reality, Sherlock slowly opens his eyes.


    He nces at the clock on the wall; it''s three in the morning.


    He only slept for an hour...


    Then, he shifts his gaze to the front door of the room.


    "Knock, knock, knock."


    The sound of knocking resounds again.


    The night is silent as if it has long been dead.


    "Knock, knock, knock. Knock, knock, knock."


    ...


    Who could it be outside?


    Someone like Sherlock undoubtedly has no friends, and even if he does, they wouldn''t visit at dawn. And even if they did, they certainly wouldn''t politely knock on the door; they would simply kick it open.


    Birds of a feather flock together, and those who can be his friends are probably not well-mannered individuals.


    Moreover, you can''t expect a rabid dog to politely knock on the door before gnawing on your skull.


    So... could it be a client in trouble?


    That''s highly likely. Private detectives nowadays do everything, from solving crimes and seeking revenge to finding cats and dogs in the streets. As long as there''s money involved.


    "Please wait."


    Sherlock gets up, straightens his wrinkled clothes, making sure there''s not too much lingering scent of blood, and approaches the door to open it.


    "Squeak."


    The night breeze creeps in through the narrow staircase and enters the small apartment through the newly opened door, bringing a hint of coldness. Sherlock looks at the tall figure outside the door, hesitating for a while:


    "Your Excellency Bader, why are you here?"


    The expressionless, imposing face remains the same, and a servant of the Inquisition stands outside the detective agency in the lower district, giving off an unusually eerie feeling.


    For some reason, he seems evenrger than he was a few hours ago, his robust figure entuated by the wide robe, almost filling up the entire corridor.


    "You..." Bader stares directly into Sherlock''s eyes and says, "need help."


    "Help?" Sherlock was taken aback.


    Then he seems to realize that it is impolite and bizarre to have a member of the clergy standing at the door in the middle of the night. He steps aside, gesturing for Bader to enter.


    Bader lowers his head slightly, careful not to touch the doorframe, and walks into Sherlock''s apartment.


    As a member of the clergy, he certainly wouldn''t have any financial concerns, and the amodations provided by the Vatican for clergy members are undoubtedly not inferior to those of the nobilitfortable, spacious, and dignified.


    So, this cheap apartment must feel cramped and confined to him.


    Fortunately, Bader shows no signs of difort. He sits on the worn-out sofa across from the bookshelf, facing the one where Sherlock usually sits, just like the clients who have been defeated by a difficult life.


    "I love Karin," he speaks slowly, "and I hope you can find the killer as quickly as possible."


    Sherlock nces at the blood-red badge on Bader''s chest. He doesn''t show the same panic as ordinary civilians do when they see a member of the clergy, nor does he bow down with devout humility. He simply sits on his red leather chair, lightly tapping his fingertips against each other, very ustomed to it.


    Perhaps detectives have a certain inertia in their thinking. As soon as they step into their office, even if the other party is an Inquisition official, they are still a customer, a pitiful person who has encountered trouble and needs help.


    "You should know that it would be quite challenging to solve this case within the original timeframe..." Sherlock says.


    "That''s why I''m here... You need help," Bader says. "The information about the family members of clergy members is confidential. It was originally meant to protect their safety. But now, making Karin''s information public should expedite the progress of the case."


    His tone remains unchanged, but Sherlock seems to see deep-seated sorrow and reluctance beneath that exterior. Hidden beneath the surface is a deeply buried and boiling emotion.


    That''s how someone who has lost their spouse should be.

 Chapter 12: Research on the Blood Character (5)

    Chapter 12: Research on the Blood Character (5)


    "Would you like to tell me about your wife?" Sherlock asked.


    "Yes," replied Bishop Bader, without giving the other a chance to speak. He began, "Karin was 35 years old. She had a small social circle and a quiet personality. She liked warm-colored objects and would visit art exhibitions almost every week. To my knowledge, she had no enemies and no financial problems..."


    He spoke inly, with a monotone voice, as if he had rehearsed everything about his wife many times in his mind.


    "Do you know why she was in that alley on that day?" Sherlock inquired.


    "I don''t know."


    "What do you specte about the word ''YES'' written on the victim''s insides?"


    "I have no idea."


    "Do you know what clothes your wife was wearing that day?"


    "I don''t know. I''m not interested in her attire."


    Bishop Bader calmly answered the following questions, mostly with "I don''t know." Nevertheless, Sherlock began to form an understanding of the deceased.


    He started to contemte, and the room fell into a momentary silence...


    After a few minutes:


    "Mr. Sherlock, perhaps I shouldn''t have disturbed your work, but... I would like to hear your analysis of the case," Bishop Bader broke the silence, his tone still devoid of emotion and even polite.


    But Sherlock knew he should provide an exnation.


    It was already 4 a.m.


    The daylight in London was always short, and before the next sunset, he had to find the culprit... It was not just the anger of a clergyman over his wife''s death; it was also about the face of the Church. A killer who had taken the life of a clergyman''s family member, and yet still survived under the radiance of holiness. Every second he lived was a sphemy against the Church.


    And here he was, the only detective responsible for this case, sleeping soundly at home... He had to provide a convincing exnation.


    "Well, actually... the case has not been entirely stagnant," Sherlock leaned forward slightly and said, "Regarding why the killer took the victim''s clothes, I have considered many possibilities. However, the most usible one is that... the clothes would reveal the killer''s identity.


    As for the word written on the internal organs, I have racked my brain, and it seems that ''YES'' only holds significant meaning when it appears in a wedding ceremony or an oath.


    Considering the recordable nature of vows, the single word ''YES'' cannot carry too much significance on its own.


    Therefore, I am more inclined towards thetter, which is the wedding ceremony."


    "A wedding ceremony?" Bishop Bader questioned.


    "Yes," Sherlock nodded. "When ''YES'' appears in a wedding ceremony, it does not require any further exnation."


    While saying this, he mimicked the gesture of holding a vow, lowering his voice and imitating the tone of an elderly priest:


    "Beautiful bride, are you willing to marry this man?


    Through good times and bad, riches and poverty, health and sickness, joy and sorrow, will you love him forever?


    Will you cherish him, respect him, trust him, care for him, and be loyal to him?"


    ...


    Bishop Bader fell silent, his eyes lowered, as if contemting the uracy of Sherlock''s deduction.


    After a long while, he whispered:


    "Yes, at that time... she said ''YES''."


    This was the first visible emotional change he had disyed since entering the room.


    Meanwhile, a muffled sound echoed!


    Sherlock was all too familiar with this soundthe breaking and friction of bones and muscles. He lowered his head, staring nkly as an arm disappeared into his chest. Blood struggled to flow through the copsing wound.


    He maintained the same expression as the moment before, until the wall clock''s second hand moved back a step, and only then did a slight frown form due to the pain.


    The gasmp above swayed slightly, casting a chaotic reflection in the room.


    Bishop Bader, without showing any emotion, ced his other hand on Sherlock''s shoulder and gently pushed. The body, due to gravity, fell backward, and the bloody hand within the chest naturally withdrew.


    At that moment, the wall clock''s second hand finally moved back another step.


    Only two seconds had passed...


    A vibrant life had vanished in the hands of a Bishop of Judgment, without struggle or resistance.


    Contractors and ordinary humans... that was a gap not easily crossed.


    Ordinary contractors were rtively manageable, as the distance between them and ordinary humans was not too great. A burst of bullets could bring death upon them. However, when it came to contractors in the second stage of evolution, it was an entirely different concept.


    They could easily ughter hundreds of ordinary humans. When they wished to kill you, your life would be a trembling candle in the face of a towering wave. You couldn''t fathom how to plead.


    Furthermore, most of the second-stage contractors were clergy under the Church.


    This resulted in your death being just a deathhelpless and futile. Even if, by some minuscule chance, it was proven that he was indeed killed by a Bishop of Judgment, the Church would never punish one of their own for the sake of an ordinary woman. Moreover, this woman was the property of the Bishop himself...


    However, what annoyed him was that the father of this woman was also a clergyman within the Church.


    In terms of bloodline, it was an internal ughter within the Church... something unforgivable!


    Fine, he hadn''t nned for things to be so troublesome... it was just his wife who had died. Even if this detective from the lower district could truly point him out as the killer, so what? The Church would never punish a Bishop of Judgment for a mere ordinary woman.


    Besides, this woman belonged to him, the Bishop...


    However, what he found distasteful was that this detective was now dead. In the end, everything was over.


    Dragging the body, Bishop Bader reached the doorway, preparing to leave...


    At the moment his hand touched the doorknob...


    "Indeed, it is the vow from the wedding ceremony."


    The voice of the detective once again came from beside him...

 Chapter 13: The Study of the Blood Character (6)

    Chapter 13: The Study of the Blood Character (6)


    At this moment, Minister Bader, who had not shown any significant emotional fluctuations, suddenly lowered his head and looked at the detective''s body he was holding!


    The corpse, which had long lost all signs of life, resembled a fleshy rag doll. Its eyes remained still, the mouth did not move, but incredibly eerie, it continued to emit sounds, with a hint of mockery in its tone...


    "So, following this line of thought, why did you take the victim''s clothes? It''s obvious because you gave them to her, right? Perhaps you only gave her this one gift since you got married... She had shown it off in front of her few friends and only wore it when she saw you, right?


    Haha, it was that alley where you invited her, wasn''t it?


    A busy minister finally invited his wife out on a date after many years of marriage.


    But who could have anticipated... such a woman, who should have been admired and envied.


    Turned out to be a promiscuous adulteress..."


    "A st!" resounded.


    Minister Bader stomped forcefully on the head of the corpse.


    The kick was strong enough to instantly crush the hardest bones in the human body. The shockwave sttered the scattered pieces of flesh, brain matter, and bone fragments all over the walls, creating a crackling sound.


    However, something was not quite right. Despite the force that could have smashed through the floor, the kick didn''t cause much damage to the small room. Not even a speck of dust fell.


    Minister Bader seemed to have finally realized something. He reached towards the back of his neck and then... touched an extremely imperceptible spider silk.


    "So... why did you kill those women in the lower district?


    Initially, you didn''t want to kill your wife, so you vented your anger on other impure individuals?


    Then why were you so insistent on dividing all the internal organs into four parts?


    Hmm, did your wife cheat on you with four different men... and you wanted to distribute her equally among all the men she was close to?


    Although I sometimes don''t quite understand, you repressed individuals always have some peculiar thoughts.


    And why leave behind the uterus?"


    The detective''s voice continued to echo from all directions in the apartment, amidst the shattered and sttered body fragments:


    "Sss... Could it be that her uterus already held another life?


    Did you discover it after cutting it open? But you don''t know if that life belongs to you... so you hesitated for a moment?


    Or perhaps you felt disgusted because her uterus had carried someone else''s sticky gic information, so you didn''t want to touch it?


    Tsk, although these are all spections, it''s probably the case..."


    Sherlock''s voice was not loud, but it was extremely prating. Every sigh of surprise or chuckle sounded particrly grating.


    Minister Bader slightly lowered his head...


    Although he remained silent, the veins on his thick neck were pulsating with anger. The blood inside seemed to be bursting through the vessel walls, as if it wanted to erupt with tangible fury.


    At the same time, he pulled the spider silk behind his neck, breaking it...


    In that instant, all the scenery before him blurred, as if pigments were dissolving and rearranging in water.


    The corpse disappeared, the blood vanished, and everything returned to how it was when he first entered the room.


    As it turned out, he hadn''t moved since then...


    And Sherlock, still sitting in the worn-out leather sofa, crossed his legs with his fingers interlocked on his knee.


    Beside him...


    Catherine stood upright, while the High Priest sat on another sofa, with a terrifyingly huge spider crawling beside him.


    "See... I told you the murderer woulde knocking on the door," Sherlock said, spreading his hands, as if he didn''t sense the suffocating oppression in the air.


    But just as he said, the killer had confessed their own guilt, leaving no room for doubt.


    This case... at this moment, the truth had been revealed.


    Although many doubts remained... for example, when did Minister Bader discover his wife''s infidelity? Did the beautiful woman cheat on four different men at different times, or did they alle together? If they came together, how big of a bed would they need? What positions did they maintain? What frequency? And whose child was growing in the uterus?


    Well, these details didn''t matter, as mentioned before, some cases don''t require knowing too many specifics, just catching the culprit is enough.


    As for how Sherlock knew who the killer was, it was quite simple.


    Because Minister Bader was getting impatient...


    Impatient to the point that every time Sherlock recounted his deductions, he would raise questions at the most crucial points...


    This didn''t fit his character. As an executor of judgment, his job was always about pursuing and judging, the group ofw enforcement machines who only cared about the target, not the reasons. Everyone in the empire was well aware of this... And as the husband of the deceased or a devout follower of the church, he should have been consumed with the desire to find the killer within 24 hours and throw them into the church''s blood dungeon for torture and death!


    But such a person, actually paying attention to the details of the investigation?


    It felt as if during an exam, he asked the student behind him for the answer to multiple-choice questions but demanded that the student write down the solution process for each question.


    It was too strange. Copying multiple-choice answers naturally only required knowing the options...


    Of course, all of the above was just based on the detective''s experience, along with his irresponsible arrogance and self-importance.


    But Sherlock was exactly that kind of person. He knew with certainty that his deductions were correct, just as he knew how to stuff a person into a suitcase without worrying that they would die immediately.


    Thus, the killer arrived as expected and, with the help of some abyssal power, cleverly presented their identity within the radiance of holy light.


    The case was perfectly concluded.


    ...


    Hmm... it seems it''s not entirely over yet.


    Because the huge spider next to the High Priest started emitting sharp hissing sounds, Catherine''s gaze became increasingly solemn, and the air seemed to thicken.


    And at Bader''s side, a pitch-ck crack silently tore open.


    It was an abyssal fissure that connected to hell...


    Immediately after, apanied by a low roar, several enormous fangs protruded from the crack.


    ...

 Chapter 14

    Chapter 14


    Sherlock''s expression finally lost some of its frivolity.


    He quieted down and carefully observed the grotesque abyssal creature crawling out of the crack.


    Although covenanters were no longer scarce in these times, given the vast number of followers in the church, second-stage covenanters were still rare. So witnessing a second-stage covenant summoning their covenant demon was even rarer.


    Different from the High Priest''s covenant demon, what Bader summoned was a creature that was difficult to describe.


    If one were to attempt a description, it would be abination of an insect and a buffalo. Its skin was covered in ck-red scales that hung in folds. On the head, adorned with numerous antennae, there were traces of degenerated eyes, swaying as if inebriated. At the front, it had a nauseating mouthpiece, with enormous fangs protruding from it, apanied by sizzling mucous.


    Moreover, its size was somewhat exaggerated, easily twice asrge as the spider, making the entire room feel cramped upon its appearance.


    "Murdering a loved one should be met with divine punishment," Catherine said, her eyebrows slightly furrowed as she watched the covenant creature crawl out of the crack.


    Minister Bader remained expressionless...


    But suddenly, he burst intoughter with a "st" sound!


    Sherlock was taken aback. He had thought that this stoic minister was gically incapable of ughing."


    It seemed that Minister Bader was not particrly skilled atughing, as his rigid muscles made the expression appear especially sinister: "Don''t make it sound so noble. Karin was unfaithful to me, and she deserved to die. It can hardly be considered killing a loved one."


    "But in the past few months, you have also brutally murdered over a dozen imperial citizens..."


    "They were all impure individuals and deserved to be punished."


    "Who should live and who should die is a matter for the Judicature, not you as a minister, to decide. You have abused your power..."


    Minister Bader shook his head, seemingly unwilling to argue about this pointless topic any further.


    He knew all too well what would happen next. With that impure woman dead, the Church would never spare him.


    Although it seemed somewhat unwise to execute a second-stage covenanter over a woman, rationality aside, once the rules were vited, there was only one path: death.


    After all... the Church was sacred and invible.


    Just then...


    *Cough* *Cough*


    Sherlock suddenly coughed lightly twice.


    "Um... I apologize for interrupting your conversation, but... this is my apartment, or rather, a rented one, so could you...?"


    He had wanted to say, "Could you take your fight outside?"


    But immediately, he saw the Minister''s eyes filled with an overwhelming intent to kill!!!


    "Okay, it seems there''s no room for negotiation on this matter," Sherlock muttered somewhat regretfully.


    While Sherlock could be considered the main culprit for pushing Minister Bader into this predicament, he acted as if he were a poor innocent victim:


    "Well then, please continue your conversation. I won''t disturb you any longer."


    His tone even carried a hint of apology. Then, he turned around, leaped out the window, and disappeared into the night!


    A detective''s duty was to figure out who the murderer was, but apprehending the killer was a matter he decided not to get involved in this time.


    ...


    Outside the window, the night wind howled, and the few hard-earned stars were veiled by dark clouds. The air became chilly and damp.


    Sherlock actually wanted to witness a confrontation between high-level covenanters, but the room was too cramped. If he stayed to watch, his chances of survival would be slim.


    Landing lightly on the ground, surrounded by silence, it seemed as though the small rented apartment could no longer contain the tension between the three lesiastical officials. The suffocating pressure began to spread throughout the entire street.


    And in this chilly night wind, the damp air, and the immense pressure intermingling... in the dark corners of the street, where the gasmps couldn''t reach...


    A heavy steam-powered exoskeleton slowly emerged.


    Followed by three, five...


    Ten, twenty...


    Thirty, forty!!!


    More and more, until they obstructed each other, making it impossible to urately count their numbers.


    These exoskeletons were painted dark blue, and intricate sunflower motifs on their shoulders reflected the dim glow of the streetmps. They bore the emblem of the Temr Knights.


    Thus, in this damp night, shes between steel and the hissing steam began, apanied by the roaring of the machines...


    It was difficult to imagine that such a quiet street harbored so many people. As the heavy machines were transported, not a single unusual sound was emitted. And that was not all. Looking at the buildings on both sides of the street, one would find that at this moment, almost every window in the night suddenly lit up, followed by the sound of chaotic footsteps growing louder, mingling with the roar of the steam.


    Arge number ofw enforcement personnel seemed to emerge from nowhere, swiftly evacuating the nearby residents.


    Every street exit was sealed off, giant steel gates erected, and two Zeppelin airships slowly extended their massive bodies overhead. Countless lights nted down, casting a pale hue over the night.


    Formoners in the lower district, this show of force was overwhelming, let alone the fact that each Temr soldier d in steam-powered exoskeletons watched the inconspicuous second-floor window with unwavering solemnity, filling the air with an impending sense of gravity and reverence.


    At that moment, Sherlock also watched his apartment with great nervousness:


    "These clueless fellows better not tear down this building... It was so difficult to find such a cheap rental..."

 Chapter 15: If Nothing Unexpected Happens...

    Chapter 15: If Nothing Unexpected Happens...


    Unsettled thoughts...


    Suddenly, a loud noise!


    Sherlock watched as the familiar window of the apartment in front of him shattered with a thunderous crash. Half of the wall copsed along with it, apanied by the buzzing sound of countless spider threads snapping. A hairy, gigantic spider flew backward from the second floor, then miserably crashed onto the street.


    And within its abdomen, a small old man could be seen, huddled in pain, with blood flowing from the jagged gaps in his teeth. Thankfully, he was protected by the webbing, or that impact alone would have cost him half of his life.


    As for Catherine, her whereabouts were unknown...


    No time to dwell on that. In that instant!


    "Prepare forbat!!!"


    A resounding roar, amplified for all the surrounding soldiers to hear. Even before themand was given, all the exoskeletons had already emitted a tremendous hum, their steam turbines entering full throttle, the scorching airflow trembling erratically through their overheated exhaust pipes.


    As if responding to this grand wee, a figure suddenly leaped high from behind the broken wall on the second floor, viciously descending upon the crowd!


    Apanying the descent was a grotesque demon, over three meters long!


    No one knew how to name such a creature. Even before it touched the ground, its enormous fangs had reached their limit in mid-air, ruthlessly stabbing into the steel wall formed by the armored knights!


    *Bang* *Bang*


    Several strange muffled sounds, as if des rapidly piercing a sealed can. The moment the demonnded, it began frantically swinging its nauseating head, its teeth hooked into the intestines of several Church guards, sending their armor flying.


    Minister Bader''s body alsonded with a crash, his robe billowing in the night wind. His already burly figure seemed to have grown evenrger, and he immediately grabbed the nearest guard, his massive fingers clutching the helmet and pulling forcefully.


    The helmet was torn off directly, revealing a severed half-head inside!


    All of this happened in an instant... The formidable steel battalion that had given such a great sense of security had suddenly, without warning, be the target of a brutal massacre.


    In an instant, roars reverberated through the long street. Countless machine guns emerged from beneath the mechanical arms of the steam exoskeletons, pouring a relentless hail of bullets toward their targets. Guards closer to the target swung gigantic chainsaws wildly, fervently thrusting and shing at Minister Bader or the ethereal creature, even if it meant identally injuring theirrades nearby.


    However, none of this seemed to affect the figure rampaging through the crowd...


    There was no choice. Once covenanters evolved to the second stage, they formed a symbiotic rtionship with the demons they summoned. Minister Bader''s covenant demon was clearly a type with exceptionally strong vitality, making it difficult for conventional weapons to quickly and effectively harm them.


    Chaos erupted in that instant...


    And at this moment, Sherlock... He didn''t know when he had already arrived at the edge of the battlefield, using a building to conceal his entire body within the heavy shadows.


    But he didn''t leave; instead, he watched with great interest as the scene unfolded before himbloodshed, chaos, gnawing, tearing, crushing, limbs and arms flying in all directions, with steel and gunpowder asionally causing explosions.


    A peculiar sense of excitement began to spread from his scalp downward...


    It was natural, for he was a detective. It was only natural that he enjoyed pondering over things, death, dismemberment, and the scent of blood. To him, each scene unfolding before his eyes was like a grand murder taking ce right in front of him.


    Of course, he would be excited...


    Amidst the excitement, his gaze pierced through the sttering limbs and entrails, as well as the ruptured gaps in the damaged armor, fixed on the merciless Inquisitor Minister!


    More and more Church guards fell, and Sherlock''s eyes grew brighter. Through their movement patterns, the direction of their shifting targets, he could construct a mental image of their speed and tactics. Surviving under such concentrated firepower required a certain level of physical resistance. The bullets that exploded only damaged the skin, but the continuous cuts of the chainsaw could reach the muscles. A steam-powered exoskeleton was thrown into the air, crashing heavily to the ground. In the midst of the chaos, Sherlock nced briefly, already specting about theposition of its steel material through the torn and dismal crevice.


    Observing, collecting, analyzing, deducingthese were always his strengths.


    Life... had finally be somewhat interesting.


    ...


    Another two minutes passed like this, and finally, under the brutal death of yet another Temr Knight, Minister Bader madly charged out of the encirclement.


    By now, his entire body was covered in torn flesh and skin, his ministerial robepletely shredded, sticky flesh clinging to him...


    Although he was a second-stage covenanter, he was still within the realm of humanity. Even under the Church''s relentless assault, his injuries were far from insignificant.


    So at this moment, he disregarded the attacks of the guards around him and dashed toward the other side of the street!


    His frenzied steps left behind shallow craters...


    That was


    where the old priest was!


    Undoubtedly, this was the correct decision in such a situation, as in battles of this level, victory or defeat could only be determined by the covenanters...


    Within a matter of meters, he arrived instantly, and the demon he had summoned, like a bloody war machine, created an extremely gruesome gap within the crowd.


    At this moment, the old priest and the spider had just recovered from the previous encounter... Unfortunately, this spider''s ability was to connect unsuspecting targets with its threads, creating illusions. While it was highly effective, its directbat capabilities were weak, and when faced with Minister Bader''s covenant demon, skilled in killing, it was utterly defenseless.


    However, the old priest couldn''t just wait to be killed, so the spider struggled to climb to its feet. Countless threads sprayed from its disproportionate abdomen, pierced through some broken metal debris, and adhered to the giant body of another demon. More and more threads, tighter and tighter, the eight sharp legs trembled madly, shing directly against the crimson scales. An eerie and grating screech echoed through the night sky.


    Life and death... in an instant...


    The spider desperately blocked the demon twice its size but couldn''t hold back its summoner any longer.


    Minister Bader had already arrived in front of the old priest!


    He wasn''t someone who liked to waste words. His blood-drenched palm opened and came down on the old man''s head.


    The abilities of covenanters mainly came from the demons they symbiotically bonded with, which meant that the old priest''s physical qualities were likely not impressive. With this powerful p, his head would most likely turn into a pile of exploded flesh.


    Fortunately... Catherine, who had disappeared earlier, finally made her move.


    A ck light quietly appeared on Minister Bader''s chest...


    If nothing unexpected happens, at this moment, this battle has already reached its end...

 Chapter 16: Something Unexpected Happened

    Chapter 16: Something Unexpected Happened


    *Bang!* A loud boom!


    Of course, that was not the sound of the old priest''s head exploding!


    On the contrary, Minister Bader''s robust body suddenly flew backward in a bizarre manner!


    First, he knocked away several guards, then continued to smash through a row of steam valves by the roadside, and finally crashed forcefully into the wall of a nearby building.


    It was only at this moment that people noticed a pitch-ck spike, as thick as a finger but over a meter long, impaled right at the location of his heart!


    This spike was undoubtedly extremely hard, with a glossy ck metallic-like keratinous surface, and it was incredibly fast. By the time Minister Bader had been embedded in the wall, the bricks and stones were already emitting a cracking sound, and the whooshing sound from the spike had just caught up, sounding like a peculiar and distant echo.


    Sherlock watched this sudden turn of events and, in an instant, his mindpleted extremelyplex calctions and deductions. Such speed,pressing immense impact force within the narrow range of a thumb''s thicknessjust how terrifying would the resulting injury be...


    But even with such a terrifying injury, the spike had not pierced Minister Bader''s chest!!


    Sherlock turned his head and looked in the direction from which the spike hade. Under the illumination of the Zeppelin''s bright lights, a slender figure stood quietly atop the highest tower in the entire street.


    Catherine...


    Beside her, there was a mass of pitch-ck vegetation crawlingno, it would be more urate to say it was growing.


    Simr to some kind of vine, but each branch was as thick as an arm, intertwined and entangled with each other, covering almost the entire top of the tower. The growth of these vines was silent and imperceptible. When not illuminated by the lights, they blended seamlessly into the darkness, even eluding Sherlock''s premonition.


    At the center of the entwined vines, a dark ck spore sac was growing, rapidly expanding...


    The surrounding air was swiftly sucked in, and within a second, the sac had swelled dozens of times its size. Even in the light, one could vaguely see the ck vascrwork within the spore sac, resembling blood vessels.


    Sherlock was somewhat astonished. The books he had read before had never mentioned that covenanters could control not only abyssal creatures but also nts.


    Well, the authors of those books probably only collected information on low-level covenanters. How could a bunch of smelly writers evere into contact with second-stage covenanters?


    As he was thinking...


    Suddenly, the enormous spore sac on the tower contracted, instantly unleashing an explosive spew! Simultaneously, another pitch-ck spike shot out from the spore sac, swiftly surpassing the visual limits of everyone present, including Sherlock, and surpassing the piercing sound of the wind. Only the recoil-induced resonance caused Catherine''s long hair to dance wildly in the night.


    *Boom!*


    An even louder sound, as the jet-ck spike pinned itself into Minister Bader''s heart once again. These vine-like nts undoubtedly possessed more precise targeting than mere visual perception. The two spikes almost hit the same spot, instantly causing the wall to emit billowing smoke, with cracks rapidly spreading.


    Catherine did not give the other party a moment to catch their breath. While the aftershocks remained, the third spike arrived, followed by the fourth and the fifth.


    Boom! Boom!! Boom!!!


    The continuous explosions merged into an indistinguishable roar!


    The wall bearing so much impact copsed with a thunderous crash, smoke billowing forth. Then came the sixth spike, the seventh... countless spikes pierced through the smoke, relentlessly bombarding without mercy.


    The deafening booms seemed tost an eternity. Just as Sherlock felt his eardrums were about to be torn apart, the onught finally ceased. Looking at the copsed structure within the smoke, it resembled the aftermath of a dozen catastrophic gas leaks,pletely ruined and turned into a pile of debris!


    Under such circumstances, even if the opponent was a covenanter, they should be dead.


    Those horrifying spikes should have turned them into a bloody mass of flesh and thorns.


    It seemed that everyone thought the same way. Catherine stood atop the tower, finally exhaling a breath, and the esteemed Lord Priest felt the abyssal beast that had formed a symbiotic bond with Minister Bader quickly weakening in the distance. It whimpered, copsed, motionless. Finally, the exhausted Lord Priest opened his weary eyes.


    The deafening sound of the turbine on the street gradually ceased, and the remaining exoskeletons began to vent steam as they cooled down.


    Finally, it was over... The taut nerves could finally rx.


    In truth, everyone knew that this was a battle whose oue had been predetermined from the beginning, for those who vited the Church''sws could only die!


    ...


    However, Sherlock, hidden in the shadows, remained motionless. His eyes seemed even brighter, staring fixedly at the copsed wreckage.


    The gunfire and smoke carried by the bullets, the terrifying force when tearing through armor, the terrifying impact when the spikes sliced through the night... all the information once again spun rapidly in Sherlock''s mind at an astonishing speed!


    In an instant...


    No, it didn''t match the deduction''s conclusion...


    Almost in the same instant, countless possibilities shed before his eyessome good, some bad.


    He grew increasingly silent, increasingly alert, increasingly calm.


    Finally, at the moment when the first raindrop fell on the street...


    This detective, who had been hiding in the shadows all along, made a move!

 Chapter 17: The Study of Blood Character (8)

    Chapter 17: The Study of Blood Character (8)


    His movements were not fast,pared to those covenanters, it was as if he was in slow motion.


    But his movements were silent, so quiet that if you weren''t paying attention, he wouldpletely disappear into the darkness of the night.


    Just as Sherlock concealed himself, the elderly man, who had just rxed his mind, suddenly trembled. It seemed like he had also noticed something and stared into the depths of the billowing smoke with an incredulous look.


    An untimely lightning bolt streaked across the sky.


    The esteemed priest''s aging body suddenly erupted with a roar!


    "Run!!!!"


    Without any warning.


    No one knew whom he was telling to run, where to run, how to run, or why to run.


    He wasn''t even sure if he really wanted to say the word ''run'' at that moment. Perhaps, in that split second, all he could do was reflexivelypress all his words and shock into a jumbled pronunciation.


    However, he was still too slow.


    In the thick smoke, a withered figure suddenly appeared, bathed in blood, like a withered branch swaying helplessly in a rainstorm.


    But the speed of that figure was incredibly fast, surpassing human thought. Only when their gaze caught sight of his slender body and the ck spike, about a meter long, that he held in his hand, in a posture as if he was about to throw it high into the air.


    Regrettably, all of this was merely an image formed when light entered the pupils, and no one''s brain could react in time.


    *Bang!*


    The bloody, slender arm erupted with an unimaginable force, producing a resounding st as the strange power whipped through the air. The spike in his hand, like a dark beam of light, pierced through the entire street, and in the blink of an eye, it had pierced through the enormous vine nt above the clock tower, surpassing everyone''s ability to react, including the shocked expressions on their faces.


    Another *bang!* echoed. The spore sac at the center of the nt instantly exploded, and the sticky dark green fluid inside burst out like a disgusting firework!


    When the covenant creature is injured, the covenantor will suffer a tremendous bacsh. So, almost simultaneously, Catherine copsed tragically to the ground, spraying arge amount of blood from her mouth.


    But it didn''t end there. As the explosion spread, the grotesque figure had already rushed out of the smoke and directly pounced on the defenseless esteemed priest.


    Only at this moment did the thunder''s roar finally arrive, apanied by a downpour. Some slow-reacting individuals finally caught a glimpse of the figure''s true appearance!


    It should be Minister Bader because he was still draped in that tattered blood-red minister''s robe. However, his appearance hadpletely deviated from his original form.


    It could even be said that only the most basic skeleton and skin remained. The once muscr body hadpletely disappeared, and only a vague outline of the body could be seen within the oversized, sagging robe. Matched with his withered bones were a scalp hanging down and horrifying bulging eyeballs.


    When the esteemed priest saw such a form, his eyes widened with an inexplicable mix of shock and fury. Because he inexplicably thought of a possibility: Could the reason why the opponent could unleash such terrifying destructive power in this dying state be because... he was sacrificing everything?


    By everything, it naturally included muscles, organs, psychic power, and even the life of his covenant creature. All the things he still possessed. And it was precisely because of this kind of sacrifice that all the muscle tissue in his body had instantly turned into crazy nutrients, causing him to be emaciated to the extreme, and terrifying to the extreme.


    And this method of sacrificing both form and spirit originated from within the Church, developed by the joint efforts of the Life Sciences Institute.


    It was extremely precious, rumored to be obtainable only by the most devout clergy.


    But wasn''t this potion still in the research stage?


    Why did Minister Bader have a bottle of it?


    Did he steal it? Or did he quietly obtain it through some connections? Perhaps, he willingly offered himself as a test subject?


    The esteemed priest couldn''t even guess. In any case, this sudden turn of eventspletely caught him off guard.


    Therefore, while the esteemed priest was shocked, all he could do reflexively was widen his eyes and witness the eerie and distorted, emaciated figure approaching him in an instant.


    The figure looked so miserable and frail. Burning all the nutrients obtained from the sacrifice in a desperate bid to maximize the killing power, he had no spare energy left to protect himself. But with such a physique, as long as he touched the esteemed priest in that split second, thetter would undoubtedly be instantly torn apart! Then, the remaining mad power would drive this withered body to ughter and destroy all the surrounding lives until he too turned to dust.


    Everything happened too quickly. In fact, until now, the heavy rain had just passed through the gap between the sky and the ground, pouring down on the street, mixing the blood into a stinky muddy mess.


    No one could have imagined this oue, and naturally, no one was prepared.


    Catherine wasn''t, the esteemed priest wasn''t, and neither were the guards of the Church around them.


    ...Wait!


    It seemed like one person was.


    ...


    Only a soft sound came from within the curtain of rain.


    It was the sound of a bullet being fired. Amidst the continuous violent explosions from earlier, the sound of the gunshot was so crisp and pleasing to the ear.


    This inconspicuous bullet pierced through the entire street, passing through the pervasive smell of blood, the wreckage of several steam exoskeletons, and the crushed flesh, even shattering a few raindrops along the way. Finally, it solidly smashed into the chest of the emaciated figure that approached in an instant!


    There wasn''t much sound in that split second, and Minister Bader didn''t even make a scream.


    Because, after swallowing the potion, rationality was also part of the sacrifice, and he had almost lost his ability to perceive pain.


    However, without sturdy muscles as a cushion and protection, the impact of the bullet collided head-on with its terrifying speed. The momentary recoil caused the withered figure to stumble abruptly. The slight deviation in high-speed movement was like a speeding train suddenly derailing, rumbling and tumbling wildly in the sticky pool of blood.


    On the other side of the rain curtain, Sherlock stood with his gun. His disheveled hair, washed by the rain, fell loosely along his cheeks. The cold night wind froze his face pale.

 Chapter 18: You can rest assured now.

    Chapter 18: You can rest assured now.


    It wasn''t until this moment that the people around finally reacted...


    They didn''t even have time to look back at the direction from which the bullet had been fired, nor who had made the life-or-death decision with that single shot. They could only suppress the overwhelming shock and gratitude in their hearts, constantly thankful for this seemingly divine gift.


    Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!


    The steam armor that had just been dissipating heat immediately started operating again. The high temperature generated by the turbine turned the surrounding rain into billowing white mist. All the guards immediately activated theirbat mode once again!


    They were the most devout followers of the Holy See, their lives expendable for the sake of the Church. Even if their limbs had been injured, broken, or shattered during the previous battle, and pieces of steel had prated their abdomens, as long as the enemy was still present and the high-ranking clergy needed protection, they couldn''t rest, let alone hope for treatment. Even though the undispersed high temperature seared their bodies through the heavy armor like sizzling branding irons, roasting and sticking to their skin, they couldn''t evade it!


    ...However, the equipment they wore was ultimately too heavy. After undergoing such a fierce battle, the turbine couldn''t gather enough power in time to drive the three-meter-tall, sturdy steel. They couldn''t even perform the most basic movements of bending their arms or lifting their legs.


    Further away, the abyssal creature summoned by Minister Bader hadpletely lost its vitality. Its body copsed, leaving behind decaying skin. The spider finally had a moment to catch its breath. At this moment, its eight slender legs began to wildly dance, disregarding everything as it rushed toward the direction of the old priest. Its massive abdomen writhed violently, indicating that it was desperately producing spider silk.


    However, this abyssal creature wasn''t adept at rapid short-distance movement. It had already exhausted all its spider silk during the battle and couldn''t produce any more for the time being.


    As for Catherine on the bell tower, although she possessed terrifying instantaneous killing abilities, her contracted creature had been severely wounded, and she herself experienced bacsh. She could only struggle to lean against the vine-covered wall, forcibly preventing herself from fainting.


    So, in these brief few seconds, it was a dramatic turn of eventsno one could trulyunch an attack against Minister Bader, and there was no way to protect the venerable high priest.


    Amidst the pool of blood, that emaciated figure climbed to its feet.


    At this moment, it was even more emaciated than before, almost resembling a skeleton. Large patches of skin turned into nourishment, peeling away one by one, revealing the almost fractured lines of dried-up muscles underneath.


    In this state, even the magnificent and healing Florence Nightingale herself would be unable to save its life.


    It was destined to perish.


    But it continued to go mad, roaring and desiring to destroy and be destroyed!


    The rain dyed the long street a bloody red. Amidst this vibrant scenery akin to colored ss, a figure quietly crossed a pile of mangled corpses...


    As mentioned before, Sherlock,pared to the contractors, was not as fast, but he was incredibly flexible and eerie. Each of his movements seemed precise to the extreme, whether it was running, leaping, or even the distance of each step, as if they had been calcted countless times.


    The ck tattered overcoat fluttered silently behind him as he raised his hand mysteriously. Between his pale fingers was a handgunmonly seen everywhere.


    Perhaps it was his own, perhaps something he found in some corner of the battlefield... it didn''t matter.


    In any case, within his high-speed movement, this handgun was strangely steady. Without warning, the pitch-ck muzzle suddenly emitted a bright light! Bang! Bang! Bang! Three bullets were fired.


    But these three bullets flew in different directions, not aiming at anything in particr, as if they were randomly fired into the dark night and rain.


    At the same time, Minister Bader had already leaped out of the pool of blood, resembling a fment that had been burned dry, and pounced toward the nearest old priest... There was only one thought in his mind nowto kill the opponent!


    However, this horrifying assault was suddenly intercepted.


    Because on his path, those three strange bullets appeared. He was incredibly fast, narrowly avoiding two of them, but he couldn''t evade the third, and it was precisely because of avoiding the first two that he ced himself in the trajectory of the third bullet. The fragile shoulder was struck again, shattering the yellowed bone!


    In the following few seconds, a dozen gunshots rang out consecutively, inexplicably suppressing Minister Bader in ce!


    Just a handgun.


    Under normal circumstances, the power of ordinary bullets would hardly affect Minister Bader''s movements. But it happened to be during this time when everything was exhausted and as ast resort...


    The horrifying effects of the sacrifice continued to consume the user''s life. His brain was boiling, his bones were trembling, and only his remaining nerves and muscles were convulsing.


    The 20 seconds of absolute madness brought about by the drug were unexpectedly restrained by a handgun! It forcefully dyed the depletion of his life!


    Finally, Sherlock''s figure ghostly rushed into the dazzling light of the searchlight. His hand remained steady, his expression calm. It even felt like he hadn''t blinked once from the beginning until now. He continued to pull the trigger in that eerie and focused manner, making the guards around him instinctively avoid getting too close, afraid of disrupting his rhythm of suppressing Minister Bader.


    The gunshots continued. By this time, Sherlock had stepped forward, right in front of Minister Bader. The gunshots erupted at a point-nk range,


    Shoulder te, kneecap, elbow, rib, spine, eye socket.


    Nearly every critical area had been subjected to several bullet strikes, shattered open before he could be reassured. There was no trace of mercy, and he didn''t give the opponent a chance to retaliate.


    In the midst of the silent chaos, all the bullets were spent, and on the ground remained nothing but a carcass with shattered organs and bones.


    Sherlock didn''t stop there; he firmly grasped a nearby standard-issue armor saw and aimed its de at the copsed head...


    Without power to drive it, the saw couldn''t rotate, but Sherlock didn''t care.


    He began to smash and saw back and forth! After creating arge opening, he forcefully thrust his hand into it. It was as if he had pierced a rotten watermelon, and he vigorously stirred the pulpy mass that resembled melon pulp!


    In the sound of the pouring rain, that piercing and sticky disgusting sound seemed to spread far, making anyone who heard it feel ufortable all over!


    Regardless, Sherlock continued to mix, tear, and twist, his shoulders constantly shifting. He didn''t stop until everything within reach had been blended into a white paste.


    ...Only then did he finally stop the spine-chilling movements of his hand and slowly stood up.


    Turning his head, he revealed a radiant and highly infectious smile under the descending beam of the searchlight.


    "Alright, you can rest assured now."

 Chapter 19: Killed Some

    Chapter 19: Killed Some


    Silence...


    The events that just unfolded were actually extremely brief. From the moment the Bishop sprang up from the smoke, to the eruption of gunfire that suppressed him in the rain, it took less than half a minute. Even the time it took to saw open the skull with the bone saw afterwards was longer.


    But it was precisely this brevity that made the sound of the de scraping against the bones particrly grating, and the nauseating sound of fingers mashing the brain was chilling.


    Catherine, who was on the bell tower, was too far away to hear the disturbing squelching sound, but because of her distance and elevated position, she could clearly see everything that happened on the ground below.


    At the same time, it made her the most shocked person in the crowd.


    In her line of sight, in the distance on the long street, that particrly strange figure and his prophetic actions, an ordinary gun that hadn''t been modified, a few of the lowest-quality bullets, managed to suppress a Judgment Executor?


    Although it was during his weakest moment...


    But at the same time, it was also during his strongest moment!


    And that uncouth fellow showed no sign of fear throughout the entire process. On the contrary, everything he did was so casual, silent, sparse, smooth, and seamless!


    Was it ignorance?


    Or had his state of mind be so strong that he could ignore the desperate counterattack of a second-tier contractor on the brink of death?


    Catherine didn''t know. She just stared nkly at the fragmented remains on the ground, which could never stand up again in any way. And in that moment, an image of his face appeared in her mind, the first time they met outside the elevator, a smile that was both charming and utterly despicable.


    Suddenly, her body stiffened, and only then did she realize, btedly... that he was just an ordinary person, amoner from the Lower City, a private detective.


    ...


    Sherlock, at this moment, was unaware of the profound impact he had on the judgmental Sister Catherine, and he was simply looking at the shattered remains on the ground, feeling quite satisfied as he stretched his body.


    Turning around, he looked at the High Priest behind him.


    "Are you okay?" he asked.


    In fact, he had some fondness for this man of few words, because whenever he wasn''t nodding off, the man always responded with a very affable smile, which even contained a hint of encouragement and admiration. Such a smile was rare among those in power when facingmoners.


    In the rain, the High Priest seemed to have juste to his senses. He made an effort to suppress his shock and weakly smiled, nodding to indicate that he was fine.


    Then, his thin lips moved slightly, as if he wanted to say something.


    But Sherlock didn''t hear it, because the next moment, he was surrounded by a group of guards rushing over.


    At this moment, the safety of the High Priest was naturally more important than anything else.


    The rain continued, and a few minutester, when everyone finally recovered from the previous scene, some medical personnel who had been waiting on the outskirts of the battlefield finally dared to enter the re of the searchlights.


    They quickly searched for any survivors and began treating and tending to the soldiers who were almost steamed inside their armor. Ropes were lowered from the airship, and dozens of people dressed in the attire of the Holy See Guard, without steam armor but wearing their uniforms, descended and silently began to clean up the battlefield, recovering bodies and equipment with ruthless efficiency.


    In the aftermath of the battle, the remains of the Judgment Executor were swept into a pile from the pool of blood, along with his Void Creature, and ced in arge iron box. The box was then hoisted up by a rope and brought onto the airship. The cries of the medical soldiers around gradually became the main melody, and Catherine''s vines and the gigantic spider silently retreated into the Void Rift. Everything gradually returned to order.


    In the process, almost everyone who survived unconsciously looked towards the direction where Sherlock stood.


    The meanings conveyed by these gazes wereplex: gratitude, shock, confusion, and even a hint of underlying fear. They could only steal nces from a distance and quickly avert their eyes when their gazes met with the detective''s.


    More than ten minutester... The High Priest finally recovered from his injuries after several medical soldiers had confirmed several times that he was fine. With the support of his aides, he was lifted onto a wheelchair. Waving away the guards who tried to hold an umbre for him, he propelled the wheelchair, moving past the bloodstains on the ground, and approached Sherlock.


    He smiled, not hiding the mixture of mncholy and gratitude in his smile.


    "When I was at Scond Yard, I inquired about you... at that time, I only thought of you as an outstanding young man, even more outstanding than I had imagined. But I never expected that you would exceed my imagination by so much."


    Sherlock had been standing in the rain, his hair drenched and hanging on his cheeks. He didn''t know where he found a rope and casually tied his unkempt hair behind his head. Facing the aged High Priest, he put on a familiar fake smile, like the workers in the Lower City meeting their boss.


    "Oh, it''s nothing. I just helped a little."


    "You don''t need to put on this act!" Suddenly, a voice came from beside him.


    Sherlock turned his head to see Catherine walking weakly towards him. There were some dark lines beneath her skin, probably blood vessels undergoing spasms after some kind of bacsh, and traces of blood remained in her mouth. However, she didn''t care at all and even refused to let the apanying personnel hold an umbre for her.


    "You did well. The Holy See will give you the rewards you deserve, so your modesty will only irritate people."


    Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, feeling that this Sister of Judgment really didn''t like him.


    "What did you do to aplish this?" Catherine asked again.


    "What do you mean by ''aplish''?"


    "Don''t y dumb! You just killed a Judgment Executor..." Her tone became more intense.


    "Oh, that... I had a gun." Sherlock gestured with his hand, mimicking the motion of a gunshot. "It just so happened that the Bishop was very vulnerable at that time, so I was able to kill him with a gun."


    His words were somewhere between an exnation and a load of rubbish. Catherine found them quite unpleasant and was about to question him further. But suddenly... she inexplicably sensed a strong sense of forcefulness between his words.


    Yes, that''s right. The entire process was just like that. She had witnessed it with her own eyes. It was just a gun, killing a person who could be killed with a gun. This strange but true narrative made her hesitate for a moment...


    "Have you killed many people?"


    "I have killed a few." Sherlock flicked a puddle of water with his shoe and answered absentmindedly. But he immediately added, "They were all within the limits permitted by thew."


    Catherine squinted her eyes, feeling skeptical...

 Chapter 20: Rewards??

    Chapter 20: Rewards??


    Chapter 20 - Rewards??


    No matter how you listen to it, it has a strong underlying meaning. And...


    "I have killed a few~" This answer is also awkward.


    It''s not that a detective can''t kill people, buting from Sherlock''s mouth, coupled with his previous actions, it feels like there are countless strange and macabre stories behind those words.


    Catherine squinted at him, remaining silent for a while. As a clergy member of the Holy See, she couldn''t really let go of her identity to inquire about amoner''s past.


    Fortunately, at this moment, Sherlock changed the subject himself. "Uh, did you mention... rewards?"


    "What the Holy See bestows cannot be called rewards!... They should be called blessings!" Catherine corrected sharply.


    "Of course, deardy, whatever you say."


    In Catherine''s eyes, Sherlock''s smile always seemed full of insincerity. She had to exert considerable effort to try to connect the person in front of her with the figure who had just demonstrated such extraordinary capabilities.


    Then, she tilted her head slightly and asked, "So what do you want?"


    She naturally exuded an air of superiority in her tone, because behind her was the Holy See. Receiving rewards from the Holy See was enough to make anyone feel elevated, as the Holy See wouldn''t tell you what you could get; they would let you say it yourself, after all, the Holy See could fulfill almost any wish as long as you had the qualifications.


    But even with such a question carrying supreme honor, it momentarily stumped Sherlock.


    Rewards... Did he have to think about it himself?


    Seeing Sherlock looking lost for words, Catherine thought he was overwhelmed by the grace of the Holy See. Finally, she smiled from the bottom of her heart and said, "I know it''s a difficult question... but money, power, honor, all of those are possible. You can even ask for better service to the Holy Light. I can arrange for you to have your own church in the suburbs of London!"


    Sherlock remained silent, his eyebrows furrowing tighter and tighter. The drizzle dripped into his unkempt stubble, which hadn''t been trimmed in a while.


    Killing a Judgment Executor just now didn''t trouble him as much as this.


    Because he felt that money, power, and such things didn''t have much appeal to him. In reality, he only enjoyed catching murderers, solving cases, and keeping his mind upied. That was all.


    So, after ten seconds... thirty seconds... a minute...


    "Give me some time. I need to think..."


    That was his eventual response.


    ...


    The rain cloud in the sky was like a dder with its urethra blocked, finally being relieved and madly pouring out the umted liquid.


    Under the curtain of rain, the battle that had nearly destroyed half a street wasn''t actually very long. The entire process probably took no more than five minutes.


    The post-battle workers had already set up makeshift tents. Gas stoves were lit inside the tents, and they even provided hot water and food to satisfy their hunger. Because the wounded, the heavy steam armor, and the clergy members couldn''t be lifted away by airship, and the support transport team would take over an hour to arrive, they could only temporarily regroup and rest in ce.


    Sherlock was currently sitting in one of the tents. The detective, who had initially been abandoned on the battlefield with no one caring about his life or death, suddenly seemed to have been promoted to a position of great importance.


    At least for now, only Catherine and the High Priest had tents to take shelter from the rain.


    asionally, some nuns woulde in with the most professional battlefield medical equipment to examine Sherlock''s injuries and provide treatment.


    In the Holy See''s position nning, nuns were generally responsible for daily prayers and receiving visitors at city churches. Only a few who had received specialized medical training could go to war zones. Compared to ordinary medical personnel, these battlefield nuns were proficient in almost all baptismal rituals and prayer oaths. They could console soldiers whose faith had copsed due to ughter or fear. They held a high-ranking position among the nuns.


    Of course, Catherine, as a Judgment Sister, was not included in this category. After all, she was a second-tier contractor and was no longer a grassroots member of the Holy See.


    In any case, such treatment was definitely not something an ordinary civilian could enjoy...


    Thin threads of sutures passed through the wounds on Sherlock''s back. Although he had only appeared for a few seconds, he couldn''t avoid getting injured while observing the battlefield from the edge. However, the injuries were not severe, to the point of paralysis or amputation. This made him feel that the nun behind him was being overly cautious in her techniques.


    There were several asions when he wanted to remind her that she could be rougher. After all, he had only been shot a few times. It would have been more convenient to dig out the bullets with his hands instead of using tweezers. But seeing the fine beads of sweat on her forehead and the gaze of fear that she couldn''t meet his eyes, he didn''t have the heart to disturb her.


    A few minutes passed, and the wounds on his body had been mostly treated. The nun then performed a humble gesture known as the "act of submission" towards Sherlock, reverently, as if facing a clergy member of the Holy See.


    Perhaps the High Priest or someone else had given some specific instructions to this nun...


    In any case, Sherlock felt quite embarrassed. He awkwardly responded with an unfamiliar etiquette, "Thank you for your help."


    This sentence made the nun tremble, and she nced at him with a look of panic. She quickly bowed her head, silently reciting prayers, and exited the tent.


    Shortly after the nun left, the tent curtain was lifted again.


    This time, a Holy See guard without steam armor entered. After entering, he nced at Sherlock with curiosity, gratitude, and, above all, fear, but he hid it well. He spoke with a respectful tone, "High Priest... pleasee over."


    ...


    ...


    Sherlock lifted the curtain of a nearby tent, shaking off the rainwater from his body.


    The tent was filled with medical equipment, some of which required electricity to operate. Sherlock wondered where the Holy See people obtained portable power sources.


    In the center of the tent was a bed, looking somewhat out of ce. The High Priest was currently lying on the bed, though he didn''t appear to have any major injuries. However, there was an intravenous drip hanging above his arm, and a certain crimson liquid was flowing into his body through the tube.


    "A nutrition solution, they say it relieves mental stress and reduces pain." Seeing Sherlock''s gaze, the High Priest exined helplessly, "Those medical personnel always think that I''ll die for various peculiar reasons."


    "Considering your age, it''s true that you''re not suited forbat." Sherlock smiled in response, as if visiting an old friend lying in bed. "So why did you call me here?"


    The High Priest moved back, allowing himself to semi-recline on the bed. He scrutinized Sherlock once again:


    "Do you... want to be a contractor?"

 Chapter 21: Contractors

    Chapter 21: Contractors


    Contractors... humans capable of establishing a connection with the Abyss.


    Due to the Empire''s iplete research on this connection, there isn''t a detailed ssification system in ce. However, based solely on the strength of their abilities, contractors can be roughly divided into four stages.


    The first stage is the mostmon one, with the majority of newly recognized contractors falling into this category. They make up 80% of all contractors. At this stage, their abilities allow them to open small rifts connecting to hell and summon their contracted demons.


    In the second stage, which ounts for 15% of all contractors, a contractor has established a symbiotic rtionship of sorts with their demon. At this point, contractors gain some of the abilities of their demons. For example, the old priest could slightly manipte people''s thoughts through eye contact, while the steward Balder possessed immense physical strength. Additionally, if either the contractor or the demon is injured, it affects the other as well.


    Most second-stage contractors be members of the clergy within the church since theirbat prowess surpasses that of ordinary humans.


    As for the third stage contractors, they make up only 5% of the total. These contractors possess simr abilities to second-stage ones; they can summon demons and wield abilities originating from the Abyss. The key difference is that they can summon rge demons," and the strength of their symbiotic bond far surpasses that of second-stage contractors.


    Take the deceased Steward Balder as an example. If he had reached the third stage, his contracted demon would likely have evolved to a height of over ten meters. A single charge could easily demolish half a street, and his physical strength would be enough to withstand the assaults of the entire Order of the Holy Knights for several hours without fighting back.


    Fortunately, due to the Holy Light''s envelopment by the church,rge void fissures cannot open within the Empire''s borders. Moreover, the demons controlled by third-stage contractors are also under the church''s control. Otherwise, severalrge demons together could probably destroy an entire city.


    The aforementioned three stages of contractors epass the entire poption of contractors.


    As for the fourth stage, it was only established approximately 35 years ago.


    That was during the chaotic era of the second demonic invasion, where war and ughter became the world''s main theme, and human survival reached the brink of copse.


    And then... that person descended like the god of death.


    Dante Alighieri, the honorable sir...


    A pauper who emerged from the slums, bearing a rare surname, an entric name, and radiating brilliance and countless honors. Standing alone before the gates of hell, he ughtered tens of thousands of demons, stepped into another world, and returned to the human realm after one year and seven months. With the willpower of a mortal, he confronted the most terrifying Abyssal deity and killed it, ending the five-year-long demonic invasion war. He became the empire''s hero and was worshipped as a divine general by humanity.


    His deeds have been recorded in textbooks across all schools for decades. Although he has long since shed the weighty power armor and retired to his hometown, he still receives the highest respect from the entire empire.


    He is the only contractor to have reached the fourth stage.


    However, his radiance was so blinding that no organization dares to research the extent of his powers, not even the church. And he himself seems uninterested in revealing the details.


    This has led to ack of knowledge regarding the true strength of fourth-stage contractors.


    ...


    Sherlock had heard a bit about these four stages of ssification, having read many books.


    Upon hearing the old priest''s suggestion, he was first taken aback, then surprised, and finally filled with a hint of hesitation.


    To be a contractor...


    As a member of this world, Sherlock certainly wouldn''t resist bing one, no matter how unconventional he may be. But his desire for this transformation had nothing to do with power, authority, or social status.


    It was driven by his curiosity... his thirst for knowledge.


    Sherlock was a detective, and exploring unknown territories held great allure for him. As a mortal, he naturally wondered what it would feel like to be a contractor.


    He was aware that the church had long possessed the means to turn an ordinary person into a contractor. However, that was a gift reserved only for the most devout believers. As a "second-rate joker" who had been deceived about his faith, he felt unworthy...


    The old priest seemed to discern Sherlock''s thoughts and smiled, "You need not worry too much. You saved the lives of two clergy members and numerous brave knights of the Order, and your disyed abilities have earned my admiration and approval... You deserve this blessing."


    His words were sincere, but Sherlock still wore a skeptical expression.


    After a dozen seconds, the elder priest appeared somewhat embarrassed. He nced at the tent''s entrance, ensuring no guards were passing by, and finally spoke in a hushed voice, "You saved Catherine, and her family''s standing within the church... is quite high."


    "High?"


    "Yes, much higher than you could imagine. But I can''t go into detail. In any case, it''s just a matter of conducting a contractor initiation ceremony. It truly isn''t anything significant. If you were a member of the church, you might even be promoted several ranks."


    "Um..."


    This revtion truly caught Sherlock off guard. He hadn''t expected the offense he caused to extend beyond a mere judgmental nun. There was a higher status behind it all. For a moment, he didn''t know whether this was good news or not.


    As for the Elder Priest, seeing Sherlock''sck of response, he started to grow anxious. He took the initiative and abruptly interjected, "So, have you ever had any strange dreams?"


    "Dreams? What kind of dreams?!"


    Finally, after an entire day, the detective, Sherlock Holmes, exhibited genuine surprise, just like an ordinary person would.


    <b>An extra chapter today, if you are liking this novel and think my trantion quality is good, please leave ament. If we reach 20ments on this post (only 20ments written by 20 individuals) i will post 10 chapters.</b>


    <b>If we get 5 reviews, (needs to be written not only vote), i will post another 5 chapters.</b>


    <b>Lets all achieve it by Wednesday. </b>


    (<b>New novel, click here to get more info on the new novel.</b>)

 Chapter 22: My Happiness

    Chapter 22: My Happiness


    Although it was the old priest who first mentioned the word "dreams," he was surprised by Sherlock''s reaction.


    Amidst his surprise, there was an unmistakable sense of excitement!


    "Have you... really had those kinds of dreams?" The old man''s eyes sparkled, as if gazing at a precious treasure. "Ah, I knew I didn''t make a mistake. You are that kind of person!"


    "What kind of person?"


    "That kind... the kind of person who might evolve to the third stage!" The old priest said, excitedly rambling on:


    "After the gates of hell opened, our world was already influenced by the other side. Some creatures and objects underwent strange transformations and became items that needed to be contained. And humans, too...


    In fact, contractors are simply humans affected by the Abyss. The stronger the influence or the greater their perception of the Abyss, the more powerful the contractor bes.


    Almost all powerful contractors have had a certain dream... internally referred to as the ''awakening dream'' by the church.


    In the dream, they encounter a peculiar creature, which is, in fact, their contracted demon.


    As for the reasons... I cannot say for certain. However, some researchers have proposed that hell is a world that can materialize souls, where all our human emotions and experiences are given physical form."


    At this point, the old priest shook his head helplessly, probably thinking that those researchers were simply fabricating nonsense. But it didn''t matter; he continued:


    "In any case, the earlier and clearer and more frequent the awakening dreams are, the stronger the individual''s perception of the Abyss bes. This also means that these individuals will be more powerful than other contractors in the future!


    One notable example is General Barton, who currently guards the gates of hell. It is rumored that he began having awakening dreams at the age of 11, with a frequency of almost two to three times a week...


    By the time he reached 30 years old, he had already be a third-stage contractor. If he were personally on the frontlines instead ofmanding operations, he might have killed more demons than the bloody butcher who knows nothing but ughter under hismand.


    As for Mr. Dante... haha, who knows what his awakening dream is like. Perhaps he experiences it every night."


    Hearing this, Sherlock''s eyebrows furrowed, and he fell into deep thought.


    Several minutes passed...


    "Alright, I have indeed had those kinds of dreams, and quite frequently," he said softly.


    The light in the old priest''s eyes grew brighter, and he nodded with great confidence.


    "Exactly! From your previous disys, you must be an exceptionally talented contractor. Hahaha, this mission truly has the blessings of the Holy Light to have encountered a remarkable young man like you. Now, quickly tell me about the frequency, rity, and... what you dreamt about."


    The old priest grew more and more expectant as he spoke. He even leaned closer to Sherlock, leaving Sherlock feeling somewhat embarrassed. "Um... if what you said is true, that the more frequent the dreams, the higher the talent... then I might really be a genius. Because I have those dreams almost every night."


    As soon as those words were spoken, the old priest''s heart seemed to skip a beat, and he sat up straight.


    "Every... every night?"


    "Yes, every night. Just a while ago, when I returned to my apartment, I took a short nap. Even during that brief period, I dreamt the same dream. As for rity... it''s so clear that I don''t even feel like it''s a dream. I remember every detail, the sensations. I can even feel my breathing and heartbeat vividly in the dream, without experiencing the phenomenon of slowly losing memories of the dream upon waking up."


    Sherlock spoke honestly, while the old priest became increasingly astonished and excited. He even stood up, paying no attention to the intravenous needle in his hand, and stared at Sherlock with eyes filled with disbelief.


    "So... what did you dream about?" he asked in a trembling voice.


    "A room."


    "Ah?????"


    "A room... a white room," Sherlock said, then looked somewhat perplexed at the old priest. At this moment, the old priest''s expression resembled that of someone who had just received a devastating blow,parable to losing a beloved child. "You... dreamt of a room?!!"


    "Yes."


    The old priest suddenly burst intoughter, rubbing his somewhat dry eyes. "Yes, I truly am bing senile. No one can enter an awakening dream every time they sleep, not even Mr. Dante himself could likely achieve such a level."


    "What''s wrong?" Sherlock asked, confused.


    The old priest adjusted his fluctuating emotions and said seriously, "I''m just getting old and having unrealistic daydreams. But clearly, your dream... isn''t an awakening dream."


    "It''s not?"


    "No... because you dreamt of a room," the old priest said with a wry smile. "An awakening dream allows the mind to touch the contracted demon on the other side of hell. So, at the very least, you should dream of a demon. Animals or something like Sister Catherine''s casea nt. But in any case, it couldn''t possibly be a room.


    ''Biology'' and ''space'' are twopletely different concepts."


    Upon hearing this, Sherlock once again fell into contemtion.


    He absentmindedly reached for a cigarette, intending to light it, but the rain had soaked the tobo, rendering it impossible to ignite the damp leaves. Helplessly, he returned the cigarette to his pocket.


    "You make sense," he casually replied.


    "You don''t seem disappointed."


    "Of course not," Sherlock said. "I''m just a detective... and I''m quite narcissistic. The number of contractors under the church is likely over a hundred thousand, maybe even a million by now. Adding one more wouldn''t make a difference.


    So, I''m not pursuing that."


    "What are you pursuing then?" the old priest couldn''t help but ask.


    Sherlock tilted his head, gazing at the faintly swaying light. In his vision, a halo formed:


    "Puzzles... the things people desperately want to hide. Those are what I pursue. I may not be one of those powerful contractors... power and wealth don''t hold much attraction for me.


    But if one day, someone in the world solemnly deres, ''This puzzle, the entire empire, can only be unraveled by the great detective Sherlock Holmes,'' then I would genuinely... feel happiness."


    (<b>New novel, click here to get more info on the new novel.</b>)

 Chapter 23: The Potential of Genius

    Chapter 23: The Potential of Genius


    His tone was light, even a bit frustrated that he couldn''t light his cigarette.


    But... it inexplicably revealed a tremendous arrogance and confidence... in an era where contractees were bing the pirs of the empire, where the Church and faith maintained the social structure, and where the Holy Light and believers spread throughout every corner of the world.


    He, an ordinary mortal without a contract, amoner from the lower district of London, a private detective whose faith was not that firm, was able to make the High Priest before him pause for a moment.


    Shortly after, the admiration in the old priest''s eyes didn''t wane at all; if anything, it became even stronger. "I will make a phone call to arrange your consecration ceremony."


    "Um... isn''t it a bit too soon? I''m quite busy recently."


    The nonchnt tone made the admiration in the old priest''s eyes instantly crumble. He forcefully patted the edge of the bed. "Can you please pay attention to your attitude? I am a High Priest, a clergyman of the Church! Do I need to bow and negotiate with you about this?!"


    "Okay, okay." Sherlock hastily nodded with embarrassment.


    The High Priest gave him a disdainful nce before regaining the dignity that should befit a clergyman. He spoke slowly, "Also, I am preparing a very good job for you as a thank-you for saving me... The London Security Management Association needs a detective. It is an organization jointly established by the Church and the government, and it usually handles demon invasions and peculiar events. The Church may also assign some tasks to them, and..."


    Before he could finish, Sherlock interrupted with a fake smile. "That... I''m really busy recently..."


    "This organization has a much higher status than your private detective work. During missions, you will have the full cooperation of the district''sw enforcement officers and the police."


    Sherlock scratched his nose and looked at a piece of broken stone beneath his feet.


    "Fifteen pounds a month, or sixteen if you don''t need amodation."


    "Oh." Sherlock still maintained his nonchnt demeanor.


    "And you will have the authority to ess all case files in the entire district... If there are any difficult, perplexing, and extraordinary cases from the Church, they will seek your cooperation."


    Sherlock finally raised his head. "I can be involved in cases rted to the Church?"


    "Of course. If your abilities are deemed worthy of attention, you might even encounter some extremely difficult, puzzling, and bizarre cases. As an ordinary detective from the lower district, it would be impossible for you toe across such cases in your entire lifetime..."


    The old priest no longer held back and showed a ''I knew you would fall for this'' expression.


    Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then smiled and shamelessly adopted a grateful posture. "Oh my... Praise the Holy Light!"


    But then, as if suddenly remembering something, he added with a twinkle in his eyes, "But let''s make it clear, I''m only interested in the cases. I won''t deal with anything else."


    ...


    Sherlock walked out of the tent. The rain gradually subsided on the long street, and before long, the tent p was lifted again, and Catherine walked in.


    This Inquisitor Nun seemed to dislike having attendants by her side and even more so disliked using an umbre. As a result, her hair and clothes were damp when she entered.


    The raindrops on her skin seemed to be quickly absorbed, just like withered vegetation being nourished. And at this moment, her mental state seemed to have improved significantlypared to before.


    "Why do you admire him so much?" she asked directly.


    "Amoner who killed a second-level contractee. Isn''t that worth admiration?"


    "But Minister Bader was killed during the sacrifice," Catherine replied, hesitated for a moment, and then gave up her stance. "Alright, this detective does have a few tricks, but is that the only reason for your admiration?"


    The old priest, lying wearily back on the bed, maintained a smile on his face. "Of course, it''s not just because of that... If I''m not mistaken, this detective is undoubtedly a genius."


    "A genius? But hasn''t he never experienced an Awakening Dream?"


    "Haha, I don''t mean his talent in that sense. I mean his personal abilities. You weren''t close enough to see clearly how he fired those shots." The old priest closed his eyes slightly, seemingly recalling the inexplicable scene from before. "When that guy fired his gun, it was all calcted."


    Catherine suddenly paused. "Calcted?!"


    "Yes, he took into ount the position, bullet velocity, and even Minister Bader''s movements. And that first shot he fired, he must have known that Minister Bader hadn''t died yet."


    "He''s not a contractee, so he couldn''t have sensed the changes in abyssal power within the smoke. That means this young man could only have deduced it through his own meansperhaps through reasoning or some other method. In any case, he''s faster than you, faster than me!"


    As the old priest exined, Catherine''s expression became more solemn, and she couldn''t help but recall the scene of her standing atop the clock tower, watching the strange figure below. It was so peculiar, as if all the mud and obstacles couldn''t hinder his speed. Each leap andnding was unique, like a horizontal waterfall of water, stacking strength upon strength, forcefully propelling the body forward.


    Could it be that this was also the result of premeditation and deduction?


    With these thoughts, she finally looked at the old priest in astonishment. "Are you saying that he is a control-type contractee?"


    "Yes, just like me, he is capable of remotely controlling demons. So, if his contracted creature is not too weak, given enough time, he will undoubtedly achieve greater aplishments than me."


    Catherine understood that control-type contractees were extremely rare because it required an immense capacity for reaction, reasoning, calction, imagination, memory, and willpower, among other things. Their directbat abilities might not be that formidable, but their functionality was undoubtedly irreceable. Just the ability to control a demon from several tens of meters away, or even hundreds of meters, provided them with an advantage that others couldn''t match.


    However, Catherine also knew that the downside of control-type contractees was the tremendous strain on their brains. The specific reasons could be discussedter. In any case, the extraordinary deductions and reasoning performed by Sherlock during the battle were undoubtedly a result of his brain operating at an overclocked state. If he remained in that overloaded state for too long, his brain might burn out.


    Therefore, control-type contractees were almost unable to evolve to the third stage. After all, controllingrge demons would undoubtedly surpass the human brain''s capacity limit.


    ...


    At this moment, next to a ruin outside the tent:


    Sherlock couldn''t smoke, which made him feel somewhat unpleasant. He casually sat on a copsed stone, tilting his head back to watch the rain fall from the sky.


    The dense rain veiled his vision.


    Among them, a raindrop would fall on his nose after 0.7 seconds, then trickle down his cheek from the right side, converging with the previous raindrops and disappearing into the edge of his cor.


    The wind in the night gradually subsided, and the temperature remained at 5 degrees Celsius. In


    the distance, sporadic footsteps could be heard. Naturally, these sounds formed some kind of image in his focused mind:


    Two personnel involved in the aftermath of the battlefield were carrying a scrapped armor. One of them was over 190 centimeters tall, while the other had just twisted their left foot. Further away, a wounded soldier had been moaning for more than five minutes. His ankle was shattered, so someone over there should be reminded not to bandage it forcefully; otherwise, it would cause bone discement.


    And further, further away...


    Even further...


    Voices, rain veils, gentle breeze, lights, moans...


    These countless pieces of information converged into a river in Sherlock''s mind, silently flowing.


    If Catherine or the old priest were to know that his deductive reasoning ability was not an explosive overload of the brain but rather a subconscious norm, who knows how shocked they would be.

 Chapter 24: Consecration Ceremony (1)

    Chapter 24: Consecration Ceremony (1)


    The rain gradually stopped.


    The cleanup of the battlefield was nearing its end, and half an hourter, the distant rumbling grew closer as two steam-powered vehicles, rarely seen in daily life, entered the district.


    These steam vehicles were heavy and enormous, constructed with brass and synthetic metals. Twelve thick exhaust pipes at the rear continuously emitted hot air, serving as short-range transportation for personnel and ammunition during the second demon invasion. They were sturdy enough that they could even be arranged in several rows, forming temporary steel trenches.


    However, after the demonic tide receded, these behemoths had less utility.


    As the vehicles decelerated, their rear gates opened, revealing better medical facilities than those in the tents. A dozen medical personnel rushed out, escorting Catherine and the High Priest into one of the vehicles.


    Regrettably, the heavily wounded soldiers were crowded into several other vehicles, and their interiors seemed empty, resembling oversized cargo containers... Sherlock couldn''t help but think that it would be morefortable to hire some horses and a wooden raft to transport the injured. At least that way, there would be some venttion.


    But it didn''t matter. The guards were expendable to begin with. Perhaps their worth was not even as great as the steam-powered armors they wore.


    The events that followed were all within Sherlock''s expectations.


    The vehicle doors closed slowly, and as the steam turbines roared, the transport vehicles gradually moved away. Throughout the process, only a few sharp-eyed individuals noticed Sherlock sitting at the edge of the battlefield. They cast him lingering gazes of astonishment but didn''t dare to say much.


    It was a rather lonely oue:


    An outstandingmoner helped the Church resolve a case. For others, this would be an opportunity, a chance to gain wealth, and if they were clever enough, even embark on a path of serving the Churcha path that could lead from a lowly monk to a priest or even a high-ranking clergy member. From then on, they would live a carefree life, respected by others.


    But that was not what Sherlock hoped for... So he didn''t follow the heavy steam vehicles. Instead, he remained sitting among the ruins of the street, waiting for the dawn to slowly spread across the sky.


    ...


    Due to the rain overnight, the morning mist was not as thick, but steam still billowed from the exhaust vents and underground pipes of the factories.


    Sherlock groaned as he stretched his muscles, then lowered his head and looked at the two letters in his hand.


    One of them was to be delivered to a monastery in the outskirts of London, where Sherlock would undergo a consecration ceremony as a contractee.


    The second letter was a rmendation letter from the London Security Management Association.


    The noise gradually rose, and the massive barricades on both sides of the long street were being removed. The evacuated crowds slowly gathered back, looking at the bloodstains that had not yet been cleaned and the damaged buildings. Their expressions ranged from fear to excitement. Government security personnel were busy consoling them, assuring them that the losses would be quicklypensated by the Church. Perhaps in one or two weeks, all the damaged buildings would be restored.


    But... one or two weeks!


    Sherlock looked at his hard-earned cheap apartment and rubbed his temples in anguish. If thendlord found out that all of this started from the room he rented, there would be no chance of going back... He might even have topensate for some damages.


    So, the safest approach now was... to quickly find a new ce to live.


    But Sherlock waszy. He was familiar with Baker Street, and he didn''t n on moving to another district. He turned his head slightly and looked to the other side of the long streetfurther away, where several standing apartment buildings could be seen. They seemed untouched by the chaos.


    "I''ll visit the monastery for the consecration ceremony and see what it''s like. When Ie back, I''ll find a new ce to live."


    With that in mind, he stood up and walked out of the long street.


    ...


    A carriage passed by a meadow, but the morning light didn''tst long. It was defeated by the billowing smoke emitted by the factories, once again retreating into the clouds.


    People had to carry on with their lives. Since the smoke represented wages and job opportunities,fortable sunshine and gentle breezes meant nothing.


    At 7:30 in the morning, in the outskirts of London, stood a monastery whose name wasn''t that important. It stood amidst green grass, and its walls appeared to be made of asr. It didn''t exude the grandeur and brightness of the city''s churches but had arge area. It was likely used as a temporary encampment for the Holy Order during the war.


    In the front courtyard, one could see a statue...


    A warrior d in outdated steam armor, wielding a heavy sword, piercing the throat of a demon.


    Although the sculpturecked exquisite details, everyone knew the identity of this statue.


    General Dante Alighieri


    It was hard to imagine that a single person could bear the respect and adoration of the empire''s billions of citizens. The mere presence of this elderly general instilled a sense of security in humanity, as if as long as he was alive, humans would never be defeated by demons and the world would continue to operate as usual.


    Sherlock vividly remembered that a few years ago, during the ceremony where the Church presented gifts to the Emperor, General Dante had appeared as a witness. His figure graced the front pages of all the newspapers, and there were rumors that the Pope had not been feeling well that day, hence the slight hunch in his posture.


    The carriage gradually came to a stop, and Sherlock stepped out. After paying the fare, he and the coachman both bowed slightly toward the statue, observing the customary etiquette between devoted followers of the Church:


    "Name?" the nun standing in front of the wooden archway asked with a gentle smile as Sherlock approached.


    "Sherlock Holmes," he replied.


    Upon hearing the name, the nun slightly inclined her head, performing the usual gesture between followers of the Church:


    "Mr. Holmes, please follow me."

 Chapter 25: Consecration Ceremony (2)

    Chapter 25: Consecration Ceremony (2)


    The monastery was established no more than 100 years ago, but as Sherlock passed through the dark green portal, he could still sense the weight of history.


    Unlike churches, monasteries were more like religious schools. Almost all believers who wanted to join the Church had to start from these monasteries, where they engaged in daily chanting, prayer, and seeking enlightenment from the divine light.


    If it weren''t for these tedious rituals, Sherlock probably wouldn''t have reached his thirties without an ounce of devoutness towards the Church.


    The courtyard was filled with flowers and nts, and asionally, one could spot low-level monks in coarse robes. Passing through several wooden doors, the faint sound of chanting could be heard from inside. Finally, after traversing several corridors paved with blue bricks, Sherlock was led into the deepest tower of the monastery.


    This surprised him a bit.


    The consecration ceremony, even if not as grand as knighthood ceremonies, should still be solemn or mysterious, right? Could it be that they were just making do in this small tower?


    In fact, half a century ago, the consecration of contractees was indeed a solemn and mysterious ritual that required a priest of the rank of High Priest to officiate. However, during the second demonic invasion, both the Church and the government needed arge number of warriors, so the consecration ceremonies were delegated to almost all the monasteries. Sometimes, seven or eight ceremonies would be held in a single day, regardless of talent. If you showed up, you would be tested. At that time, there were also many volunteers to undergo the experiment because bing a contractee increased their chances of survivalpared to remaining an ordinary person. This led to the normalization of the ceremony, and it is the reason why the number of contractees in the world has exceeded one million to date.


    Pushing open the wooden door, the scent of incense immediately wafted over. Sunlight couldn''t prate the tower, so the illumination came from the candles lining the walls.


    In the center of the candles stood a massive lectern, holding a book over 30 centimeters thick, along with some tools that Sherlock couldn''tprehend.


    The nun walked to the lectern and gestured for Sherlock toe forward.


    "Is the ceremony starting now?" Sherlock asked in confusion. "Just the two of us?"


    The nun nodded with a smile. "Yes, Mr. Holmes. The basic consecration ceremony of the Church has be quite streamlined. We no longer require borate procedures. If you cooperate, it can bepleted in just over ten minutes."


    As she spoke, she opened the heavy book and held a disc in her hands.


    The disc was made of brass, with a hollow center resembling arge lid. Complex symbols and characters were engraved on its surface. Then, the nun took out a needle.


    "Please offer me one of your fingers," she said.


    Sherlock, influenced by those criminal games, subconsciously thought that he had to chop off one of his fingers and give it to her. But he quickly realized that he probably only needed to extend his finger.


    So, he extended the index finger of his right hand and held it over the brass disc. The nun pricked his fingertip with the needle.


    A drop of blood slowly fell into theplex scriptures.


    It seemed that everything was done


    Because the nun made no further movements, she simply stared intently at the drop of blood in the disc...


    Naturally, Sherlock followed suit and gazed at it as well.


    After about a minute passed, the drop of blood suddenly slid into the container, transforming into a trace of bright red. This trace then moved slowly along the intricate patterns until it finally settled on a symbol that looked like ''??''.


    The nun immediately set down the brass disc and flipped through the book, seemingly searching for a matching symbol.


    Finally...


    "Found it," the nun whispered.


    But Sherlock noticed a momentaryplex expression on her face.


    "Is something wrong?" he asked.


    "N-No... nothing," the nun hesitated, giving such a response. Then she continued, "Mr. Holmes, we have found the corresponding contract creature for you. Please silently recite the following pronunciations and focus your gaze on a specific spot within your line of sight. Try to keep it closer to you. Opening the Void Crack for the first time may cause some damage to your consciousness if the distance is too far."


    As she spoke, she directly recited several not too difficult pronunciations.


    Sherlock felt that something might be wrong, but now was clearly not the time to dwell on it. He quickly followed along, reciting while fixing his gaze on a spot within reach...


    And as he repeated the process... a strange sensation surged from his mind. It felt as if a part of his thoughts had been detached and transferred to the spot he was focusing on. With just a slight control, he felt a force pulling on the empty space as if tearing it apart on both sides.


    This feeling intrigued Sherlock... So he continued to exert a gentle force in that direction.


    Suddenly!


    A spatial crack appeared!


    "Is it that easy?!"


    Sherlock was shocked. It was much easier than slitting someone''s throat. After all, a person would struggle... Following this force, Sherlock attempted to widen the crack further.


    However, when the crack reached a length of 30 centimeters, it could no longer expand.


    Perhaps it was because his ability could only reach this extent, or maybe it was influenced by the divine light.


    As Sherlock spected on the reasons, something suddenly crawled out of the spatial crack.


    A... worm.


    Um... It was a bit strange, but yes, it was a worm. It had a grayish-green body and was about seven to eight centimeters long, resembling a banana that had been peeled and left to oxidize in the air for three days.


    The small worm slowly crawled out of the crack, first peeking its head out, and then, as if afraid of the unfamiliar environment, shivering as it tried to retreat. However, it was too clumsy. While turning around, its soft body slipped out of the crack, and unfortunately, the void crack opened about half a meter above the ground. As a result, it made a pitiful ''ji ji'' sound when it fell to the ground.


    "...Silence."


    Sherlock fell into silence.


    He slightly opened his mouth, astonished as he looked at the caterpir. Then he turned his head to the nun beside him and noticed that she was looking at him with a mixture of pity and embarrassment.


    "What... what is this?"


    "Ahem. ording to the Church''s records on Abyssal Creatures, it should be a worm that survives in hell."


    "A... worm?" Sherlock unconsciously repeated the word. "So, this thing is my contract demon?"


    "Yes." The nun no longer made eye contact with Sherlock, and she even lowered her head, looking at


    her flowing robe.


    Sherlock finally understood the meaning behind the peculiar expression on her face earlier.


    This thing was his contract demon?


    He looked at the caterpir again. It had finally struggled to turn over but remained motionless, pretending to be dead on the ground.


    "Does this... thing have any abilities?" Sherlock seemed to want to make a final attempt.


    The nun turned back to the book, flipping through its pages. Finally, with some embarrassment, she said, "Um... I''m really sorry, but ording to the Church''s Abyssal Creature records, your contract demon belongs to the lowest tier, which means... it has no abilities whatsoever."

 Chapter 26: I Scared Them

    Chapter 26: I Scared Them


    In London, carriages were the mostmon form of transportation.


    Although the Mechanical Institute had already developed steam cars, their difficult maintenance and care prevented them from bing the main mode of urban transportation. Some nobles who purchased steam cars could only treat them as decorations in their own courtyards and still relied on carriages for their daily transportation.


    On the other hand, the trams that could only travel on fixed tracks were slightly more popr. The fare was 1 penny for short distances, 5 pence for mid-distance, and 15 pence for long distances or crossing the River Thames.


    It wasn''t too expensive, but one had to endure the crowded carriage, the smell of sweat, and the remnants of vomit that hadn''t been cleaned up overnight.


    At this moment, Sherlock was riding on a tram from the outskirts into the city center of London.


    Due to the limited number of seats, and many of them being broken, most people in the carriage were standing. Several drunks were arguing loudly by the carriage door, a young girl carrying bags filled with food stood in a corner, an elderly man in his 70s stared intently at the buttocks of the woman in front of him, and the woman,pletely unaware, was having an argument with her husband.


    The argument was about their child calling the handsome waiter at the neighboring pub "Dad."


    This made the woman''s husband feel that the child was not his own.


    The woman''s exnation was that the child was only 8 months old and could call anyone "Dad," even a dog!


    Usually, in such situations, Sherlock would be curious and observe and deduce, trying to figure out whose offspring the child really was. It might actually be a dog''s child. Anything could happen these days.


    However, today, he wasn''t as interested.


    Because he was still thinking about his contract demon...


    A... worm?


    Not the kind of worm with a hard exoskeleton and razor-sharp mouthparts, but a soft, wriggling caterpir?!


    No, that waste of space didn''t even dare to wriggle. It could only pretend to be dead, lying still...


    Sherlock wasn''t someone who cared about the strength of a contract creature, but... but this was too weak! A person always needed an anchor for self-perception. Just because he had be a lifelong celibate monk didn''t mean he could ept having only a half-thumb-sized creature.


    Useless and unable to be used were twopletely different concepts.


    Moreover, Sherlock was quite narcissistic. Letting the lowest-tier caterpir be his contract creature... it was really hard for him to feel happy. Adding to that the fact that he hadn''t slept well sincest night, his apartment had been demolished, and he was about to be homeless.


    With all these things piling up, he was getting more and more frustrated.


    He turned around and softly said to the drunks who had been shouting, "Sorry, please quiet down."


    Whether it was due to his politeness that made the drunks feel ashamed or something in his eyes, they quieted down.


    A few more stops passed, and the tram finally arrived at Baker Street station. It was already afternoon, and the city was surprisingly clean after the rain.


    Sherlock got off the tram...


    And the drunks got off too, following him closely but not too closely.


    As mentioned before, the safety in the lower district had never been good. Demons, murders, revenge, debt problems, and more. The mes of the crematorium were almost never extinguished.


    Under the protection of such a huge amount of evil, smaller crimes became more rampant, as an idental encounter on the way home could lead to baseless grudges. It was a verymon situation.


    Furthermore, although Sherlock was dressed somewhat shabbily, he still wore decent clothing. This caused the drunken eyes to continuously stare at his coat, leather shoes, top hat, and they started calcting, perhaps he had a pocket watch or something valuable.


    In any case, they didn''t bother hiding their desires and violent intentions...


    And at that moment, they suddenly saw their target leisurely entering a small alley.


    The drunks exchanged nces, smirked in a sinister manner, and followed him.


    Theypletely failed to notice the faint trace of disdain and helplessness emanating from the back of their target.


    Even more so, they didn''t notice the young girl who had been holding a bag of bread and vegetables in the corner of the train, anxiously watching this scene unfold.


    ...


    One minuteter...


    The alley had little sunlight, and the garbage bins, left unattended for several weeks, emitted a sour odor of decaying meat.


    One persony on the ground, their eyes rolling back, foaming at the mouth.


    Another person slumped beside the pile of trash,pletely unconscious, allowing the foul water from the dposing garbage to flow into their mouth.


    Only thest drunkard remained, his legs trembling, leaning against the wall to prevent himself from falling. He seemed to be trying hard to understand what had happened in that split second.


    Of course, Sherlock had no intention of giving him time to think because he was annoyed. Right now, he just wanted to quickly resolve this ridiculous situation and figure out how to spend the night.


    He lit a cigarette and walked towards the drunkard in front of him, his voice devoid of energy, "I know people like you hold grudges and often use despicable methods against helpless citizens like me. So, I beat you all up to prevent you from harassing me. It''s reasonable, isn''t it?"


    The drunkard''s mind was buzzing. How was this considered "reasonable"?


    He knew he had to run fast...


    But his legs were too weak, and he couldn''t even stand up. He could only watch helplessly as the terrifying man slowly approached him.


    "Help... help me!!!!"


    In this critical moment, he finally managed to cry out for help.


    However, as soon as he opened his mouth, a hand forcefully pressed against his face.


    Then, ng! ng! ng! The back of his head was repeatedly mmed against the wall.


    While bashing him, Sherlock looked at the entrance of the alley with a doubtful expression.


    "You... What are you doing?"


    The girl, startled by the sound, turned around and saw Sherlock. She had a momentary expression of relief and determination. The next second, she hurriedly rushed over, grabbed Sherlock''s hand, and started running.


    "Run, run! I scared them. There''s no constable!

 Chapter 27: Sir???

    Chapter 27: Sir???


    Sherlock waspletely bewildered... and dragged away...


    Usually considering himself not too rusty in the brain department, he couldn''t keep up with the situation at this moment.


    He was pulled along by the hand, running forward in a manner that seemed clumsy to him.


    The girl in front of him had golden hair, with fine strands woven into a simple braid swaying from side to side behind her head, some stray hairs blending into the dim sunlight.


    She appeared clearly distressed, not daring to look back even once, but she tightly held onto a paper bag containing things like bread.


    What was this young girl doing?


    ording to normal thinking, she must have seen Sherlock being followed and felt he was in danger, so she followed to help him... That much Sherlock could certainly figure out.


    But what puzzled him was how this girl, aplete stranger, would lend a helping hand?


    Were there still such fools in this era?


    And wasn''t her way of helping a bit tooical? Who squats at the mouth of an alley pretending to be a constable... with such poor acting skills?


    And finally... she was actually dragging him along as they ran. If they were going to run, wouldn''t she think she could run faster if she let go of that bag of food? Why hold onto it so tightly that the bread would get squashed...


    All these various behaviors showed a kind of amusing foolishness. Hadn''t she noticed that nobody was following them at all?


    "Haha..."


    For some reason, Sherlock suddenly felt quite good, and heughed softly.


    Fortunately, the girl in front didn''t hear it; otherwise, it would have been impolite.


    They ran like this for about five minutes, and the girl was already out of breath. Suddenly, at the corner, a crowd appeared. On a high tform, several robed preachers were loudly reciting blessings from the Holy Light upon this world. Below, some imperial citizens folded their hands together, closing their eyes in quiet attentiveness.


    The girl quickly pulled Sherlock towards them, squeezing into the crowd. "Close your eyes! Close your eyes!"


    She acted as if she were devoutly listening.


    "Oh, alright," Sherlock smiled, but he didn''t pretend to be a believer. After all, the other person had their eyes closed, so they couldn''t see anyway.


    In this manner, the two of them clumsily pretended for twenty minutes until the sun started to set a bit further west, and the sermon came to an end...


    The praise of the Holy Light could only be conducted under the illumination of sunlight; that was the basic attitude.


    The faithful gradually dispersed, and Sherlock poked the girl beside him. "Everyone... has left."


    "Huh?!" The girl opened her eyes in panic, seeing the emptiness around, but fortunately, she didn''t spot those drunken men. She finally breathed a sigh of relief.


    "Phew..." She red at Sherlock angrily. "Why are you so careless? Those drunks looked dangerous, don''t you have any sense of self-protection?"


    It sounded somewhat like lecturing a naive student.


    "Oh, well...," Sherlock didn''t know how to exin. He couldn''t possibly say that he was the most dangerous one, so he ended up taking out two apples, a jar of pepper, a brush, and a can of tooth powder from his coat pocket.


    "These are...?" the girl asked.


    "You dropped them while running, and I caught them," Sherlock said.


    The girl blushed, seemingly even angrier. She snatched those things from him and threw them into the paper bag. "Really, be careful next time you go out! Not everyone will help you!"


    After saying that, she turned around and prepared to leave.


    "Um... can I know your name?" Sherlock thought for a moment and asked.


    "Why do you want to know my name?"


    "Just... thank you for saving me. If I were to pray for you at the church, I should at least tell the nun a name, right?"


    The girl paused, seeming to let her guard down a bit after hearing words like ''church'' and ''prayer''. "Are you a devout believer?"


    "...Well..."


    "Haha, I''m sorry. It''s strange for a believer to call themselves devout. Myplete name is Jeanne Letizia Hudson; you can call me Mrs. Hudson. When you go to the church, please pray for my wealth."


    "Oh, alright," Sherlock''s smile was slightly awkward.


    Because he didn''t know why he needed to know the girl''s name, let alone pray for her at a church. In theory, the two of them wouldn''t have any further interaction.


    But it was evident that this girl named Jeanne had a strong liking for money. Moreover, she seemed to be married, considering she emphasized the ''Mrs.'' suffix.


    Of course, it could also be to avoid harassment from men, a rhetoric popr in the upper district.


    After a few simple exchanges, these two strangers quickly separated.


    Jeanne disappeared around the corner of the street where several pet supply shops were located, perhaps because she had pets at home.


    Sherlock continued on his way to his apartment building.


    ...


    Fifteen minutester, he stood in front of his apartment building, looking at the copsed wall:


    "Very well, no need to dwell... This ce is definitely uninhabitable."


    So he decided resolutely to move out!


    Fortunately, it seemed that thendlord was unaware that the street''s devastation was caused by Sherlock. Moreover, thendlord himself was a devout believer, which led to a great sense of guilt towards this tenant because it was the church''s capture of the criminal that made the tenant unable to continue living there.


    In the end, Sherlock unexpectedly receivedpensation and the red leather sofa he was quite used to, all under the apologies from thendlord, and he left the apartment.


    Shortly after, while the sunset hadn''tpletely faded, Sherlock arrived at an "Association for Assistance to Outsiders."


    To put it inly, it was an agency.


    They would help you find a ce to live, work, servants, partners for those desperate to get married, alluringdies on the street, carriages, and so on and so forth.


    This was London, with an influx of people from out of town that was impossible to count, so these types of assistance associations were everywhere, even in small districts like Baker Street, there were as many as three.


    But now, only one remained intact.


    Sherlock told the staff his requirements, and five minutester, his new residence was found!


    Because it was still avable for rent and hadn''t been destroyed, there was only one left!


    [Baker Street - 221 - B].


    They didn''t even give him a choice...


    Thus, the association''s staff brought Sherlock to the one and only destination.


    It wasn''t far from his previous apartment, and he could even see it with a slight nce. It was also on the second floor, the only difference being that thendlord lived on the first floor.


    They knocked on the door of the ground floor, but no one responded. It seemed thendlord was out. However, the staff member from the association still took Sherlock to the second floor and skillfully found a key beneath a potted nt.


    "As long as the house hasn''t found a tenant, the key is generally ced near the door. It''s an industry practice..."


    The staff member smiled and opened the door with the key.


    And gently pushed it open...


    The scene inside the room slowly presented itself before


    Sherlock''s eyes.


    "Sir, if you''re satisfied, this will be your future home."


    The person''s face held a professional smile, making a weing gesture.


    Then... they looked at Sherlock, standing at the door, stunned, eyes filled with disbelief.


    "Sir?"


    "Mr. Tenant, what''s the matter with you?"


    "Sir...???"

 Chapter 28: 221B in the Dream Realm

    Chapter 28: 221B in the Dream Realm


    Sherlock remained motionless, standing like a statue at the entrance.


    Inside the door, there was nothing strange, just a rtively clean and tidy rental apartment. The setting sun cast a warm glow through the window, making the room feel even cozier than usual.


    It was an ordinary scene.


    So, the real estate agent couldn''t understand what was going on with their customer, and it was hard to imagine the extent of the shock this scene had brought to Sherlock.


    Even Sherlock himself couldn''t have imagined that the most shocking moment of his life, from birth until now, would be presented to him in this way.


    He forcefully suppressed the trembling of his body and stepped into the room. His gaze fell on the window opposite the door, which provided a view of most of Baker Street. Then he turned his head slightly and scanned the familiar carpet, the simple tea table, the sparsely decorated walls, and the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling...


    Baker Street - 221B.


    Sherlock was certain that he had never been in this room before, but everything here felt so familiar. He could even pick up a cup from the kitchen without looking, as if he had been trapped in this room in his dreams since childhood.


    It had been almost thirty years...


    He finally realized that the patterns on the cup were a faint golden color.


    And the pale green carpet, the slightly uneven walls, the wooden tea table, and the light yellow tablecloth on the table.


    Everything finally had color!!!


    Yes, this room was the same room that Sherlock had been trapped in since childhood in his dreams!


    How was this possible?


    The space from his dreams actually existed in the real world?


    But wait, if he had been having this strange dream since he was a child, then this room couldn''t have looked like this decades ago. Moreover, this apartment shouldn''t have even been built during his childhood...


    Or could it be that the room from his dreams had been frozen in time and was now appearing exactly as it did the moment he opened the door?


    But what did that mean?


    Countless questions flooded Sherlock''s mind, but in the nearly thirty years he had been pondering about this room, he had never found any answers. So now, he knew that his questions would remain unanswered.


    "Sir, how do you find this room?" the agent asked tentatively.


    "I am satisfied. I can pay the deposit now," Sherlock said without hesitation.


    Although he didn''t know the connection between this room and himself, he was certain that he had to live here. In fact, he had already nned to catch a few murderers in theing days and save some money to buy this room.


    The agent was overjoyed to hear that and quickly prepared the contract for Sherlock to sign.


    For rental apartments like this, thendlord couldn''t sit at home waiting for tenants to show up every day. Generally, they handed over the management to real estate agents. As long as the rent was collected and a certainmission deducted, everything was settled.


    The rest of the process went smoothly. Sherlock paid the full rent that day, and the staff from the assistance agency helped him move his luggage for free.


    As the night fell, everything was settled.


    Sherlock looked at his new home and the red leather sofa that appeared in the living room. He didn''t know what expression to put on his face.


    He surveyed the familiar surroundings, then opened the doors on either side of the living roomthe two doors that had always been immovable in his dreams. Behind the doors were two bedrooms furnished with beds and wardrobes. He inspected and explored them, but found nothing unusual. He reluctantly returned to the sofa and sank into a contemtion, his fingers inteced under his chin.


    So, I''ve moved into the room from my dreams?


    So abruptly and effortlessly?


    He didn''t spend too much time contemting this thought because he knew he wouldn''t find any answers. After all, the facilities in this room werepletely immovable, and none of the doors could be opened. He couldn''t possibly go outside.


    So, it didn''t matter what kind of worldy beyond the door. It seemed to have no connection to him.


    As he pondered...


    Suddenly!


    Sherlock''s gaze fell on a corner of the room.


    And then, he saw it with utter bewilderment... his familiar contract demon, the insignificant little creature, was squirming along the wall.


    It seemed... very happy.


    "How did this fellow end up here??" Sherlock tilted his head, perplexed. "I didn''t summon it!"

 Chapter 29: Loose Dream

    Chapter 29: Loose Dream


    He tried waving his hand and silently recited the pronunciation, hoping to summon his contracted demon back.


    However... there was no response at all.


    It seemed that he couldn''t open the void rift in the dream.


    So there was no way. The window couldn''t be opened, and he couldn''t throw this little creature out. He couldn''t move objects or stuff it into a teacup. He couldn''t chew it in his mouth either, as it might cause a bacsh and harm himself.


    Thus, he could only let it roam freely in this dream room.


    But suddenly... Sherlock seemed to have noticed something.


    He stared at the spot where the worm crawled, squinting his eyes tighter and tighter, gradually moving two steps closer, fixating his gaze on the connection between the walls and the floor.


    There... there was a very faint... color.


    Sherlock swallowed a mouthful of saliva.


    Today, his mind had already experienced a shock, but at this moment, he keenly felt that the second shock was about toe!


    And this time, it seemed to be more powerful and grand than the first one!


    The dream room, which had remainedpletely white for nearly thirty years, unexpectedly had a hint of color!!!!


    He forcefully suppressed the shock in his heart and looked at the worm still crawling. Its fleshy body continued to move along the corner of the wall, probably not even knowing what it was doing, instinctively wriggling in one direction.


    But wherever it crawled, the whiteness was wiped away.


    That''s right!


    Wiped! Away!


    It was as if the entire room had been covered with ayer of white dust, sealing off its original colors. However, this little worm acted like a small cloth, wiping away the white dust bit by bit!


    The further the creature crawled, the longer the colored trail it left behind. Sherlock''s breathing became heavier.


    In this way, after hesitating for a long time, he finally bent down and lightly tapped the colored area with his finger.


    It was the seam between the wall and the floor, where the edge of the wooden floor had a gap. Sherlock exerted a little force.


    The floor material revealed a tiny gap when pressed.


    This kind of floor couldn''t withstand detailed scrutiny. It was obviously of poor quality, the kind that could easily swell when soaked in water. But in Sherlock''s eyes, there was a momentary burst of ecstasy.


    It moved!


    The colored area, the white seal, was lifted?!


    "Huh... Haha!!" He tilted his head andughed, appearing somewhat erratic.


    This space, which had remained unchanged for thirty years, unexpectedly moved like this!


    Although he didn''t know the reason, he couldn''t help but start to imagine. If he waited a few more days and the worm crawled past the sofa, would the sofa be soft again?


    If it crawled past the window, would he be able to see the scenery outside?


    If it crawled past the door, would the door be able to be opened?


    Could he finally leave?!


    The more Sherlock thought about it, the more excited he became. He looked at his contracted demon again. The tiny worm was still crawling... Recalling the words of the old priest, it seemed that every person in hell had a contracted demon that matched them. This demon would apany them for their entire life after the consecration ceremony.


    So... was his contracted demon meant to unlock the seal of this room?


    After unlocking it, what would he face?


    These unknown puzzles made Sherlock''s scalp itch and impatiently paced back and forth in the room. However, the little worm moved slowly at an infuriating pace, and Sherlock didn''t dare to startle it. He was afraid that if he scared the creature, it would y dead on the ground, or worse, if he directly grabbed it, it would wipe everything like a cloth, which might backfire.


    In this way, several hours passed. The little worm finally climbed up a wall and then crawled across the window!!


    A two-centimeter-wide white mark on the window was also wiped away and began to turn transparent.


    Sherlock almost lunged at the window in a ''pounce'' motion, pressing his eyes against the transparent trace.


    After thirty years...!


    He finally saw the view outside the window!!


    That view...


    A boiling...


    A bizarre... crimson... unimaginable London! It presented itself before his eyes!


    Within his line of sight, everything was burninghouses, steam pipes, a distant church, and a bell tower that was almost reduced to ashes but still swung and boomed with a bronze bell. The mist in the air had turned into descending smoke and the streets were the same.


    Everything was ruins and ashes, as if gigantic bloody scars were writhing madly, threatening to tear apart the entire London in a terrifying and chaotic manner.


    However, amidst this burning madness, there were no mes... only a scarlet and eerie boiling...


    Sherlock gazed in shock at this astonishing glimpse through the gap. Shock and excitement reverberated through his mind like an avnche.


    Then... he slowly shifted his gaze to the sky.


    In an instant, the grand and terrifying sight of the blood-red London sky ferociously rushed into view!


    A massive sun... at least, a terrifying celestial body burning like a sun! It crossed the endless cosmic void and descended upon this small city, like a setting sun, hanging upside down.


    Within the scorching mes capable of incinerating everything, there were countless twisted tendrils, stirring the mes into viscous magma, causing nauseating limbs that stretched for billions of kilometers to writhe frantically.


    Sherlock watched... watched...


    Like an inexperienced youth seeing a fresh and pristine body for the first time, he experienced a glimpse of the strange world beyond the window, along with shock and excitement in his heart.


    He remained motionless.


    Stiff as a sculpture.


    ...


    That night passed in this state of eager anticipation, restlessness, and the overwhelming shock of not knowing its significance.


    The morning light raced along Baker Street and eventually broke through the window on the second floor of 221B, sshing onto Sherlock''s face.


    His eyshes trembled slightly, and he quickly opened his eyes.


    He vividly remembered the magnificent and bizarre scenes he witnessed throughout the night. What kind of dream did he have?


    He recalled the old priest''s exnation of the "Dream of Awakening" and couldn''t help but realize... Did he truly dream of an entire world?!


    He sat on the sofa, contemting, but unsure of what he should contemte. Hours passed until he finally exhaled a breath.


    He nced at the clock.


    Then, he got up and straightened his wrinkled clothes.


    Sherlock was sometimes a very rational person. Instead of indulging in baseless spection, it was better to wait for his contracted demon to crawl through the entire room and unlock all the seals. It was estimated that he would gain new clues then...


    During this break, Sherlock naturally had some of his own matters to attend to.


    He had to report to a "Security Management Agency" jointly established by the government and the Church.


    It was a new job arranged for him by the old priest. Apart from a more generous sry, the more important aspect was the opportunity to ess cases thatmoners could never touch, including several rted to the Church.


    As well known, the greater the power, the more rampant the evil, and naturally, there would be more thrilling mysteries.


    Sherlock couldn''t refuse this.


    So, he approached the wall, opened his luggage, and took out a set of ck woolen fabric overcoat with a standing cor. He also rummaged through arge package and found a round-brimmed hat, using force to smooth out the wrinkles on the edges...


    This was the most formal set of clothes among his entire wardrobe. He rarely wore it whenmitting... ahem, when solving cases. Thus, it had never been stained with blood.


    Finally, he remembered to shave his beard...


    Sometimes, one must pay attention to appearances.


    A few minutester, in the mirror, his face, which usually appeared somewhat disheveled, surprisingly exuded an elegant charm of an old-fashioned British nobleman. Combined with the overcoat and the round hat, Sherlock was somewhat surprised. He felt that he no longer needed to spend money when gathering information from barmaids.


    He pushed open the door and descended the stairs.


    When passing by the ground floor, he put on a gentlemanly expression, contemting whether to greet thendlord. As a new tenant, leaving a good impression on thendlord was extremely important.


    Just as he was about to knock on the door...


    "Meow~~~"


    The unique cry of a young cat caught Sherlock''s attention, and he turned his head to see a small kitten, probably only a month or two old, emerging from behind the staircase.


    It had a calico pattern, its body not even the width of two palms, and its tail swayed lightly behind. This indicated that it wasn''t afraid of people.


    "Are you hungry?"


    Sherlock crouched down and rubbed its head. The little kitten didn''t avoid him but gently rubbed against his palm.


    "I''m sorry, I don''t have any food with me, but when Ie back, I might bring you some."


    He said...


    Just then, the door beside him creaked... and opened. Sherlock, still crouching, turned his head sideways.


    Then... he saw a pair of fuzzy slippers, followed by smooth legs, knee-length pajamas adorned with knitted teddy bears, and a pair of slender hands holding a small bowl filled with cat food.


    His gaze moved upward, to not so full breasts, slender shoulders, and a fair neck.


    Finally, his gaze rested on a... not unfamiliar face...

 Chapter 30: Manipulator or Symbiote?

    Chapter 30: Maniptor or Symbiote?


    Mrs. Jeanne Letitia Hudson.


    Jeanne Leithia Hudson.


    This name is quite long, but in any case, she looked at the man squatting in front of her.


    For a moment, she was a little confused...


    "Isn''t this the slightly foolish passerby from yesterday?"


    At this moment, Sherlock''s thoughts were simr to hers:


    "Isn''t this the slightly foolish woman from yesterday?"


    Anyway, the two of them stood there motionless, facing each other, until the tri-colored kitten let out a dissatisfied meow.


    "Well, although it''s hard to believe, but... the world is small," Sherlock stood up first, smiling.


    Mrs. Hudson blinked her eyes, seemingly realizing what was going on, and asked in surprise, "You... are the tenant from yesterday?"


    "Of course, my dearndy."


    "Uh..." She contemted for three seconds, "The world... is indeed small..."


    ...


    ...


    This slightly awkward encounter took up nearly five minutes of Sherlock''s time.


    He briefly introduced himself to Mrs. Hudson, trying to show his kindness and respectability as awful citizen of the Empire. At the same time, he confirmed his spection from yesterday:


    That Mrs. Hudson was simply a young girl who hadn''t yet reached 20, single, and living alone.


    Of course, he couldn''t expose her right then and there, so he simply said goodbye with a smile and hailed a passing carriage on the roadside.


    "Take me to 36 Zotnd Street, White Briar Thorn Security Company..."


    "I''ll be happy to serve you, sir!"


    The coachman flicked the reins...


    Legend has it that before the gates of hell open, thend of London belongs to a continent called "Europe."


    And in the traditional symbols of Europe, thorns represent "guardianship." Perhaps because the thorny bushes crawling on walls effectively hindered thieves from climbing up and down.


    Under this tradition, any industry rted to security, trade caravans, safes, and security doors would often include the word "thorn."


    Perhaps, in some corner at some point in time, there might even be a ck Thorn Security Company.


    The carriage passed through a bustling open-air flea market and continued downstream along the foggy Thames, with numerous merchant ships emitting deep and distant horn sounds outside the carriage.


    After an hour, it finally stopped by a prominent church.


    Due to the reverence for the Holy Light and the Church, any neighborhood with a church would generally be clean. In the early morning, believers would spontaneously clean the entire street when the first ray of sunlight shone down. This was their pious expression.


    Taking a few steps along the broken stone and asphalt-mixed road, Sherlock arrived at his destination.


    The surrounding buildings didn''t appear too old, just a bit densely packed. Looking along the street, there was a flower shop, several restaurants and cafes, as well as apartment quesmonly seen in London.


    And the first one on the edge was a slightly heavy wooden door... Of course, the wood was only a surface cover; there must be iron tes inside for security purposes.


    Breaking in with an ax was a fantasy from thest century.


    Sherlock walked over, confirmed the address, and then found the sign of the "White Briar Thorn Security Company" in a small corner on the wall. He couldn''t help but sigh:


    Indeed, it was an official organization jointly established by the government and the church. Although it was titled as a pany," there was no sign of soliciting business.


    Pondering this, he pushed open the door.


    In front of him was a corridor with a paper posted on the wall. It said:


    "Please do not knock on the first door. For reporting cases, proceed inside. In case of emergencies, shout directly. Business negotiations on the second floor."


    Sherlock raised an eyebrow, not knowing why, but he felt a sense of helplessness from these two lines of text.


    When passing by the first door, he intentionally nced at the sign on it, which read "Medical Office." There was also a simr note posted on the door.


    Presumably, there were often people in a hurry who woulde in and knock on the nearest door, causing the doctor of thispany to post such a prominent notice on the wall.


    He continued forward and arrived at the second floor.


    Although thepany received some government funding, everything inside emitted a strong church atmosphere. For example, the golden sunflower emblem on both ends of the handrails, the brass gasmps embedded in the walls with golden grid patterns, and the embedded brass pendants on the ceiling.


    There was no choiceafter all, the enveloping of the Holy Light was the foundation of human survival. This led to the Church always exerting pressure on the Imperial government. Even if the Imperial Emperor ascended the throne, they needed the blessing of the Pope before sitting on that chair.


    In fact, Sherlock would bet a week''s worth of smoking rights that beneath the seemingly amiable rtionship between the Church and the government, there was an ongoing and immensely brutal power struggle. This struggle had likelysted for centuries, but the lower sses were unaware of it.


    On the second floor, after walking a few steps along the corridor, he arrived at a door with a sign above it that read "Consultation"... He approached and lightly knocked on the door.


    "Come in!"


    A somewhat unfriendly female voice came from inside.


    Sherlock pushed open the door, and in his sight, there was arge desk piled high with stacks of files, like a miniature fortress blocking the person behind itpletely. Only the sound of stamping could be heard.


    "Hello, I''vee... to report," Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then decided to use the word "report."


    The sound of stamping stopped, and a middle-aged woman with thick sses peeked out from behind a stack of files. She looked Sherlock up and down for a while, at least ten seconds, before finally speaking:


    "You''re the detective who was rmended? C... Ca..."


    "Sherlock Holmes."


    "Oh, right," the middle-aged woman, the type who seemed to be trapped in the office year-round, had an attitude of "so annoying" toward anyone seeking consultation. However, she couldn''t ignore the rmendation letter signed by the High Priest Office of the Church, so she reluctantly stood up and said, "Follow me!"


    On the way, the woman introduced herself as "Evelyn Mary," sounding like she came from the countryside.


    She was shorter than Sherlock''s shoulder height, but walked swiftly, with her chest and belly trembling at the same frequency. Soon, she brought Sherlock to a door and toned down her attitude of being owed 50 pounds by the whole world. She lightly knocked on the door and said, "Father Thompson, do you remember the notice from yesterday, about Mr. Sherlocking to report... He''s here."


    "Okay."


    A brief musical tone came from behind the door, and Miss Mary slowly pushed it open, indicating Sherlock to enter, but added, "Take off your hat. Father Thompson values etiquette."


    "Thank you," Sherlock replied and took off his hat. In that instant, he noticed Miss Mary''s raised eyebrows when she saw his slightly messy hair.


    "It seems the staff here are quite rigid," he murmured to himself, then entered the office.


    It was morning, but the entire office was dimly lit. The curtains were tightly drawn, with only a candle burning on the desk, emitting a unique scent of brown grass. It had been mentioned in some books, a


    type of incensemonly used by contract holders during meditation.


    And in the dim light, a man of about 40 years old was performing amon prayer ritual. He wore aplete white priest''s robe, meticulously groomed hair and beard, and a brass pendant swayed slightly in his hand. He continuously recited prayers.


    From any angle, he appeared devout.


    After a full five minutes, the prayer finally ended, and Father Thompson opened his somewhat grayish-white eyes, staring at Sherlock for a while before speaking:


    "A detective?"


    "Yes."


    "A covenant holder?"


    "I justpleted the initiation ceremony."


    "Are you a ''Maniptor'' or a ''Symbiont''?"


    "Hmm?" Sherlock was taken aback. These two terms were unfamiliar to him.


    His reaction only made Father Thompson show a sense of annoyance:


    "As expected."


    He sighed and sat back in his chair, snapping his fingers.


    The next moment, the curtains swiftly opened to both sides, allowing sunlight to pour into the room. Father Thompson gently extinguished the candle in front of him and said in a deep voice:


    "Now, listen to what I have to say, and do not interrupt."

 Chapter 31: Two Types

    Chapter 31: Two Types


    Reverend Thompson, at the age of 48 this year, is a Contractor in the first stage of evolution.


    At the age of 15, he had his awakening dream. At 16, he became a believer of the Holy See. At 19, he was promoted to the rank of Reverend with outstanding results. At 20, he underwent the consecration ceremony. At 27, he crossed the first stage and touched the threshold of the second stage, even developing a faint symbiotic connection with his contracted demon.


    This kind of resume can undoubtedly be called a genius. The London Sanctum Journal even dedicated a report of over 3,000 words to him, iming that once he enters the second stage, he will undoubtedly be a clergyman!


    However, after that, Reverend Thompson remained in the first stage at the age of 30. At 35, still in the first stage. At 40, still in the first stage. And now, at the age of 48, he is still in the first stage.


    The all-knowing and almighty Holy Light seems to be ying a little joke on him.


    No matter how devout and diligent he is, he still cannot cross that threshold. Regardless of the years taking his body to the pinnacle of life and then starting its decline, he still lingers in the stage of twenty years ago.


    Time has washed away all his talents, turning him from a genius into an ordinary person. Undoubtedly, this is a cruel torment.


    Nevertheless, even so, this once genius reverend continues to pray devoutly every day. He has never married, nor has he had children, love, or friends. Even though he left the monastery more than twenty years ago, he still adheres to the precepts he followed when he first entered the monastery.


    It seems that he is using his entire life to validate the phrase in the Third Section, 12th verse of the Gospel of Holy Light: "Devotion makes you strong, but if you have expectations, then it is not devotion."


    ...


    At this moment, sunlight shines through his meticulouslybed hair, revealing a serious and extremely displeased expression.


    Someone as devout as him would undoubtedly be deeply annoyed by someone like Sherlock.


    In his eyes, Sherlock is undoubtedly someone whoes from a powerful family butcks knowledge and only seeks to add some credentials to the lower institutions of the Holy See through "connections."


    Because this person has already undergone the consecration ceremony but doesn''t even know about the ssification of Contractors. This means that he hasn''t attended the lectures for Contractors before the consecration ceremony.


    A typical waste from a noble family...


    However, despite his annoyance, Reverend Thompson couldn''t really scold Sherlock out loud. After all, the letter of rmendation came from a High Priest!


    Moreover, as a monk, he has the responsibility to evangelize and provide guidance, so he can only suppress his dislike and give Sherlock a brief exnation.


    ...


    Contractors are divided into four stages, and this is not a secret; you can find it in popr books on the market.


    However, those books rarely mention the two types of Contractors because they are only informed within the educational institutions established by the Holy See, such as monasteries.


    They are known as "Maniptors" and "Symbiotes."


    Let''s start with the former, Maniptors... As the name suggests, they are skilled at controlling their contracted demons!


    These individuals are usually extremely intelligent with astonishingputational abilities. They can control their contracted demons to an incredibly fine degree.


    Take the old Reverend we met a few days ago as an example. His level of control is at an extremely high level. Every strand of the spider demon''s silk, every movement of its limbs, is personally controlled by the old Reverend. In addition, the strength of the attacks, the feedback between gravity, inertia, and behavior, even whether the next step will be a misstep or if the next attack will be dodged by the opponent  all of these events are controlled by the Contractor personally.


    Furthermore, they need to make instantaneous judgments or predictions before controlling their demons.


    This requires Contractors to have extremely powerful brainputing capabilities. That''s why when the old Reverend saw Sherlock, he had great hopes for him to be a Maniptor.


    The advantage of this type of Contractor lies in the power and various functional abilities of their demons, such as invisibility, hypnosis, and shapeshifting. However, the Contractors themselves are not necessarily strong because all their strength is focused on controlling the demons.


    On the other hand, there are Symbiotes.


    These Contractors have weak control over their demons. In most cases, they simply tear open a void and release their demons, allowing them to act ording to their instincts.


    But the benefit is that Symbiotes can use more energy to perceive the changes brought by their contracted demons, thus making their bodies even stronger.


    For example, Butler, the Deacon, is a typical Symbiote. His body has already reached the level where it can withstand firearms, and at the second stage, he can establish a more reliable symbiotic rtionship with the demon, achieving a miraculous life form where the demon won''t die as long as the Contractor is alive.


    Of course, "Maniptors" and "Symbiotes" are not absolute. Just because someone likes meat doesn''t mean they can''t eat vegetables.


    However, within the training system of the Holy See, Contractors are encouraged to focus on one direction, as being mediocre in everything means being weak in everything.


    Apart from the four stages and the two types mentioned above, there is another crucial characteristic of Contractors... the control range.


    It refers to the maximum distance between the Contractor and their demon.


    In general, the control range of Symbiotes is rtively close, while Maniptors can have a much greater distance. Some Maniptors can even control their demons from a distance of two to three hundred meters, suddenly opening a void,manding their contracted demons to kill their enemies, and then escaping.


    If the demon is too far away from the Contractor, various situations may arise. Some demons may generate voids on their own and return to another world, some may break free from the Contractor''s control and start killing indiscriminately, and weaker demons may even die directly, causing the Contractor to suffer from excruciating bacsh.


    In short, the control range is a key factor in determining the strength of a Contractor.


    Reverend Thompson diligently exined these basic knowledge to Sherlock, although he didn''t care whether the other party remembered it or not. He simply took out a document from under his desk:


    "You must arrive at your post by 8 a.m. every day. If you don''t take any action, you leave at 5 p.m. Late arrivals and early departures will result in deductions from your bonus. Lunch is provided, and your sry will be paid on the 1st of every month. All tasks or actions are eligible for dual subsidies from the government and the Holy See. You will also receive a free physical examination and psychological evaluation every three months."


    After finishing, he pushed the document towards Sherlock. "Sign on thest page."


    Sherlock took the document, flipped through it, and hesitated for a moment.


    Finally, he smiled apologetically. "Reverend Thompson, it seems you have misunderstood... I''m not here to work."


    "What?" Reverend Thompson frowned.


    "You must not have carefully read the contents of the rmendation letter. It stated that


    I am a detective who can assist you in executing tasks... ''provide assistance'' does not imply an obligation or responsibility to help you."


    "So, if you encounter any troubles, you can consult me. If I am interested, I will consider taking on yourmission. Oh, by the way, my office has just moved to a new location and I haven''t installed a telephone yet..."


    As he spoke, Sherlock wrote a few lines on thest page and handed it back to Reverend Thompson.


    Reverend Thompson, somewhat astonished, received the contract and scanned it. He discovered an address written where the signature should be: 221B Baker Street.


    "If you need help,e find me here."


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 Chapter 32: The First Encounter with a Certain Doctor

    Chapter 32: The First Encounter with a Certain Doctor


    Reverend Thompson looked at the address on the contract with confusion. He seemed to not understand the meaning behind the words.


    Whether it was the tone of the person speaking or the meaning of the statement, he couldn''t grasp it.


    What is this...


    Aplete novice who doesn''t even know the basic ssification of Contractors, yet still puts on such an attitude... It''s as if he has the qualifications to be a partner of the White Briar Thorn Security Company.


    Well, it''s not surprising. All those offspring from powerful families, sheltered under the influence of the Holy See, behave in the same manner. They believe that having a Pope in their family lineage or a few clergy members means they are blessed by the Holy Light.


    Ignorant, arrogant, blind, andughable, but there''s nothing he can do about it.


    Truly, there''s nothing he can do. Reverend Thompson is just a priest. He isn''t responsible for educating fools, and he certainly can''t go against a rmendation letter personally written by a High Priest.


    He could only silently fold up the contract and casually put it into a drawer.


    "Well..." Mrs. Murray, who was at the entrance, naturally heard the conversation and asked tentatively, "Shall we go with his n?"


    "Do as he wishes," Reverend Thompson said. "Go through the process."


    "Understood," Mrs. Murray immediately replied.


    She was quite satisfied with this oue.


    Because she had read Sherlock''s rmendation letter... It stated that his contracted demon was merely a worm.


    Although she wasn''t a Contractor, as a receptionist, she had some knowledge of demon types. Worms, being low-level demons, were practically useless. If he were to carry out tasks, she would probably have to divert her attention to protect him. In case he stumbled or got his head bitten off by a demon identally, she would be held responsible.


    So, regardless of whether this so-called detective just wanted to embellish his resume or if he actually had some skills, nobody expected him to go on missions. Even if he wanted to, no one would approve it.


    So, if he was unwilling toply with assignments, rtively speaking, it was a good thing.


    "Mr. Holmes, please follow me," Mrs. Murray gestured, motioning him toe along. At this moment, she found Sherlock quite endearinga trouble-free idiot was much cuter than a troublesome one.


    ...


    The subsequent process was straightforward. They familiarized Sherlock with thepany''s environment, exined the workflow, went over sry and bonus distributions, and introduced him to his new colleagues.


    Mostpanies followed this routine.


    However, since Sherlock didn''t want to stay in thepany, Mrs. Murray didn''t put much effort into the introduction.


    "I am thepany''s ountant and receptionist. I also handle official business inquiries. I''m usually busy and am supposed to have two days off per week, but there''s too much work, and sometimes I can''t even get a single day off." Her tone was filled withints.


    "Roder is responsible for registering abnormal events and demon invasions. Whenever someone encounters trouble, they usually go to him.


    As for Deacon Thompson, Mark, Altolie, and Lampard, they are field agents. They attend missions when there are assignments, and all four of them are first-stage Contractors.


    But today, apart from Deacon Thompson, the other three are out on patrol. There has been an ''Eye Gouger Demon'' causing trouble in the London area recently, and it''s quite tricky. They haven''t returned to the office for nearly a week."


    "Eye Gouger Demon?" Sherlock asked in confusion.


    "Yes, it appeared about half a month ago. Anyone unfortunate enough to encounter it has their eyes gouged out, and their deaths are gruesome. It''s unclear why this creature has such a bizarre mindset and only eats eyes."


    Sherlock nodded thoughtfully but didn''t inquire further. The woman in front of him was just a staff member, and all her information was hearsay. If he was truly interested in knowing, he would have to ask the field agents.


    Before long, Mrs. Murray led Sherlock to the door of the first-floor "Medical Office."


    "This is our doctor. He usually handles psychological counseling, injury assessment, and treatment. Sometimes, if there are difficult tasks, he will join the team. Although he is not a Contractor, there''s no better solution. After all, some injuries can''t be dyed.


    Oh, his name is Dr. John Watson. He used to be a military doctor in the St. Verdes Strait."


    As she spoke, Mrs. Murray lowered her voice, as if she was about to gossip:


    "But I''ve always felt that he doesn''t seem like someone with a military background. There''s just... not a trace of military toughness about him."


    While saying this, Mrs. Murray adjusted her cor, tidied her hairline, and straightened her posture, making her chest more prominent. "Ahem."


    She lightly coughed twice, then knocked on the door. "Dr. Watson, are you there? We need your help with something."


    For some reason, her voice became softer.


    Soon, a creaking sound could be heard as the door to the medical office opened.


    Then, an exquisitely handsome face appeared behind the door.


    Sherlock raised an eyebrow and finally understood why Mrs. Murray had said earlier that there wasn''t a trace of military aura about the doctor.


    It was because he was... too beautiful. Although his facial features were sharp, they emitted a unique "charming" charm. With his half-closed eyes, it felt as though he was sending flirtatious nces in every moment of eye contact.


    Not only that, but his attire was also meticulously put togethera white shirt, a striped jacket, and a tie that perfectly matched the ensemble. The slight cinching at the waist made his figure sharp, and his slightly curled hair hung in front of his forehead, exuding a certain refined aristocratic air.


    It was as if Mrs. Murray''s presence influenced him, and Dr. John Watson also became quite polite. He smiled slightly and nced at the man in front of him. "Ensuring the health of every colleague is my responsibility. Pleasee in."


    He courteously made way, indicating for Sherlock to enter.


    Mrs. Murray faced Sherlock. "Once the evaluation is done, you can leave. If there''s any ''consultation'' you mentioned that we need, we''ll contact you... well, that''s all."


    After she finished speaking, she cast a final nce at Dr. John Watson''s face.


    She probably didn''t understand why the Holy Light would grant such looks to a man. At the same time, she thought about her own taste in clothing and her sallow skin, revealing a tinge of regret and decline in her expression. However, she quickly concealed it. "Thank you for your help, Dr. Watson. I have to go back to work, so... goodbye."


    "Goodbye," Watson politely bid farewell, his voice like a gentle breeze. Then he closed the door.


    At this moment, Sherlock had already taken a seat in the chair opposite the desk. In the short amount of time he had, he nced around and already understood Dr. John Watson''s usual work demeanor.


    Meticulous, focused, and precise. All the documents were neatly organized in the filing cab, and the desk was spot


    less. On the side wall, there hung a portrait of Florence Nightingale, framed with a thinyer of ss, obviously to prevent it from gathering dust.


    Everything seemed unremarkable...


    The only thing worth noting was... in the corner of the desk in front of him, there was a thumbtack.


    It was inconspicuous.


    However, the tip of the thumbtack had slightly darkened in color.


    That was a trace of oxidation caused by long-term contact with blood, something that would ur to metal.


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 Chapter 33-35: Thumbtack...

    Chapter 33-35: Thumbtack...


    "Dada" footsteps sounded behind...


    Sherlock felt it was not a good idea to stare straight at the thumbtack, so he shifted his gaze to the portrait of Florence Nightingale on the wall.


    The next second, the doctor named John Watson entered his field of view. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt and sat on the other side of the desk... but he didn''t speak immediately.


    He probably didn''t want to disturb the person in front of him who was admiring the girl in the portrait.


    Sherlock quickly realized this and smiled, retracting his gaze. "It seems that every doctor''s office has a portrait of Florence Nightingale."


    "Of course, she is an angel and deserves the admiration of all healthcare workers," Watson said, also looking at the painting for about a second or two. "But we both know that people''s admiration for her is not only because of her noble character and medical skills, but also... because she is too beautiful."


    ...


    There was no doubt about Florence Nightingale''s beauty. In fact, this girl could be considered the most beautiful woman in the entire empire... so beautiful that if one day she were to be romantically involved with a certain man, the next day that man would be met with jealousy and curses from all the men in the empire.


    "I appreciate beautiful things, and Florence Nightingale is the most beautiful person I can imagine," Watson spoke with sincere praise in his tone.


    Sherlock nodded, acknowledging that everyone has a different definition of beauty, but when it came to the beauty of this girl, the people of the entire empire could reach a unanimous agreement.


    But at the same time, he noticed a small detail:


    The doctor in front of him spoke and behaved like a gentleman, but he seemed to have a peculiar habit of always keeping the index finger and thumb of his left hand together, as if gently kneading something.


    "Nowadays, there are announcements posted all over the streets. In a little over a month, the esteemed Florence Nightingale will pass through London during her tour of the empire. I wonder how excited the citizens of London will be at that time."


    "I guarantee that the church on that morning will be empty."


    "Hahaha..."


    Watson undoubtedly knew how to bridge the gap with others. He joked and then took out a paper filled with writing from the drawer:


    "So, Mr. Sherlock, shall we begin the psychological evaluation?"


    "Of course."


    After receiving permission, Watson took out a pen and prepared to make notes.


    Meanwhile, his index finger and thumb of the left hand remained together without parting.


    "First question, if you encounter an imperial citizen being attacked by a demon and you have no weapon, what would you do?"


    Option one: Run away.


    Option two:...


    The doctor enunciated clearly and maintained a serious attitude. The two of them went through three or four questions in the process.


    But then...


    Sherlock hesitated for a moment and murmured aimlessly:


    "You''re bored, aren''t you?"


    Watson raised his attractive eyes, startled.


    "It may be a bit presumptuous to ask directly, but... do you really want to do these pointless tests?"


    The doctor in front of him was handsome, professional, and had a serious work attitude. From any perspective, he was someone who wouldplete this psychological evaluation seriously.


    But the detective suddenly asked such a question, which was quite unexpected.


    Bored?


    How could a person who takes their work seriously bebeled as "bored"? It seemed disrespectful to think that way.


    Watson remained silent, which resulted in the two of them sitting across from each other, staring at each other for over ten seconds.


    During this time, Watson''s eyes first fixed on Sherlock, then gradually narrowed until they formed a beautiful curve resembling a smile, without revealing the slightest change in his pupils.


    After another half-minute, he finally spoke slowly, "Indeed, it''s a bit boring."


    "Just as I thought." Sherlockzily leaned back in his chair. "In fact, with a little brain activity, anyone can understand what each option represents. You should be able to see that I belong to the type of person who can use my brain a bit... So, why don''t we stop here? I''ll go home, and you can busy yourself with something more meaningful. Once you''re done, just fill in a score you think will pass as satisfactory, how about it... brother?"


    Watson''s smiling expression became even more charming. He tilted his head slightly, briefly revealing a moment of cuteness. However, it could be felt that his gaze was observing the detective in front of him through the narrow slit of his narrowed eyes.


    "Although it deviates from the procedure, it is indeed a good idea," he said, then hesitated for a moment.


    But in the end, he responded to Sherlock''s address:


    "Brother..."


    ...


    ...


    In fact, the word "brother" is quite strange.


    Based on iplete statistics, if the two of them did something "upstanding" together, such as nting trees or attending a Holy Light ceremony, or even catching a petty thief, their "brotherly bond" was not particrly strong.


    On the contrary, if they engaged in activities together that revealed their inner depravity, even if it was just a tiny bit, their bond as brothers would be exceptionally solid.


    People are such despicable creatures. When they exhibit their sense of justice or morality, their inner selves unreasonably perceive it as a form of pretense. However, once two people reveal even a tiny bit of their inner depravity to each other, it greatly enhances their mutual affinity.


    Hence, morality is most likely a false product of intelligence. Human hearts always long for the dirty,scivious, selfish, and self-interested side.


    Thus, Sherlock and Watson smiled at each other, shook hands as if they shared amon understanding, and said their farewells.


    "Goodbye."


    "No need to escort..."


    "Of course."


    And so, Sherlock saved himself from a boring half-hour and left White Bramble Security Company.


    After Sherlock left the office, John Watson, the doctor, remained seated in his chair. He maintained his smiling expression and kept the index finger and thumb of his left hand together, gently kneading...


    "He seems like an interesting person," he murmured to himself. Finally, he stopped his hand movements and slowly separated the two fingers.


    On the fingertip of his index finger, a thumbtack was embedded.


    Nonchntly, Watson removed the thumbtack, leaving behind traces of blood. He then ced the tip of the thumbtack in his mouth and licked off the blood.


    Afterpleting these actions, he seemed somewhat disappointed, as if unsatisfied. He inserted the thumbtack back into his blood-soaked finger.


    Thinking about the detective who had just left and the almost prating gaze he had received from him...


    "Will life be more interesting?" he murmured.


    Sherlock left White Briar Thorn Security Company, but instead of hurrying back to Baker Street, he walked along the banks of the River Thames for quite some time.


    The fog in London reached its peak along the river, nearly obscuring the cargo ships along the way. Looking up, the massive clock continued to rotate aimlessly, striking every 15 minutes with a resounding sound that echoed through half of London, while the steam from the underground furnaces billowed into the air.


    The clock, known as Big Ben, was erected 35 years ago tomemorate the victory in the Second Demon Invasion War. Sherlock didn''t quite understand why this behemoth was named "Big Ben," nor did he understand why it was built next to Westminster Abbey. Wouldn''t the people in the church be annoyed by the ringing disturbing their devout prayers?


    In any case, these gigantic structures were now hidden in the fog and stood shrouded in the glow of Saint Light. From a distance, they resembled the enormous demons that had torn through the fabric of reality during the Second Demon Invasion, stepping onto the streets of London.


    ...


    Of course, Sherlock had never seen those colossal demons since he was born after the end of the Second Demon Invasion.


    However, existing in this world, he undoubtedly possessed an immense understanding of Saint Light and the Second Demon Invasion.


    Over two centuries ago, the Gates of Hell opened on the continent of Antarctica, and Saint Light descended upon the Earth...


    No one knew exactly what Saint Light looked like or whether it had a physical form. Perhaps the servants of the Holy Light Temple, the most mysterious and revered organization within the Vatican, located atop the highest peak of the world''s tallest mountain, beyond the clouds, might know the true appearance of Saint Light.


    But the citizens of the empire only knew that Saint Light was not a type of light that descended from the sky in a golden radiance...


    In the general concept, Saint Light was imperceptible to the naked eye, devoid of sensation, temperature, or any characteristics. Yet, it existed in every corner of the empire.


    People believed in Saint Light... because it was the fundamental existence of humanity in this world!


    Under the envelopment of Saint Light,rge spatial rifts could not appear within the cities, ensuring that the citizens of the empire only needed to be wary of being devoured by small demons...


    In addition, Saint Light had omniscience over everything happening in the world!


    It knew where a person was, what they were doing, where a small spatial rift had appeared, and which unfortunate soul would have their head crushed by a newly emerged little monster. Saint Light could kill any citizen in an instant and exterminate every small demon in every corner of the empire within a second!


    Saint Light was all-knowing and all-powerful, with insight into both the past and the future!


    Although it sounded somewhat mystical and boundless, it was the result that had been validated by countless humans over several centuries. Saint Light was a gift bestowed upon humanity by the gods, a power that transcended allws of the world!


    However, with great poweres great drawbacks... Manipting Saint Light was extremely difficult.


    Even the servants who abandoned all human desires and devoutly worshipped Saint Light, in order to establish even the simplestmunication with it, had to pay a terrifying price.


    Moreover, apart from these sacrifices, the mere use of this power itself could potentially cause tremendous upheaval in human society.


    Imagine if people knew that there was a power capable of probing anyone, anywhere, indiscriminately, and invincibly, killing anyone and knowing their past and future. How could they not panic or be filled with fear?


    No, only the panic of a few could be considered as panic. If hundreds of millions or even billions were to panic, it would be the copse of the social framework!


    Fortunately, due to the existence of demons, humanity had the protection of Saint Light...


    Over the course of more than two centuries, the Vatican had used various means to appease and establish a vastwork of followers throughout the empire. They spread the gospel, induced devoutness, and employed numerous overt and covert methods to gradually make humanity selectively forget the terror of Saint Light and instead venerate it as the most sublime power of mankind!


    They had truly achieved the perfect social structure postted by the theory that "all mortals must die, and all mortals must serve."


    As for why the "Second Demon Invasion" urred, that was quite apparent and mentioned in every modern history book.


    It was because, on the other side of the Gates of Hell, there existed a... "fallen god."


    At least that''s how the Vatican referred to it.


    In order to prevent the fallen god from stepping through the Gates of Hell and entering the real world, Saint Light had to pour all its power into opposing it. Consequently, the protective cover that engulfed the entire empire disappeared, andrge rifts could freely open anywhere, allowingrge demons to emerge and tread upon the imperial territory... just like in the early years when the Gates of Hell were first opened.


    Indeed, although Saint Light was all-knowing and all-powerful, it still had a target that required the full extent of its power to resist.


    The Vatican never denied this fact!


    Moreover, the confrontation between Saint Light and the fallen god, the battle between the Vatican and the demons... seemed to perfectly embody the struggle between different powers from two worlds.


    The Second Demon Invasionsted for five years, during which humanity barely survived under the onught of the demons. In those dark times, humanity had almost lost all hope for life.


    It was only when Sir Dante Alighieri appeared as a savior!


    This knight of the Holy Church Army, hailing from the lower districts, wearing the most archaic steam-powered armor, and apanied by his ever-evolving contract demon, tore open an incredible rift among countless demons on the battlefield in Antarctica, like an unstoppable beam of light, and charged through the Gates of Hell!!


    Yes, a human had charged into Hell!


    In that otherworldly realm where no one had set foot before, this godlike warrior stood alone, drinking the bubbling sulfuric water of Hell when thirsty, and devouring the flesh and blood of demons when hungry. He survived alone for one year and seven months before finally, with the power of a human, sessfully killed the fallen god.


    And he fought his way back to the mortal realm!


    Thus, the nearly catastrophic war that almost brought about the annihtion of humanity finally came to an end.


    Time gradually reached 5 PM, and the wind on the river surface began to feel chilly. Sherlock had been pondering his dreams and the haunting gaze of the figure at the window for some time.


    After a few hours, he wondered how his little worm sweetheart was doing at work.


    People are always practical. When someone is useless, they call them worthless, but when they be useful, they start calling them sweetheart...


    Anyway, he finally hailed a carriage and headed towards Baker Street.


    As evening approached and the sunlight waspletely diluted by the water vapor, Sherlock finally returned to his new home.


    He paid the fare and got off the carriage... Just as he was about to look up at his own window...


    His line of sight was captivated by two people standing in front of the apartment entrance.


    One of them was dressed decently, with a trench coat open to reveal a suit jacket and paired with pinstripe trousers. He looked like those sessful individuals in banks who were proficient in calctions... or perhaps theckeys of capitalists.


    As for the other person, it was easy to recognize their upation. With a rough appearance, missing teeth, and a sunken eye, probably lost in a street fight, they wore a coarse cloth garment with three buttons undone, deliberately exposing a hideously scarred chest with poorly stitched wounds, even in such cold weather.


    Sherlock instantly knew why they were there.


    Debt collection...


    The well-dressed individual was an ountant responsible for using more refined methods inw, finance, contracts, and more to demand funds and interest from debtors.


    If the debtor didn''t cooperate, they would switch to the other person.


    This kind of debt collection was quite popr in the lower districts...


    So Sherlock approached them and said, "Hello, may I ask what you two are doing at my doorstep?"


    "My doorstep?" The ountant frowned, giving Sherlock a once-over. "As far as I know, this ce belongs to a woman named ''Jeanne Redicia Hudson.''"


    "Oh, she''s myndy," Sherlock replied.


    The person in front nodded in understanding. "I see... Well, we''ve been knocking on the door for quite some time, but no one answered, so... have you seen Miss Hudson recently?"


    "I haven''t seen her for about a week," Sherlock replied.


    "... " A moment of silence filled with a hint of frustration followed. The debtor shrugged and pulled out an envelope from the lining of his coat. "Sir, since you live here, could you please pass this debt statement to Miss Hudson if you happen to see her?"


    "Of course," Sherlock said, taking the envelope.


    The ountant exchanged a nce with the enforcer beside him, then turned to leave.


    "Wait a moment," Sherlock suddenly said.


    "Hmm?" Both individuals turned back. "Is there anything else?"


    "Oh... I just wanted to ask, if the two of you were to suddenly die, would this debt still be valid?" Sherlock asked politely, his tone carrying a hint of threat or provocation.


    ..."


    This question was met with about five seconds of silence. The fierce-looking enforcer seemed to sense a hint of threat or provocation in Sherlock''s words and instinctively wanted to go over and p the skinny guy to teach him a lesson on how to speak.


    But the other person was so polite and amiable that he couldn''t quite figure out if the guy was really trying to pick a fight.


    "Haha, sir, we are a legitimate debt collectionpany, not some backstreet private loan shark. We operate under the guarantee of banks," the ountant exined with a smile, thinking that Sherlock truly didn''t understand. He even took out a business card and handed it over. "If you ever need financial support, you can reach out to us."


    The business card read "Crawford Capital Turnover Company."


    Sherlock nodded. "Alright, I will make sure to pass this to Mrs. Hudson."


    With that, he watched the two individuals leave...


    Neither of them felt the need for self-congrattion. If they were operating independently instead of working for a debt collectionpany, there might have been two bodies floating in the Thames tonight.


    Once the two were out of sight, Sherlock turned around and knocked on thendy''s door on the ground floor.


    This time, the door opened quickly.


    Mrs. Hudson yawned, looking as if she had just woken up, and upon seeing Sherlock outside, she seemed a bit surprised. "Oh, it''s you... Haha... You must have knocked on the door for a long time. Well, I''m a heavy sleeper and sometimes I can''t hear..."


    She put on an apologetic expression but finally sighed weakly when she saw the envelope in Sherlock''s hand and the debt collectionpany''s business card:


    "Alright... but these days, anyone can run into difficulties, right?"


    "Of course, I actually dislike these debt collectionpanies. They may solve your immediate problems, but they will make it worse for you in the future."


    After hearing Sherlock''s words, Mrs. Hudsonughed sincerely. "You seem more likable than the previous tenants."


    "Really? Then... the rent..."


    "Not a penny less." Mrs. Hudson took the envelope but hesitated for a moment. "But if I ever cook too much for lunch, I wouldn''t mind sharing it with you."


    "I would be honored."


    Sherlock didn''t continue the conversation with Mrs. Hudson and exchanged just a few polite greetings before heading upstairs.


    He was eager to get some sleep as there were many mysteries in his dreams that intrigued him.


    Oh, speaking of thendy.


    When he opened the door earlier, Sherlock could clearly smell the scent of disinfectant emanating from her.


    This kind of smell couldn''t be acquired in a short time.


    So, hisndy worked at a hospital...


    Regardless, he didn''t care.


    ...


    Opening the door to the apartment, he turned on the gasmp.


    The light here was brighter than where Sherlock used to live, so he could clearly see that the small room had remained unchanged throughout the day.


    Sherlock tidied up his only "formal" attire, brushed off the damp stains on his round hat, and hung it on the coat rack. Then he settled down on the sofa.


    He felt a bit excited now, although he tried his best to suppress this innate desire to explore the unknown. Still, it took him a full 15 minutes to fall asleep this time.


    Finally, with familiar drowsiness and a sense of falling...


    He opened his eyes in that white room.


    (Lovable Trantion Discord, join today!)

 Chapter 36-40: Welcome Back

    Chapter 36-40: Wee Back


    <b>Chapter 36: Wee Back</b>


    As Sherlock opened his eyes, he could no longer control his desire to explore the unknown that had been suppressed all day. He immediately sat up from the sofa.


    At this moment, the room presented twopletely different visual states.


    In the areas untouched by the worms, the room remained an unshakable pure white... But in other areas, the textures of the objects in the room began to manifest.


    Arge patch of the white seal on the floor near his feet had been wiped away, and he could hear the faint sound of his shoes touching the wooden boards as he stepped on them. The marks of crawling were visible on the coat rack, and when he touched the armrest of the nearby sofa, he felt the familiar softness that had been there for many years.


    The entire room gave a sense of gradually peeling away from the dream and blending into reality.


    Just as he was still adapting to this sense of detachment...


    "Howl~ Howl~ Howl~"


    Suddenly, a sound came from behind him.


    Sherlock was startled... This was the first time he had heard a sound from outside the room in his dreams.


    Instinctively, he turned his head.


    And then, he saw the window behind him!


    The window was clean and transparent, allowing the bustling and grandeur of London outside to pass through the ss and into Sherlock''s line of sight... The removal of the seal on the window allowed the outside sounds to enter normally.


    He took a deep breath and slowly stood up, walking to the window to gaze outside.


    Unlike the previous peeks through a narrow gap, this time he observed the dream world with an open perspective.


    Blood, turmoil, and burning permeated the chaotic and insane atmosphere.


    Sherlock had caught glimpses of these scenes before.


    But at this moment, he couldn''t control his excitement, trembling all over, and struggled to ept everything in front of him.


    Because... he saw...


    Demons!!!!!


    In the blink of an eye, he saw a rotting corpse dog roaming the blood-red streets outside the window; a gigantic centipede with spiky insect limbs writhing and twisting in the shadows of a building; a grotesque creature resembling an anteater emerging from a pile of ruins, curling its thorny mouthparts and cruelly inserting them into the head of another demon next to it. Thetter was slowly having its brain marrow sucked out, emitting pitiful howls.


    Demons appeared in his dreams...?!


    During the previous observation from the narrow gap, Sherlock could only see the distant scenery. But this time, he clearly saw the long street up close.


    Apart from the demons, a bloody Baker Street waspletely exposed... The same architectural style, the same facilities, the same horse carriage signs on the sides of the road, trash bins in the alleys, fences, road signs, gasmps, and everything else that should exist in the real Baker Street, just like a mirror image.


    However, everything was immersed in substantial decay and ruin, marked by ruins, bloodstains, distortion, decay, and chaos. Even the fog that descended from above seemed like ash burned to dust, and the sunlight, like blood pouring from the sky, took on a strange crimson hue.


    Sherlock looked up...


    The enormous and twisted sun still hung above London''s sky like a demon, its countless tendrils wriggling. It seemed that if he stared at it for just one more second, he would be trapped in eternal madness.


    Yes, just one second!


    In that second, Sherlock''s gaze prated London''s bloody mist, pierced through the sky between the clouds, traversed the billions of kilometers of empty space beyond the heavens, and touched the sun that had long lost its normal form.


    This time, there was no white seal protecting Sherlock in his surroundings. His entire being was exposed by the window!


    Exposed to the sunlight carrying madness!


    Thus, the sun finally took notice of him.


    At that moment, Sherlock witnessed a scene that he would never forget in his entire life!


    A crack slowly opened in the middle of the sun... Within the crack, countless blood-red tendrils intertwined with each other. The crack widened until a crimson eyeball opened amidst the writhing mass, its pupils exploding like countless nebe, but converting all the light and heat into pure chaos, piercing directly into Sherlock''s gaze!


    It was a confrontation! The first contact between an evil celestial body or perhaps some other existence that Sherlock couldn''tprehend and a tiny human.


    At least that''s what Sherlock believed.


    And in that moment, he felt his brain almost boiling, on the verge of catching fire, like the boiling city outside.


    If it were anyone else, they would undoubtedly have copsed in absolute despair at that instant, because they couldn''t understand, let alone think, and could only allow the gaze from beyond to erode their sanitypletely.


    But Sherlock was different. As he had said countless times before, he was a detective.


    He liked the unknown, the puzzles. His mind needed those iprehensible things to fill it. He yearned to tear throughyers of mist to glimpse what was hidden within.


    The less he understood, the more excited he became!


    So, at this moment, his mind involuntarily began to work, striving beyond its capabilities, shaking like a gnat against a tree but disying an unparalleled audacity, arrogance, even pride! It wanted to analyze, decipher, and understand the madness behind this moment!


    The next second!


    With a loud crash!


    He fainted...


    Sherlock''s body fell heavily by the window, motionless like a corpse.


    However, his thoughts continued to restlessly churn, digesting and deciphering.


    It was unclear how much time had passed, and it might have been that he had gone mad, be foolish, or simply broken downpletely! But it was also possible that his thoughts had truly transformed all the madness into information he could understand.


    In any case, within this unconsciousness, a voice slowly emerged in his mind.


    Surprisingly, the voice sounded respectful, humble, as if bowing slightly before Sherlock:


    "Wee back..."


    "Wee back..."


    "This time, have you figured out a solution...?"


    <b>Chapter 37: My Domain (Part 1)</b>


    When Sherlock opened his eyes again, two days had passed.


    His head throbbed, as if he had a hangover, and his body felt weak and lethargic. Thest image in his memory was facing the enormous eye in the sky.


    After that... everything went nk.


    He had cked out. As for the humble voice, it became a dark area in his memory, leaving no trace whatsoever.


    Sherlock shook his head, and judging from the rumbling hunger in his stomach, he realized he hadn''t eaten for at least 48 hours. He got up and walked to the window. It was noon, and the sunlight, rarely seen, filtered through the mist, casting mottled shadows on Baker Street.


    Good, at least he could confirm that he wasn''t in a dream.


    He leaned his head close to the tap of the cold water, gulping it down for a while, which made him feel slightly better. Then he opened the cupboard, intending to see if there was any leftover food from a few days ago that hadn''t gone bad.


    But as his hand reached towards the cupboard...


    "Hmm?"


    Sherlock paused.


    Because he saw a shimmering trace around the cupboard... It was like the iridescence when gasoline mixes with water, but it disappeared in an instant.


    Although he couldn''t exin it, in the first second he saw this peculiar iridescence, he was certain that it was the trace left by his contract worm crawling in the dream!


    "What''s going on? Are the areas crawled in the dream being reflected in reality?!"


    He quickly turned his gaze to other parts of the room and, indeed, those areas that were erased in the dream emitted a faint glow. During the time he was unconscious, it seemed that the worm hadn''t been idle and hadpletely erased all the seals in the room.


    This included the door...


    Sherlock swallowed his saliva. Although his expression didn''t show much disturbance, every muscle in his body instinctively tensed.


    The seal on the door had been undone.


    In other words... as long as he entered the dream now, he could push open the door and step out of this room that had imprisoned him for thirty years.


    Not by breaking the window or smashing the wall barbarically.


    But by opening a door, in a dignified and straightforward manner...


    An unknown world was beckoning to him!


    Sherlock''s body began to tremble slightly, and every fold of his cerebral cortex started to cry out in excitement.


    But at this critical moment... he took a deep breath.


    Then calmly, he opened the cupboard, took out a leftover cornbread from a few days ago, sniffed it to make sure it hadn''t spoiled, and then turned on the stove, which he rarely used, to heat it up.


    "Take it easy, don''t rush..."


    He carefully soothed his nearly boiling thirst for knowledge.


    Opening the door might be simple, but what would happen after that?


    Would he be facing the demons on the street?


    Clearly, as a human being, if he were seen, those demons would definitely go crazy and devour him, leaving nothing but bone scraps.


    Sherlock wasn''t foolish. Although the old priest had diagnosed his dreams as some kind of nervous disorder or other ailment, he was well aware that this was definitely an "Awakening Dream."


    However, the form of the dream was somewhat unique.


    For now... he didn''t know whether this "uniqueness" was good or bad.


    And he had no idea what would happen after dying in the dream. Would he wake up in reality?


    Or would he die, his physical body in reality turning into a corpse?


    All he knew was that he was absolutely unable to resist this temptation. He would eventually open that door. The desire to explore the unknown territory was like the most cruel addiction, corroding him at every moment. No matter how he struggled, no matter how he deceived himself, it was all in vain.


    Therefore, he needed to formte an action n.


    He slowly picked up the steaming cornbread, then began to eat, silently and attentively, crushing it with his teeth and swallowing it bit by bit, washing it down with enough water.


    During this time, his mind reyed the scenes he had seen standing by the window, the types of demons roaming, the conditions around the street, where dangers could be concealed in shadows, which facilities could be used to escape, and so on.


    After a full fifteen minutes, he finally formted a n that, while not 100% safe, was the safest course of action for the current stage.


    Afterward, he returned to the sofa, found afortable position, and slowly... closed his eyes.


    ...


    His brain was probably also eager for the moment when he pushed open the door, so he fell asleep quickly this time.


    In the dream, Sherlock woke up and immediately directed his gaze toward the room''s door.


    As expected, the white seal on the door hadpletely faded...


    He stood up and walked to the door, cing his hand on the doorknob and gently turning it.


    The next second, the overwhelming desire for exploration broke free from its restraints. It gave him almost no chance to catch his breath before he forcefully pulled open the door!!


    In an instant, scorching wind carrying eons of sand blew against Sherlock''s body, enveloping the surroundings with a heavy scent of sulfur and blood.


    Thirty years... Sherlock could finally step out of this prison.


    He lifted his foot and stepped into the sandstorm... Just like outside the door in the real world, there was a staircase leading to the first floor. Theyout was the same, except that the room where Mrs. Hudson used to live had been eroded by the sandstorm, and it was clear that no one was inside.


    In fact, in this entire world, aside from countless demons, there was probably only Sherlock himself.


    Step by step, he descended, listening to the creaking of the stairs under his feet, almost on the verge of breaking...


    He slowly entered a boiling Baker Street.


    And at the moment when his vision was finally unobstructed, allowing him to freely survey this strange world.


    An idea that had long been brewing in his heart surged uncontrobly.


    "Could this... fucking be hell?"


    In order to avoid making eye contact with the crazed gaze in the sky, Sherlock didn''t look up at the sun, instead quickly and cautiously stepping onto the long street... With each breath, he transformed all his senses into information, presenting them in his mind.


    Temperature, sandstorm, sound, and the viscous air...


    If this ce truly was hell, then perhaps Sherlock was the only person to set foot in hell.


    Oh, wait, there was once someone else who ventured into hellthe esteemed Dante, who had killed the demon of hell. Speaking of which, why hadn''t Dante ever publicly revealed what hell was like after returning to the human world?


    Perhaps he had depicted it before, but as amoner, Sherlock was unaware...


    Sherlock thought and observed, analyzing everything, walking along the edges of the buildings, fingertips brushing against the weathered walls, watching as the spalled particles disintegrated into fine sand, carried away by the winds of hell.


    Everything around him held a deadly allure...


    He wanted to rummage through the nearby ruins, see what was hidden in the dark shadows, walk down this small road to see the broader streets beyond the corner, and go far, far away.


    However, this was ultimately not a tourist area! So, the anticipated danger... finally arrived...


    In this scorching, bloody world, Sherlock, as a human being, was like opening a can of sardines in a tightly closed space doused with top-tier perfume.


    The scent... couldn''t possibly be concealed.


    Oh, thatparison might be a bit off, but... demons hated top-tier perfumes and loved canned sardines!


    So, at this very moment, an idle carrion dog suddenly raised its head. Its nostrils, which had already decayed into the skull, twitched, and then unbelievably turned its gaze toward Sherlock.


    A human, a demonthus they locked eyes across the streets of hell.


    "..."


    "..."


    "Awooooooo!!!"


    An unexpected but expected roar echoed, and the carrion dog, after rubbing its head, suddenly went mad and lunged toward Sherlock.


    "Hey"


    Sherlock sighed helplessly, but he wasn''t afraid. These carrion dogs were seen everywhere in the real world, and as long as you crushed their skulls and mashed their brains, they wouldn''t get up again.


    In fact, as long as their brains were mashed, most demons would obediently die. That''s why Sherlock was so keen on bashing their headsit gave him a sense of security.


    However... in the next second.


    "Awooooo"


    "Awooooooo!!!"


    Several more roars resounded.


    In the real world, because of the protection of holy light, it was almost impossible for demons of the same species to gather in groups. That''s why Sherlock didn''t know that carrion dogs were actually a type of social demon, often roaming in groups of three to five.


    Anyway, with this howl, nearly identical sounds came from at least three directions, followed by a chaotic rush toward Sherlock.


    "Excuse me."


    The desire for exploration couldn''t be abandoned, but if he were to confront a group of demons from hell right now, it wouldn''t be sacrificing himself for the sake of explorationit would just be pure stupidity.


    Fortunately, he was prepared for this situation. During his journey here and his observation from the apartment window just now, he had already determined that there was no ce nearby whererge-sized demons could lurk. At least in the 15 seconds it would take him to run back to the apartment, there shouldn''t be any demons suddenly jumping out to block his way back.


    So, first return to the apartment, close the door, and see if that room could still keep the demons out like before. Even if it couldn''t, he could quickly calm down, spend three to five seconds, and wake up in the real world.


    No time for talk, Sherlock immediately turned around, increasing his speed to the limit, and dashed along the same route he hade.


    And the carrion dog chased after him!


    In an instant, the 15-second distance was covered. Sherlock rushed into the apartment... Unexpectedly, the dog behind him wasn''t slow and managed to keep up!


    "Well, it looks like I''ll have to take care of you first..." He sounded rather apologetic.


    His thoughts were interrupted!


    The carrion dog had rushed over, opening its blood-drenched mouth, ready to take a bite of the rare delicacy in front of it. In the process, its paws unavoidably crossed the threshold of the room...


    Or rather, it stepped into Sherlock''s domain, the area where the contract worm had crawled.


    In an instant!!!!


    "Hmm??"


    Sherlock frowned. He had already prepared himself to crack open the dog''s skull, but suddenly realized that the carrion dog in front of him had frozen.


    Um... it was a bit strange, but this demon, which had its mind clouded by appetite just a second ago, stopped the moment it entered the room!


    Actually, it wouldn''t be entirely urate to say it stopped. Sherlock could see that its body was trembling violently, as if it had stepped on something it absolutely shouldn''t touch, giving rise to fear beyond reason and instinct.


    It wanted to escape, but it couldn''t.


    The emaciated body emitted smoke from the scorching heat of hell, drifting faintly in the small room. The carrion dog''s mouth, full of sharp teeth, split open, and one eye, due to decay and its previous mad dash, had fallen out of its socket, connected only by a thin nerve, dangling near its mouth.


    It struggled to maintain a fixed position,


    Sherlock had a strange feeling that if demons had sweat nds, this poor little thing would already be drenched in cold sweat from fear.


    It was this peculiar intuition that deepened Sherlock''s frown. He didn''t know what had scared the demon into such a state.


    He leaned forward... even waved his hand near its mouth.


    However, the carrion dog no longer had any desire for the fresh flesh and blood of a human. It just trembled and whimpered, like a fly stuck to flypaper, only able to ept its own death with fear and misery.


    <b>Chapter 39: My Domain (Part 3)</b>


    Sherlock continued to observe for a while, and with his observation and analytical abilities, he could clearly see that the dog had been startled by some kind of force when it stepped into the area where his contract worm had crawled.


    But he couldn''t understand the reason behind it...


    Curiosity got the better of the detective, and he slowly extended two fingers... and then pinched the dangling eyeball of the dog in front of him.


    He exerted a slow pressure~~~~


    The carrion dog immediately trembled violently, emitting faint moans from its decaying throat. It was evident how agonizing it was to have its eyeball toyed with, but it still didn''t dare to move.


    With a light "pop" sound, Sherlock directly crushed the eyeball...


    The dog''s body shuddered, but it remained motionless!


    Sherlock pondered for a moment, then inserted his hand into the eye socket... forcefully crushing the fragile cartge, reaching the brain marrow, and gently stirring.


    The dog''s single eye turned white, and one minuteter, it copsed in pain,pletely devoid of vitality.


    Throughout the entire process, it still didn''t dare to move even a fraction, as if its not-so-intelligent brain kept reminding itself not to move, not to provoke a terrifying existence, or else... something more terrifying than death would happen.


    "Hisss... What the hell."


    Sherlock scratched his head, keenly realizing: Could it be that the area where his little worm crawled possessed some kind of [Domain Effect]?


    Before he could settle his thoughts, the footsteps outside grew closer.


    It was probably because he had entered the domain that the demons outside couldn''t smell him anymore, or for some other reason.


    In any case, the other carrion dogs that had been attracted by theirpanion''s roar seemed unable to find Sherlock''s location. They lingered outside for a while before finally discovering their target.


    These creatures didn''t have much brain left, and upon seeing theirpanion''s corpse, they didn''t realize that something was amiss. They just barked frantically and swung their jowls before lunging toward Sherlock.


    There were three of them in total, the first two rtively intact and much faster. In an instant, they rushed into the room.


    The result... was the same as their unfortunate predecessor just now. The moment they set foot in the room, they suddenly froze in ce, their eyes staring straight ahead as if they had witnessed something absolutely terrifying.


    Meanwhile, the third, weaker one, with one leg rotting up to its buttocks, hopped up the stairs in a "three-legged jump" manner due to its slow speed. Since the two previous dogs blocked most of the space at the door, thest dog didn''t charge in but stood at the doorway, with only one extended w vaguely touching the edge of the domain, grazing past it.


    However... with this seemingly insignificant touch, it instantly! Made it feel the most horrifying and bone-chilling gaze it had experienced in its entire dog''s life!


    Gaze!


    It had no idea what was staring at it. All it knew was that with a slight nce, its soul boiled with despair and fear.


    Without thinking, the carrion dog turned around to flee.


    Perhaps because it didn''t fully step into Sherlock''s domain, or perhaps it had ovee the oppressive aura from the depths of its soul. In any case, it ran away,pletely ignoring everything and dashing madly in a direction it didn''t know and definitely didn''t care about!


    But in the next second of its escape...


    A tentacle!!


    Descended from the sky!!!


    Yes, it descended from the sky!


    Or to be more precise, it should be said that the sun hanging in the sky had some kind of displeasure toward this miserable and weak demon on the ground. It waved one of the thousands of tentacles it possessed, traversing an unknown distance in an instant. It pierced through the vast dark abyss of the universe, piercing through the atmosphere, clouds, smoke, and scorching mes over the boiling city, descending to the surface in a way that was absolutely unimaginable in people''s perception.


    If measured from the visual perspective, that tentacle must have been as thick as a mountain range, with a diameter reaching tens of thousands of kilometers. However, upon its actual arrival, it discovered that the tip of the tentacle was so delicate.


    Delicate enough that it urately and unerringly inserted itself into the head of the fleeing carrion dog!!


    In an instant, the carrion dog began to convulse violently, enduring indescribable despair and pain. It was as if its body couldn''t bear the pain for a moment longer, and it tried, deluding itself, to use brute force to separate itself from its own head!


    But it ultimately couldn''t seed.


    That tentacle, strange and grand, descended in an instant, and in another instant, retracted from beyond the heavens, carrying away this wretched demon.


    Sherlock stared nkly at the scene.


    Since participating in the enfeoffment ceremony and establishing a connection with that useless little worm, his dreams had undergone earth-shattering changes, giving him unprecedented shocks with almost every sleep!


    Therefore, after witnessing the scene that waspletely beyond rationalprehension, Sherlock surprisingly didn''t show a shocked expression for too long. He... epted it quite easily.


    He just pondered curiously, wondering if the dog was really taken to that terrifying sun in this way? If so, what would it experience?


    Furthermore, why did this phenomenon ur?


    Could it be that the sun in the sky... was helping him?


    And in those few seconds of contemtion...


    His contract worm seemed very happy and content as it crawled toward the dead carrion dog''s body.


    And then...


    It burrowed into the empty eye socket...


    <b>Chapter 40: Who''s the Proper One to Contract with Demons? We Just Enve Them Directly</b>


    "..."


    Sherlock watched the behavior of his contract worm and a peculiar association formed in his mind. However, he didn''t know whether this association was good or bad.


    That is... if everywhere his contract worm crawled created a domain, then... what did it mean for it to crawl into this carrion dog''s corpse?


    Could it create a domain within the corpse as well?


    As time passed, second by second, Sherlock''s eyes grew wider.


    Because he unbelievably sensed that there was a certain connection between himself and the carrion dog''s corpse!!!


    It was simr to the connection between himself and the contract worm, and it was bing clearer and clearer.


    The worm... was assimting with the carrion dog!!!


    Sherlock rubbed his face. He realized that his knowledge was stillcking, whether it was about demons, awakened dreamscapes, or even hell. In any case, the books avable on the market couldn''t help him understand everything that had just happened.


    In fact, even the clergy within the Vatican would probably be dumbfounded if they encountered what he had seen and heard.


    Oh, speaking of "what he had seen and heard," at this moment, Sherlock naturally summarized all his recent experiences in his mind:


    First, he seemed to have truly dreamt of an entire world, and this world was very likely hell.


    Second, there was a sun in the sky above hell, covered in countless tentacles.


    Lastly, his contract worm seemed to possess a certain domain, which had some kind of connection with the mad sun in the sky. As a result, any demon that tried to escape the domain would be attacked by the sun.


    With these thoughts, Sherlock finally nced at the two dogs that had remained motionless from the moment they entered the room until now. These two pitiful creatures had likely been enduring the torment of extreme fear from beyond the heavens during this time.


    Anyway, since they didn''t move, whenever they went insane, it would be considered their own problem.


    Sherlock affectionately patted the dog''s head, as if encouraging a lovable pet.


    Just then...


    A faint "gurgling" sound suddenly came from below. He lowered his head and saw his contract worm crawling out of the eye socket of the corpse.


    The little creature seemed very happy and content, wriggling its chubby body on the floor.


    Such twisting and contorting behavior was normal for a worm, but after experiencing so many bizarre things, Sherlock''s mind instinctively began to entertain some "unconventional" possibilities.


    He watched the worm''s twisting and contorting form, furrowed his brow, and recalled his first sight of the sun when he looked up at the sky over London.


    Countless tentacles surrounded that eyeball...


    However, his focus now wasn''t on the eyeball but on the tentacles...


    Those pitch-ck, sticky, wriggling tentacles!!!


    Sherlock bent down, picked up his contract worm with his fingers, and as he did so, the useless worm became so frightened that it yed dead andy t.


    Perfect. This allowed him to observe it more closely.


    It still had a ck-gray body, about seven to eight centimeters in length. It felt somewhat soft, as if slightly sticky. The "head" was slightly thinner, while the "abdomen" was rtively plump. However, regardless of the position, Sherlock couldn''t find any organ that could be called a "mouth," nor did it have eyes or anything else that a worm should possess.


    The more Sherlock observed, the clearer his idea became. Although it wasn''t strange for a demon worm to have an unusual appearance, not having a mouth was uneptable. After all, demons couldn''t survive solely through photosynthesis.


    Could it be that his contract demon worm wasn''t really a worm?


    But rather... a segment... of a tentacle???


    "Hoo... It seems things have gone beyond imagination," Sherlock muttered softly. Then he ced the little creature in his hand back on the ground and sat back on the sofa, deep in thought.


    After a few minutes...


    "Hahahathis is how life should be."


    ...


    ...


    In the real world, Sherlock woke up leisurely.


    He had obtained a lot of information in the dream this time, enough to excite his mind for a while. So, he didn''t rush to continue exploring.


    That''s how it wasto encounter problems, think about them, solve them, and then turn the problems into chips for his continued exploration of hell. That was the best pace.


    Sherlock was very happy, even humming a tune.


    Oh... despite this detective''s messy lifestyle, he still had a bit of artistic sense. When he was young, he even yed the violin from time to time.


    However, on one asion, when he stuffed the head of the instrument into the throat of a robber who barged in, identally breaking the strings, he never touched a musical instrument again.


    He stood up, stretchedzily, and prepared to go out to get something to eat. It had been several days since he had a proper meal.


    But just as he stood up...


    "Hmm?????"


    A peculiar sensation suddenly surged from the depths of his heart, simr to the feeling he had when he first summoned his contract demon at the monastery a few days ago.


    But as mentioned earlier, Sherlock had experienced so many strange things during this period that even a sudden peculiar feeling like this seemed insignificant to him.


    So he simply followed this sensation, waved his hand, and a rift in space opened in the room.


    Then...


    A carrion dog crawled out of it.


    ...


    ____________.


    <b>From now on, this novel will be updated only on Sunday. Every Sunday, 10 chapters will be updated at once.</b>

 Chapter 41-50: Ill Treat You...

    Chapter 41-50: I''ll Treat You...


    He stood still, looking at the carrion dog in front of him, silent for a long time.


    The dog stood obediently, not barking or running around. From its burst eye and hollow eye socket, he could confirm that this was the dog whose mind he had disturbed in the dream.


    However... it was now standing before him, real and tangible.


    "Could this fellow have be my contract demon?"


    Sherlock knew how unrealistic this idea was. ording to any book, people''s understanding of contractees, or even the knowledge about contract demons that the old priest had enlightened him with:


    [Contractees have only one contract demon, and it cannot be changed or reced. They stay together for life. Even if the contract demon dies, they cannot form a rtionship with another demon.]


    This was an irond rule.


    But what was this dog all about?


    Moreover, this creature didn''t feel like a normal carrion dog. Normally, carrion dogs should have their tongues hanging out and bark incessantly at anything that moves, running around like they have attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD).


    However, this dog was unusually calm. It stood straight in ce, with its head held high. The remaining eye didn''t exhibit the restlessness and madness that demons should have; instead, it was silent and solemn, like a soldier waiting to carry out a mission.


    Thus, Sherlock''s thoughts stirred...


    "Sit~"


    "Stand tall~"


    "Roll over~"


    "Bite your own tail..."


    Variousmands floated in his mind, and the dog actually followed his thoughts, performing a variety of actions. Sherlock even simted some highlyplexmands in his mind, such as licking its left eyeball with its tongue while raising its hind leg at a thirty-degree angle towards the side, swaying its tail between its legs at a rate of twice per second.


    Suchmands could only be executed by a [Maniption]-type contractee, and they were extremely difficult movements that usually required extensive training!


    But Sherlock didn''t need any training. Constructing a set of suchmands in his mind was ridiculously easy.


    And the dog perfectly executed them, proving that there was an extremely close connection between it and Sherlock. Even if hemanded it to self-mutte or go to its death, it wouldn''t have the slightest resistance.


    However... leaving aside the question of "why can this demon be controlled"...


    Let''s talk about its head!


    His head had already been shattered by Sherlock. How could it still perform these actions?


    Curiositypelled Sherlock to go to the wall, turn the gasmp to its maximum setting, and then return to the dog, embracing its head and turning it to face the light source.


    Narrowing his eyes, he directed his gaze into the empty eye socket he had gouged open...


    The light from above prated the cavity of the dog''s head!


    At this moment, Sherlock finally saw the scene inside...


    Then he fell silent... and swallowed a mouthful of saliva.


    Instead of any remaining brain tissue, that skull cavity was filled with countless twisted tentacles!


    These tentacles coiled and writhed, forming aplex, frenzied, yet strangely beautiful mass in the dim light emitted by the gasmp. Some smaller branches had even burrowed into the crevices between the skull and nerves, presumably spreading throughout the carrion dog''s body along its spine!


    Sherlock exhaled deeply. Although he didn''t dare to believe itpletely, he knew that these tentacles upying the dog''s head had the same color and texture as his contract "worm."


    So, the worm had crawled into its brain earlier with the purpose of hatching itself?


    No... it couldn''t be called a worm anymore. It was undoubtedly a segment of a tentacle!!!


    "What exactly is my contract demon?!"


    ...


    Just as he was contemting, a slow and unhurried footsteps sounded outside the door.


    Sherlock waved his hand, tearing open a rift in space, and let his dog slip inside.


    Immediately after,


    "Thump, thump, thump."


    A knocking sound came from the door.


    He ran his hand through his disheveled hair, making himself look like someone who had just woken up, then half-closed his eyes and approached the door. "Who is it?"


    "Sorry to disturb you, it''s me..." A gentle voice came through.


    Sherlock was a bit surprised because he recognized the owner of that voice.


    It was John Watson, the doctor at White Briar Thorn Security Company.


    Opening the door, it was already nighttime outside, and the damp night breeze unique to London blew in. Sherlock looked at the man in front of him with some suspicion.


    His brown-ck hair still hung in front of his forehead. He was still wearing a proper shirt and a thick suit. If one knew how to appreciate it, one could tell that each piece of clothing cost at least a dozen pounds. Such expensive clothes made him stand out even more, like a noble son from the upper-ss district. Around his cor was a light blue plush scarf, giving his beautiful face a gentle, tender appearance.


    At this moment, he squinted his eyes, looking past Sherlock''s shoulder into the room.


    "I thought detectives were organized in their lives," Watson raised an eyebrow. His expression was as if he couldn''t bear it, hesitating whether or not to rush in and tidy things up.


    "I''mzy and don''t like to tidy up," Sherlock said with a smile. He had a slight fondness for this doctor who disguised himself as a normal person. "So... you came to see me. Did you encounter any thorny problems?"


    "Thorny problems are there every day, but I definitely didn''te here just for that."


    "Then why did youe?"


    "To make a friend. I''ve been feeling bored at home and wanted to go out for a walk. Unconsciously, I ended up here, and I thought your ce was nearby, so I came."


    He said it very sincerely...


    And seeing Sherlock''s face that seemed to say, "Continue your story," he smiled nonchntly.


    "Well, actually, you might not believe it, but you''re the only person I''ve found somewhat interesting in my many years of work. So, how about going out for a drink together? I''ll treat you..."


    "You want to treat me to a drink?"


    "Of course. What better way to enhance camaraderie between colleagues than having a drink together?" Watson adjusted his fringe and said.


    Perhaps just waking up from a dream or maybe this person naturally knew how to create a favorable impression in others'' minds, Sherlock didn''t immediately decline.


    In fact, in his thirty-two years of life, he hardly had any friends.


    In his childhood, he was undoubtedly considered an oddity. As an adult, he preferred to work alone, and the people who were familiar with him were generally unwilling to associate with this person exuding an eerie aura.


    Naturally, no one had ever treated him to a drink.


    Sherlock looked at Watson...


    Then he thought about the puzzles that had been upying his mind recently, the dreams he longed to explore, and the various doubts about his contract demon that awaited unraveling.


    At this moment, he suddenly felt a sense of satisfaction and contentment that only a detective could understand...


    "That''s right... drinking is indeed the most convenient way to foster friendship," he agreed with a smile. He casually picked up his old overcoat that he often wore from the hanger. "So, what are we waiting for?"


    Saying that, he put it on and walked out of the door.


    At that moment, Watson''s eyes suddenly shed with surprise... but it was quickly concealed by an even more pronounced smile.


    Of course, this momentary change in expression couldn''t escape Sherlock''s eyes.


    "What''s the matter?" He didn''t bother hiding and asked directly.


    Watson hesitated, then said, "Huh? You could tell?... I thought I hid it quite well."


    "You did hide it quite well, but my observation skills are quite sharp. After all, I am a detective."


    Sherlock said as he and Watson walked to the side of the street. He lit a cigarette for himself and handed another one to Watson.


    Watson hesitated for a moment but epted the cigarette, leaning in front of the petrol lighter that Sherlock offered.


    "To be honest, it''s not a big deal. It''s just that I smell a strong scent of blood on your clothes... and arge proportion of it is human blood."


    A moment of sudden silence ensued.


    The gas streemp above made an untimely flicker, emitting a hissing sound of leaking gas... Watson calmly revealed his discovery without caring about the chilling implication behind those words.


    "Really? I wash them regrly. I thought there wouldn''t be any scent left," Sherlock casually exhaled a mouthful of smoke, sniffing his cor.


    "I''m quite sensitive to the scent of blood. After all, I am a doctor." Seeing the other''s nonchnt attitude, Watson''s eyes narrowed into a tiny slit, almost entirely hidden behind his smile.


    Then he took a puff of the cigarette!


    In an instant! His eyes widened abruptly. "Damn! Cough... cough... What kind of cigarette is this? It''s so choking!!"


    "Blue Note."


    "Never heard of that brand."


    He tentatively took another puff. "Phew..." carefully savoring the choking, spicy sensation coursing through his lungs, he finally pursed his lips in slight surprise. "It seems... not bad..."


    ...


    ...


    Midnight, a long street in the lower district of London, far from the River Thames...


    Fifth Street.


    This street had been around for quite some time and didn''t have any special name. It seemed that ever since the first steam engine came into existence, it had been called by this name. After going through the opening of the Demon''s Gate and the second invasion war, this street had been destroyed and rebuilt countless times, yet no one wanted to change its name. It was as if changing the name would taint the entire street.


    The buildings on both sides were generally low, with rusty steam valves extending from the exterior walls, intertwining with theplexwork of pipes along the long street. Some buildings had disorderly gasmps hanging from their tops, flickering light after a long time, giving the whole street a sense of desperate decay.


    At the end of the street stood a highly recognizable buildingrusted iron gates, walls without any decorativeyers, and arge but square structure that made it look like a coffin.


    However, inside the iron gates, a different scene unfolded.


    Hazy music, rapidly changing lights, an overall dim color scheme, writhing bodies, intense alcohol and morthe elements shed and merged in this ce.


    "I''m quite surprised that someone like you knows about this ce," Sherlock said as he looked at the swaying liquid in his ss.


    "Someone like me?"


    "Yes, you''re a doctor after all. Shouldn''t you be going to those upscale ces where someone ys piano pieces and a ss of alcohol costs several pounds... Look at you, sitting here,pletely out of sync with the surroundings. Oh, let me remind you, there are a few married women over there who have been eyeing you for almost half an hour."


    Watson always smiled, his eyes curved beneath the enormous gasmp overhead, emitting a charm that could attract any woman. However, he didn''t respond to any woman''s gaze, just listened to Sherlock''s words and happily took a sip of the gin in his ss.


    "I used to frequent the kind of ces you mentioned


    , but after a while, I got tired of them and started to prefer this ce... But speaking of surprises, aren''t you surprised about something else?"


    "Something else?"


    "Yes, you should have noticed it. The hallucinogens sold here are several times more than in other ces, and the transmission rate of syphilis is terrifying. It can almost be considered a breeding ground for multiple offenses. However, just outside this street, there stands a grand cathedral. Isn''t that surprising?"


    "What''s surprising about it?" Sherlock lit a cigarette. "It''s precisely because this ce is situated next to the cathedral that it can continue to exist. I can guarantee that at least 70% of the people in this crowd are devout believers on normal days."


    "Oh?" This assertion didn''t surprise Watson. Instead, he looked even more interested.


    "It''s easy to understand. People''s desires are either vented through alcohol, physical pleasure, and unrealistic fantasies, or they are poured into riots, dissatisfaction with society, and hatred for life. Byparison, the former is much better than thetter! So, in thiswless and chaotic ce, it can pacify the people better than those cathedrals."


    Sherlock wasn''t in the mood for niceties today, so he unabashedly uttered words that showed disrespect for the divine light. Fortunately, in this ce, no one cared what you said.


    After hearing this, Watson''s smile became even brighter. "You''re an interesting person. At least much more interesting than those fellows at White Briar Thorn Security Company. You know, every morning at thepany, we have to listen to Reverend Thompson recite prayers for nearly an hour."


    "An hour!! That... must be quite unbearable," Sherlock imagined that scene and instinctively took a deep drag of his cigarette. "By the way, speaking of which, did they catch that eye-gouging demon?"


    "Of course not. That guy is cunning. He''s probably one of those demons with intelligence. And recently, there has been an order from above, saying that a bigshot is going to descend upon London and we should quickly handle the security in the lower district."


    "A bigshot... could it be Miss Nightingale? I heard she''sing next month."


    "Definitely not. Miss Nightingale is a public figure. Her visit to London is not a secret. It''s not something they would keep under wraps," Watson said. Then he narrowed his eyes and looked around. Seeing that, apart from a few mboyantly dressed married women who had been eyeing him, no one else paid attention to them. He whispered, "I suspect it''s probably the ''Day of Sacred Love'' that''s approaching."


    Upon hearing this term, Sherlock couldn''t help but pause, thinking about this peculiar yet romantic festival and the ancient customs associated with it. He smiled:


    "Well... London will definitely be bustling this year."


    The Day of Sacred Love...


    Perhaps the most unconventional holiday in human history.


    It doesn''t even have a fixed date.


    It could span thirty years or fifty years, with the longest onesting a whopping 74 years, requiring a person to witness it throughout their entire life before experiencing the day that would move and astonish everyone.


    On this day, from the dying patients on their deathbeds to the young children just beginning to understand the world, and even the holy army soldiers on the hellish battlefield soaked in blood and ughter in the far south, everyone immerses themselves in amon themelove.


    Regardless of the presence of power, money, faith, and many other elements in the origin of this holiday, they all ultimately converge into love.


    Blessed by the holy light, sanctioned love.


    ...


    The origin of this holiday is actually quite straightforward:


    The Holy Son, or the sessor to the next Pope, the man with the greatest power in the empire, will meet the Princess of Sanctum on this day.


    On the day of the Princess''s 20th birthday, under the witness of the High Priest of the Temple of Holy Light, he will join hands with his beloved. They will experience joy and tribtions together, apanying each other for a lifetime.


    That''s all there is to it...


    It doesn''t sound particrly awe-inspiring because the Pope is also human, and humans are bound to experience love, just like all themoners on the streets.


    However, because of the existence of the holy light, this love is propelled into an unimaginable realm of romance... because the holy light can foresee the birth of the "Princess" twenty years in advance!


    Yes, with the ability to see the past and the future, the all-knowing holy light grants each Holy Son the ambiguous authority to find the most suitable person among millions.


    This leads to each Day of Sacred Love, telling the citizens of the entire empire what love truly isa profound, arrogant, blind, and unrestrained force.


    It also demonstrates that romance is not always a term of praise...


    Because the Holy Son''s beloved could be a disabled girl who survived in a war!


    Or an orphan living in a slum, begging for a living.


    It could be a thief, a woman who lost her husband, a fraudster, or even... a prostitute.


    In short, in the hundreds of years since the holy light descended upon the world, it has repeatedly challenged people''s understanding of love and made them believe that love is free from social status, wealth, power, and secr constraints. Sometimes, it doesn''t even consider morality.


    Perhaps due to the holy light''s pure understanding of human love, to avoid the embarrassment of "a married woman being chosen as the Princess," the Empire''s Marriage Act stiptes that citizens can only marry after reaching the age of 20. And the holy light is gracious enough that in the past few dozen Days of Sacred Love, there hasn''t been an embarrassing situation of "the Princess dying before the age of 20" or "the Princess being a man."


    As for whether the "Princess fell in love with someone else before the appointed day"...


    It may have happened, or it may not have.


    It''s not important.


    Because in the face of immense power, love bes even more vibrant and pure.


    This is perhaps all part of the holy light''s calction... After all,pared to "bing the next Pope''s wife," love is so easily swayed.


    Yes!


    Even infidelity falls under the realm of love.


    In any case, several centuries have passed... The Day of Sacred Love has be a widely celebrated holiday. On this day, the atmosphere of love permeates every street and alley. Young men and women dress up and go out, embracing and kissing can be seen everywhere. The government''s marriage registration department bes the busiest ce in the world, and the employees'' sries increase three or four times during these days.


    Of course, apart from the servants of the Temple of Holy Light, no one knows when the Day of Sacred Love will arrive. It is only a week before the Princess''s 20th birthday that the government announces the news in all the newspapers.


    The Princess herself only learns of her identity at this time when the clergy of the Holy See appear before her and escort her in a magnificent carriage with the utmost reverence.


    The reason for not revealing the Princess''s identity at her birth is also understandable. After all, power can easily change a person''s qualities and character. The servants of the Temple of Holy Light firmly believe that only after experiencing everything that was supposed to happen can the Princess truly grow into her role.


    All the hardships and pain are part of the holy light''s n...


    To the extent that this custom has led to a delusional disorder called "Princess Fantasy Syndrome." However, generally by the age of 20, this condition naturally disappears.


    ...


    ...


    Alcohol is indeed a wonderful thing. After three rounds, even strangers can embrace each other as brothers, and in the past hour or so, Sherlock saw at least five or six women approach Watson, pretending to be dizzy and falling into his arms.


    Watson, on the other hand, maintained the demeanor of a gentleman throughout. Even when a few women almost pressed their chests against his face, he would still help them up with a smile. It seemed that this doctor, who seemed qualified to enjoy thepany of countless women, wasn''t immersed in luxury and pleasure.


    But Sherlock remembered that Watson had once mentioned that he liked beautiful things. In other words, perhaps he wasn''t trying to maintain a gentlemanly facade, but simply thought... these women weren''t attractive enough.


    "I''m curious, how did youe to the conclusion that the Day of Sacred Love is approaching? It should be one of the least likely things toe to mind, considering it''s a rare event that urs every few decades," Sherlock said, burying himself in smoke and casually asking.


    "I really couldn''t have thought of it myself, but..." Watson hesitated for a moment. "To be honest, you might not believe it, but I know a friend; well, he can''t really be considered a friend, just an old homeless man who lives across from my house. He has taken up residence in a dmissioned steam boiler, and I asionally visit him. That guy... ims to be able to predict the future."


    "Predict the future?"


    "Divination, tarot cards, crystal balls, and the like. Of course, if that guy really had the ability to predict the future, he wouldn''t be a homeless man. Anyway, recently, for some reason, he kept mentioning the Day of Sacred Love to me, talking about Holy Sons and Princesses. A few days ago, he drank too much and rambled about it for almost half an hour."


    "I see..." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps as a detective, he naturally wasn''t inclined to believe in such unscientific practices, so he didn''t delve further.


    And so, the two people who had recently met sat side by side, chatting aimlessly or silently contemting their own thoughts. They didn''t attempt to uncover each other''s secrets but allowed themselves to be consumed by the alcohol and the mor around them until the atmosphere grew increasingly chaotic, and people became more and more intoxicated.


    It was in the midst of this night''s climax, when the craziness reached its peak and people were leaning in close to talk to one another because of the noise, that a rift in the fabric of space...


    Dimness, noise, chaos, drunkenness, and the writhing white figures not far away.


    Any one of these elements alone would be enough to make anyone lose their perception of the surrounding things. When they alle together, even a gunshot nearby might be ignored.


    Not to mention the sudden appearance of a crack, less than a centimeter wide, and the sharp spike that emerged.


    However, in that instant, Sherlock''s hazy gaze didn''t change, and his expression remained unchanged. But naturally, his head turned slightly to the side.


    At the same time, a loud "snap!" was heard as a ss was firmly smashed onto the spike that had suddenly appeared, shattering it into fragments. The spike immediately retracted into the crack, disappearing without a trace.


    Sherlock turned his head slightly in surprise and looked at Watson, who was looking at him with the same expression.


    It was probably because the doctor was astonished that this guy in front of him could perceive the danger from behind in such an environment and avoid it so casually.


    And Sherlock was also surprised that Watson, who always squinted his eyes, could urately hit a silently appearing spike in such dim light.


    Anyway, the two of them looked at each other in astonishment for a moment, amazed by each other''s keenness and agility, even without paying much attention to the inexplicable assassination attempt.


    Of course, they couldn''tpletely ignore it. After all, a rift in space had appeared, indicating that the assassin was a Contractor, so they had to show some respect.


    Sherlock raised his head and finished the remaining drink, while Watson, in perfect harmony, took out a few pounds and ced them on the table.


    "No need for change."


    After saying that, they both got up and squeezed through the dense crowd, heading towards the exit.


    "Do you have any enemies?" Watson asked as they walked.


    "I have a few, but as far as I know, they either died or dare not provoke me." Sherlock couldn''t help but start thinking about why he suddenly became the target of an assassination as a Contractor.


    And the next second, he seemed to have found the answer... because over the years, he hadn''t provoked that many Contractors, so a quick investigation would narrow down the possibilities.


    Balder... the Judge''s steward who had died not long ago at Sherlock''s hands.


    It was highly likely that this had something to do with him.


    But it''s not like the case would tarnish the dignity of the Holy See, so the fewer people who knew about it, the better... Whatever. As a clergyman of the Holy See, the steward Balder must have had his own confidants or rtives. Among them, there might be one or two radical individuals who were willing to take revenge for their master, which was understandable. Moreover, in their eyes, Sherlock was just a detective without any background, so it was only natural for them to try to kill him out of resentment.


    Just as he was thinking about this!


    Suddenly, the space in front of him tore open again, and a spike shot out, aiming straight for his forehead. However, Sherlock''s figure swayed, once again avoiding it.


    "A controlling type Contractor, weak in directbat, but extremely stealthy and skilled in assassination," Watson muttered under his breath.


    "In the crowd, the range of control is probably about 10 meters," Sherlock added casually, then turned a corner and headed towards a more densely packed area.


    Watson followed alongside him and hesitated for a moment before finally unable to hold back his question. "Maybe I shouldn''t disturb you at a time like this, but the exit is over there. Why are we going in circles?"


    "I''m looking for someone," Sherlock replied, his eyes constantly scanning through the crowd and the chaotic y of light and shadows. Each scene seemed like a clipped data source, automatically analyzed and organized in his mind.


    "5 meters away, male, around 45 years old, drank 7 sses of alcohol, not him."


    "Passed by, female, under 18 years old, experienced in rtionships, likes money, not her."


    "3 meters away, at a table, female, around 70 years old, widowed, looking for young flesh, not her."


    It was as if every person that entered his field of vision was automaticallybeled with their information. Sherlock''s movements in the crowd were also extremely subtle. Using the changing light and the cover of surrounding objects, he could determine whether he was within the assassin''s field of view. Sometimes, he would even create some openings, enticing the assant to make a move, in order to deduce their location in reverse.


    Finally, after evading another sudden assassination attempt, his gaze happened to sweep over a man in the crowd!


    This person was wearing an ordinary coat, with the cor raised, around 35 years old, and had a crooked mouth. He sat alone at a table, sipping his drink, blending seamlessly with the atmosphere in terms of aura, appearance, and even the way he drank.


    No one would pay attention to such a passerby...


    However, Sherlock clearly remembered that this person had been sitting at the neighboring table, chatting andughing with a drunkendy just about two minutes ago.


    "I found him," Sherlock said.


    Watson was taken aback. He actually found him?... But he didn''t ask any further and followed Sherlock''s gaze.


    At that moment, the man who had been drinking lifted his head, his gaze crossing paths with the gaze that was fixed upon him through the gaps in the chaotic crowd.


    In that instant, both sides understood the meaning contained in those looks.


    The next second, without saying a word, the man immediately got up and ran.


    But just before that, Sherlock had already made his move, rushing straight into the crowd!


    His charge was resolute,pletely disregarding the feelings of those around him. He pushed aside several men and women who were lost in drunkenness, knocking over countless sses. In such a crowded ce, his speed was such that it even lifted his coat, and then he took a great leap,nding squarely on the back of a man who was desperately thrusting against a woman, eliciting a scream of either pleasure or pain!


    This scene left Watson standing dumbfounded in ce.


    He seemed to be stunned for a moment, and then suddenly, with an iparably rxed leap, he turned into a lingering shadow in the restless lights, chasing after Sherlock in the blink of an eye.


    ...


    In the darkness, with a loud "thud!" the heavy iron door was once again forced open. The noise andmotion vanished in an instant, reced by the whistling wind and damp air.


    On the quiet street, only a few struggling streetlights flickered, and the old steam pipes asionally emitted a hissing sound. Moonlight couldn''t prate the haze hanging over London''s sky, and everything was like a dark painting that had umted years of gloom.


    There was no one there. That person had long since disappeared.


    Soon, Watson pushed open the door and walked out. He looked around, but found no trace.


    In fact, from the moment that person was discovered until he followed to chase after him, only a few seconds had passed. In such a short time, that person had managed to disappear without a trace. Watson was genuinely surprised by this stealthy ability.


    "To lose sight of him... that guy must be quite skilled," Watson remarked.


    Before he could finish speaking, he noticed Sherlock looking at him with a peculiar expression.


    "What''s wrong?" Watson asked.


    Sherlock calmly lit a cigarette. "We''ve just met, and you may not know me well, but in my career, ''losing sight'' is not something that happens."


    With that, he walked towards a small alley across the street...


    Every night in London was quite simr. The steam released from the underground pipes vented the entire day''s worth until the cold wind brushed by, turning it into damp puddles that umted over time on the perpetually wet street.


    And some ripples, contrary to the direction of the night wind, represented something that had swiftly passed by, causing irregr disturbances.


    Every alley in London was more or less the samedamp walls, the ever-present smell of fermenting garbage that never seemed to dissipate, and the constant buzzing of flies.


    But arge swarm of flies wouldn''t all buzz around at the same time. They would inevitably have some that perched beside the trash cans, licking the rotting juices.


    And if there were no flies lingering on the garbage, it could only mean that something had disturbed them just a moment ago.


    In fact, every interaction between objects would inevitably leave traces, and once mentioned, these traces would be quite obvious. However, few people were skilled at discovering these traces, let alone specting on the meaning behind each one.


    Fortunately, Sherlock was highly adept at it. Even the tiniest speck of evidence in the most obscure corner appeared to him like a virgin night, ringly bright against the crimson stains on white bedsheets.


    So, he leisurely entered the alley, paying no attention to the fact that the man with a crooked lip might escape because he knew the alley was a dead end.


    Just by taking a closer look at the surrounding architectural styles and streetyouts, it was evident.


    ...


    Alleys had a certain kind of magic. Once all light entered, it would be devoured, and the gasmps on the street, which were already few, couldn''t illuminate the area.


    A crimson dot swayed in the darknessit was Sherlock''s lit cigarette.


    "Heh, you''re quite clever, able to resist the temptation to summon your demonic contract devil and attack me... Are you afraid of exposing the fact that you''re hiding here?" Sherlock said as he walked, his surroundings obscured by shadows, revealing only faint outlines of trash cans.


    "..." There was no response except for the buzzing of flies and the squeaking of rats.


    "Don''t waste your time. I know you''re here," Sherlock exhaled a puff of smoke. "I''m a kind person. As long as youe out, we can have an open and honest conversation. Tell me why you came to bother me, and I promise to spare you."


    "..." Still no sound or movement.


    "Well, if you won''t talk, then don''t me me for making wild guesses. I recall a few days ago, I seem to have taken on a jobady in the upper city was murdered..." Sherlock continued a few steps forward, talking to himself.


    But just as he stepped over a toppled trash can...


    A gun, concealed in the darkest corner, suddenly lifted and then went off with a loud bang. A massive explosion illuminated the alley!


    As mentioned before, even though the Contractor possessed the ability to summon a demon from Hell, in the eyes of most first-stage Contractors, a gun was still the fastest and most effective way to end a human life.


    So, this assassin made a resolute choiceto pull the triggersince no matter how quick a person''s reaction was, it couldn''t match the speed of a bullet!


    However... in that split second, the crimson dot in the darkness flickered, leaving behind a residual afterimage. Then, it rapidly approached and, in the instant the gunshots lit up the surroundings, it had already insidiously settled near the assant, revealing a chilling outline.


    Of course, Sherlock couldn''t be faster than a bullet, but guns had a wthey could only hit what they were aimed at. Bullets couldn''t change direction.


    Thus, Sherlock only needed to discern the startled flies, the faint friction sounds of the gun and clothing, or simply be faster than the shooter.


    In the blink of an eye, Sherlock had taken cover in front of the man. In such close proximity, he naturally wouldn''t allow the assant to fire a second shot. A series of relentless blows resounded in the darkness, followed by the throwing of a handgun thatnded neatly at Watson''s feet.


    The mild-mannered doctor didn''t feel a shred of fear in response to the sudden gunshots. Instead, he instinctively stooped down and picked up the gun, deftly examined the remaining bullets, pulled back the slide,pressing the characteristic sound of the gun into a rhythmic whisper, as if he had done it millions of times and developed it into an instinct.


    Meanwhile, in the darkness, a tear in the fabric of reality had been torn open...


    A spike shot out once again, fiercely aiming for the back of Sherlock''s head.


    In fact, this assassin had exceptional control over his demonic power. Often, he could kill a target silently and retreat unscathed. However, his luck was not good this timehe encountered Sherlock.


    Sherlock suddenly pressed one of his thumbs into the assant''s eye socket, ruthless and inhumane, and the fragile eyeball was crushed by the force of his fingertip!


    "Ahhhh!" The intense pain struck without warning, almost causing the person to faint. But that wasn''t the end. Sherlock hooked his fingers around the eye socket and temple, and with all his might, yanked the man''s head, viciously smashing it against the ground, resulting in a dull thud as the skull collided with the bricks.


    At the same time, as if Sherlock had eyes on the back of his head, his other hand suddenly reached backward in a peculiar posture...


    Whether he had calcted the position of the rift in space opening or it was due to the unconsciousness of the Contractor, causing his demon to momentarily freeze, it didn''t matter. In any case, with a firm grasp, Sherlock directly seized the sharp spike that had just emerged!


    Then... he forcefully yanked it outward!!


    A massive mosquito was actually pulled out of the rift.


    With its slender body, bamboo-like limbs, densely terrifyingpound eyes, and that sharp proboscis!


    This mosquito clearly didn''t possess much strength; otherwise, it wouldn''t have resorted to constant sneak attacks. Now that it was caught, its entire body writhed violently. Its delicate legs scratched frantically, and its enormous wings made a horrifying "pping" sound.


    However, the two people still standing in the narrow alley seemed unaffected by the scene before them.


    The sound of intense gunfire suddenly erupted. Watson emptied an entire magazine in an instant, showering the entire body of the gigantic mosquito, creating one hole after another. Sherlock also grabbed its wings and brutally stomped on the tworgepound eyes with his foot, causing them to burst with a "pop" sound. Unsatisfied, he continued to pull at the sharp proboscis, digging out its remains with all his might!


    A series of tearing muscle sounds could be heard. The long needle, along with the brain and mashed tissue behind it, was all pulled out!


    The mosquito twitched a few times and theny motionless... But since Watson was a doctor, he reckoned that some caution remained in his bones, as he reached out and grabbed a trash can, tossing it with all the garbage inside toward the demon''s corpse.


    Rotten flesh that had been decaying for who knows how many months could generate arge amount of hydrogen sulfide and phosphine gas, something


    any doctor would know. So, immediately after that, a bullet shot into the ground, and the sparks it produced ignited all the rancid oil and putrefied juices. After a loud explosion, the pile of trash began to burn, crackling and popping.


    The narrow space was enveloped in mes. Sherlock and Watson stood side by side, looking at each other and then at the fire in front of them.


    "This thing should be dead now, right?"


    "Well... I don''t think it can survive." Watson evaluated as a doctor would.


    "It scared me just now."


    "Yes, I''m naturally timid, but it frightened me too." Watsonined, wearing a look of lingering fear on his face. However, a faint excitement colored his cheeks.


    "What should we do with this guy?" He pointed to the half-dead, pitiful figure that Sherlock was holding.


    Sherlock thought for a moment. "I want to ask him some questions, but he might not be willing to tell me. Do you have a suitable ce?"


    "Um..." Watson hesitated for a moment. In fact, he immediately understood the meaning behind Sherlock''s words about a "suitable ce." He struggled with some internal conflict, as if making an important decision regarding his boring life.


    After a while, he finally smiled with narrowed eyes.


    "Of course, I have one. Let''s go to my ce... I am a doctor, and I have all the necessary tools."


    "Good."


    And so, these two individuals, who had just finished drinking, carried the unconscious wretch and slowly disappeared into the night in London.


    ...


    ...


    On the street.


    "Oh, by the way, Mary told me that you seem to be a Contractor," Watson''s chatty voice came from the dim distance. "Why didn''t you summon your demon just now?"


    "Because..." Sherlock thought for a moment. "To be honest, I did try to summon it at first, but... my demon seems to have some issues."


    Sherlock''s demon indeed had a problem.


    Not long ago, his worm... or rather, his "tentacle," assimted a carcass hound in his dream. Although this demon wasn''t particrly powerful, it had teeth and ws, and it was fast enough to be of some assistance when summoned.


    The key point was that it didn''t matter if it died.


    So, when Sherlock first chased the man down the street, he attempted to tear open a rift in space and summon the dog.


    However, when he focused his thoughts...


    The spatial rift did appear.


    But it didn''t appear in front of him.


    Instead, it appeared... um... in Baker Street.


    It sounded very wrong. The spatial rift had actually appeared in Sherlock''s apartment on the second floor of 221B Baker Street!


    Sherlock was dumbfounded. After all, Baker Street was several kilometers away from his current location!


    And all Contractors knew that controlling demons had a range. Even the most powerful maniption-type Contractors, who were revered by the Church, could only control demons within a range of a few hundred meters at most. Beyond that distance, they couldn''t open a spatial rift, let alone control a demon.


    But Sherlock could clearly feel every movement of the dog and control it effortlessly.


    This control distance, which surpassed the limits of cognition, would astonish any Contractor, even the researchers at the "Academy of Vital Sciences" who studied demons day in and day out.


    Sherlock himself was surprised at first, but then he awkwardly discovered that the corpse hound seemed unable to leave his rented apartment!


    It wasn''t because the room was locked and the dog couldn''t turn the doorknob... but rather, it seemed that the dog couldn''t leave his domain. To put it more precisely, the corpse hound could only move within the area where the tentacle had crawled.


    What the hell was going on?


    Did being a Contractor mean that you could only summon demons in specific ces?


    Although expanding the domain''s range was possible by having the tentacle crawl, did he have to crawl all over Baker Street to summon it there?


    To summon it in the lower city, did he have to cover the entire infernal world with his domain?


    Well, there was a moment when Sherlock couldn''t tell whether this was a good thing or not. Because if he thought that way, when his domain expanded to cover all of London, wouldn''t he be able to summon his contracted demon anywhere, anytime, regardless of his location?


    Then what about outside London...


    The entire continent?


    The entire empire?


    But this thoughtsted less than half a second, and Sherlock wryly smiled to himself. Although it was theoretically possible, actually crawling the entire Baker Street with his tiny tentacle, at most seven to eight centimeters long, would probably take weeks. And crawling the entire lower city would take ten or twenty years.


    As for all of London... or even the entire empire...


    Haha, by then, humans would have long driven the demons back to the gates of Hell, or perhaps the demons would have ughtered all of humanity.


    "Sigh..."


    He sighed inwardly, realizing that he didn''t know if he should tell Watson about this strange summoning method, let alone how to exin it.


    Fortunately, Watson wasn''t that curious.


    The two of them chatted aimlessly, dragging the unconscious assassin along the ground. The man''s head bumped into various objects along the way, creating a ttering sound. Fortunately, he was a Contractor, or else a single idental bump could have killed him.


    ...


    ...


    An hourter, on a small street near the center of the lower city, Sherlock and Watson entered a well-decorated apartment building.


    There was even an elevator here.


    The busier a ce was during the day, the more deste it became at night. There were no pedestrians on the street. The two of them arrived on the 13th floor, where Watson lived.


    "I didn''t expect you to be wealthier than I imagined," Sherlockmented.


    "I have some experience in field medical treatment, so sometimes I go on missions with the field team, you know... the Church''s grants are always generous," Watson exined, opening the door to his home and gesturing for Sherlock toe in.


    The interior decoration wasn''t particrly luxurious, but it had a high aesthetic quality. As Watson had said before, he liked beautiful things...


    And everything in the room was neatly arranged, from the carpets to the tabletops, with angles parallel or perpendicr to the walls, without the slightest deviation.


    A person with dusty soles would probably feel embarrassed to enter such a room.


    Fortunately, Sherlockcked refinement.


    So, he dragged the assassin inside, leaving behind a striking trail of fresh blood on the immacte floor. Watson, as usual, paid no attention to it and remained cheerful. He led Sherlock to a closed door and pulled out the key, looking at Sherlock.


    "Um... I sometimes take on private jobs, so I remodeled one of the bedrooms. I hope you won''t be surprised."


    A hint of shyness appeared in his eyes, carrying a touch of allure.


    Sherlock nodded. "I had a feeling. Your sensitivity to the smell of blood couldn''t be exined simply by being a doctor. I would believe it if you told me you were immersed in blood every day."


    Watson let out a sigh of relief and then turned the key, opening the door...


    A strong scent of disinfectant mixed with the smell of blood wafted out. Watson felt along the wall for a moment, finding the valve for the gasmp.


    "Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle~"


    After a few light sounds, the room brightened up. At the same time, to Sherlock''s surprise, he couldn''t help but exim, "Hmm."


    In front of him was a not-sorge room. The walls were enveloped in a thickyer of foam padding, and there were no windows, making the lighting considerably dimmer than expected.


    Against the wall, severalrge disy cabs were filled with unidentifiable organs immersed in formalin.


    But more than that, what struck anyone the most was the massive operating table in the center of the room. It wasn''t so much an operating table as it was a ughterhouse butcher''s block. Some dark brown straps hung down from its edges, and beside it, a medical cart held various tools like forceps, saws, needles, and some remnants that resembled minced meat, sttered with red stains.


    In short, all kinds of creepy elements filled every corner of the room, making it extremely terrifying and filthy, creating a stark contrast to the clean living room outside the door.


    Watson smiled, digging his fingernail into the recently scabbed wound on his fingertip, restraining some kind of restlessness within him. But his expression remained as gentle and modest as ever as he apologized, "Sorry, every time I enter this room, I get a bit excited. And after the excitement, there''s always a period of exhaustion, so I often forget to tidy up... But the equipment is pretty sturdy, and the walls are soundproofed. You don''t have to be so careful when you ask questionster."


    Sherlock fell silent for a moment, looking at the handsome man in front of him, then lowered his head to nce at the spasming assassin. For the first time in his life, he felt that certain individuals might be better than him in the


    field of "questioning."


    "Um... why don''t you... do it?"


    "Me?" Watson was taken aback. "Isn''t that quite embarrassing?"


    "It''s okay. I can tell that you enjoy this kind of thing, and I just want him to answer a few questions. It doesn''t matter who does it."


    "In that case..." Watson''s expression turned slightly shy in a way that sent shivers down one''s spine. He smiled beautifully and said, "Okay, I''ll do it..."


    Tomaz Cordova...


    Actually, his name isn''t that important. In a while, he might not even remember his own name.


    As he slowly opened his one remaining eye, he saw a row of ss jars. Through the murky liquid inside, he could vaguely make out a jar with a decapitated head, stripped of its skin, floating inside.


    He swallowed saliva, thest image in his memory being two people sadistically torturing his contract demon.


    At the thought, his heart suddenly started pounding, and a sense of emptiness spread throughout his body.


    He could clearly feel that his contract demon had died...


    Due to the connection between a demon and its master, he now experienced unbearable pain, nausea, convulsions of all his muscles and organs, emptiness, and despair flooding his mind.


    This was the bacsh effect of losing a contract creature. Fortunately, it had only reached the first stage. If it had reached the second or third stage, the death of the contract demon might have directly turned its master into a madman, a vegetable, or even killed them instantly.


    After a long time, he finally forced himself to calm down amidst this sense of emptiness. Then, he looked around and realized he was in an operating room. However, the hygiene conditions were extremely poor, and all the facilities emitted an ufortable odor.


    His body was bound to an operating table, but not in a lying position. The table was raised to an almost standing angle, allowing him to observe the surroundings.


    "Am I being imprisoned?" he wondered.


    The next second, he heard a ''click'' sound as the door to the room was pushed open. A handsome man, even bordering on being beautiful, entered.


    He wore typical English attire, with a crisp shirt, trousers, a well-matched tie, and light yellow hair. There was a certain noble and quiet aura about him, and he held a cup of coffee that seemedpletely out of ce in this room.


    ...


    Their eyes met. Watson, with his hands in his pockets, smiled and took a sip of coffee. "Seems like you''re awake!"


    Presumably hearing the voice, another person quickly entered his line of sight.


    A tall, thin figure with sharp facial featuresSherlock Holmes!


    The only remaining eye of Tomaz Cordova widened suddenly, revealing an undisguised fury!


    As a servant of the Bader Inquisitor, after the Inquisitor''s death, he was stripped of all his duties, housing, property...


    Even his right to attend church services was taken away.


    As a devout believer, this was more distressing than if he had been killed!


    What made it even harder to ept was that he had followed the Bader Inquisitor for nearly twenty years, executing numerous tasks issued by the Tribunal. By utilizing the silent and invisible assassination abilities of his contract demon, he had umted quite a bit of honor. If he had umted a few more years, he might have caught the attention of the Church and been trained to be a second-stage contractor. By then, he might have even had the possibility of bing a clergy member!


    However, all of this was shattered on that fateful night a few days ago.


    His master... had died!


    Without any warning, it happened suddenly!


    Tomaz Cordova was only a servant, so naturally, he couldn''t know the truth of the matter. However, he was still a member of the Church and had his own sources of information after so many years of service.


    Thus, when he was expelled from the church, stripped of his faith, and lost all hope in life, he used up all his umted favors and reputation to find a name... Sherlock Holmes.


    A private detective from the lower district.


    Although he didn''t know the details, it was after he came into contact with this detective that the Bader Inquisitor died, dying on Baker Street, which happened to be the location of the detective''s office.


    Therefore, Tomaz Cordova naturally poured all his anger and resentment onto thismoner detective.


    In both reason and emotion, it made sense. However, the oue was a bit unexpected.


    ...


    "Very well, I can see from that look in his eyes that he holds a high degree of hostility towards me," Sherlock said, then approached the operating table and looked at the blood-stained face that hadn''t been wiped dry. "Don''t you have anything to say to me?"


    "Hahaha..." Tomaz Cordovaughed audaciously. "You, a lowlife from the lower district, won''t get any information from me. You will experience fear and unease in the cruelest of curses, trembling in the darkest corners until you are killed!"


    Sherlock furrowed his brow, ncing at Watson and asking, "Do people from the Church always talk like this?"


    "Pretty much," Watson sipped his coffee. "Those who pray too much have this way of speaking. Father Thompson is even more annoying."


    "Alright then." Sherlock shrugged and turned to Tomaz Cordova. "Based on my simple analysis, you should be the trusted confidant of the Bader Inquisitor. His death has dealt a significant blow to you. Your position within the Church is not high, and you can only investigate a destitute person like me. You single-mindedly want to kill me... Of course, judging from what you just said, you probably told someone my name. Otherwise, it wouldn''t be under these circumstances that you still delude yourself into thinking that I will be ''killed'' by something. Am I right?"


    Tomaz Cordova was taken aback, and cleverly kept his mouth shut, refusing to speak.


    "Who is the Bader Inquisitor?" Watson asked curiously.


    "Amission I received earlier. You probably also figured it out. It was a clergyman. Well... being a detective is not easy. asionally, we offend people," Sherlock sighed helplessly. "Alright then, I''ll leave the rest to you."


    "Alright." Watson rolled up the sleeves of his shirt neatly and meticulously above his forearms, creating a ceremonial atmosphere, as if he were about to sit down and y the piano. Of course, there was no piano here, so Watson took out a hollow iron mp from a drawer and stuffed it into Tomaz Cordova''s mouth...


    "Sir, my name is John Watson. Although it may seem audacious, I need to inform you that we are about to start a little game between us. During this time, to ensure that you don''t bite your own tongue and hinder our conversation, I''mpelled to extract all your teeth as a preventive measure."


    As he spoke, he pulled out a pair of pliers with dried bloodstains, and the juxtaposition of those stains and his well-groomed hands created a peculiar contrast.


    The next second, he directly inserted the pliers into the other''s mouth, skillfully twisting and wrenching a front tooth!


    "Ah, ah, ah, ahhh!"


    The gum instantly opened up into a bloody hole, and the person let out an inhuman scream from their throat!


    "Alright, alright, no need to be so loud. Pulling out your teeth is just a precautionary measure. Our torture hasn''t even begun yet," Watson''s eyes were squinted, seemingly enjoying the process. "By the way, if you have the desire to chat, just blink. Of course... I certainly don''t want you to give up so quickly.


    You are a person of faith, aren''t you? Let''s y for a few more hours."


    As he spoke, another tooth was forcibly removed.


    Sherlock was satisfied with Watson''s precautionary measures and techniques. He could tell that Watson was indeed experienced and adept. So, he decided not to disturb him any further...


    "You have fun; I''ll be waiting outside."


    After saying that, he walked out of the room and thoughtfully closed the door behind him.


    The screams were cut off, and Sherlock found a sofa to sit on... but less than half an hourter, Watson pushed open the door and walked out. He wiped the bloodstains off his hands, muttering somewhat disappointedly, "Really, I thought I could y a little longer."


    "Did you get any answers?"


    Watson smiled and said, "We just met, so you may not know me well. In my career, there''s no such thing as ''not getting answers.''"


    Without any reason...


    Suddenly appeared behind Sherlock''s neck...!


    It appeared so silently, abruptly, without any warning, as if it forcefully intruded into a storyline that didn''t belong to it. Hidden in the dim light, it didn''t make a single sound.


    The next moment!


    A sharp spike suddenly pierced through the rift in space, aimed directly at Sherlock''s head!


    "Tell me," Sherlock ignored Watson''s banter.


    Watson ran his hand through his hair, showing a hint ofint in his expression. "You reallyck consideration... Aren''t you going to thank me first? I bought you a drink, and now I have to help you with the interrogation... Do you know how mentally exhausting it is to interrogate someone?"


    "I think you can drop the act," Sherlock said with half-closed eyes. "Look at your flushed face!"


    "Is that so... Well, then I won''t pretend anymore," Watson was exposed, but he didn''t seem to mind at all. He continued, "He did tell someone your nameTheodore Sloan."


    "Who is that?"


    "A pope, with his subordinate church district in Clevnd, over 700 kilometers away from London."


    When Sherlock heard the words "pope," his eyebrows raised slightly.


    "And the gentleman in the room just now also mentioned that in about a month, Pope Theodore wille to London," Watson continued. Suddenly, he had a thought. "Wait a minute, a pope leaving his diocese anding to London? That''s not normal. Could it be... the Day of Holy Love is reallying?"


    Sherlock, of course, cared little about the Day of Holy Love. He had no respect or admiration for the individuals at the pinnacle of the Church''s power, unless they dropped dead and he was tasked with investigating the case. Otherwise, he had no desire to be involved with them.


    "But a pope shouldn''t bother with an ordinary civilian like me," Sherlock nonchntly remarked.


    "It''s not necessarily true. During the game of questions earlier, the gentleman mentioned that Cardinal Bader and Pope Theodore both had military experience on the battlefield. Although it was only a short three years, they were part of the Holy Vanguard, under General Barton''smand."


    "And as far as I know, those whoe from under General Barton''smand share amon trait... extreme protectionism."


    As Watson said this, his expression turned somewhat mncholic, seemingly reminiscing about the bloody battles they fought together along the shores of the Redik Strait.


    Sherlock leisurely lit a cigarette. "I see, so that''s how it is. The emotions cultivated within the army are indeed unique. After all, they were friends who once had nothing to eat for days on end."


    "What should we do? You''re in big trouble... Oh, finally, I meet a friend I can get along with," Watson''s words carried a tinge of sadness, but his tone didn''t match. It even had a hint of... wanting to witness the spectacle.


    Sherlock couldn''t be bothered. "Don''t worry, if someone has risen to the position of a pope, they''re definitely not foolish. If Minister Bader vited the Church''s regtions, he''s bound to die. Even if the other party is a bishop or even a cardinal, they can''t tantly ignore the Church and openlye to kill me."


    "But they could simply dispose of you without anyone caring about amoner like you."


    "I know two clergy members who can easily bring this matter to light."


    "You know clergy members?!" Watson was surprised, but then he remembered the rumors that the detective''s rmendation letter came from a high priest himself, and he nodded slightly.


    "Heh, you are indeed interesting. It''s not easy for amoner to know clergy members."


    "And you are quite interesting too. It''s even more challenging for amoner to be a military doctor in the Holy Army and retire unscathed at such a young age, all while suffering from severe post-war emergency syndrome. It''s strange to think about," Sherlock said, exhaling smoke.


    During this time, he noticed that Watson''s smiling expression seemed to be etched onto his face, and his eyes were slightly open, revealing a pair of cold and piercing eyes.


    But Sherlock paid no attention to it.


    "Alright, you haven''t asked about my past, and I won''t dig into your secrets either. I''m going back now. I just rented a ce, and if I frequently stay out overnight, thendlord will consider me a strange person. It won''t be good if I get kicked out of the apartment," Sherlock waved his hand.


    "Do you need me to apany you?"


    "Of course not..."


    After saying that, he put on his long coat and left Watson''s home.


    ...


    Sherlock left.


    Watson stood by the window quietly, watching the detective he had only met twice but who gave him a different feeling, walking out of the apartment building and standing on the street. He lit another cigarette and waited for a full fifteen minutes before finally getting into a carriage and slowly disappearing into the night of London.


    He stood by the window lost in thought, not knowing what he was thinking about.


    Suddenly, he realized he felt energetic... Although he had drunk a lot tonight, he didn''t feel the slightest hint of sleepiness.


    Perhaps he had found some kind of anticipation in this boring life.


    So Watson became even happier, and hisughter echoed lonely in the apartment, sounding somewhat eerie.


    Oh, wait, there wasn''t just one person in the apartment. Behind a small door, there was another unfortunate soul bound to an operating table. This person was lying t, with a pot of boiling hot oil suspended above his face. Through a calibrated funnel, drop by drop, the scalding oil fell onto his one remaining eye, which had been stripped of its eyelid. The wailing had likely transcended the boundaries of human existence, bing a series of desperate cries resembling a dying beast. And with each scream, his limbs, organs, his skin nowpletely exposed and covered in blood, as well as his nerves and muscles exposed to the air, all convulsed in agonizing pain.


    A visible state of suffering worse than death.


    But what was even more tragic was that no one cared about him. The door was shut, and his pitiful cries couldn''t reach the outside. He didn''t know when he would be able to die.


    The suffering continued, continued...


    Meanwhile, the doctor who appeared harmless but possessed the cruelest methods put on his coat, picked an expensive-looking bottle of liquor from the liquor cab, pushed open the apartment door, and left.


    ...


    Watson couldn''t sleep, so, like on those nights when he couldn''t sleep due to post-traumatic stress disorder, he picked up a bottle of alcohol and went downstairs from the apartment. He walked through the quiet streets, turned into a dark alley, and eventually arrived at a scrap steam boiler piled up in a corner.


    He knocked on the door...


    Well, that''s right, this boiler had a door. It was actually a piece of wood tied to the coal-feeding port with wire. However, the old man with a disability insisted on calling it a "door."


    Presumably, it made him feel like he had a "home."


    Soon...


    "Who is it?" an extremely impatient and almost angry voice came from inside.


    "It''s me," Watson said softly.


    "Get lost!" the voice shouted irritably.


    "I brought some alcohol..."


    There was a moment of silence, and then the sound of bottles being knocked over came from inside the door. Shortly after, the wooden nk door was pushed open, revealing an elderly man in his sixties, dressed in coarse clothing, sitting inside with a ttering smile.


    "Oh, it''s Watson. I didn''t recognize you just now. Pleasee in quickly..."


    The attitude of the old man towards Watson just now was very unpleasant. However, Watson didn''t mind at all and maintained a polite demeanor. He lowered his head and entered the old man''s "home."


    The space inside the abandoned steam boiler was definitely notrge, probably less than 5 square meters. Apart from a makeshift "bed" made of cardboard and stic in the corner, there were some scavenged garbage, discarded cans, and a small stove made of a handful of green bricks.


    Naturally, the steam boiler couldn''t provide much instion, so the steel surface, which had been blown by the night wind for a long time, emitted a chilling sensation.


    Watson, dressed in expensive attire and exuding a faint aristocratic aura, seemed out of ce in such a setting. However, he didn''t mind and casually grabbed a thick cardboard and sat on it.


    The old man also approached the small stove made of green bricks, tremblingly picked up a match with one hand, and struck it on the ground to ignite the dried grass inside the stove.


    From the way he moved, it was clear that there was something wrong with his legs.


    Finally, some warmth filled the "hut," and the dim light cast a contrasting shadow on the old man''s face. One could vaguely see his weathered skin, scar-like wrinkles that made him appear much older, and some wounds typical of scavengers, as well as... the missing ear on one side.


    Not only was his ear missing, but also the cheek and part of the cheekbone on that side were gone, exposing dried-up muscle tissue, making his entire facial contour incredibly grotesque yet pitiful. It was as if many years ago, a speeding steam train had passed by, shaving off all the facial structures that came into contact with it.


    Oh, in addition, one could also tell from the empty sleeve on his side that the old man had lost one of his arms.


    It''s really hard to imagine what kind of misfortunes he had experienced and how he managed to survive in this era with such a appearance.


    "Hehe, kid... can''t sleep, huh?" The old man chuckled with an extremely rough and hoarse voice. "Didn''t I tell you? If you can''t sleep, you cane and chat with me anytime. Old man, I may not have anything else, but I have plenty of time."


    He was making an effort to show some kind of benevolence and care as an elder, but his eyes never left the bottle next to Watson.


    Watson seemed to know exactly what kind of old man he was dealing with and handed the bottle to him with a smile.


    The old man immediately dropped the act, reached out, snatched the bottle, and pulled out the cork, pouring several big gulps into his mouth.


    "Urgh, urgh, urgh, urgh..."


    The pungent liquid passed through his throat, contorting his entire face and making him appear even more miserable.


    "So, what do you want me to foretell this time?" After finishing the drink, the old man looked morefortable,zily leaning against the bed, holding the bottle in his arms, and warming himself by the fire. It seemed like this was all the happiness he sought.


    "I met a friend, and I want to know... what kind of person he is."


    "A friend?" The old man paused for a moment, then a lewd smile appeared on his face.


    "A man, a drinking buddy."


    "Oh... a drinking buddy," the old man''s smile disappeared instantly. "Ahem, of course, I''ve already figured it out."


    Saying that, he straightened his body, sat by the me, gulped down a few more mouthfuls of the drink, and, fueled by the alcohol rushing to his head, slowly closed his eyes and started muttering incoherently.


    He continued mumbling for over ten seconds.


    "Hah..."


    The old man suddenly opened his eyes as if receiving some kind of divine enlightenment, his face serious. "Your friend... is an interesting person."


    "..."


    "..."


    "Is that all?"


    "That''s all," the old man said confidently, hugging the bottle tightly to his chest.


    "Such an ambiguous answer?"


    "How can you call that ambiguous?!" The old man looked solemn, then cleared his throat and adopted a passionate tone. "John Holmes, you are a prodigy, and your name will resound throughout the empire in the future. You will step by step reach the pinnacle of life, and in this process, you will undoubtedly need a friend... Clearly, you have found that person, and this is the beginning of your glorious life!"


    "My name is John Watson, not Holmes."


    "Oh." The old man ran his hand through his remaining few hairs and immediately regained hisposure. "A name is just a code. My divinations consume tremendous energy, so asionally making a mistake in one or two letters is understandable."


    "Is that so..." Watson sighed weakly. "Sometimes I really doubt if you can really foresee anything."


    "Of course I can!" The beggar straightened his body, not willing to admit defeat. "Don''t judge me by my current appearance. In my prime, I was a force to be reckoned with! Countless demons and powerful beings died at my hands, and the senior contractees of the church trembled at the mention of me. In the entire empire, only Dante Alighieri had the power to match me..."


    To call Dante Alighieri "the old immortal" like that was a reckless statement that only a penniless vagabond could make.


    "Alright, alright, you''ve said these words many times before. But how did someone as formidable as you end up in such a state, huddled in a street corner, recounting your heroic deeds to someone like me, a nobody?"


    "Hmph!" The old man, seeing that Watson had no intention of snatching the bottle back, rxed and slumped against the bed, wearing the characteristic decadence of a tramp.


    "It''s because I got injured a bit, and also, people who have reached my level no longer have any pursuit for food, shelter, or clothing. Living in a magnificent pce or a roadside hovel feels the same. Look at that old guy Dante, didn''t he return to his hometown to spend the rest of his life? As for why I''m telling you about my past heroic image... hehehe, I hope you won''t get conceited, kid."


    "Are you sure it''s not because I''m the only one willing to bring you alcohol?"


    "Of course not! Didn''t I say that you will change the entire empire in the future?" the old man said.


    "Then give me back the bottle."


    "Forget it!"


    The old man immediately yelled, clutching the bottle tighter with his only hand as if he was holding the whole world.


    The entire night passed in meaningless chatter.


    Watson didn''t know why he hade to chat with this old cripple. Perhaps it was because he had no friends, or maybe it was because in those difficult nights, only this old man could be disturbed without reservation. Regardless, between the old and the young, through the faint glow of the bonfire that night and bottles of expensive or cheap alcohol, they established a strange connection.


    The old man was a drunkard, that was beyond doubt. And for the sake of drinking, he could say anything.


    He had boasted countless times about having had a tremendously powerful and glorious life. But whenever Watson asked him about his name, he was either refused or given different answers.


    He could boast about Watson without any basis, saying that he possessed astonishing talent and that his name would resound throughout the empire in the future. But when asked about the specific talent or why the name "John Watson" would be known throughout the empire... the old cripple couldn''t give a clear answer.


    In the end, he was just a poor beggar who talked nonsense.


    Tonight, he had drunk too much.


    And then he started rambling about the nonsense rted to the Day of Sacred Love.


    He said that this year''s Day of Sacred Love would be the most extraordinary in history. He said that something important would happen on this Day of Sacred Love.


    He said... he would go to meet the Son of God and change the entire situation of the empire. He also said that the Holy Maiden would weep uncontrobly under the illumination of all the lights.


    He spoke of friendship, love, sorrow, betrayal, and other dramatic elements that would unfold on that day.


    He said that the alcohol tonight was really good.


    Watson didn''t listen to the old drunkard''s ramblings and remained skeptical about the arrival of the Day of Sacred Love. He quietly extinguished the bonfire to prevent the drunkard from being suffocated in his steam boiler. Although for the old man, it might have been a release.


    Then, he pushed the door open and stepped into the early morning of London, walking along the street corner in the cold dampness.


    After sitting all night, his suit was a bit wrinkled, and his expression was a bit weary. However, his eyes always carried a gentle smile. He walked alone in the fog, forming a hazy and poetic scene.


    If a young girl woke up and saw such a person passing by, she might be captivated by the momentary encounter and forget about the surrounding coldness.


    Watson walked like this for three to four hours until he reached the intersection of Loughton Street, the location of White Thorn Security Company.


    Unusually, his colleagues were all present today. Even the three members of the field team, who had been running around chasing the "eye-gouging demon," had returned. They were all gathered in the lobby on the ground floor. Even Father Thompson hadn''t said his morning prayer in his office.


    When Watson entered, Miss Murray''s gaze shifted slightly. "Now that everyone is here, we can begin."


    "Are we having a meeting?" Watson asked, slightly puzzled.


    Immediately, Father Thompson cleared his throat. "Ahem, there is something I need to inform you all of, which mighte as a surprise. The Day of Sacred Love, after 29 years, has been confirmed tomence in one month in London!"


    "The Day of Sacred Love?!"


    "Oh my goodness!" Miss Murray eximed, covering her mouth. For a woman, even an almost forty-year-old, out-of-shape spinster, hearing those words would surely make her heart blossom.


    The remaining staff members were also astonished and exchanged simr nces.


    As for Watson, he stood there dumbfounded, not knowing what expression to put on his face.


    The Day of Sacred Love... had it really arrived?!!!


    "Quiet, please," Father Thompson continued. "As White Thorn Security Company is the localw and order management agency, we received notice one month in advance due to the location being London. After all, it is highly likely that the Son of God wille to London soon... As a matter of duty, we are required to assist in protecting the safety of the Son of God. However, we have not received any phone calls or written instructions yet. I believe it is possible that the Son of God has his own security team. Therefore, all personnel should maintain their original work schedules but refrain from going out recently and be ready for deployment at any time. Meeting adjourned!"


    While Father Thompson''s prayers could make people suffer, at least his instructions were concise and clear. With such an important meeting, it only took him less than five minutes to conclude.


    But at the end of the meeting...


    "Watson,e with me to my office."


    "Alright."


    Watson responded with a hint of curiosity.


    A few minutester, they were in the second-floor office.


    Father Thompson waved his finger lightly, and a chair slid forward to the desk. He looked at John Watson, who had just entered, and gestured for him to sit. Then, he waved his finger again, and the office door closed with a click, locking it.


    Watson maintained his usual humble and polite demeanor but couldn''t help feeling curious. "May I ask... what is the matter for which you wanted to see me?"


    Father Thompson wore a serious expression and didn''t speak immediately. He took some time to organize his thoughts. Finally, he began, "There is indeed something I wanted to discuss with you, and it might sound peculiar."


    "Peculiar?"


    "Yes... I want to assign you a secret mission."


    Watson furrowed his brow slightly. It was indeed peculiar because he was just a doctor. Usually, at most, he would act together with the field team. It didn''t make sense for him to be individually assigned a mission.


    Father Thompson didn''t pay attention to Watson''s surprise and continued, "This mission is confidential, and you must not disclose it to anyone. However, rest assured, the mission itself should not be dangerous. But... I hope that when you hear the mission details, you won''t be too surprised."


    Father Thompson spoke with an extremely solemn and cautious expression. He straightened his posture and said, "I hope... you can find the Son of God."


    "..."


    A silence of more than ten seconds ensued.


    Or rather, astonishment!


    Normally, Watson would squint his eyes, a habitual expression to conceal the true emotions in his gaze. After all, he didn''t want others to see the substantial murderous intent in his eyes when he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. But at this moment, he couldn''t control the muscles on his face, and he slowly widened his eyes.


    For a moment, he even doubted whether he had misheard: "Uh... Are you saying the Son of God?"


    "Yes."


    Watson tilted his head in contemtion for a moment. "Alright, but to avoid any misunderstandings or dissatisfaction from the Vatican, shouldn''t we be conducting this mission with the Son of God''s knowledge?"


    "Please rest assured, that won''t happen..."


    Watson smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Unless you tell me right now who issued the order, otherwise, I have every reason to refuse."


    His tone was calm and gentle, but his attitude was firm.


    Father Thompson frowned, lowered his head, and began to contemte, looking at the smooth surface of the desk. He pondered


    for a long time, even longer than when he announced the mission...


    Finally, when the sunlight outside the window began to shift and illuminate his desk, the middle-aged priest lifted his head and looked at Watson.


    "This mission was directly issued by the Emperor of the Empire..."


    ____________.


    <b>This novel will be updated only on Sunday. Every Sunday, 10 chapters will be updated at once.</b>


    <b>Agreeing to Create Bad Games, What the hell isTitanfall?</b>


    <b>A Story of Taking Home a Lonely Gal from My ss and Turning Her into An Elegant Beauty.</b>


    <b>When Menhera Changes into A Wife''s Apron</b>


    <b>Senpai, How About Hiring a Guard?</b>


    <b>What Happens If a Friend''s Older Sister Falls in Love With a GloomyPerson?</b>


    <b>We, Who Have No Tomorrow, Fell in Love Yesterday</b>

 Chapter 51-60: The Emperor

    Chapter 51-60: The Emperor


    Chapter 51: The Emperor


    In the Empire...


    Naturally, the Empire had an Emperor, even in this strange era where the Holy Light was worshipped by all, and the influence of the church spread throughout the world. The existence of the Emperor was inevitable.


    This was not merely a matter of habit or the result of brainwashing by the ruling ss over the years. It was because... people needed to live.


    All living beings naturally strive for survival, and survival requires food, resources, spiritual recognition, self-awareness, and so on. In other words, humans would inevitably pursue their interests as a criterion, and in the pursuit of interests, conflicts would arise. With conflicts, groups would form, and at the human level, there needed to be a bncer of interests.


    Thus... the Emperor would appear!


    This was the inevitable trend of social existence. It might manifest in different eras, under different names, and in different forms, but it could never be eradicated.


    Even if one day the Church was overthrown, the Holy Light faded, and faith crumbled.


    The Emperor... would still be the Emperor.


    And in the present day, the Emperor was a venerable old man named Augustin Felty.


    If you didn''t deliberately think about his name, you would almost subconsciously forget it. He had been in power for almost 60 years, and the people of the Empire had already tightly integrated his identity with that of the Emperor.


    During his reign, the Empire went from decline to prosperity, weathered the second demonic invasion that was akin to a dark age, saw robust development in steam technology, its economy did not regress, and the poption showed a steady growth trend. Three major councils were established, amending the Imperialws, and a managementmittee with over three hundred members spread across various areas of the Empire. Almost every aspect, be it judiciary, civil administration, agriculture, taxation, regional coordination, and supply, disyed the most perfect state in hundreds of years.


    Augustin the Great Emperor could almost be called the most outstanding monarch in modern human history, especially since the opening of the gates of hell.


    So...


    When Thompson, the priest, said that this mission was personally issued by the Emperor, Watson couldn''t help but fall silent again.


    Why would His Majesty the Emperor seek the Holy Son of the Church?


    Though he could imagine that the power struggle between the Church and the government in the shadows would undoubtedly be extremely brutal and protracted, on the surface, both sides had maintained a harmonious rtionship. So why, during such a noteworthy time like the Holy Love Day, would they suddenly begin to privately contact the high-level members of the Church?


    And starting directly with a candidate for the next Pope, without any gradual procedure?!


    These thoughts shed through Watson''s mind. Initially, he hadn''t intended to think too much because he knew he probably wouldn''t figure out the reasons.


    But then, as he lifted his head and caught a glimpse of the few white hairs on Thompson''s head that were engulfed in sunlight...


    Suddenly, he realized a possibility that he had overlooked for so long...


    Emperor Augustin was already over 80 years old.


    Even if those old monsters from the Academy of Life Sciences could extend his lifespan for many years, what then? Could an elderly man who seemed to be at the end of his life continue to sit on that throne?


    Was it possible...


    That it was time for the throne to be passed on...


    Seeing the moment of enlightenment in Watson''s eyes, Father Thompson spoke slowly and seriously, "No matter what you''ve thought of, always remember your identity. You are just amoner from the lower district of London, not a noble, let alone a member of the Parliament. The only reason you are involved in this task is because you work in the security management agency in London, and at the same time, you have the best external appearance. That''s all. Also, you must understand that besides you, there are certainly many others searching for the Holy Son. This is such an important task that it couldn''t possibly be entrusted to just one person. You are just one of many options. So... as long as youplete your task diligently, it will be enough."


    Father Thompson spoke solemnly and slowly, as if afraid that the young man in front of him might miss even the slightest detail.


    Watson smiled and nodded, expressing his sincere gratitude. He understood his boss''s intentions  in a mission like this, the executor must not show the slightest negligence, but also must not overstep their boundaries.


    "Thank you," he said genuinely.


    He stood up and left the office.


    ...


    ...


    221B Baker Street.


    Sherlock had returned to his apartment.


    The experience fromst night at the underground tavern was still vivid in his mind  the chaotic scene, the sudden appearance of the assassin, the mes in the alley, and the possibility of bloody revenge from a high-ranking member of the Church...


    All of these events had erupted within such a short period, likely surpassing the limit of eptance for an ordinary lower district civilian.


    However, Sherlock didn''t care.


    As he had said before, he was only interested in unsolved mysteries, sopared to those incidents, the man named John Watson seemed to be more intriguing.


    Oh, there was one other thing that concerned him  his contract demon.


    Now, he opened the door to his apartment...


    Still not knowing how the worm-like tentacle was connected to the distorted sun above, since the encounter with the colossal eye in the sun, Sherlock could see the areas where the tentacles had crawled in the real world.


    After a whole night''s time, the tentacles had covered the entire room and delineated the stairs in front of the door, as well as an area of about 100 meters in diameter on the street, all as Sherlock''s territory.


    This speed surprised Sherlock because based on the pace of the small tentacle from before, it wouldn''t have been able to crawl that fast.


    Could something have changed in the dream?


    Well, the puzzles had to be solved one by one, and since he wasn''t asleep yet, he decided to test the extent of his control over the demon.


    Sherlock came to the window, looking down at the street below. There was a dim alley across the street, right in the location of his domain, and it wasn''t easily noticeable.


    He focused his mind and quietly tore open a void in that location.


    Very good, the void could be easily torn open in his domain. Immediately, the demon dog maintained the same posture as during the previous summoning and walked out of it.


    It wasn''t any different from thest time he called it.


    Next, Sherlock decided to test if the demon dog could move outside of his domain. However, just as he was about to control the demon dog to move outside, he hesitated. He felt a peculiar sensation of ''wanting more'' deep within his consciousness.


    Taking a moment to think, he found it somewhat silly, but he followed the intuition in his mind and turned his attention back to the alley across the street.


    With a slight focus...


    To his surprise, he saw a second void tear open...


    And another demon dog emerged from it.


    This caused Sherlock to fall silent again. It was impossible, as anyone knew that each contract holder could only have one demon. Even Dante, who had reached the fourth stage as a contract holder, the peak of individual power in the Empire''s history, could only summon one demon.


    No one could open two voids!!


    Just like there couldn''t be two suns in the sky...


    Yet, with the appearance of the second void, another rotting corpse dog walked out.


    This left Sherlock puzzled for a moment. Despite it defyingmon sense, he found a highly persuasive reason for this phenomenon.


    The two dogs were, in theory, not his contract demons.


    His demon was still the tentacle, which could upy the bodies of other demons and forcibly grant them the element of ''control''.


    So, what exactly was that tentacle?


    At this moment, he could hardly imagine what the sun with its terrifying tentacles could be...


    Was it a celestial body?


    Or some kind of life form?


    It seemed more like thetter, considering it had ''eyes''. But why was it suspended in the sky? What was it observing? Did it possess intelligence? Could itmunicate?


    Countless puzzles began to stir uncontrobly in Sherlock''s mind. His desire to explore the unknown made him smile uncontrobly.


    "Hahaha, truly fascinating..."


    Standing alone in the room, he suddenly burst into inexplicableughter, seeming quite neurotic. Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson, thendy, wasn''t around, or she might have kicked Sherlock out.


    "Take it slow... like undressing a woman''s clothes, one piece at a time, it''s more enjoyable." He gestured in front of him, making a motion as if ying the violin. However, he recalled that his violin had long been rendered unusable by a certain unfortunate criminal, so he put his hand down.


    Then, he forced himself to focus on the two demons before him.


    ...


    After several simple experiments, Sherlock confirmed that these two demons could only move within the domain. Once they reached the edge of the domain, they automatically started to hesitate, never taking a step outside. Even his orders to have them ''step out of the domain'' becamepletely ineffective.


    Even his attempts at some tricky ways, like having one dog bump the other to move it out, failed.


    However, there was a piece of good news. Within his domain, regardless of the location, he could exert full control over his contract demons without being affected by distance.


    He had previously tried and could clearly give orders to the demons in his domain from a few kilometers away. The special perceptual abilities within the domain, after undergoing Sherlock''s powerful calctions and mental constructs, could evenpletely rece ''vision''.


    "From the looks of it, if I want my demon to have arger area of activity, the first task is to expand... Alright then, my next goal is to upy the entire Baker Street."


    With that, Sherlock spent a while controlling the two dogs and ordered them back into the void cracks. Then, he sat on the sofa in the room, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.


    ...


    A few minutester, when he opened his eyes again, the scorching winds and the pervasive smell of blood of hell had enveloped him.


    When he had left previously, in order to prevent the dogs and the tentacle from being locked inside the room, Sherlock had deliberately left the door open. As a result, the winds of hell could easily blow in. After a whole night, the furniture and floor in the room had acquired a distinct rusty and dpidated feel.


    Though it looked old and worn, Sherlock found the feeling ratherforting, as if his domain was merging with the entire hell.


    However, at this moment, he didn''t have the time to savor this feeling.


    Because... he was captivated by the sight before him.


    The sight before Sherlock was a mass of countless tentacles, coiled on the floor right in front of him. He couldn''t find the right words to describe it, but he knew that this thing was once a corpse of a rotting corpse dog not long ago.


    When he left the dream earlier, his domain had bound three rotting corpse dogs. One was assimted by the tentacle, bing a summonable demon. Based on the recent experiment in the real world, he was certain that the other one had been assimted in the same way.


    As for thest one, the one in front of him now, it was obvious that the tentacle hadn''t assimted it.


    Instead, it cruelly invaded its body and performed some kind of... hatching process.


    Now, this corpse had be the nest of countless tentacles. The pitch-ck squirming appendages wrapped around it, emerging from bloody holes in its mouth, eyes, and body.


    These tentacles were independent yet seemed to be able to merge like sticky mud. They crawled out of the corpse, crossed the upied domain, and appeared on the streets of hell.


    Sherlock looked at these horrifying things surrounding him but felt no fear, only curiosity. He got up, walked out of the room, descended the stairs, and stood in the wind of hell, his coat fluttering in the breeze.


    He gazed around the long street.


    A scene more shocking than hell itself unfolded before his eyes...


    Lying all over the long street were demon corpses...


    Sherlock couldn''t recognize the species or names of these demons, but they were undoubtedly dead. Just like the corpse of the rotting corpse dog in his room, they all became nests for the tentacles. Thick or slender ck tendrils grew on their bodies, swaying like algae submerged in seawater, wildly waving in the raging water flow, yet at the same time, they extended upwards towards the sky, establishing some kind of iprehensible connection with the ground.


    This scene exuded a sense of mystery and the unknown. What was even more astonishing was that many of the tentacles, after being nourished by the demon corpses, had detached and were crawling on the ground. They squirmed and crawled toward the edge of the domain, relentlessly devouring the control of the surrounding space.


    Sherlock observed the surroundings, feeling the growing connection between himself and the increasing number of tentacles, along with a peculiar pleasure from standing within his domain.


    He smiled.


    Suddenly, he felt something faintly touching his feet.


    Instinctively, he looked down and saw his original small tentacle crawling on his shoe, as if trying to climb up his pants, like a pet seeking praise after aplishing something great.


    However, it was quite clumsy. Just as it reached his knee, it slipped and fell to the ground, looking pitiful as it struggled to recover.


    Sherlock bent down, picking it up in his palm.


    "What''s this? Are you showing off to me?"


    The tentacle couldn''t speak, but its cheerful wriggling in his hand brought a bigger smile to Sherlock''s face.


    At the same time, he was somewhat surprised to find that he could vaguely sense what this little creature wanted to convey.


    "Is this what they call the patibility'' between the contract holder and their demon?"


    [Compatibility]... Well, it didn''t need much exnation. Just a little thought would make it clear that it was the connection between the contract holder and their demon.


    Whether it was summoning, controlling, or the dream of awakening, all of it reflected this connection.


    The higher thepatibility with their demon, the stronger themonality between them. When it reached a certain level, it would result in a transformative growth known as ''evolution of stages'', as described in the teachings of the church.


    Between the first and second stages, the contract holder would be able to understand what their demon was trying to express. It was a crucial point they must pass.


    Sherlock had read about this from books.


    But what surprised him was that he had only be a contract holder for less than a week, and hispatibility had already grown to such an extent?


    "Or is it because I brought this little one to hell, let it crawl around, build nests, and breed everywhere, without giving it too many constraints? So, it''s now very happy and sees me as a dependable object without any dignity?"


    It seemed like the tentacle sensed Sherlock calling it a dumb pet because it wriggled more happily.


    At the same time, Sherlock felt that the creature was transmitting another message to him.


    It seemed to be expressing a desire to return.


    "Return..."


    At first, Sherlock didn''t fullyprehend the specific meaning, but he clearly felt that this so-called ''return'' wouldn''t bring him any negative consequences.


    "Alright then, show me what else you can do."


    Upon hearing Sherlock''s words, the tentacle happily rolled around in his palm, almost falling off, but it managed to climb back up.


    Next, it seemed as if it wanted to show off. It shook its tiny tail end and then slithered into Sherlock''s palm.


    Slowly...


    It melted away.


    Though it was difficult to describe, that little tentacle seemed to transform into a state somewhere between solid and liquid, slowly following the sweat nds in Sherlock''s palm and entering his hand.


    Throughout the process, he didn''t feel a thing.


    "What are you doing?"


    Sherlock murmured as he spent some time sensing his body but found no changes.


    He subconsciously reached into his pocket, took out a cigarette, and put it in his mouth. He then tried to take out the lighter habitually...


    But just as he turned his head, he was surprised to find that a slender tentacle had already reached his side, holding the lighter...


    "Click."


    The me rose from the cotton wick soaked in fuel, approaching the cigarette in a pleasing manner.


    "..."


    Sherlock fell silent for a moment, realizing that the tentacle had lit the cigarette just right. He allowed it to do so, then casually put the lighter back into his pocket.


    "It seems like you''ve be quite sensible," he said with a smile, taking a deep drag from the cigarette and exhaling the smoke into the scorching wind of hell.


    Suddenly, an idea struck him.


    If he smoked in hell, would the cigarette disappear when he returned to the real world?


    If not, he could save a lot of money on cigarettes in the future!


    This thought excited Sherlock even more, and he looked at the twisted and terrifying tentacles surrounding him, experiencing a strange feeling of being worshiped and adored.


    Suddenly...


    "Mr. Holmes?"


    "Mr. Holmes, are you there?"


    In the real world, someone knocked on the door, bringing him back to reality.


    "Coming," Sherlock responded, opening the door and putting on a somewhat gentlemanly demeanor. "What can I do for you, Madam Hudson?"


    Mrs. Hudson stood at the door, wearing amon household long dress, which was a light blue and appeared to be of decent quality, though a bit worn from washing.


    In this era, the people''s faith in the Church was ingrained in every aspect of life, and most women''s fashionable clothes had a touch of the nun''s habit. Some were even the same style with colorful patterns added to the neckline and cuffs.


    Like the pajamas Mrs. Hudson was wearing, it had a little bear printed on it, which was not popr in the market.


    "Madam Hudson? Hehe, what an odd title. Just call me Hudson... or Madam is fine!"


    Sherlock smiled.


    To be honest, addressing her with such a title at her age seemed a bit strange, but Sherlock decided to change the address.


    "It''s really nothing important. I made too much for dinner and didn''t want it to go to waste, so I came to see if you were here," she said casually, with a hint of the old pro in her tone.


    This made Sherlock look at her in a new light. She was obviously a kind-hearted person; otherwise, she wouldn''t have taken the risk of helping a stranger.


    However, she was also able to chat so easily with a man she had just met and even dared to invite him to her home for a meal. In the Lower City, after renting a house to someone, it was essential to find an opportunity to see the person''s character, manners, and check for alcoholics, gamblers, etc. It was a measure of security for one''s property.


    Therefore, this "Madam Hudson" seemed to be someone who understood the ways of survival in the Lower City.


    Oh, almost forgot, she was someone who owed a lot of money to loan sharks... Well, Sherlock had to reassess her again.


    "Really? The Holy Light be praised, I''m so grateful. Please give me two minutes; I need to change into something more presentable."


    "A considerate gentleman indeed..."


    With that, Sherlock returned to his bedroom, changed into a white shirt, put on a sleeveless jacket, and even tidied up his somewhat messy hair.


    Meeting andy was, in some ways, more important than meeting one''s fiance''s parents.


    ...


    ...


    A few minutester.


    On the first floor of 221B, Mrs. Hudson''s home.


    As soon as one walked in, it was evident that the owner of this room could not be a married woman, nor even a young woman with a love interest!


    A woman in the throes of love, whether satisfied, attached, regretful, resentful, or wishing to p herself, etc., would be impossible to hide, no matter how much she decorated and concealed it.


    The painting board near the window, the bunches of asparagus on the bedside, the nket with a faint fragrance, and even the neatly arranged shoes by the door all conveyed the message that this so-called Mrs. Hudson was trying her best to live her life. And she was just living for herself, without any assumptions about anyone else entering her life.


    Even the chair at the table and thepletely mismatched cutlery on it were newly bought within these few days.


    At this moment, Mrs. Hudson was carrying a pot of soup to the dining table, and Sherlock helpfully arranged their utensils neatly.


    "Beef." Mrs. Hudson put down the soup pot and smiled as she mentioned the word.


    Sherlock was slightly taken aback. Beef wasn''t something you could easily get your hands on. Subconsciously, he looked into the pot, and in the golden broth, some ingredients with warm colors were quietly floating.


    "Not a lot, I found a bargain in the market in the neighboring district a few days ago."


    "This kind of good thing can be found on a bargain?"


    "Yes, a woman from the Upper City brought a few servants to our area to buy beef. I guess she wanted to invite someone from the Church for dinner and, for some reason, didn''t want the beef from our district, probably because she heard someone''s nonsense about it not being fresh since the ughter happens here in the Lower City." Mrs. Hudson happily said, "But during the purchase, that woman actually said she didn''t want the beef from the hindquarters because it''s where the excrementes out, so it''s dirty and disrespectful to the people of the Church."


    Oh my God! The people from the Upper City are really crazy. They don''t even know that the most delicious part of the beef is in the hindquarters..."


    "...Maybe they''re not eating it for the taste, just for the ritual."


    Maybe. Anyway, a few people around us saw the scene and talked to the butcher at the stall, and they distributed the leftovers," Mrs. Hudson carefully sprinkled some pepper into the soup and took a deep whiff of the increasingly enticing aroma. "Sometimes, the stupidity of the Upper City seems to bring some benefits to the people in the Lower City."


    With that, she used arge spoon todle some soup into the dish in front of Sherlock. The potatoes, diced into small pieces, had been stewed until they were soft and appetizing.


    The meal that followed was not slow but very harmonious. Mrs. Hudson even prepared some beer. Sherlock''s pretend skills were quite good, with humorous small talk and proper dining etiquette, making thendy believe he would be a trouble-free tenant.


    What impressed her most about Sherlock was that he only answered her questions without prying into her private matters.


    Such a sense of trust was quite rare.


    As for Sherlock, he didn''t need to inquire. In fact, he trusted his own deductions and judgments more than others'' self-descriptions.


    Mrs. Hudson may seem serious about life, kind-hearted, and even a bit naive, but she was astute in some matters.


    Otherwise, she wouldn''t have hidden arge iron rod behind the curtains within easy reach.


    Sherlock had every reason to believe that if he ever got drunk or behaved abnormally, this kind-heartedndy would pour scalding soup on his face and then use that iron rod to knock him down. The next day, he''d be kicked out of the ce.


    Perhaps that''s the unique contrast of a simple person in this era, influenced by the current circumstances, that makes her kind but resolute.


    Just then...


    "Meow~ Meow~"


    Scratching sounds came from the door.


    Mrs. Hudson turned her head to look at the door and said with a smile, "It must be that little one smelling the aroma of the meat soup and can''t resist."


    As if to verify her words, the scratching sounds at the door became more intense. Apanied by pitiful meows, the little milk cat''s eyes were fixed in the direction of the meat soup, unable to look away.


    Thebination of wanting to eat but also being a little scared made Sherlock find it somewhat amusing, yet he also felt a touch of concern in his smile.


    "Given how quickly the temperature is dropping, this little one... might freeze to death this winter..."


    In order to counter the opening of the Devil''s Gate, the first King, like a tyrant, cut off the newly emerging research on a revolutionary new energy source - electricity. Instead, all the economy and talent were diverted to the development of steam technology.


    This move was tantamount to killing a revolutionary study in its infancy, and even centuriester, many schrs continued to criticize this mad act.


    However, the soldiers of the Holy Order stationed along the Redke Sea knew very well that if they hadn''t made such a resolute decision, the steam technology would not have flourished. Without steam-powered vehicles, high-poweredbat armors, and the subsequent war weaponry, the demons would never have given humanity the chance to slowly develop new energy sources.


    Thus, 70% of the Empire''s history books had a line that read - "Without steam, there would be no humanity."


    The rapid development of steam technology led to the requisitioning of most of thend around the city to build massive steam engines that powered the entire city. This rapid process resulted in the separation of humans from the natural world, and the industrial production and acid rain marginalized animals even further.


    As a result, the desire to dominate, inherent in human nature, found no outlet.


    And so... pets appeared! They quickly became a trend among the upper ss and then spread to almost all strata of society.


    In an odd phenomenon, the lower ss tended to enjoy keeping pets even more.


    Perhaps the reason was a kind of love and yearning for life that the rich didn''t possess.


    As a result, the pet market in London''s Lower City was much more popr than in the Upper City.


    At the corner of Baker Street, there were several pet supply shops, and at the junction of another street, there was even a pet hospital, which wasn''t cheap.


    At 6:30 in the morning, Sherlock arrived in the area amidst the drizzling rain.


    Pet stores usually opened early in the morning because if they didn''t clean up in the morning, the entire house would smell of urine.


    "Jingle-jangle..."


    The wind chime behind the door made a pleasant sound, but for the shopkeeper, who was forced to get up early in the morning, it had little effect on brightening his mood.


    Seeing Sherlock walk in, he could only force a smile.


    "Respected sir, what do you need?"


    "A warm cat bed, not too big, but enclosed, preferably with a curtain, to keep a little one less than two months old warm during this winter," Sherlock said, gesturing with his hands to indicate the size of the cat bed he had in mind.


    This guy probably had some strange quirks; he seemed to like putting things in enclosed spaces. The criminals stuffed into suitcases could attest to that.


    Now, he wanted to find a more enclosed cat bed, warm and furry, so that the little milk cat could curl up inside and stay warm, while also blocking the wind.


    Soon, the shopkeeper found a few that looked suitable. Sherlock chose one with a deep yellowish hue, simr to the little milk cat''s fur color, so it could quickly adapt and feel at home.


    ......


    The rain outside the shop showed no signs of stopping.


    London''s weather had an inexplicable stubbornness  be it windy, rainy, snowy, or foggy, the fog wouldn''t disperse until noon. The city bore traces of mist, vagrants, chimneys, church bells, and faith, which were impossible to erase.


    In the hazy morning, a in carriage appeared on the long street. Its simple frame had no decorations andcked any striking colors. It calmly pushed through the morning mist, treading on puddles along the road, and stopped at a carriage stop by the side of the street.


    In a proper manner, even though there were no other carriages or pedestrians on the road, it still adhered to the most optional traffic rules.


    Shortly after, a man with sses alighted from the carriage. He was not tall, and his age could be anywhere from under thirty to over fifty. Every person who saw him would experience a momentary confusion about his age. Very few could imagine that a young-looking man would have such calm eyes  eyes so tranquil as if they had experienced countless years of vicissitudes. Even if a demon were to open its bloody mouth in front of him, his eyes wouldn''t waver.


    Thankfully, the reflection on his sses covered those eyes that seemed to have aged prematurely by decades.


    During this process, a ck umbre opened over his head, preventing a single drop of rain from falling on him.


    "Master, you still have about fifteen minutes. If you''re dyed, it might cause unnecessary panic on the receiving end," said a young girl who was holding the umbre. She was about twenty years old, had an erect figure, and was taller than the man with sses. She wore the most traditional maid attire and had a clean appearance, bordering on aloofness, which made people feel hesitant to approach her, even if she lowered her eyes. She gave off an air that discouraged others from getting too close.


    "It''s just a coincidence. I wanted to take a look. I haven''t seen any small animals in the house for over a decade," the man replied casually, his demeanor aloof, but his tone amiable.


    The master and servant crossed the street and headed to the first pet shop on the opposite side.


    "Jingle-jangle~" The wind chime rang once more.


    Even the shopkeeper was surprised. On this rainy morning, consecutive customers showed up. Did this signify a lucky day?


    "I''ve already wrapped it for you. It only needs to be cleaned with water. I wish you a pleasant life," the shopkeeper smiled as he handed over the packaged cat bed to Sherlock. He then forced a stylish smile to greet the two customers who had just entered. "Both of you came really early. It''s cold outside. Do you need any help?"


    During this conversation, Sherlock had already turned around, looking content as he held the cat bed in his hands. Like every Lower City resident about to prepare a new home for their pet, he felt a little warmth and satisfaction.


    Just as they were about to leave the store''s front entrance...


    He turned his head slightly to look at the short man beside him. Then, very casually, he lifted his gaze and nced at the young maid, as if an ordinary passerby instinctively ncing at an attractivedy.


    The girl''s expression didn''t change at all, and Sherlock''s eyes remained calm. The two exchanged nces for just a second.


    The door was then pushed open and closed, as if foreshadowing that there would be no further intersections between them.


    "What''s wrong?" The young man seemed to notice something unusual from his maid''s expression and asked.


    "That person just now?"


    "That person we encountered in the store. Even when we met the Pope or the Archbishop, you wouldn''t intentionally take a second look."


    The maid remained silent for a while. As a servant, she naturally wouldn''t defy her master''s will. However, when it came to the person who passed by, she didn''t know what to say or even why she nced at him. At that moment... it was just an instinctive reaction.


    "He''s just an ordinary Imperial citizen, a low-level contract. I might have been a little absent-minded back then," the maid humbly replied.


    The man in front didn''t think much about it, or perhaps countless thoughts rushed through his mind in an instant. In any case, he nodded, "After such a long journey to London, you must be tired. Rest well when we settle downter."


    He looked towards a corner of the carriage. When he thought that he was only 26 years old and would meet a woman next month who he would spend his life with, yet had never seen each other before, he felt that it was incredibly absurd.


    "We will alight at the Ondo Cathedral soon. There will be dedicated personnel to receive us. All the security personnel have been carefully selected, and their whereabouts are kept absolutely confidential. You can rest assured, my master."


    "In ces outside the Sacred Hall District, there''s no need to use overly respectful titles."


    The girl asked tentatively, "Should I just call you Mr. Etemorey?" She couldn''t directly address him as "Your Highness" as one would address the Prince.


    Upon hearing this name, the man''s eyes shed a hint of annoyance, though his sses hid it well. He shook his head slightly and said, "The name Etemorey is too conspicuous. Let''s make a slight modification... Call me... Moriarty."


    He rearranged the letters of the name.


    "Alright, Mr. Moriarty," the girl replied with a smile as pure as snow.


    As the carriage moved further away, it disappeared into the slowly approaching dawn. The rain washed away all traces on the deserted long street.


    The Sanctum Gazette...


    This newspaper, jointly written and published by the Holy See and the government, was the most popr, authoritative, and well-known publication of this century.


    Even in the area near the Demon''s Gate, where there was only bloodshed and battle, there were reporters and editors from the Sanctum Gazette running around with the Holy Army, risking their lives to send back frontline battle reports to the headquarters.


    What was even more shocking was that this newspaper even contained negative information about the Holy See, such as high-ranking clergymen viting thew and facing punishment. This kind of reporting suggested that the government might be using this means to suppress the faith''s public opinion of the Holy See, but the citizens of the Empire were the ultimate beneficiaries. A very fitting description would be...delighted to hear and see.


    As a result, the sales of the Sanctum Gazette reached almost one billion copies printed per day!


    Keep in mind that the entire poption of the Empire was just under one billion...


    Some people believed that the front-page news of the Sanctum Gazette had a higher reach than the words of the Pope!


    Of course, the above was not the entire content of the Sanctum Gazette.


    A newspaper covering the entire Empire couldn''t treat everyone equally. Among the high-level members of the Holy See, the Sanctum District, or certain government officials, there was a Gazette exclusively for them, recording information that only those within their circles should know.


    This Gazette was issued in the form of "recorded vinyl," delivered by specialized couriers to different districts every Monday. Those who had the qualifications to read this publication would receive it. In the event of an urgent matter, the recording would be expedited.


    Furthermore, the vinyl underwent a one-time softening process. In other words, after being yed once, the entire vinyl would be pressed t, leaving no information behind.


    At 11:30 a.m., a small town near the outskirts of Velnis.


    This town had no name and no steam train stop. The only way to get here was by carriage, and to describe its location, one simply needed to tell the coachman, "Go west for 20 kilometers after leaving Velnis."


    Velnis was close to the seaside, and during the Second Demon Invasion, this geographical location was a unique protective barrier.


    When the void cracks opened, the demons had no idea where they would emerge. Consequently, many demons rushed out only to fall into the sea, pitifully sinking.


    Although it sounded silly, the destruction level of coastal cities was indeed much lowerpared to ind cities.


    Moreover, the industrial development here was not as advanced, and steam power was partlypensated by the ocean. On clear days, the air was fresh, making it more like a ce where people could livepared to London.


    In a roadside teahouse in this unnamed town, a few old men were chatting casually, as usual.


    Young people longed for life in big cities, taking with them the liveliness and hope of the town when they left. Only a few elderly people remained, fishing, drinking, chatting, sleeping, feeling the sea breeze, and watching the sunset.


    This was almost the entirety of life in this small town  slow, leisurely, and quiet.


    At this moment, the sunlight filled the streets, warming up the cool sea breeze.


    The teahouse''s door suddenly pushed open, and a person dressed like a mail carrier walked in.


    "Today''s daily newspaper!" he said with a smile.


    An old fisherman, half-asleep, asked, "Isn''t it usually delivered in the morning? Why is it being delivered at noon today?"


    Another old man, whose nose seemed soaked in alcohol for several decades, yawned, "Why do you care? You can''t read anyway."


    "That''s true~"


    The old fisherman changed his posture nonchntly and soony back in his chair, falling asleep again.


    In this teahouse, among the few literate elderly people, one stood up slowly. He had a slightly bent figure, a gentle face, and wore the most ordinary cloth. Looking at the over-knee rubber shoes on his feet, he seemed to be a fisherman by trade. The only thing that might stand out a bit was his hair, all white and as hard as countless pale pine needles, standing straight up.


    "Is there anything interesting in today''s newspaper?" The old man walked slowly toward the entrance, ready to pick up the newspapers.


    "I''m not sure," the mail carrier replied with a smile, then seemed to remember something suddenly, "Oh, but it seems there''s a new issue of the periodical you subscribed to."


    "Really?" The old man smiled and brought the newspapers back to the teahouse''s table, cing them gently.


    The noon sunlight was too warm, and the several fishermen around were enjoying the most pleasant moment of the day. No one cared about today''s newspaper, and no one paid attention to an old man who slowly pushed the door open and walked out.


    The long street of the small town was clean, blown by the sea breeze. The old man strolled towards his home, a blue-brick house next to the seaside. It didn''t look any different from the homes of other fishermen, but every day, the first ray of sunlight would shine through his window.


    Coincidentally, the mail carrier had just delivered newspapers nearby and naturally came to the old fisherman''s room, knocking on the door.


    "Pleasee in."


    Upon hearing the voice, the mail carrier pushed open the door, entered, and gently closed it again, as if afraid of disturbing the sunlight streaming in from the window.


    Then, he kneeled with utmost piety, keeping his back straight, and knocked on his left chest with his fist; at the same time, he took out a portable vinyl.


    "The Sanctum Gazette today contains some news that you might be interested in."


    His voice clearly couldn''t contain the surging excitement anymore:


    "Lord Dante..."


    "The Day of Holy Love will officiallymence on the first weekend of the next month. After discussions, the government has decided to announce this news to the public at the end of this month in London. The servants of the Bright Temple will, as always, not reveal the identity of the Holy Maiden publicly."


    ...


    "Last week, the Holy Army broke through the 314th pass on the Antarctic continent and established a 220,000 square meters secure zone on the top of Cheddar Peak. It is expected to establish new strongholds in the next three months."


    ...


    "The Life Science Institute is still in the experimental stage of further controlling demons. This research has spanned 20 years and has cost over 70 billionmon currencies after conversion. However, the budget is still expanding gradually, and seven consortiums in the Meicolir administrative district have decided to withdraw their investments within this year."


    ...


    Each piece of information above is not something the residents of this small town are eligible to know. Nevertheless, they are yed word for word from an old-fashioned recording device, without any special attention to secrecy.


    After all, in a small town like this, even if someone hears this information, they wouldn''t understand it. Even if they understand, they wouldn''t believe it. And even if they believe it... there''s nothing they can do.


    The elderly people sitting at the table quietly listen to this information, their eyes gazing out the window, perhaps lost in thought or simply daydreaming. After a while, the recording device emits a static sound, indicating that the entire record has been yed.


    The old fisherman returns to the present, looking at the young postman still standing by the door in a very formal military posture. He can''t help but smile and say, "Still feeling a bit nervous?"


    The postman immediately stands at attention and says, "Reporting, sir, a little!"


    Facing an imperial monument, how could one not feel nervous?


    The old man understands the young man''s state of mind, so he shakes his head and points to the seat across the table. "Sit down. You''ve been delivering mail in this town for four years. You see me almost every day. What''s there to be nervous about? Also, don''t call me ''sir.'' It makes it seem like I''m still on the battlefield."


    "Sir..." The word ''General'' unintentionallyes after the name ''Dante'' every time someone mentions it, as if they don''t feel respectful enough without adding it.


    The postman tries to act casual, but sitting in front of Dante, he still can''t help but maintain a respectful posture. Fortunately, he manages to control his tone and demeanor well, so he smiles and asks, "I really like theid-back feeling of this town... After so many years, do you still think about the battlefield?"


    "Hehe, you and I both know that this sense of ease is just an illusion." The old man pours a cup of tea for the postman and himself, then continues, "Although everything looks fine, all the residents here have been carefully selected. People from all over the world who don''t recognize my face were brought here, and the government indeed put some effort into it.


    Even the staff in the shops and restaurants on the street are actors brought here to serve me. Even if they act well, it''s still fake. I can see through it.


    I''m old, I don''t like moving around, and I don''t wander around. But it''s been many years since a true stranger hase to this town... For the Empire and the Church, I am just a living myth, wrapped in ayer of cover and sold to the whole world."


    The old man says nonchntly, but the postman, who has been serving in the Holy Army for many years, can''t help but specte if Dante is expressing his dissatisfaction with the arrangements of the Church and the Empire, or if he''sining about the government. He wonders if he should report these words to his superiors immediately.


    "Alright, alright." The old man seems to have sensed the young man''s brewing storm and calms him down by pressing his hand lightly. "It''s just an old man rambling. No need to report to anyone."


    "By the way, did thetest issue of the Holy Gazette still not publish any information about the Empire''s Emperor?"


    "No," the postman replies quickly without much thought, keeping all his thoughts hidden deep in his heart.


    Looking at the ripples in the teacup, which can''t escape from the rim, Dante sighs. "Ah, the Emperor''s power is still too great. Even with the same bloodline, the session must be treated like a contest."


    The Ascension Ceremony is a rule established since the Filthy Royal Family unified the Empire. It''s straightforward: the next sessor must present political strategies, military ns, or reform programs with a bright future that surpass the current Emperor''s aplishments. In other words, you must make the Empire better to inherit the throne. Otherwise, the current Emperor retains all the rights until someone who can rece him emerges.


    Despite this seemingly crude and ridiculous way of session, it is full of wisdom. The first Emperor had already understood the essence of power, that power will eventually drive people mad, and that can never change.


    So, instead of suppressing human greed and longing for power, he chose to use it!


    It has been 60 years already.


    Who knows this time, who will challenge the strongest emperor in modern history...


    "It''s someone named Franklin," the postman respectfully replied, "He belongs to the Fildi family''s distant branch, nearly 50 years old, and is said to be pushing for the re-development of electricity as a new energy source. He has a high level of education, but seems tock poprity among themon people."


    For many years, the young postman''s only task has been delivering newspapers to this small town and, more specifically, to Dante.


    Thus, he has ess to many undisclosed pieces of information.


    "Electricity?" After hearing this word, the old Dante momentarily froze. It took him a few seconds to recall that this was the same ''Noble Energy'' which was once a fleeting innovation and has now been marginalized to a small-scale mechanical domain.


    Following that, he subconsciously recollected the steam-powered war machines that grew increasingly massive over the years, the thick steam pipes winding across the other side of the Radak Strait like trains, and the countless coalition soldiers welded alive inside their armored suits due to the high-temperature steam armor.


    "Hehe," he chuckled, "Taking big steps might not always be a bad thing..."


    Although the young postman tried to maintain aposed expression, his mind was constantly specting on the meaning behind the old man''s words.


    Fortunately, when Dante left the battlefield, he had relinquished all his privileges and vowed never to interfere in any matters between the Imperial Government and the Church.


    For many years after that, he had indeed remained indifferent and lived peacefully in the small town, bing an ordinary fisherman.


    Otherwise, if he were to take a stance and express his inclination towards a particr side during the Ascension Ceremony, that person could almost directly ascend to the throne.


    This kind of influence was terrifying, even the Pope himself couldn''t possess it.


    "Alright... It''s not good to sit here for too long. Don''t keep the people in town who subscribe to the newspaper waiting." The old man said casually.


    "Yes!" The postman subconsciously wanted to raise his right hand to his chest in a military salute but immediately stopped himself.


    He only made a respectful bow and then stepped backward, leaving the room.


    As he looked back before closing the door, he saw Dante taking off his fishing clothes, preparing to change into his casual home attire.


    The terrifying scars on his back looked as if they had been soaked in scalding tar, haunting and soul-stirring. On his left chest, there was a small, inconspicuous dark red scab.


    Because he often went fishing at sea, Dante asionally revealed shocking scars on his body, and some of the town''s fishermen had seen them. But their inquiries had only received the answer that they were caused by a fire when he was young.


    Only the postman knew that these grotesque wounds were inflicted when Dante invaded Hell and faced the wrath of a demon god.


    In his lifetime, Dante had encountered two brushes with death.


    The first time was naturally from the demon gods in Hell.


    The second time, however, was from a human being.


    When the young postman heard this, he thought Dante was making a joke. How could anyone harm an imperial god?


    It was only when the old man pointed to the inconspicuous scab on his left chest... and nonchntly recounted the story of what had happened that year, that the postman''s mind was filled with a deafening buzz, as if he had been thrown into the bell of Big Ben by force.


    "That''s a mark left by a bullet, entering between the fourth and fifth ribs from the front and exiting from the lower part of the scap... It went through my body... my chest, and even lung tissue. If it were an ordinary person, that bullet would have passed through his heart.


    Luckily, my heart is slightly to the right, one in a million chances, and I survived."


    The old man''s exnation was simple, as if an old fisherman was recounting his experiences from when he was young.


    However, the listener felt as though he had been struck by the Big Ben, and his mind was filled with the deafening chime.


    "That wasn''t an ordinary bullet, and the gun wasn''t an ordinary gun. To be able to assassinate me... that person isn''t an ordinary person either.


    In fact, there are too many outstanding talents in this world, but they exist in different fields.


    Such as Augustus, who made the Empire flourish in such an environment...


    Such as Miss Florence Nightingale, who traveled the Empire and healed the sick.


    Such as General Patton, stationed along the Radak Strait, invincible on the battlefield.


    I won''t pretend to be an ordinary person. I know I am powerful, but when ites to the act of killing, the person who pulled the trigger... is perhaps the most terrifying existence in this world."


    That''s how Dante described that person.


    And the reason why that person was called ''that person'' was that until now, ''that person'' had not been caught, and no one knew who he was.


    Someone who dared to assassinate an imperial deity had escaped.


    Although Danteunched a violent pursuit, even blowing off half of the assassin''s face and half of his body, tearing off one of his arms on the spot, and probably shattering his leg bones into pieces, the assassin still managed to escape.


    After that, it seemed that the government and high-ranking officials of the Church proposed to seek assistance from the Temple of Divine Light to find the assassin, but Dante refused.


    "Why did you refuse? That person hasmitted the most unforgivable sin against you!" The young postman asked at that time.


    However, the old man just smiled and shook his head.


    "That person was severely injured and shouldn''t be able to wield a gun anymore. Even if he''s still alive, he probably can''t do anything and can only beg for a living..."


    In this situation, if he could appear again and kill me once more, then perhaps it''s my time to die," said the old man, who had drifted through the river of life for several decades, speaking in a way that young people couldn''t fully understand.


    Even then, the young postman faintly sensed a sense of helplessness and anticipation in the old man''s words...


    "Alright, young man, I''m just an old man. I don''t want people to pay too much attention to me and my experiences. The ones who should be in the spotlight are all of you," the old man said, patting the young postman''s shoulder...


    To this day, he still vividly remembers those touches, and even more so, he remembers the old man''s words...


    Outstanding talents exist in every field.


    Of course... he certainly didn''t consider himself an outstanding talent, and even the field he belonged to didn''t have anything particrly "outstanding."


    After all, he was just a newspaper delivery boy...


    ...


    ...


    The weather in the small town was always warm, with more than 6 hours of daylight every day. Meanwhile, thousands of kilometers away in London, the weather was gloomier than usual.


    Cold airing from the north enveloped the clouds tightly, as if water inside a pregnant woman''s belly, anxiously awaiting to be sucked out.


    The Grovner House Hotel was located next to the London City Hall, with an excellent location overlooking the River Thames, yet far enough not to be disturbed by the loud chimes. The windows were strategically positioned to capture every sunrise clearly, providing one of the few moments in a day to feel the sunlight.


    Today, the entire top floor of the hotel, which included 110 rooms, a 1,300-meter-long open-air corridor, a luxurious banquet hall, and all the facilities, was closed and not open to the public.


    In fact, unless it was an important political figure, high-ranking clergy from the Church, or other significant figures, the entire hotel would remain closed for many days toe...


    The reason was simple: Today, a Pope had arrived in London, and he had chosen to reside here.


    This was undoubtedly a great honor, and even if the hotel owner had to forgo two months of revenue, he had to create the most peaceful living environment for this esteemed guest.


    Of course... for Pope Theodore Sloan, this kind of devout attention didn''t catch his eye at all. A few days ago, he received valuable intelligence that the Holy Prince had arrived in London. So he hurriedly arrived a whole month in advance.


    Now, he was sitting on a sofa in a silk robe, while a nun massaged his temples.


    Experiences from years ago on the battlefield had left him with severe migraines. With age, the pain had gradually be an indescribable torment.


    The room was quiet, and the wind blowing through the window left subtle sounds. The Pontiff felt the headache slightly ease, and he straightened his posture:


    "What''s that person''s name?"


    "Sherlock Holmes, a detective from the lower district of London, has no notable background. He had some dealings with Miss Catherine during a mission involving Butler," the nun said with lowered brows, showing great respect.


    Pope Theodore Sloan casually nodded:


    "Arrange someone to deal with him at your convenience, and find a time to kill him. The person''s rtive sent me his name from a far distance. It wouldn''t be right to let theme all the way here for nothing..."


    No one would have thought that it could snow in London in November.


    Yet, a few days ago, fine snowkes fell unexpectedly. Perhaps these white particles reflected the light around the clouds, making the fog over London appear cleaner.


    This was the rarest, most sunny weather of the year...


    The snow reached its peak during the night, adorning streetmps and the few sparse trees with a silver-white sheen. Under the illumination of the lights from the giant clock tower, the entire River Thames seemed dreamy and surreal. Even more magical was that despite the snowfall, the temperature wasn''t as cold as expected. The silver particles touching the ground melted into damp puddles, making the air in the long streets exceptionally fresh.


    Sherlock descended the stairs with a 2 bottle of wine. Little Three Flowers emerged from its brand-new cat bed, meowing in a milky voice, yet looking fierce as it barked at Sherlock, then returned to its dreams.


    "Knock, knock, knock."


    The detective knocked on thendlord''s door.


    This bottle of wine was a gift. Because thendlord had prepared a dinner for himst time, as a tenant, Sherlock also needed to respond with a token of appreciation. This exchange of gestures indicated mutual approval, signifying that he was weed here for a long time.


    Although it seemed a bitplicated, it was an essential social custom.


    Because in London, owning a property was even harder than witnessing the mayor be a dog again, so most people needed to rent. Often, they would rent for decades, living, aging, and dying in a ce they upied with rent.


    In such circumstances, the rtionship betweenndlords and tenants became particrly delicate, almost like a rtionship beyond blood ties.


    "I noticed you rarelye out of your room. You seem to be a very busy person," Mrs. Hudson said, cing some peas on the dining tablmon vegetables at this time of year.


    This meal had no meat. Amoner from the lower district naturally couldn''t afford meat at every meal. However, Mrs. Hudson was a decent cook, and Sherlock even considered whether he should voluntarily propose a rent increase in exchange for the privilege of eating downstairs every day.


    "My job requires contemtion, so sometimes I lock myself in the room," he replied with a smile.


    Of course, these days, Sherlock''s main activity in his room was sleeping...


    Or to be more precise, expanding his territory in Hell.


    Those tentacles obviously possess an extremely terrifying reproductive ability. Under the protection of their domain, they can easily infiltrate the motionless bodies of demons, turning them into living nests to nourish themselves. Then, they grow more tentacles, iming thend of hell as their own.


    This pluralistic splitting method elerates the expansion of the domain. At this moment, the entire Baker Street in front of Sherlock has already be his territory, and he is even about to upy the two adjacent blocks.


    In other words, if he wants cat food right now, he can simply think of it and open a void crack at the street corner five hundred meters away. Then, he lets a corpse dog sneakily carry a bag of cat food back through the crack and bring it to him.


    He can discreetly enjoy a full twenty-three pence worth of cat food.


    Of course, Sherlock is aw-abiding citizen, and he would never do such a thing!!


    He is just a bit frustrated that cat food cannot pass through the void crack...


    ...


    In addition to the expansion process, our detective has encountered some troubles. His tentacles seem to only be able to erode small, low-level demons. The parasitic corpse dogs are not very strong inbat, which resulted in some difficulties when invading the Pummer''s district. There were a few slightlyrger reptilian demons that proved to be a challenge.


    These demons either had a lower sensitivity to fear or a slightly higher level, enabling them to resist some of the domain''s deterrent power. They were not staying still within the domain but retaliating actively.


    Whenever the tentacles got close, the demons would wriggle and bite, and if the corpse dogs attacked, the demons would sprout thorns to counter.


    This drastic reduction in expansion speed has caused headaches for Sherlock.


    Furthermore, he discovered that there is a limit to the number of demons his tentacles can parasitize. He can only parasitize three weak demons; any more, and the small tentacles refuse to cooperate.


    Is this limitation due to his initial stage of contract ability?


    At this point, there''s no way to know for sure, but he can gradually improve thepatibility between himself and the tentacles to find out.


    The taste of peas remains as strong as ever, and it pairs well with the Italian pasta, which is quite delicious.


    Oh, Italy is a ce name, but it''s unknown where it is exactly. After the unification of the empire, most countries changed their names.


    "Have the debt collectors bothered you recently?" Sherlock poured another ss of wine for thendy and asked.


    "No, they''ve been quiettely. I have a feeling that something big is about to happen," Mrs. Hudson said. She''s cautious but also easy-going. Over the past few days, she has shared many things about herself with Sherlock. After all, as long-time neighbors, some things can''t be hidden...


    "I''ve been wanting to ask why you need to borrow money from loan sharks. You don''t strike me as someone who needs a lot of money for living expenses," Sherlock inquired.


    Sometimes, getting people to talk voluntarily can provide a deeper understanding of life than actively deducing and guessing.


    Mrs. Hudson took a sip of wine, her eyes showing signs of intoxication, and hesitated for a moment.


    "To be honest, I''m not a married woman; I lied to you to avoid trouble. I hope you can understand, but I really need the money," she confessed with apparent remorse.


    Her face turned red, and in the gasmp''s glow, she looked like a simple young girl...


    "Don''t get me wrong; I''ve been living on my own for a long time, but I do have family. My father is hospitalized... He''s a steam pipeline worker who lost consciousness due to an ident a year ago and hasn''t woken up since. It was then that I borrowed money to pay for medical expenses...


    Oh, I also have a younger brother. He was conscripted five years ago and sent to the front lines for transporting supplies... I don''t think he would be in too much danger. But he hasn''t written to our family for two years now.


    I still pay the phone bill every month, 15 shillings each time... I''m just an ordinary person; I don''t really need the phone for anything, but I hope that one day, when he calls home, I''ll be able to answer and tell him that everything''s alright..."


    Alcohol gently unraveled thendy''s defenses, and she began to enjoy confiding in Sherlock.


    Perhaps she had always enjoyed confiding in others, but this era naturally made people wear an outer shell.


    Survival changes a lot of things.


    Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson''s inherent optimism hadn''t been worn awaypletely. Even though she had to work hard every day to pay off her debts and medical bills, and even though she would dream of receiving a letter or call from her brother while also worrying about seeing a familiar name on the battlefield obituaries, she remained resilient.


    She''s been through a lot.


    Recently, she''s been in a good mood because Her Excellency Florence Nightingale ising to London, and if she can get her attention, then there''s hope for her father''s recovery.


    "Do you have any dreams?" Sherlock asked.


    "Dreams?" Mrs. Hudson was taken aback.


    "Yes, besides your family and your debts... you must have some selfish dreams of your own."


    Discussing dreams is almost always a topic thates up during dinner, but Mrs. Hudson seemed stunned.


    She thought for a long time


    "Maybe finding someone I like," she mumbled tipsily, feeling like a nave child.


    "Are you talking about the Saint?" Sherlock made a traditional joke, as all women in the empire fantasized about being the protagonist of a Saint''s love day.


    When the Cindere and ss slipper story was projected into reality, nobody could resist daydreaming.


    However, Mrs. Hudsonughed, "I don''t have the Saint Syndrome. To be honest, I don''t really understand how one can fall in love with a man they''ve never met before, just from their first encounter. I don''t believe in that."


    "And after bing a Saint, it seems like they''d be very busy, attending various events every day, staying up all night doing makeup to look good for the photos in tomorrow''s holy gazette. At that time, their appearance wouldn''t even belong to them; it would represent the dignity of the church. They''d be busy all day long, and that would be exhausting."


    Sherlock smiled in agreement; in fact, he didn''t quite understand why every woman aspired to be a sacred vase.


    The dinner and wine were very satisfying. The taste of the dishes and the expensive wine were both enjoyable.


    Towards the end of the dinner, Sherlock waited for a while, seeing that Mrs. Hudson seemed to have forgotten the purpose of this meal under the influence of alcohol, and finally, he spoke up, "Mrs. Hudson..."


    "Oh, hearing that name makes me feel like you''re making fun of me," she interrupted.


    "It''s a bit strange, but I''m used to it," Sherlock chuckled, "So, may I stay here?"


    Mrs. Hudson showed a somewhat reluctant expression upon hearing the question but soon smiled, "Of course, Mr. Holmes, you are much more gentlemanly than those workers at the dock. So, you can stay until you can''t afford the rent anymore."


    And, with a yful air from the alcohol, she added, "Even then, if you suddenly can''t pay the rent, I might still show somepassion and let you stay for a few more days. I told you... these days, anyone can run into difficulties."


    Hearing this, Sherlock finally rxed; it seemed like the bottle of wine was worth buying.


    "Oh, by the way, my birthday ising up soon, next month. Could youe and apany me... and cut a cake together? I can''t finish one all by myself."


    "Of course, my respectedndy."


    ...


    The warmth and satisfaction of the dinner and wine made Sherlock feel content. He pushed the door open and found that the night wind after the snow wasn''t as cold as he had imagined.


    Little Three Flowers, having a nest, should be warm as well.


    This made him feel good, so he climbed the stairs slowly, nning to enter his dreams and randomly select a few lucky demons to y with in his mind.


    However, just as heid down on the sofa, a sudden sound of footsteps interrupted his ns, followed by a knock on the door, which disrupted all his intentions.


    Opening the door, he saw a face that was too beautiful and feminine.


    "What''s the matter?" Sherlock asked in confusion.


    Watson, who had been smiling, showed a rare hint of helplessness, "Cadielle is dead."


    "Who?"


    "Lampard Cadielle, one of our colleagues, one of the three agents in the field group." Watson said, "You haven''t seen him, but you were rmended to thepany. Father Thompson is quite traditional in his thinking, and he believes that you should be informed of such matters."


    "How did he die?" Sherlock frowned.


    "He lost both of his eyeballs, it was a miserable sight... It seems to be the work of the Eye-gouging Demon."


    ...


    Half an hourter, a carriage slowly stopped at the end of Koppel Street.


    Sherlock and Watson got off the carriage.


    The snow melted on the ground during the day and froze into white frost at night. It made a crisp sound when they stepped on it.


    Looking ahead, the red and ck police line was already pulled up, and four high-brightness gasmps were ced on the ground, and the white light intersected with each other. In the center of the light beamsy a blood-soaked body,pletely exposed on the road.


    Surrounding the police line were people walking back and forth. They were carefully sprinkling white lime around the body, and a few others were holding heavy cameras, continuously pressing the shutters towards the corpse. The exposure lights without phosphorus continuously made muffled noises.


    Sherlock walked over...


    A ck man in a brown jacket saw him and impatiently stretched out his hand, "Hey... hey... don''t go any further."


    As he spoke, he saw Watson following him.


    This person is obviously familiar with Watson, so he hesitated and looked back and forth between the unfamiliar man in front of him and Watson''s face.


    "Who is this...?" he asked.


    "Sherlock... Mary should have mentioned him to you. He joined thepany on the day you were away." Watson took the responsibility of introducing them, then nced at the dark-skinned man in front of him and gestured, "This is Mark from the field team."


    Next, he looked in the direction not far away.


    "Reverend Thompson and Miss Mary are over there, and Elthorpe needs to stay at thepany, so he didn''te.


    As for him..."


    Watson turned his head and looked at the alluring and blood-soaked body on the ground, illuminated by the harsh white light.


    "Clearly, he is Lampard..."


    ____________.


    <b>This novel will be updated only on Sunday. Every Sunday, 10 chapters will be updated at once.</b>


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    <b>Senpai, How About Hiring a Guard?</b>


    <b>What Happens If a Friend''s Older Sister Falls in Love With a GloomyPerson?</b>


    <b>We, Who Have No Tomorrow, Fell in Love Yesterday</b>


    The Novel will be updated first on this website. Come back and


    continue reading tomorrow, everyone!