The Great Demon Holmes

The rain gradually stopped.

The cleanup of the battlefield was nearing its end, and half an hour later, 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 more comfortable to hire some horses and a wooden raft to transport the injured. At least that way, there would be some ventilation.

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 outcome:

An outstanding commoner 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 Church—a 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 recommendation 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 quickly compensated 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 the landlord found out that all of this started from the room he rented, there would be no chance of going back... He might even have to compensate for some damages.

So, the safest approach now was... to quickly find a new place to live.

But Sherlock was lazy. He was familiar with Baker Street, and he didn't plan on moving to another district. He turned his head slightly and looked to the other side of the long street—further 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 I come back, I'll find a new place 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't last 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, comfortable 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 ashlar. It didn't exude the grandeur and brightness of the city's churches but had a large 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 clad in outdated steam armor, wielding a heavy sword, piercing the throat of a demon.

Although the sculpture lacked 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."