The Great Demon Holmes

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 become my contract demon?"

Sherlock knew how unrealistic this idea was. According 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 replaced. They stay together for life. Even if the contract demon dies, they cannot form a relationship with another demon.]

This was an ironclad 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 place, 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..."

Various commands floated in his mind, and the dog actually followed his thoughts, performing a variety of actions. Sherlock even simulated some highly complex commands 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.

Such commands could only be executed by a [Manipulation]-type contractee, and they were extremely difficult movements that usually required extensive training!

But Sherlock didn't need any training. Constructing a set of such commands 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 he commanded it to self-mutilate 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?

Curiosity compelled Sherlock to go to the wall, turn the gas lamp 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 penetrated 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 a complex, frenzied, yet strangely beautiful mass in the dim light emitted by the gas lamp. 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 it completely, he knew that these tentacles occupying 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 contemplating, 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-black 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-class district. Around his collar 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'm lazy 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't come here just for that."

"Then why did you come?"

"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 place was nearby, so I came."

He said it very sincerely...

And seeing Sherlock's face that seemed to say, "Continue your story," he smiled nonchalantly.

"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 occupying 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 flashed 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 accepted 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 a large proportion of it is human blood."

A moment of sudden silence ensued.

The gas streetlamp 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 regularly. I thought there wouldn't be any scent left," Sherlock casually exhaled a mouthful of smoke, sniffing his collar.

"I'm quite sensitive to the scent of blood. After all, I am a doctor." Seeing the other's nonchalant 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 the complex network of pipes along the long street. Some buildings had disorderly gas lamps 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 building—rusted iron gates, walls without any decorative layers, and a large 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 clamor—the elements clashed and merged in this place.

"I'm quite surprised that someone like you knows about this place," Sherlock said as he looked at the swaying liquid in his glass.

"Someone like me?"

"Yes, you're a doctor after all. Shouldn't you be going to those upscale places where someone plays piano pieces and a glass of alcohol costs several pounds... Look at you, sitting here, completely 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 gas lamp 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 glass.

"I used to frequent the kind of places you mentioned

, but after a while, I got tired of them and started to prefer this place... 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 places, 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 place 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. By comparison, the former is much better than the latter! So, in this lawless and chaotic place, 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 place, 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 the company, 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's coming 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 flamboyantly 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 one lasting 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 slaughter in the far south, everyone immerses themselves in a common theme—love.

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 successor 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 tribulations together, accompanying each other for a lifetime.

That's all there is to it...

It doesn't sound particularly awe-inspiring because the Pope is also human, and humans are bound to experience love, just like all the commoners 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 is—a 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 secular 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 stipulates 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 becomes even more vibrant and pure.

This is perhaps all part of the holy light's calculation... After all, compared to "becoming 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 become 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 becomes the busiest place in the world, and the employees' salaries 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 plan...

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 the company 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 you come to the conclusion that the Day of Sacred Love is approaching? It should be one of the least likely things to come to mind, considering it's a rare event that occurs 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 decommissioned steam boiler, and I occasionally visit him. That guy... claims 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 contemplating their own thoughts. They didn't attempt to uncover each other's secrets but allowed themselves to be consumed by the alcohol and the clamor 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 all come 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 glass 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 accurately 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't completely 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 placed 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 relatives. 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 direct combat, 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 play 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 glasses of alcohol, not him."

"Passed by, female, under 18 years old, experienced in relationships, 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 automatically labeled 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 assailant 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 collar 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 and laughing with a drunken lady 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, completely disregarding the feelings of those around him. He pushed aside several men and women who were lost in drunkenness, knocking over countless glasses. In such a crowded place, his speed was such that it even lifted his coat, and then he took a great leap, landing 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 place.

He seemed to be stunned for a moment, and then suddenly, with an incomparably relaxed 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 and commotion vanished in an instant, replaced by the whistling wind and damp air.

On the quiet street, only a few struggling streetlights flickered, and the old steam pipes occasionally emitted a hissing sound. Moonlight couldn't penetrate the haze hanging over London's sky, and everything was like a dark painting that had accumulated 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 similar. 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 accumulated 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 irregular disturbances.

Every alley in London was more or less the same—damp walls, the ever-present smell of fermenting garbage that never seemed to dissipate, and the constant buzzing of flies.

But a large 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 become quite obvious. However, few people were skilled at discovering these traces, let alone speculating 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, glaringly 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 street layouts, it was evident.

...

Alleys had a certain kind of magic. Once all light entered, it would be devoured, and the gas lamps on the street, which were already few, couldn't illuminate the area.

A crimson dot swayed in the darkness—it 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 you come 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 blame me for making wild guesses. I recall a few days ago, I seem to have taken on a job—a lady 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 choice—to pull the trigger—since 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 assailant, revealing a chilling outline.

Of course, Sherlock couldn't be faster than a bullet, but guns had a flaw—they 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 assailant to fire a second shot. A series of relentless blows resounded in the darkness, followed by the throwing of a handgun that landed 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, compressing 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 time—he encountered Sherlock.

Sherlock suddenly pressed one of his thumbs into the assailant'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 calculated 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 terrifying compound 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 "flapping" 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 two large compound 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 then lay 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 a large 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 flames. 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." Watson complained, 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 place?"

"Um..." Watson hesitated for a moment. In fact, he immediately understood the meaning behind Sherlock's words about a "suitable place." 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 place... 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," assimilated a carcass hound in his dream. Although this demon wasn't particularly powerful, it had teeth and claws, 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 manipulation-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 places?

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 thought lasted 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 slaughtered 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 explain 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 clattering sound. Fortunately, he was a Contractor, or else a single accidental bump could have killed him.

...

...

An hour later, 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 place was during the day, the more desolate 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," Sherlock commented.

"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 explained, opening the door to his home and gesturing for Sherlock to come in.

The interior decoration wasn't particularly 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 perpendicular to the walls, without the slightest deviation.

A person with dusty soles would probably feel embarrassed to enter such a room.

Fortunately, Sherlock lacked refinement.

So, he dragged the assassin inside, leaving behind a striking trail of fresh blood on the immaculate 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 explained 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 gas lamp.

"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 exclaim, "Hmm."

In front of him was a not-so-large room. The walls were enveloped in a thick layer of foam padding, and there were no windows, making the lighting considerably dimmer than expected.

Against the wall, several large display cabinets 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 slaughterhouse 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, splattered 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 questions later."

Sherlock fell silent for a moment, looking at the handsome man in front of him, then lowered his head to glance 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 glass 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, the last 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 backlash 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 uncomfortable 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 seemed completely out of place 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 features—Sherlock 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 accept 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 accumulated quite a bit of honor. If he had accumulated a few more years, he might have caught the attention of the Church and been trained to become a second-stage contractor. By then, he might have even had the possibility of becoming 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 accumulated 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 this commoner detective.

In both reason and emotion, it made sense. However, the outcome 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 Cordova laughed 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, glancing 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.

"A commission I received earlier. You probably also figured it out. It was a clergyman. Well... being a detective is not easy. Occasionally, 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 play the piano. Of course, there was no piano here, so Watson took out a hollow iron clamp 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'm compelled 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 play 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 hour later, Watson pushed open the door and walked out. He wiped the bloodstains off his hands, muttering somewhat disappointedly, "Really, I thought I could play 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 of complaint in his expression. "You really lack 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 name—Theodore Sloan."

"Who is that?"

"A pope, with his subordinate church district in Cleveland, 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 will come to London," Watson continued. Suddenly, he had a thought. "Wait a minute, a pope leaving his diocese and coming to London? That's not normal. Could it be... the Day of Holy Love is really coming?"

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 nonchalantly 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's command."

"And as far as I know, those who come from under General Barton's command share a common trait... extreme protectionism."

As Watson said this, his expression turned somewhat melancholic, 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 violated the Church's regulations, he's bound to die. Even if the other party is a bishop or even a cardinal, they can't blatantly ignore the Church and openly come to kill me."

"But they could simply dispose of you without anyone caring about a commoner 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 recommendation letter came from a high priest himself, and he nodded slightly.

"Heh, you are indeed interesting. It's not easy for a commoner to know clergy members."

"And you are quite interesting too. It's even more challenging for a commoner to become 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 place, and if I frequently stay out overnight, the landlord 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 accompany 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 his laughter 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 flat, 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, becoming a series of desperate cries resembling a dying beast. And with each scream, his limbs, organs, his skin now completely 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 cabinet, 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 plank door was pushed open, revealing an elderly man in his sixties, dressed in coarse clothing, sitting inside with a flattering smile.

"Oh, it's Watson. I didn't recognize you just now. Please come 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 not large, probably less than 5 square meters. Apart from a makeshift "bed" made of cardboard and plastic 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 insulation, 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 place 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 can come 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 more comfortable, lazily 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 flame, 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 his composure. "A name is just a code. My divinations consume tremendous energy, so occasionally 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, relaxed 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 palace 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 had come 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 related 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 uncontrollably 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 might come as a surprise. The Day of Sacred Love, after 29 years, has been confirmed to commence in one month in London!"

"The Day of Sacred Love?!"

"Oh my goodness!" Miss Murray exclaimed, 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 similar glances.

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 local law 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 will come 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, come with me to my office."

"Alright."

Watson responded with a hint of curiosity.

A few minutes later, 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 contemplation 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 contemplate, 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..."

____________.

This will be updated only on Sunday. Every Sunday, 10 chapters will be updated at once.

Agreeing to Create Bad Games, What the hell isTitanfall?

A Story of Taking Home a Lonely Gal from My Class and Turning Her into An Elegant Beauty.

When Menhera Changes into A Wife's Apron

Senpai, How About Hiring a Guard?

What Happens If a Friend's Older Sister Falls in Love With a GloomyPerson?

We, Who Have No Tomorrow, Fell in Love Yesterday