The Great Demon Holmes

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 class 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 balancer 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 population showed a steady growth trend. Three major councils were established, amending the Imperial laws, and a management committee 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, displayed 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 relationship. 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 flashed 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 a commoner 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 you complete 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 from last night at the underground tavern was still vivid in his mind – the chaotic scene, the sudden appearance of the assassin, the flames 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 acceptance for an ordinary lower district civilian.

However, Sherlock didn't care.

As he had said before, he was only interested in unsolved mysteries, so compared 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 the last 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 defying common 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 occupy 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 the latter, considering it had 'eyes'. But why was it suspended in the sky? What was it observing? Did it possess intelligence? Could it communicate?

Countless puzzles began to stir uncontrollably in Sherlock's mind. His desire to explore the unknown made him smile uncontrollably.

"Hahaha, truly fascinating..."

Standing alone in the room, he suddenly burst into inexplicable laughter, seeming quite neurotic. Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, 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 playing 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' became completely 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 calculations and mental constructs, could even completely replace 'vision'.

"From the looks of it, if I want my demon to have a larger area of activity, the first task is to expand... Alright then, my next goal is to occupy 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 minutes later, 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 dilapidated feel.

Though it looked old and worn, Sherlock found the feeling rather comforting, 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 assimilated by the tentacle, becoming a summonable demon. Based on the recent experiment in the real world, he was certain that the other one had been assimilated in the same way.

As for the last one, the one in front of him now, it was obvious that the tentacle hadn't assimilated it.

Instead, it cruelly invaded its body and performed some kind of... hatching process.

Now, this corpse had become the nest of countless tentacles. The pitch-black 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 occupied 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 black 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 incomprehensible 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 accomplishing 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 'compatibility' between the contract holder and their demon?"

[Compatibility]... Well, it didn't need much explanation. 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 the compatibility with their demon, the stronger the commonality 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 become a contract holder for less than a week, and his compatibility 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 fully comprehend 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 glands 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 flame 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 become 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 a common 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 popular 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 a landlady was, in some ways, more important than meeting one's fiancée's parents.

...

...

A few minutes later.

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 slap 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 blanket 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 the completely 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 slaughter 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 excrement comes 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 a large spoon to ladle 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 the landlady 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 a large 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-hearted landlady 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 place.

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. Accompanied by pitiful meows, the little milk cat's eyes were fixed in the direction of the meat soup, unable to look away.

The combination 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 centuries later, many scholars 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-powered combat 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 the land 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 class and then spread to almost all strata of society.

In an odd phenomenon, the lower class 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 popular 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, similar 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 plain carriage appeared on the long street. Its simple frame had no decorations and lacked 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 glasses 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 glasses covered those eyes that seemed to have aged prematurely by decades.

During this process, a black umbrella opened over his head, preventing a single drop of rain from falling on him.

"Master, you still have about fifteen minutes. If you're delayed, it might cause unnecessary panic on the receiving end," said a young girl who was holding the umbrella. She was about twenty years old, had an erect figure, and was taller than the man with glasses. 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 glanced at the young maid, as if an ordinary passerby instinctively glancing at an attractive lady.

The girl's expression didn't change at all, and Sherlock's eyes remained calm. The two exchanged glances 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 glanced 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 down later."

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 Orlando 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 places 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 flashed a hint of annoyance, though his glasses 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 popular, 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 violating the law 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 population 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 played once, the entire vinyl would be pressed flat, 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 lower compared to inland cities.

Moreover, the industrial development here was not as advanced, and steam power was partly compensated by the ocean. On clear days, the air was fresh, making it more like a place where people could live compared 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 nonchalantly and soon lay 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, placing 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.

"Please come 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 officially commence 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 billion common 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 played 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 played.

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' unintentionally comes 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 the laid-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 has come to this town... For the Empire and the Church, I am just a living myth, wrapped in a layer of cover and sold to the whole world."

The old man says nonchalantly, but the postman, who has been serving in the Holy Army for many years, can't help but speculate if Dante is expressing his dissatisfaction with the arrangements of the Church and the Empire, or if he's complaining 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 the latest 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 succession 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 successor must present political strategies, military plans, or reform programs with a bright future that surpass the current Emperor's accomplishments. 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 replace him emerges.

Despite this seemingly crude and ridiculous way of succession, 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 to lack popularity among the common 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 access 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 a composed expression, his mind was constantly speculating 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, becoming an ordinary fisherman.

Otherwise, if he were to take a stance and express his inclination towards a particular 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 occasionally 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 nonchalantly 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 scapula... 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 explanation 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 it comes 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 Dante launched 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 has committed 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 particularly "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 air coming 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 to come...

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 become 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 relative sent me his name from a far distance. It wouldn't be right to let them come 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 snowflakes 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 street lamps 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 the landlord's door.

This bottle of wine was a gift. Because the landlord had prepared a dinner for him last 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 welcomed here for a long time.

Although it seemed a bit complicated, it was an essential social custom.

Because in London, owning a property was even harder than witnessing the mayor become a dog again, so most people needed to rent. Often, they would rent for decades, living, aging, and dying in a place they occupied with rent.

In such circumstances, the relationship between landlords and tenants became particularly delicate, almost like a relationship beyond blood ties.

"I noticed you rarely come out of your room. You seem to be a very busy person," Mrs. Hudson said, placing some peas on the dining table—common vegetables at this time of year.

This meal had no meat. A commoner 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 contemplation, 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, claiming the land of hell as their own.

This pluralistic splitting method accelerates the expansion of the domain. At this moment, the entire Baker Street in front of Sherlock has already become his territory, and he is even about to occupy 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 a law-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 in combat, which resulted in some difficulties when invading the Pummer's district. There were a few slightly larger 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 the compatibility 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 place 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 glass of wine for the landlady and asked.

"No, they've been quiet lately. 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 gas lamp'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 accident 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 the landlady'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 away completely. 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 is coming 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 that comes 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 naïve 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 Cinderella and glass slipper story was projected into reality, nobody could resist daydreaming.

However, Mrs. Hudson laughed, "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 becoming 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 become 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 playful air from the alcohol, she added, "Even then, if you suddenly can't pay the rent, I might still show some compassion and let you stay for a few more days. I told you... these days, anyone can run into difficulties."

Hearing this, Sherlock finally relaxed; it seemed like the bottle of wine was worth buying.

"Oh, by the way, my birthday is coming up soon, next month. Could you come and accompany me... and cut a cake together? I can't finish one all by myself."

"Of course, my respected landlady."

...

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, planning to enter his dreams and randomly select a few lucky demons to play with in his mind.

However, just as he laid down on the sofa, a sudden sound of footsteps interrupted his plans, 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 recommended to the company. 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 hour later, 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 black police line was already pulled up, and four high-brightness gas lamps were placed on the ground, and the white light intersected with each other. In the center of the light beams lay a blood-soaked body, completely 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 black 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 the company on the day you were away." Watson took the responsibility of introducing them, then glanced 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 the company, so he didn't come.

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..."

____________.

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