The Great Demon Holmes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sense of embarrassment surged through him.

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

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

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

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

Before he could finish his sentence...

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

The constable turned back, shocked.

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

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

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

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

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

However...

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

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

"Sherlock... Private Detective."

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

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

Sherlock had long anticipated this procedure. For the upper district residents, commoners generally lacked credibility.

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

So he went through the motions and repeated the oath.

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After a few seconds...

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

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

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

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

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