The Great Demon Holmes

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

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

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

Sherlock just stood there...

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

Twenty seconds passed...

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

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

"What about the clothes?" he asked abruptly.

"What... What do you mean?"

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

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

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

Sherlock, for once, displayed a touch of gentlemanly demeanor. "Thank you, my beautiful lady."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One spoke, the other listened.

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

A few minutes later...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Four?" Catherine looked slightly puzzled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Alright..."

Two minutes later, Sherlock had finished arranging everything that remained...

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

"Yes?"

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

A blood-soaked word carved with a blade between the organs—YES.