Chapter 1: Old Jack

Chapter 1: Old Jack

Old Jack had two things to do today.

First, he had to pay the water bill.

Second, he had to kill someone.

Due to his procrastination tendencies, he always liked to leave difficult tasks until the last moment.

Therefore, he decided to kill the person first.

...

...

6 o'clock in the morning.

Year 288 in the Saint's Calendar - London.

Early morning was not much different from dusk; the visibility was poor. Berlin-made airships lazily floated overhead like giant whales, blocking what little sunlight there was. The entire city seemed enveloped in descending dust.Follow current novels at novelhall.com)

But strangely enough, if you looked up, you could still see distant chimneys continuously spewing thick smoke.

These chimneys were like flags, showcasing the supreme power and wealth of the empire. After the gates of hell opened, these chimneys worked even more diligently.

As the newspaper put it... "If the factories don't work harder, what will happen to the government's expenditure? Who will support the army? Who will produce weapons? Who will deal with those demons that run out of the gates?"

It sounded noble, but even people like Old Jack, who hadn't read many books, knew that what those chimneys spewed out was the blood and sweat of the poor.

As for the money, it all ended up in the capitalists' pockets.

Oh, at this time, the term "capitalist" hadn't become popular yet, so Old Jack was accustomed to using other terms to refer to them...

For example, "bastards without an asshole."

...

On Xianglan Street in the Lower City District, a small street about two kilometers from the Thames River.

It took Old Jack three hours to get here, and now the morning fog had mostly dissipated. Looking around, he could see not-so-fresh cow dung on the ground, garbage bins that hadn't been cleaned for months along the roadside, steam rising from the sewer, and two rats running past a stray cat, which lazily yawned.

At the end of the street was a grocery store, still hidden in the shadows of surrounding walls even though the fog had cleared.

All of this indicated that it was a good place for murder...

Old Jack was very pleased.

He stepped over the cow dung on the ground and walked straight into the entrance of the grocery store.

"Morning!" he greeted a big-bellied shopkeeper behind the counter.

The shopkeeper, holding a newspaper, glanced over the top of it, didn't say anything, and looked grumpy, very unfriendly.

Old Jack looked at those clearly cirrhotic eyes filled with bloodshot veins and the prominent beer belly, confirming that this guy was the one he was going to kill today.

"Excuse me, do you have a fruit knife here?" he asked.

"Over there..." The shopkeeper pointed in a direction with an unfriendly gaze.

"Thank you," Jack said, expressing his gratitude before walking over and picking a knife that felt suitable. He then returned to the counter.

"7 pence," the shopkeeper continued in that unfriendly tone.

Jack thought to himself that with such an unpleasant attitude, it was reasonable for someone to want to buy his life.

Old Jack was taken aback, following the sound to locate the phone. Finally, he found it beneath a pile of newspapers on the counter.

It was a standard "Scotland Younger" telephone, quite popular in this era but not cheap.

Staring at the phone, which continued to make noise, Jack hesitated about whether to answer it or not.

After weighing his options in his mind, he decided to pick it up, even if he didn't speak, just to hear who the other person was.

So... he brought the receiver to his ear...

A clear male voice came through the phone.

"Hello, is this Mr. Jack? I apologize for disturbing you, but I wanted to confirm... Have you... finished the job?"

"???"

Jack felt his mind go blank for a moment, followed by a wave of absurd and eerie sensations creeping up his forehead.

"Slap!"

He hung up the receiver.

To be honest, he was a bit bewildered...

What was going on? The person on the phone called me "Mr. Jack," right?

Was he talking to me? But how did the other person know I was here?

And what did he mean by "finished the job"?

Lost in thought, he suddenly heard a knocking sound, "Thump thump thump," at the door.

Old Jack immediately turned his head, an assassin of over thirty years, but at this moment, he uncharacteristically held his breath.

"Who could it be outside?"

He wondered, subconsciously relieved that he had locked the door from the inside...

"It must be a passing customer. As long as they don't make a sound, they'll understand to leave," he hoped.

However... before he could finish his thoughts...

"Click! Click!"

The lock made a few soft sounds!

Then... the doorknob slowly turned...

And then, it was pushed open.

...

Outside the door stood a man wearing a trench coat, tall but thin, around thirty years old. He had a typical British face, with a slightly prominent nose that made his features overly three-dimensional.

The grayish sunlight shone in from the edges of his body, casting an eerie golden hue over the room filled with blood.

The man glanced at the still-spraying fountain of blood without showing any panic. Instead, he seemed to have a sudden realization and let out a sigh of relief.

"Phew... I did say so. I waited outside for a good five minutes and didn't see you come out. I thought you had failed, but it turns out his artery was severed. No matter, as long as you finished the job, it's considered capturing the culprit."

As the man spoke, he directed his gaze toward Old Jack, who wore a bewildered expression. He casually took off his old top hat and held it against his chest, slightly lazily bowing:

"Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Sherlock Holmes, a detective."