Chapter 51-60: The Emperor

Chapter 51-60: The Emperor

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."Updated from novelbIn.(c)om

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 fiance's parents.

...

...

A few minutes later.

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 tablecommon 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 nave 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 novel will be updated only on Sunday. Every Sunday, 10 chapters will be updated at once.

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