The Great Demon Sherlock Holmes

Old Jack had two things to do today. First, he had to pay the water bill. Second, he had to kill someone. Given his tendency to procrastinate, always putting off difficult tasks until the last minute. So he decided to kill that person first. … … 6 AM. Sacred Calendar 288—London. Morning was practically dusk; visibility was poor. Berlin-made airships drifted lazily overhead like giant whales, blocking the already meager sunlight, making the entire city seem shrouded in dust. But strangely, looking up, one could still see the distant chimneys constantly spewing thick smoke. These chimneys were like flags, displaying the empire's supreme power and wealth. After the gates of hell opened, these chimneys billowed even more diligently. To paraphrase the newspaper: "If the factories don't ramp up production, what will happen to the government's budget? Who will support the army? Who will manufacture the weapons? Who will deal with those demons that escaped from the gates?" It sounded grand and dignified, but even someone as uneducated as Old Jack knew that what spewed from those chimneys was the blood and sweat of the poor. As for the money, it all went into the pockets of the capitalists. Oh, at this time, the term "capitalist" wasn't widely used, so Old Jack preferred to refer to them with other terms... For example: an anus-less bastard. ...Xianglan Street in the Lower Town, a small street about two kilometers from the Thames. It had taken Old Jack three hours to get here, and now the morning mist had mostly dissipated. Looking around, he could see a patch of not-so-fresh cow dung, garbage cans that hadn't been cleaned for months, steam billowing from the sewers, and two mice scurrying past a stray cat, which merely yawned lazily. At the end of the street stood a general store, its location hidden in the shadows of the surrounding walls even after the fog lifted. All of this indicated that this was a perfect place to kill… Old Jack was pleased. He stepped over the cow dung on the ground, reached the door of the general store, and pushed it open, walking straight in. “Good morning!” he greeted the portly owner behind the counter. The owner held a newspaper, his eyes peering over from above, offering no reply, and looking rather fierce and unfriendly. Old Jack, looking into the man's clearly cirrhotic, bloodshot eyes and his prominent beer belly, was certain this was the man he was going to kill. “Excuse me, do you have any fruit knives?” he asked. “Over there…” the owner gestured impatiently in a direction. “Thank you,” Jack said, walking over and choosing one that seemed suitable before returning to the counter. “Seven pence,” the owner said, continuing in that same unfriendly tone. Jack thought, with that unpleasant temper, it was perfectly reasonable for someone to want to kill him. Of course, he didn't care who this guy had offended; he just wanted to finish this job quickly and pay the water bill. "Excuse me, is there a police station nearby?" he asked, pulling out a shilling and placing it on the table. "No." "Then... how many customers are there usually?" "There's nobody on the street, where would we get customers?!" the shopkeeper muttered irritably, turning to find change. Jack nodded reassuringly, then picked up the knife. He easily plunged it into the man's neck. ...Sometimes, old Jack wondered why humans were so fragile, killed with a single knife, yet able to rule the entire world. And those demons, so powerful, yet the Gates of Hell, opened two hundred years ago, are still blocked by humans on the Antarctic continent, unable even to cross the Drake Passage. Could it really be because of those steam-powered war machines that only move when boiling water? Or...is it because of those contractors who have formed a symbiotic relationship with the demon? Whatever. He's just an unknown assassin, taking jobs here and there, making ends meet. Who knows when he'll be too old to work and starve to death at home? He has no interest in the battlefield. These days...nobody has it easy. Fortunately, today's job was pretty easy. The knife was sharp, easily piercing the man's neck, tearing through the neck muscles, reaching the throat, and with a gentle flick, severing the entire airway... Watching the boss stare at him with terrified eyes, clutching his neck and collapsing to the ground like a fat maggot, Jack sighed helplessly, turned around, turned the sign to the "CLOSE" side, drew the curtain, and locked the door. So fat, how much effort will it take to carry him out? Luckily, there aren't many people on this street right now. He should be able to get him to the sewers in 10 minutes. Just as he was thinking… Suddenly, Jack had a bad feeling again. He saw the person on the ground clutching their throat, and in the force, their fingers had dug into the wound, the large knuckles poking and prodding in the bright red crevice. "Uh… could it be…" Before he could finish speaking, his premonition came true. The boss had successfully ruptured his own artery. Fat people generally have high blood pressure, and people with high blood pressure have fragile blood vessels… In an instant, blood gushed fiercely from the wound, like a small fountain, hissing and shooting towards the ceiling, then shattering into large splatters on the floor. As everyone knows, murder is actually a very simple thing, but if the body is splattered with blood, cleaning it up is a real pain… It's like cooking is easy, but washing dishes is a real pain. So, old Jack was completely dejected at that moment. He leaned against the door, painfully rubbing his head, and the thought of retiring as soon as possible resurfaced in his mind. “What am I going to do?!” …Just as he was in agony… “Ring ring ring…” A series of phone rings suddenly broke the silence. Old Jack was startled. He followed the sound and finally found the phone under a pile of newspapers on the counter. A standard “Scottish youth A. Bell” phone, fairly common in this era, but not cheap. He stared at the constantly ringing phone, hesitating whether to answer. After weighing the options, he decided to answer anyway, even if he didn't speak, just to hear who was on the other end. So… he put the receiver to his ear… A clear male voice came through the phone. “Hello, is this Mr. Jack? I'm sorry to bother you, but I'd like to confirm, have you… finished killing?” “???” Jack felt his mind go blank for a moment, then a bizarre and eerie feeling crept into his head. “Snap!” He slammed the receiver back down. To be honest, he was a little confused… What was going on? Was the person on the phone saying "Mr. Jack"? Was he talking to me? But how did they know I was here? And what did they mean by "killed them all"? Just as he was wondering, he suddenly heard a "knock-knock-knock" at the door. Old Jack immediately turned around. A hitman for over thirty years, he unusually held his breath. 'Who could be outside?' he wondered, instinctively thankful he'd locked the door... 'Probably just a passerby. If I don't make a sound, they'll know better than to leave.' However... before his thoughts settled... "Click! Click!" The lock made a few soft clicks! Then... the doorknob slowly turned... And then, it was pushed open. ...Outside the door stood a man in a trench coat, tall but thin, around 30 years old, with a typical British face, except for his high nose, which made his features appear overly sculpted. The dim sunlight streamed in from around him, casting an eerie golden glow over the blood-soaked room. The man glanced at the still-flowing fountain of blood before him, showing no panic, but instead letting out a sigh of relief as if suddenly realizing something. "Phew—I knew it! I waited outside for a full five minutes and you didn't come out. I thought you'd messed up. Turns out your artery ruptured; whatever, as long as you're done killing, that's good...at least we've caught you red-handed." As he spoke, he glanced at Old Jack, who looked completely bewildered. He casually removed his old top hat and placed it on his chest, giving a slightly lazy bow: "Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Sherlock Holmes, a detective."