The Great Demon Sherlock Holmes

Chapter 58: In Every Field, There Are Exceptionally Talented People

This young postman had only one task for years: delivering newspapers to this small town, or rather, to Lord Dante;

Therefore, he had access to a great deal of undisclosed information.

“Electricity?” Upon hearing this word, old Lord Dante paused, seemingly taking a few seconds to recall this once-popular but now relegated to the realm of small machinery—a kind of 'noble energy'.

Then, almost subconsciously, he recalled the ever-growing steam-powered warships of the past few decades, the train-like steam pipes winding across the Reddock Strait, and the countless Allied soldiers welded alive to death in their steam armor due to the extreme temperatures.

“Heh,” he chuckled, “taking too big a step isn’t always a bad thing…” The young postman maintained a facade of calm, his mind racing as he tried to decipher the old man’s meaning.

Fortunately, the moment Lord Dante left the battlefield, he relinquished all his privileges and promised never to interfere in any matters concerning the Imperial government or the Papacy.

For many years afterward, he indeed remained silent, quietly living as an ordinary fisherman in the small town.

Otherwise, if he had intervened and expressed his support for one side in the coronation ceremony, that person could almost have ascended the throne directly.

Such terrifying influence was something even the Pope himself could not possess.

"Alright… it's not good to sit here too long. Don't keep the people who subscribe to the town's newspaper waiting," the old man said calmly.

"Yes!" The postman instinctively wanted to raise his right hand to pound his chest, but immediately restrained himself.

He simply bowed respectfully, then backed away from the room.

In his last glance before closing the door,

he saw Lord Dante take off his fishing coat and prepare to change into his home clothes.

The gruesome scars on his back looked as if they had been soaked in scalding tar, a truly awe-inspiring sight. On his left chest, a small, barely noticeable dark red scab lay.

Due to his frequent fishing trips, Lord Dante occasionally revealed his shocking wounds. Some of the town's fishermen had seen them, but when they inquired, they were told they were from a fire he had suffered in his youth.

Only the postman knew that these gruesome marks on his body were the result of severe injuries he sustained when he ventured into Hell and faced an evil god.

Lord Dante had faced death twice in his life.

The first, naturally, came from an evil god in Hell.

The second, however, came from a human.

When the young postman heard this, he thought it was a joke by Lord Dante; how could anyone possibly harm the gods of the Empire?

Until the old man sitting opposite me pointed to the inconspicuous scab on his left chest… and, as if chatting casually, began to recount his story from years ago…

“This is the mark left by a bullet. It entered from the front, between my fourth and fifth ribs, and exited from the lower part of my shoulder blade… It passed through my body… my chest cavity and lungs. If it were an ordinary person, this bullet would have passed through their heart.

Fortunately, my heart is located on the right side. With a one in ten million chance, I survived.” The old man spoke very simply, like an elderly fisherman recounting a sea voyage from his youth.

However, those listening felt as if they had been shoved into the Big Ben clock tower on the banks of the Thames, their minds filled with a deafening hum.

"That wasn't an ordinary bullet, nor was the g*n an ordinary g*n, and the person who tried to assassinate me... was certainly no ordinary person either.

In fact, there are countless brilliant individuals in this world, though they all exist in different fields.

For example, Emperor Augustine, who allowed the Empire to still flourish under these circumstances...

For example, Miss Nightingale, who traveled throughout the Empire healing the wounded.

For example, General Patton, stationed along the Reddock Strait, invincible on the battlefield.

I won't hypocritically say that I'm an ordinary person; I know I'm powerful, but if we're just talking about killing, that guy who fired the gun... is the most terrifying being in the world."

This is the assessment Lord Dante gave of that person.

And the reason he's called 'that person' is

is because, to this day, 'that person' has not been captured, and no one knows who he is.

A person who dared to assassinate an imperial deity has escaped.

Although Lord Dante, despite his gunshot wound, launched a furious pursuit, blasting half the assassin's face and torso into a b****y mess, ripping off an arm and likely shattering his leg into dust, the assassin still escaped.

Afterwards, the government and high-ranking officials of the Vatican seemed to suggest requesting the Temple of Holy Light's assistance in finding the assassin, but Lord Dante refused.

"Why did you refuse? That person committed the most unforgivable crime against you!" the young postman asked.

However, the old man before him simply smiled and shook his head:

"That person is severely wounded; he probably can't lift a g*n again. Even if he were alive, he probably couldn't do anything but beg for a living…

In that situation, if he were to reappear and kill me again, then perhaps it's time for me to die." An old man who had drifted through decades of life could always say things that young people couldn't understand.

Even the young postman at the time, in those words, faintly detected a hint of helplessness and expectation…

“Alright, young man, I’m just an old man. I don’t want people to waste too much attention and energy on me.

The attention should be on you.”

After saying this, Dante patted the young postman on the shoulder…

To this day, he can still clearly remember those heavy touches, and even more clearly remember Dante’s words…

“In every field, there are people of extraordinary talent.”

Of course… he certainly didn’t consider himself a person of extraordinary talent, and even in his own field, there was nothing “extraordinary” about him.

After all, he was just a lowly newspaper deliveryman…

…

… The weather in the small town was always so warm, with more than six hours of sunshine each day, while thousands of kilometers away in London, the weather was more gloomy than usual.

The cold air that had swept down from the north tightly enveloped the moisture in the clouds, like a mother’s breast milk, swollen and eagerly awaiting to be suckled.

The Grosvenor House Hotel, situated next to London's Civic Gardens, boasts a superb location with panoramic views of the Thames River, yet undisturbed by the loud chimes. Its carefully chosen window angles offer clear views of every sunrise—one of the few times of day when sunlight can be truly felt.

Today, however, the entire rooftop—all 110 rooms, the 300-meter-long open-air promenade, the luxurious banquet hall, and all its facilities—are completely closed to the public.

In fact, unless it's a high-ranking political figure, a member of the Vatican, or another prominent individual, the hotel is refusing to accommodate anyone today.

And this will continue for many days to come…

The reason is simple: today, a Pope has arrived in London and chosen this hotel as his residence.

This is undoubtedly a tremendous honor, and even if it costs the hotel owner two months' worth of revenue, he must ensure the quietest possible environment for this distinguished guest.

Of course… for Pope Theodore Sloan, this piety didn't attract his attention in the slightest. A few days ago, he received valuable intelligence that His Highness the Holy Son had arrived in London, so he came to the city a full month early.

He was currently sitting on a sofa, dressed in a silk robe, while a nun massaged his temples behind him.

His experiences on the battlefield years ago had given him severe migraines, and with age, the pain had gradually become an unspeakable torment.

The room was quiet; the wind from the street rustled softly through the window. Pope Theodore felt the throbbing in his head lessen slightly, so he slowly sat up straight:

“What was that person's name again?”

“Sherlock Holmes, a detective from Lower London, with no special background. He only had some interaction with Miss Catherine during a mission concerning Deacon Baldr.” The nun massaging him behind him spoke respectfully, her eyes lowered.

Pope Theodore nodded casually after hearing this:

"Then just arrange for someone to go and kill him when the time is right. That relative sent me his name from all the way here; I can't let him make the trip for nothing..."