The Great Demon Sherlock Holmes

Chapter 4: The Contractor

London's twilight begins at 3:30. Due to lingering water vapor in the clouds, the hazy sunlight, filtering through the clouds, is tinged with a vibrant crimson. The distant church bells gradually fall silent; the day's services are over.

Inside the office, the old priest sits with his eyes closed, his sparse hair twisting eerily and imperceptibly like insect legs…

Chief Lestrade leans slightly forward, his voice low and questioning: "Miss Catherine, do you know that detective?"

"No."

"But…but you seem very dissatisfied with him."

Catherine recalls that hateful face in the elevator, and says coldly: "A clergyman's family member has been murdered! What we need now is the strongest, most professional elite, someone who can handle the entire case single-handedly, find the murderer, and have the murderer's blood stain the courtroom notices before sunset tomorrow!

And you, you've found me…" "Such a lazy, shameless scumbag, always in a daze like he's on hallucinogens?" Chief Inspector Lestrade stared blankly at the man, surprised by his assessment of Sherlock. And...it was quite accurate.

"But Your Excellency Catherine, I assure you, with my title as Scotland Yard's highest-ranking officer, that the only person in all of London who meets your requirements is him." He cautiously retorted. As the highest-ranking official in the London police system, he almost instinctively displayed his stubbornness and arrogance in his field, completely forgetting that just half an hour ago, he hadn't even wanted to mention Sherlock's name.

...After Lestrade left, the old priest slowly opened his eyes. He seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed his meditation, the crimson sunset glow illuminating the hem of his robes...Suddenly, right there, a pitch-black c***k appeared out of thin air, and a giant spider covered in fine hairs silently crawled out.

It was as big as a handcart, its eight eyes like eight jet-black beans, gleaming eerily in the setting sun.

The old priest reached out and affectionately stroked its belly fur, causing it to hiss in a nauseating manner:

“Lestrade has worked in the police system his entire life. During the second demonic invasion, he was solely responsible for maintaining order in the lower city, and he reduced the civilian crime rate there to a level that greatly satisfied the Church. I suppose his judgment shouldn't be too bad…”

“I just think that such a lazy person doesn't seem to have any outstanding qualities.” A slightly amused smile appeared on the old priest's lips: “I just went to the underground dungeon. The detective caught a murderer today, for the reward. He put the criminal… in a box.”

“A box… in a box?” Catherine frowned, puzzled.

“Haha, that’s right, a briefcase.” The old priest chuckled, gesturing a shape in front of him. “I’ve never seen someone twisted like that still alive. Even those lunatics at the Life Research Institute would need considerable equipment to do that.

Moreover, the murderer who was caught wasn’t a simple character either. The bounty had reached 200 pounds, and I heard he captured him in just two or three days…and caught him red-handed during the crime.

For a mortal, to achieve that is already extremely remarkable.” Catherine pondered the old man’s words for a long while, then said, “No matter how remarkable, he’s still just a mortal.”

Her tone carried a natural, undisguised disdain.

This wasn’t the contempt of a superior for the common people, but a perfectly reasonable and natural condescension, unrelated to politics, character, money, or even social status.

It was more like the attitude of an eagle towards a rabbit, stemming from the fundamental nature of life.

Ultimately, he was just a mortal…

Not a contractor…

In this era where the power of the abyss influences everything, the Church had mastered the method of controlling abyssal power with a human body a century ago… Therefore, an ordinary human would naturally face some skepticism regarding his abilities.

Fortunately, the old man's words had some persuasive power. Catherine's expression remained cold, but ultimately… she nodded.

…In the lounge, Sherlock leaned back on the sofa, dozing off.

He held a book in his hand.

"How to Save Yourself When Encountering a Small Demon in the Wild"

The author was a guy named Bear Grylls.

The cover was made of the cheapest cardboard, featuring an illustration of a common hellhound vomiting acidic liquid in front of a beautiful woman in a dress. The drawing was rough, and the ink had bleed a bit during printing.

These self-rescue books were once incredibly popular. After all, nobody knew where a void rift would appear. Imagine you were taking a dump and suddenly the space in front of you cracked open, and a disgusting giant fly crawled out, desperately trying to suck your brains. Reading these books might increase your chances of survival.

However, after over a decade of market testing, people gradually realized these books were completely useless. When encountering void lifeforms, you either need a Lyscott shotgun with enough bullets, or you just have to run.

Run as fast as you can to the nearest contractor and ask for their help, or run to the nearest church—that's all.

If you have nothing and still try to use the knowledge from the book to fight them, you'll definitely die a comical death. One self-rescue book author once slid himself into the newly ruptured chest cavity of a carrion monster.

Delivered to your doorstep, straight to the stomach.

"Want a smoke?" a voice called out.

Sherlock dazed for a moment, then opened his half-asleep eyes to see Chief Inspector Lestrade offering him a cigarette.

"No need, I have some." Sherlock yawned rather unceremoniously, then pulled a pack of Blues cigarettes from his pocket.

"I still don't understand why you only smoke Blues. It's such an old brand, hard to find, and so strong." Sherlock lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and didn't answer the question.

“You see, that’s why you’re so disliked. There are too many things about you that are hard to understand, and you never explain them.” Sherlock squinted, unconvinced. “Just say what you want to say, stop beating around the bush.”

“I’ve got you a case, a murder…” the chief began, pausing slightly, “though I hate to admit it, it… is about the Vatican.” Throughout his speech, he had been watching Sherlock’s expression, expecting at least a hint of surprise upon hearing the word “Vatican.” However, Sherlock merely frowned slightly before reverting to his sleepy demeanor.

“Why don’t you react at all!?”

“Oh, well… thank you very much.” This insincere tone greatly annoyed Chief Lestrade, who angrily stubbed out his cigarette:

“That’s the second reason I hate you… you’re not devout to the Vatican at all!!”