Old Jack had two things to do today.
The first was to pay the water bill.
The second was to kill someone.
Given his tendency toward procrastination, always preferring to leave the difficult task until last.
He decided to kill the person first.
6:00 AM.
Saint Era 288 – London.
Early morning was not much different from dusk; visibility was poor. The airships manufactured in Berlin floated lazily overhead like colossal whales, blocking what little sunlight there was. The entire city seemed wrapped in a pall of descending dust.
But what was astonishing was that if you looked up, you could still see the distant, immense smokestacks tirelessly spewing thick smoke.
These chimneys were like flags, demonstrating the Empire's supreme power and wealth. Since the Gate of Hell opened, these smokestacks had been working even more diligently.
As the newspapers put it, "If the factories do not speed up their work, what will become of the treasury's finances? Who will sustain the army? Who will manufacture the weapons? Who will deal with the demons pouring out of the Gate?"
Though spoken with lofty righteousness, even someone as uneducated as Old Jack knew that what those chimneys were spitting out was the blood and sweat of the poor.
As for the money, it all ended up in the pockets of the capitalists.
Oh, the term "capitalist" hadn't yet become common at this time, so Old Jack preferred to use other words to refer to them.
For example: Asshole bastards.
Lower District, a small road about two kilometers from the River Thames.
It took Old Jack three hours to walk here. The morning mist had mostly cleared by now.
Looking around, he could see a scattering of not-too-fresh cow dung, garbage bins that hadn't been emptied in months, sewer drains billowing steaming vapors, and two rats darting past a stray cat, which merely yawned lazily.
At the end of the street was a sundry shop. Even with the mist gone, the storefront remained hidden in the shadows of the surrounding walls.
All of this indicated that this was a good place to kill someone.
Old Jack was quite pleased.
He stepped over the cow dung on the ground, reached the sundry shop's entrance, pushed the door open, and walked straight in.
"Morning!" he greeted the pot-bellied boss behind the counter.
The boss, holding a newspaper, looked over the top of it. He didn't reply and looked fierce and unfriendly.
Old Jack studied the bloodshot eyes, clearly indicative of cirrhosis, and the prominent beer belly, confirming that this was the man he was supposed to kill today.
"Excuse me, do you have a paring knife?" he asked.
"Over there…" The boss curtly pointed a direction with his eyes.
"Thank you." Jack walked over after thanking him, picked out a knife he found sufficiently handy, and returned to the counter.
"Seven pence," the boss said in the same unfriendly tone.
Just the kind of detestable temper that makes it perfectly reasonable for someone to want him dead, Jack thought.
Of course, he didn't care who the man had provoked; he just wanted to finish this job quickly and then go pay the water bill.
"Excuse me, is there a police station nearby?" he asked, placing a shilling on the counter.
"No."
"Are there usually many customers here?"
"The street's empty, where would the customers come from?!" the boss grumbled irritably, turning to get the change.
Jack nodded, reassured, and picked up the knife.
With ease, he plunged it into the man's neck.
Sometimes, Old Jack would wonder why humans were so fragile—one knife could kill them—yet they managed to rule the entire world.
Meanwhile, the demons were each powerful, yet two hundred years after the Gate of Hell opened, they were still contained on the Antarctic Continent by humanity, unable to cross even the Drake Passage.
Was it truly because of those steam-powered war machines that only ran by boiling water?
Or… was it because of the Contractors, those who had formed a symbiotic relationship with the demon power?
Whatever. He was just an obscure killer, taking odd jobs to make a living. He might retire soon, or perhaps starve to death in his own home one day. He had no interest in the affairs of the battlefield.
In this day and age… nobody has it easy.
But fortunately, today's job was easy. The knife was sharp, easily piercing the man's neck, tearing through the muscle, reaching the windpipe, and with a slight flick, severing the entire airway.
Watching the boss stare at him with eyes full of terror, clutching his neck and falling down, writhing on the floor like a fat maggot, Jack sighed helplessly. He turned back, flipped the sign to [CLOSE], drew the curtain, and locked the door.
He's so heavy; how much effort will it take to haul him out later? Fortunately, there's no one on this street right now. I should be able to get him to the sewer in ten minutes.
Just as he was thinking this…
Suddenly, Jack had a new, bad feeling. Because he saw the man on the floor, in his desperation to staunch the bleeding, pressing his fingers so hard into the wound that his thick knuckles were poking and jabbing inside the red slit.
"Uh… he's not going to…"
Before he could finish the thought, his premonition came true.
The boss had successfully ruptured his own artery.
Fat people generally have high blood pressure, and those with high blood pressure have brittle blood vessels…
In an instant, blood fiercely erupted from the wound like a small fountain, hissing and spurting all the way to the ceiling, where it shattered into large splashes that splattered on the ground with a rhythmic pitter-patter.
As is well known, killing a person is simple, but cleaning up after a body that's spurting blood everywhere is a nightmare. It's the same principle as cooking being easy, but washing dishes being a pain.
At that moment, Old Jack felt completely drained.
He leaned against the door, rubbing his temples in frustration, the thought of immediate retirement resurfacing.
"What am I going to do about this?!"
And just as he was in despair…
Ring-ring-ring!
A telephone suddenly rang.
Old Jack froze. Following the sound, he eventually found the telephone under a pile of newspapers on the counter.
It was a standard 'Scottish young A. Bell' telephone—quite common for the era, but still not cheap.
He looked at the constantly noise-making telephone, hesitating whether he should answer it.
After careful consideration, he decided to pick it up. Even if he didn't speak, he could at least hear who was calling.
So… he put the receiver to his ear.
A very clear man's voice came through the line.
"Hello, is that Mr. Jack? I apologize for the interruption, but I wanted to confirm, have you… finished the killing?"
"???"
Jack's mind went blank for a moment, and then a sense of the utterly absurd and sinister crawled up his spine.
Clack!
He slammed the receiver back onto the hook.
To be honest, he was stunned.
What was that? The man on the phone said 'Mr. Jack,' didn't he?
Was he talking to me? But how did he know I was here?
And what did he mean by "finished the killing"?
As he was wondering, he suddenly heard a "Dong Dong Dong~"—a knocking sound at the door.
Old Jack immediately turned his head. After thirty years as a killer, he was, quite uncharacteristically, holding his breath.
Who could be out there?
He thought, instinctively feeling relieved that he had locked the door.
It must be a passerby. If I keep quiet, they'll know better than to hang around.
However… before the thought was complete…
Click! Click!
The lock made a few light sounds!
Then… the doorknob slowly turned.
Immediately afterward, the door was simply pushed open.
Standing outside was a man in a trench coat, tall but very slender, around 30 years old, with a typical British face—though his nose was quite high, making his features overly defined.
The gray sunlight streamed in around his figure, casting an eerie golden sheen over the bloody scene filling the shop.
The man glanced at the blood-spouting fountain, which had not yet stopped, but showed no sign of panic. Instead, he let out a relieved sigh, as if he had just realized something.
"Hmph—I thought so. I waited outside for a full five minutes and didn't see you come out. I thought you'd failed. So, it was an arterial rupture; no matter. It's enough that you've finished the killing. This way… it's a clear 'caught in the act'."
The man spoke, turning his attention to Old Jack, who stood there dumbfounded. He casually took off his old top hat and placed it against his chest, giving a slightly languid half-bow:
"Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective."