Old Jack had two things to do today.
First, he had to go pay the water bill.
Second, he had to go kill someone.
Given that he suffered from a bit of procrastination and always liked to leave the difficult tasks for last, he decided to kill the person first.
---
6:00 AM.
Year 288 of the Saint's Calendar — London.
Dawn wasn't actually much different from dusk here; the visibility was poor either way. Overhead, Berlin-made dirigibles floated lazily like giant whales, blocking out what little sunlight there was. The entire city looked as if it were wrapped in dust falling from the sky.
But miraculously, if you looked up, you could still see the great chimneys in the distance endlessly spewing thick smoke.
These chimneys were like flagpoles, displaying the Empire's supreme power and wealth. Since the Gates of Hell had opened, these chimneys had been puffing away even more diligently.
To use the words from the newspapers... "If the factories don't step up their work, how will we cover fiscal expenditures? Who will support the army? Who will build the weapons? Who will deal with those demons running out of the Gates?"
It sounded dignified, but in reality, even someone uneducated like Old Jack knew that what those chimneys were spewing out was the blood and sweat of the poor.
As for the money, it all went into the capitalists' pockets.
Oh, the term "capitalist" hadn't become popular yet, so Old Jack was used to calling them by other names...
For example: bastards with no assholes.
...
Lower District, Xianglan Street. A small street about two kilometers from the Thames.
It took Old Jack three hours to walk here. The morning mist had mostly dispersed by now. Looking around, he could see cow dung that wasn't very fresh scattered on the ground, trash cans by the roadside that hadn't been cleaned in months, and steam billowing out from the sewers. Two rats ran past a stray cat, but the cat just yawned lazily.
At the end of the street was a general store. Even though the fog had lifted, the storefront was still hidden in the shadows of the surrounding walls.
Everything indicated that this was a good place for a murder...
Old Jack was very happy.
He stepped over the cow dung on the ground, arrived at the door of the general store, and pushed his way in.
"Morning!" He greeted the big-bellied boss behind the counter.
The boss was holding a newspaper. His eyes looked over the top of the paper; he didn't reply, and he looked fierce and very unfriendly.
Old Jack looked at those eyes, clearly bloodshot from liver cirrhosis, and the exceptionally protruding beer belly, confirming that this guy was the person he was to kill today.
"Excuse me, do you have fruit knives here?" he asked.
"Over there..." The boss pointed in a direction with his eyes, his tone irritable.
"Thanks." Jack thanked him, walked over, picked out one that felt handy enough, and walked back to the counter.
"7 pence," the boss continued in that unfriendly tone.
Jack thought, with such an unlikeable, foul temper, it was reasonable that someone wanted to buy his life.
Of course, he didn't want to care about who this guy had offended. He just wanted to finish this job quickly and then go pay the water bill.
"Excuse me, is there a police station nearby?" He took out a shilling and put it on the table, asking.
"No."
"Then... are there usually many customers here?"
"There's no one on the street, where would customers come from?!" The boss muttered grumpily, turning to find change.
Jack nodded with relief, then picked up the knife.
Very smoothly, he thrust it into the other man's neck.
...
Sometimes, Old Jack always wondered why humans were so fragile that a single knife could kill them, yet they were able to rule the entire world.
Meanwhile, those demons were clearly powerful one by one, but the Gates of Hell had been open for two hundred years, yet they were still blocked by humans on the Antarctic continent, unable to even cross the Drake Passage.
Could it really be because of those steam chariots that only moved by boiling water?
Or... was it because of those Contractors who had formed a symbiotic relationship with demons?
Whatever. He was just a nameless killer, taking orders now and then, muddling through life. Maybe one day he wouldn't be able to work anymore and would starve to death in his own home. He had no mind to care about matters on the battlefield.
These days... it wasn't easy for anyone.
But fortunately, today's job was quite easy. The knife was sharp; it easily pierced the other's neck, tore through the neck muscles, reached the windpipe, and with a gentle flick, cut open the entire airway...
Watching the boss stare at him with terrified eyes, clutching his neck and falling down, writhing on the ground like a fat maggot, Jack sighed helplessly. He turned around, flipped the sign to the [CLOSE] side, drew the curtains, and locked the door while he was at it.
He was so fat; it would take a lot of effort to carry him out later, wouldn't it? Luckily, there was no one on this street right now. In ten minutes, he should be able to carry him to the sewer.
Just as he was thinking this...
Suddenly, Jack had a bad premonition because he saw that as the person on the ground clutched his own throat, he used too much force, and his fingers sank into the wound. Those thick knuckles were poking around in that bright red gap.
"Uh... he wouldn't..."
Before he could finish his thought, his premonition came true.
The boss had successfully poked his own artery.
Fat people generally have high blood pressure, and people with high blood pressure have brittle blood vessels...
In an instant, fresh blood sprayed ferociously from the wound, like a small fountain, hissing as it reached the ceiling, then shattering into large patches of blood flowers, splattering onto the floor with a crackling sound.
As everyone knows, killing is actually a very simple thing, but if the corpse sprays blood everywhere, cleaning it up is annoying to death... It's the same principle as cooking being easy, but washing dishes being annoying.
So Old Jack felt entirely defeated at this moment.
He leaned against the door, rubbing his head in pain, the thought of retiring quickly sprouting in his heart again.
"What am I supposed to do now?!"
...
And just when he was in extreme pain.
"Ring, ring, ring..."
A series of telephone rings suddenly rang out.
Old Jack was startled. He followed the sound and finally found the telephone under a pile of newspapers on the counter.
A standard 'Scottish Youth A. Bell' telephone. In this era, it was considered common, but not cheap.
He looked at the telephone that kept making noise in front of him, hesitating whether he should answer it.
After weighing it repeatedly in his mind, he decided to answer it, even if he didn't speak, just to hear who was on the other end.
So... he put the receiver to his ear...
A very clear man's voice came from the phone.
"Hello, is this Mr. Jack? I'm sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to confirm, have you... finished killing?"
"???"
Jack felt his mind go blank for a moment, and then a sense of absurdity and wickedness crept up to his forehead.
"Clack!"
He slammed the receiver back.
Honestly, he was a bit confused...
What was the situation? The person on the phone said 'Mr. Jack', right?
Was he talking to me? But how did the other party know I was here?
And what did he mean by 'finished killing'?
Just as he was wondering, suddenly, he heard a "Thump~ Thump~ Thump~" knocking sound at the door.
Old Jack turned his head immediately. Having been a killer for over thirty years, at this moment, he uncharacteristically held his breath.
Who could be outside?
He pondered, subconsciously starting to rejoice that he had locked the door just now...
It should be a passing customer. As long as I don't make a sound, they should have the sense to get lost.
However... before his thought was finished...
"Click! Click!"
The lock actually made a few soft sounds!
Then... the doorknob turned slowly...
And just like that, it was pushed open.
...
Outside the door stood a man wearing a trench coat. He was very tall, but also very thin, about 30 years old. He had a typical British face, though his nose was somewhat high and straight, making his features look overly three-dimensional.
The grey sunlight shone in from the edge of his body, casting a layer of eerie gold over the room full of blood.
The man glanced at the fountain of blood plasma that had not yet stopped in front of him. He didn't show any panic; instead, he let out a sigh of relief as if suddenly realizing something.
"Phew — I thought so. I waited outside for a full 5 minutes and didn't see you come out. I thought you had failed. Turns out an artery burst; it doesn't matter, as long as you finished the killing. This way... it counts as being caught red-handed with the stolen goods."
As the man spoke, he cast his gaze toward Old Jack at the side. Seeing the latter's bewildered face, he casually took off his old bowler hat and placed it against his chest, bowing slightly lazily:
"Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Sherlock Holmes, a detective."