Dusk in London began as early as three-thirty in the afternoon. Due to the accumulated water vapor in the cloud layers, the hazy sunlight filtered through the atmosphere, dyeing the sky a vivid, bloody crimson. In the distance, the church bells gradually ceased their tolling; the day's service had ended.
Inside the office, the High Priest sat with his eyes closed. His sparse hair, like the legs of an insect, wriggled in a bizarre and barely perceptible manner...
Chief Inspector Lestrade bowed slightly, whispering his confusion, "Miss Catherine, do you know that detective?"
"I don't."
"But... you seem very dissatisfied with him."
Catherine recalled that detestable face from the elevator, her voice icy. "The family member of a clergyman has been murdered! What we need now is the toughest, most professional elite. Someone who can single-handedly handle the entire case, find the killer, and ensure their blood stains the Inquisition's notice board by sunset tomorrow!
And you? You found me this lazy, shameless scum who looks as dazed as if he's been huffing hallucinogens all day?"
Lestrade stared at her blankly, surprised by her assessment of Sherlock. It was... actually quite accurate.
"But, noble Miss Catherine, I dare assure you on my title as the highest-ranking officer of Scotland Yard: search all of London, and he is the only one who fits your requirements."
He countered carefully. As the head of London's police system, when it came to his professional domain, he instinctively displayed a stubborn pride, completely forgetting that just half an hour ago, he hadn't even wanted to mention Sherlock's name.
...
After Lestrade left, the High Priest slowly opened his eyes.
The meditation seemed to have pleased him greatly. The crimson glow of the setting sun shone on the hem of his robe... Suddenly, right there, a pitch-black rift appeared out of thin air, and a giant spider covered in fuzz crawled out silently.
It was the size of a wheelbarrow, with eight eyes like eight jet-black beans, gleaming with a ghastly light in the sunset.
The old priest reached out and rubbed the fuzz on its abdomen affectionately, causing it to emit a disgusting hissing sound.
"Lestrade has worked in the police system all his life. During the Second Demonic Invasion, he was solely responsible for the security of the Lower District and reduced the crime rate there to a level that greatly satisfied the Church. I assume his judgment shouldn't be too poor..."
"I just feel that such a lazy person shows no sign of exceptional ability."
The corners of the High Priest's mouth curled into an interested smile. "I went to the underground cells just now. That detective caught a murderer today to claim the bounty. He... stuffed the criminal into a suitcase."
"A... a suitcase?" Catherine frowned in confusion.
"Haha, yes, a suitcase." The High Priest chuckled, gesturing a shape in the air. "I've never seen a human twisted into such a shape and still be alive. Even those madmen at the Academy of Life Sciences would need quite a few instruments to achieve that.
Moreover, the captured murderer wasn't a simple character. His bounty had reached 200 pounds. I heard the detective caught him in just two or three days... and caught him red-handed during the act.
For a mortal, being able to do this is already extremely outstanding."
Catherine savored the old man's words. After a long while, she said, "No matter how outstanding, he is ultimately just a mortal."
Her tone carried a natural sense of disdain.
It wasn't the contempt of a superior for the lower class, but a reasonable, logical overlook. It had nothing to do with politics, character, money, or even social status.
It was more like the attitude of an eagle towards a rabbit, stemming from the difference in species.
Ultimately just a mortal...
Not a Contractor...
In this era where the power of the Abyss influenced everything, the Holy See had mastered the method of controlling Abyssal power with human bodies a century ago... Therefore, an ordinary human would naturally face skepticism regarding their capabilities.
Fortunately, the old man's words held some persuasion. Catherine's face remained cold, but eventually... she nodded.
...
Inside the lounge.
Sherlock leaned back on the sofa, drowsy.
Resting on his hand was a book.
How to Save Yourself When Encountering Small Demons 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 onto a beautiful lady in a dress. The drawing was crude, and the colors had bled during printing.
Such self-help books were very popular at one time. After all, no one knew where a Void Rift might appear. If you were taking a dump and suddenly space cracked open in front of you, and a disgusting giant fly drilled out desperate to suck your brains, reading more of these books might just increase your chances of survival.
But after more than a decade of market verification, everyone gradually realized these books were completely useless. When encountering Void lifeforms, you either had a Lescott shotgun with enough ammo, or you ran.
Run as fast as you can to the nearest Contractor and beg for help, or run to the nearest church. That was it.
If you had nothing and still deluded yourself into thinking you could use the knowledge in the book to fight, you would definitely die in a hilarious fashion. There was once a self-help book author who slide-tackled himself straight into the freshly split chest cavity of a Scavenger Ghoul.
Home delivery, straight to the stomach.
"Want a smoke?" A voice came.
Sherlock blinked, lifting his half-asleep eyes to see Chief Lestrade holding out a cigarette to him.
"No thanks, I have my own." Sherlock yawned without any regard for his image, then fished 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 buy, and chokes you to death."
Sherlock lit his cigarette on his own, took a deep drag, and didn't answer the question.
"You see, this is why people don't like you. There are too many unfathomable things about you, and you never explain any of them."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes noncommittally. "If you have something to say, just say it. Stop beating around the bush."
"I got you a job. A homicide..." The Chief paused. "Although I hate to admit it, but... it's related to the Holy See."
As he spoke, he kept his eyes on Sherlock's expression. He thought that upon hearing the words "Holy See," the detective would show at least a hint of surprise. However, Sherlock just frowned slightly, then returned to his drowsy look.
"How do you have no reaction at all!?"
"Oh, well... thanks a lot."
This half-hearted tone annoyed Chief Lestrade immensely. He angrily stubbed out his cigarette.
"This is the second damn reason I hate you... You have absolutely no piety towards the Holy See!!"