Who knows how much time had passed before the blindfold was finally removed.
Lomue tried to move his body, only to find himself completely immobilized. He was pressed firmly into a chair, bound tight by nylon ropes.
Drip. Drip.
Water droplets fell onto the crown of his head, the icy trails sliding down to the tip of his nose. Every breath felt heavy with moisture and the faint, lingering stench of rot in the air.
In the darkness, a sigh echoed: "I told you that meddlesome personality of yours would cause trouble sooner or later, Miss Holmes... Have you considered giving your past self a slap for what you did a few hours ago?"
Lomue tried to scan his surroundings, but the culprit had intentionally blocked the light. Even though the two of them were facing each other, they couldn't see a thing.
"Your mouth is always harder than your knees, Mr. Victoria. If I hadn't come to save you, would I be in such a pathetic state?"
The reply came in a slightly mocking female voice.
Lomue blanked for a second. "Weren't you the one who was kidnapped?"
Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "You were clearly the one who was—oh."
They had both been played.
She realized it instantly. "Mr. Joker invited his friends over for dinner when he was a kid. He told Friend A to bring the cutlery and Friend B to bring the food, while he took charge of the eating."
"So now we're both tied up here, blindfolded, without even knowing our location. How do you plan to escape? Prayer?" Lomue shot her a glare.
"You bear 90% of the responsibility, Mr. Victoria. Honestly, that such a crude, low-level lie could deceive you... am I really that fragile in your eyes?"
Suddenly, the piercing screech of a chainsaw erupted near Sherlock's ear, though it sounded even closer to the young man. "This isn't difficult for me, Mr. Victoria. You'd better worry about yourself first."
Thud.
Before the words fully left her lips, a wall slammed down violently between the two of them.
The sound was severed.
Silence fell on Sherlock's side, but the roar of the chainsaw remained behind Lomue's head, growing increasingly ear-splitting.
Ring, ring.
The telephone on the table rang. No one answered, but a muffled, somber voice drifted from the receiver.
"It seems you are both very calm. You don't view me as a worthy adversary at all, do you, Mr. Victoria? Miss Holmes?"
He sounded disappointed, but that disappointment was quickly replaced by a gleeful chuckle. "No matter. Soon you will learn the price of leafing through my work with such disdain."
"You may call me 'The Artist'—a performance artist of the human body. I specialize in behavioral performances... making others perform."
"A pleasure to meet you, Sherlock Holmes. The most famous genius of Cambridge, a consultant for Scotland Yard before you've even graduated. Half of Britain's top criminals have fallen by your hand."
"And you, the great inventor Mr. Lomue Victoria—Miss Holmes' soulmate and childhood friend. The very chainsaw about to pierce you was crafted by your own hand."
"I've heard that no riddle can stump you, and no criminal has defeated you... yet. Well, you may view this performance as a challenge, Miss Holmes. Now, you have only one choice..."
There was a pause on the other end. Vroom, vroom—the chainsaw grew louder.
"The way to crack the mechanism is to find eight digits. I have hidden the clues in various corners of this room. Each digit is set behind a meticulously crafted puzzle. Of course, the light source is one of the hurdles you must overcome."
"There is a phone to your right. Dial the correct eight digits and the machine stops. Otherwise... hehe, you have only five minutes."
Click. The line went dead.
With the wall separating them, Lomue could neither see nor hear what was happening on the other side.
However, an ethereal power suddenly pierced through the wall, expanding his vision to encompass the entire building and sweeping away the darkness.
In Lomue's line of sight, a woman with long brown hair, wearing a canvas hat and an open detective's trench coat, was methodically solving the puzzles. Her deep brown pupils were edged with a greyish-blue, like tempered steel blades hidden in amber—nothing escaped her gaze.
Lomue let out a yawn. "Is this your little 'setup'?"
"You seem to trust her quite a bit?"
The Artist's voice rang out, this time from directly behind him.
Lomue felt a hand drop onto his shoulder. Glancing sideways, the darkness faintly outlined the silhouette of a mask.
"You seem to trust yourself quite a bit?" Lomue countered. "Everyone wants to challenge Sherlock Holmes, but they are either missing or eating government rations at Scotland Yard. Are you confident you can defeat her?"
"No, no, Mr. Victoria, you are quite right."
The Artist's lips curled into a grotesque grin. "I certainly don't have the confidence to defeat Holmes on my own. But... don't I have you?"
"Me?"
"Lomue Victoria. I am certain you grew up with Holmes. Although there is a gap in your records where you weren't together, it doesn't matter. I have observed the two years since your reunion at Cambridge. Mr. Victoria, have you heard the saying?"
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Stop arresting me, Miss Holmes (40 Chapters, Ongoing)
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"Speak."
"Love is the most fatal poison. It erases the gap in status and makes one lose their reason, only to deliver a death blow when the affection wanes."
The Artist laughed gloomily. "And you... you are the key to my victory over Holmes."
"Is that so? If you think Holmes will lose her mind because of me, you're mistaken."
Lomue pulled back his gaze and said calmly, "What is your goal? Kidnapping a girl to lure Sherlock out just to humiliate her? What's the point?"
"The point?"
The Artist seemed amused, clutching his stomach as the tear stains on his mask seemed to deepen. "Defeating Sherlock Holmes is the point itself, Mr. Victoria. Have you heard how the criminal world defines her?"
Sherlock Holmes is invincible; no one can make her lose her cool.
Sherlock Holmes is omnipotent; no clue can escape those sharp eyes.
Sherlock Holmes is a once-in-a-millennium genius of Britain; no one can make her bow her proud head.
In short, Sherlock Holmes is a legend in the underworld; only God could hold a candle to her.
"But compared to her, your halo seems rather dim. Your lover—the woman—is a hundred times stronger than you. Don't you feel jealous? Don't you feel inferior?"
The Artist smiled wickedly, casting a taunting gaze at Lomue's face. He wanted to see a reaction; it was one of his greatest sources of joy.
But Lomue only sighed. "Yes, I've always admitted Sherlock is a hundred times better than me. As for me, I'm just a lucky ordinary guy."
The greatest joy of Lomue's life wasn't his "cheat" power after transmigrating. It was the six-year-old girl next door who had timidly reached out her hand to him all those years ago.
She said her name was Sherlock Holmes. She wanted to use the candy in her hand to make a friend.
"You can't beat her," Lomue said flatly. "Didn't your predecessors in the criminal world warn you?"
The rats of the underground loved to rank their idols. On that list, the second rank, "M," was miles ahead of the third, but the first rank was miles ahead of the second.
And the reigning King of Crime had once said something to the entire underworld that was absolutely deafening.
"Oh, that line," the Artist mused. "To defeat Holmes, God himself would have to commit the crime."
"?"
Bullshit.
The original quote was: "Holmes is too strong. She has the stats and the mechanics. She's a broken hero—completely overpowered. God must have been out of his mind when he coded her."
Lomue's eyes widened. "Is that how you guys translated it?"
The Artist sneered. "That no longer concerns you, Mr. Victoria. Once I defeat Holmes, I will become the new—"
Ring, ring!
The urgent sound interrupted the Artist's fantasy. Out of nowhere, the phone rang again.
The air visibly stagnated for a second. The Joker-masked man froze, seemingly wondering if he had even programmed this part. He picked up the phone, looking suspicious and uncertain.
"Two minutes. A bit longer than I expected."
On the other end was a haughty, contemptuous female voice. "Also, your skill level is really pathetic. Setting aside your laughable contraptions, just look at this place you spent so much effort choosing... This is that factory on the outskirts of London, right?"
Miss Holmes let out a scoff. "I've already notified Scotland Yard. They'll have this place surrounded within ten minutes. There's still time for you to crawl away... Also, someone often tells me a certain phrase, which I'll now give to you: 'Brother, if you're this bad, you need more practice.'"
"..."
Lomue clearly felt the hand on his shoulder trembling. He turned his head; the Artist's crimson joker mask was contorted into a hideous mess.
You've really screwed me over, babe. Lomue felt utterly helpless.
"Fine. Fine. Fine!" The Artist's mouth twitched. "You win, Miss Holmes."
"You don't need to repeat the inevitable, Mr. Artist," Sherlock said nonchalantly. "Now, if you would please..."
"So, I'm going to take one thing from you. Guess what it is? Aren't you smart? Guess! Go on, guess what it is!"
He suddenly laughed, his tone becoming rapid and frantic, grinning like a psychiatric patient.
"What do you mean? Damn it, you better let him go, do you hear me—"
Click. The phone was slammed down.
A pair of crimson, crazed eyes suddenly snapped toward Lomue.
"You guess too, Mr. Victoria. Guess... what happens next?"