Twilight in London began at half past three. Due to the accumulation of water vapor in the clouds, the gray sunlight filtered through the smog, tingeing London with a vibrant crimson hue.
The distant church bells gradually ceased, marking the end of the day's service.
In the office, the old Priest sat with his eyes closed. His sparse hair, like the legs of an insect, was subtly and disturbingly twitching.
Superintendent Lestrade was slightly bowed, whispering a question: "Miss Katherine, do you know that detective?"
"No."
"But… but you seemed very displeased with him."
Katherine recalled the hateful face in the elevator and said coldly, "A cleric's relative has been murdered!
What we need now is the toughest, most professional elite. He must be able to handle the entire case, identify the killer, and have the murderer's blood stain the court notice before sunset tomorrow!
And what did you bring me? This lazy, shameless degenerate who looks permanently confused, as if he's high on hallucinogens?"
Superintendent Lestrade stared at her, astonished by her assessment of Sherlock.
She's actually quite accurate!
"But, my esteemed Miss Katherine, I dare guarantee to you, by the highest policing title of Scotland Yard, that if you searched all of London for someone who meets your requirements, it could only be him," he carefully retorted.
As the highest official in London's police system, he instinctively displayed a stubborn and proud side in his professional domain, completely forgetting that just half an hour ago, he was unwilling to even utter Sherlock's name.
After Lestrade left, the old Priest slowly opened his eyes. The recent meditation seemed to have been quite enjoyable.
The crimson glow of the setting sun shone along the edge of his robe. Suddenly, right there, a pitch-black fissure appeared out of thin air.
A gigantic, hairy spider, covered in fuzz, silently crawled out.
It was as large as a wheelbarrow, and its eight eyes, like eight black beans, gleamed with an unsettling light in the sunset.
The old Priest reached out, affectionately stroking the hair on its abdomen, causing it to emit a disgusting hiss:
"Lestrade has worked in the police system his entire life. During the Second Demon Invasion, he single-handedly managed the security of the Lower District and reduced the civilian crime rate there to a level that pleased the Church immensely.
I imagine his judgment is not easily mistaken."
"I simply find it hard to see anything remarkable in such a lazy person."
The old Priest's lips curved into an intrigued smile: "I just went down to the underground cells. That detective caught a killer today to claim a reward. He put the criminal in a box."
"A… box?" Katherine frowned in confusion.
"Haha, yes, a suitcase," the old Priest chuckled, demonstrating the shape with his hands. "I have never seen a person twisted like that and still be alive. Even those madmen at the Academy of Life Sciences would need significant equipment to achieve it.
Furthermore, the killer he caught was no simple character. His bounty had reached £200. I heard this gentleman managed to capture him in just two or three days, catching him red-handed during the act.
For a Mortal, achieving that is already extremely impressive."
Katherine mulled over the old man's words. After a moment: "No matter how impressive, he is merely a Mortal in the end."
Her tone carried an inherent sense of condescension.
This was not the disdain of a person of power for a commoner, but a perfectly natural, logical perspective of looking down. It had nothing to do with politics, character, money, or even social status.
It was more akin to the attitude of an eagle toward a rabbit—an attitude stemming from the difference in species and life force.
Merely a Mortal in the end.
He is not a Contractor…
In this era where the power of the Abyss influences all things, the Church mastered the method of channeling Abyssal power through the human body a century ago. Therefore, an ordinary human naturally faced skepticism regarding their abilities.
Fortunately, the old man's words carried a degree of persuasiveness. Katherine's expression remained cold, but she eventually nodded.
In the reception room, Sherlock was dozing on the sofa.
A book rested on his hand.
"How to Save Yourself When Encountering a Small Demon in the Wild"
The author was a fellow named Bear Grylls.
The cover, made of the cheapest cardboard, featured an illustration of a common Hellhound vomiting acidic fluid onto a beautiful lady in a dress. The cover art was crude, and the ink had bled during printing.
These kinds of survival guides were bestsellers for a time, since no one knew where a Void Rift might appear.
You might be using the toilet and suddenly find the space in front of you tearing open, and a disgusting giant fly emerging, hell-bent on sucking out your brain matter.
Reading books like this, it was thought, might increase your chances of survival.
However, after a decade of market validation, people gradually discovered that these books were completely useless. When facing an Abyssal creature, you either needed a LeScotte shotgun and enough shells, or you needed to run.
Run as fast as you can to the nearest Contractor and beg for help, or run to the nearest church. That's all there was to it.
If you had neither and foolishly tried to grapple with the creature using knowledge from a book, you would certainly meet a comically gruesome end.
Once, an author of a survival guide slid into the freshly ripped-open chest cavity of a Carrion Fiend.
Home delivery, straight to the stomach.
"Want a smoke?" a voice asked.
Sherlock blinked and raised his half-asleep eyes. He saw Superintendent Lestrade holding out a cigarette toward him.
"No thanks, I have my own." Sherlock yawned unbecomingly, then pulled a pack of [Blue Tune] cigarettes from his pocket.
"I still don't understand why you only smoke Blue Tune. It's such an old brand, hard to find, and so harsh."
Sherlock lit his cigarette without comment, taking a deep drag.
"You see, that's why people don't like you. You have too many incomprehensible things about you, and you never offer any explanation."
Sherlock looked noncommittal through squinted eyes: "If you have something to say, spit it out. Don't beat around the bush."
"I've got you a job. A murder case…" The Superintendent paused slightly. "…I hate to admit it, but it involves the Church."
He watched Sherlock's expression throughout the conversation. He expected at least a flicker of surprise when he heard the word [Church]. However, Sherlock merely frowned slightly, then returned to his half-awake state.
"Why don't you have any reaction?!"
"Oh, I'm terribly grateful."
This half-hearted response irritated Superintendent Lestrade immensely. He angrily stubbed out his cigarette:
"That is the second reason I hate you so much! You are not pious toward the Church at all!!"