It was obvious that this was the crime scene, given the number of patrols here. The body of the murdered Church official's wife lay just twenty meters away, around the corner of the street.
The entire security squad had gone to great lengths to seal off the area to avoid contaminating the scene.
And yet, this guy who appeared out of nowhere was standing here smoking!
The security officer advanced toward Sherlock with a heavy thud-thud-thud of his armored boots. After confirming that the man wore no insignia related to the Church or the nobility, he naturally assumed Sherlock was merely an attendant to the carriage.
He bent his colossal, nearly three-meter-tall machine body down, glaring fiercely at Sherlock: "You! Extinguish that cigarette immediately!"
The mechanical arm wasn't capable of the fine movement required to "snatch the cigarette." However, the tone of his voice suggested he wasn't planning to snatch the cigarette but rather the man's head along with it.
"Don't be so tense, brother. A cigarette won't damage anything," Sherlock said, looking up and waving a hand unhurriedly.
"Even if it could, your steam-powered tin cans have been venting nearby for hours. Whatever could be ruined is probably ruined by now."
"Uh—" The security officer's voice stalled.
The exhaust pipe on the back of his armor chose that perfect moment to hiss-hiss-hiss, letting out several plumes of hot steam.
As a security officer, he mostly handled heavy duties like 'assisting with the cleansing of small demons' or 'escorting Church personnel.'
He truly was not skilled at things like preserving a crime scene.
Turning his head, he saw Miss Katherine standing nearby. At this distance, their conversation would have been perfectly clear to her.
A rush of embarrassment went straight to his head.
He undoubtedly admired Miss Katherine.
She was young, beautiful, pious, brave, well-educated, and possessed an excellent family background and bloodline. Virtually every virtue could be found in her. Even more valuable, she was a Contractor who had achieved the Second Stage.
This natural disparity prevented his admiration from turning into love, forcing it instead to be disguised as worship of a superior.
This only made the security officer angrier! But he forcibly maintained a semblance of knightly conduct, gritting his teeth:
"Leave this place immediately, civilian! This is not where you should be!"
Before he finished speaking—
"He can't leave yet." Katherine spoke for the first time since arriving.
The security officer turned back in shock.
The softly beautiful face in the lamplight left him momentarily dazed, unsure of what he had just heard:
"Although it's hard to believe, from this moment on… this man is the main person in charge of this murder case."
The security officer looked blankly at the beautiful woman in the light, then lowered his gaze to Sherlock, who was still calmly smoking.
He knew Miss Katherine would bring back a talented specialist to solve the case. But he never expected it to be such an inconspicuous commoner.
He couldn't fathom the reasons behind this and stood frozen for a few seconds.
"Apologies." He concealed his inner resistance. "How should I address you?"
"Sherlock Holmes, private detective."
"Very well, Detective." He didn't use Sherlock's first name, nor did he introduce himself, merely continuing with the procedural requirements:
"In that case, you must be aware of the nature of this incident. Before you see the body, you are required to swear an oath to the God of Order: that you will not disclose any details of this case to anyone, including your dearest loved ones…"
He rattled off a long string of formal vows, but the main point was simple: keep this matter buried!
Sherlock had anticipated this procedure. For people in the Upper District, commoners generally held little credibility.
He understood this view himself. After all, most people in the Lower District were busy fighting for survival, and credibility wasn't worth much.
So, he half-heartedly repeated the oath after the officer.
After the vow was complete, with a light click-clack, a black, thumb-sized card popped out from the security officer's armor sleeve.
This was a miniature phonographic record on which the just-spoken oath was recorded. All oaths were sent to the Church's Judgment Tribunal. If anyone violated their oath, an Executor would be dispatched to hunt and judge them.
Under the Church, an oath was certainly not a flimsy joke—something you could lift your hand and spout nonsense about, then suffer no thunder strike for breaking.
It was a recorded, physical constraint that carried genuine punitive effect.
Of course, the Judgment Tribunal didn't take every single oath seriously. In their words, the Holy Light would not bother with those of no consequence.
Thus, the Tribunal never actively investigated anyone. This institution was completely independent of the societal structure.
Even if a mayor, a general, or even the Imperial Emperor or the Pope wished to investigate someone or review their oath, they had to submit an absolutely reasonable and necessary cause.
The security officer handed the newly generated oath to a subordinate, then turned and gestured for Sherlock to follow.
Just a few steps away, hidden quietly in the shadow where the gaslight could not reach, lay a deep, secluded alley.
At the boundary between light and dark, several people in clerical robes stood reverently and humbly, their heads slightly bowed. They held brass pendants engraved with sacred scriptures, chanting rhythmically and continuously.
Standing in front of these individuals was a tall, middle-aged man. He was nearly two meters tall, bald, but with a dense beard. His primary blue robe was bisected by a broad, striking blood-red proclamation that stretched from his collar to the hem.
The night wind blew, causing the robe to sway slightly, occasionally outlining the exaggerated, non-human muscular contours beneath.
This attire marked the man as an Executor of the Judgment Division.
They were the purest enforcers of violence under the Church.
Unlike the Holy Legions along the Drake Passage, these men focused on purges within the Empire: oath-breakers, rebels, those who blasphemed the Holy Light, and Contractors who committed unforgivable sins.
They possessed the cruelest tortures, the bloodiest methods, the strictest efficiency, weapons comparable to the Holy Legions, and authority that superseded Imperial Law.
They had almost everything—except mercy.
Therefore, these figures draped in blood-red proclamations were, in the eyes of most Imperial citizens, far more terrifying than demons.
"Your Excellency Balthur," the security officer lowered his head as much as possible. Although his steam armor made him significantly taller, he still conveyed a palpable sense of subservience. "This is Sherlock, a detective, brought in by Miss Katherine…"
The man called Balthur raised a hand, signaling no need to continue, and turned his head.
His brow was highly prominent, concealing his eyes completely in shadow as he looked at Sherlock.
After a few seconds, he spoke.
"I don't care about your identity, profession, Mortal, or Contractor. I don't even care if you are a citizen. My wife is dead. I need the killer! Alive!"
His voice was deep, devoid of any discernible grief. But Sherlock noted that the moment the word 'alive' left his mouth, the security officer beside him instinctively shivered.
He was likely recalling some of the soul-crushing tortures administered in the Church's blood-soaked dungeons.
Having spoken, Executor Balthur stepped aside, allowing the lamplight to shine into the alley.
A shocking scene was thus presented before Sherlock's eyes.
——————
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