The Great Demon Holmes

Chapter 1: Old Jack

Old Jack had two things to do today.

First, he had to pay the water bill.

Second, he had to kill someone.

Due to his procrastination tendencies, he always liked to leave difficult tasks until the last moment.

Therefore, he decided to kill the person first.

...

...

6 o'clock in the morning.

Year 288 in the Saint's Calendar - London.

Early morning was not much different from dusk; the visibility was poor. Berlin-made airships lazily floated overhead like giant whales, blocking what little sunlight there was. The entire city seemed enveloped in descending dust.

But strangely enough, if you looked up, you could still see distant chimneys continuously spewing thick smoke.

These chimneys were like flags, showcasing the supreme power and wealth of the empire. After the gates of hell opened, these chimneys worked even more diligently.

As the newspaper put it... "If the factories don't work harder, what will happen to the government's expenditure? Who will support the army? Who will produce weapons? Who will deal with those demons that run out of the gates?"

It sounded noble, but even people like Old Jack, who hadn't read many books, knew that what those chimneys spewed out was the blood and sweat of the poor.

As for the money, it all ended up in the capitalists' pockets.

Oh, at this time, the term "capitalist" hadn't become popular yet, so Old Jack was accustomed to using other terms to refer to them...

For example, "bastards without an asshole."

...

On Xianglan Street in the Lower City District, a small street about two kilometers from the Thames River.

It took Old Jack three hours to get here, and now the morning fog had mostly dissipated. Looking around, he could see not-so-fresh cow dung on the ground, garbage bins that hadn't been cleaned for months along the roadside, steam rising from the sewer, and two rats running past a stray cat, which lazily yawned.

At the end of the street was a grocery store, still hidden in the shadows of surrounding walls even though the fog had cleared.

All of this indicated that it was a good place for murder...

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Old Jack was very pleased.

He stepped over the cow dung on the ground and walked straight into the entrance of the grocery store.

"Morning!" he greeted a big-bellied shopkeeper behind the counter.

The shopkeeper, holding a newspaper, glanced over the top of it, didn't say anything, and looked grumpy, very unfriendly.

Old Jack looked at those clearly cirrhotic eyes filled with bloodshot veins and the prominent beer belly, confirming that this guy was the one he was going to kill today.

"Excuse me, do you have a fruit knife here?" he asked.

"Over there..." The shopkeeper pointed in a direction with an unfriendly gaze.

"Thank you," Jack said, expressing his gratitude before walking over and picking a knife that felt suitable. He then returned to the counter.

"7 pence," the shopkeeper continued in that unfriendly tone.

Jack thought to himself that with such an unpleasant attitude, it was reasonable for someone to want to buy his life.

Of course, he didn't care who this guy had offended; he didn't want to get involved. He just wanted to finish this job quickly and then pay the water bill.

"Excuse me, is there a police station nearby?" he asked, placing a shilling on the table.

"There isn't one."

"Well... Are there usually many customers here?"

"There's no one on the street, so where would the customers come from?!" grumbled the shopkeeper, turning around to get change.

Jack nodded reassuringly and picked up the knife.

Smoothly, he thrust it into the other person's neck.

...

Sometimes, Old Jack wondered why humans were so fragile. One stab with a knife could kill them, yet they could still rule the whole world.

And those demons, clearly powerful one by one, had been stuck by humans on the Antarctic continent for two hundred years since the gates of hell opened, unable to cross the Drake Passage.

Could it really be because of those steam-powered tanks that can only move when heated?

Or... was it because of the contractors who formed symbiotic relationships with the demons?

Whatever it was, he was just an unknown assassin, taking jobs and living day by day. Maybe one day he wouldn't be able to work anymore and starve to death in his own home. He didn't have the mental energy to concern himself with matters on the battlefield.

These days... no one had it easy.

But fortunately, today's job was quite easy. The knife was sharp, and it easily pierced the other person's neck, tearing through the neck muscles and reaching the windpipe. With a gentle flick, the entire airway was cut open...

Watching the shopkeeper staring at him with terrified eyes, clutching his neck and collapsing to the ground, writhing like a fat maggot, Jack sighed helplessly. He turned around, flipped the sign on the door to "CLOSED," and pulled down the curtain while locking the door.

With his weight, it would be difficult to carry him out later. Fortunately, there weren't many people on this street now. In about ten minutes, he should be able to dispose of the body in the sewer.

Just as he was thinking...

Suddenly, Jack had a bad feeling. He saw the person on the ground, while clutching his own throat, pressing his fingers into the wound due to the force, with those thick joints poking and prodding inside the bloody gap.

"Uh... Could it be..."

Before he could finish his sentence, his intuition came true.

The shopkeeper successfully punctured his own artery.

Fat people generally had high blood pressure, and the blood vessels of hypertensive individuals were fragile...

In an instant, blood viciously spurted out from the wound, like a small fountain, shooting up to the ceiling, then shattered into large blood splatters, splashing onto the ground with a splattering sound.

It was widely known that killing someone was actually a simple matter, but if the body started spurting blood everywhere, the clean-up became troublesome... It was like cooking being easy, but doing the dishes being a hassle.

So, at that moment, Old Jack felt utterly defeated.

He leaned against the door, rubbing his head in agony, and once again, the idea of retiring as soon as possible sprouted in his mind.

"How am I supposed to handle this?!"

...

And in the midst of his excruciating pain...

"Ring, ring, ring..."

A series of telephone rings suddenly echoed.

Old Jack was taken aback, following the sound to locate the phone. Finally, he found it beneath a pile of newspapers on the counter.

It was a standard "Scotland Younger" telephone, quite popular in this era but not cheap.

Staring at the phone, which continued to make noise, Jack hesitated about whether to answer it or not.

After weighing his options in his mind, he decided to pick it up, even if he didn't speak, just to hear who the other person was.

So... he brought the receiver to his ear...

A clear male voice came through the phone.

"Hello, is this Mr. Jack? I apologize for disturbing you, but I wanted to confirm... Have you... finished the job?"

"???"

Jack felt his mind go blank for a moment, followed by a wave of absurd and eerie sensations creeping up his forehead.

"Slap!"

He hung up the receiver.

To be honest, he was a bit bewildered...

What was going on? The person on the phone called me "Mr. Jack," right?

Was he talking to me? But how did the other person know I was here?

And what did he mean by "finished the job"?

Lost in thought, he suddenly heard a knocking sound, "Thump thump thump," at the door.

Old Jack immediately turned his head, an assassin of over thirty years, but at this moment, he uncharacteristically held his breath.

"Who could it be outside?"

He wondered, subconsciously relieved that he had locked the door from the inside...

"It must be a passing customer. As long as they don't make a sound, they'll understand to leave," he hoped.

However... before he could finish his thoughts...

"Click! Click!"

The lock made a few soft sounds!

Then... the doorknob slowly turned...

And then, it was pushed open.

...

Outside the door stood a man wearing a trench coat, tall but thin, around thirty years old. He had a typical British face, with a slightly prominent nose that made his features overly three-dimensional.

The grayish sunlight shone in from the edges of his body, casting an eerie golden hue over the room filled with blood.

The man glanced at the still-spraying fountain of blood without showing any panic. Instead, he seemed to have a sudden realization and let out a sigh of relief.

"Phew... I did say so. I waited outside for a good five minutes and didn't see you come out. I thought you had failed, but it turns out his artery was severed. No matter, as long as you finished the job, it's considered capturing the culprit."

As the man spoke, he directed his gaze toward Old Jack, who wore a bewildered expression. He casually took off his old top hat and held it against his chest, slightly lazily bowing:

"Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Sherlock Holmes, a detective."