When the plot-skips players into the game world

The flames in the fireplace crackled as they burned, and Sherlock, having simply draped a thick woolen coat over himself, slowly opened his eyes.

His nearly amber brown pupils slowly focused, becoming sharp gradually.

With a deep and forceful inhalation, Sherlock creaked to a sit from his rocking chair with effort.

He stood up and used the chemical equipment on the table to heat water with his somewhat trembling hands. He only heated it to about thirty or forty degrees, just enough to remove the chill of the early winter morning, before adding three generous spoonfuls of honey.

After downing it in one gulp, he silently closed his eyes and stood upright in silence.

He seemed to be savoring the taste of the honey water or quickly recovering his strength.

It was a while before he opened his eyes again. Only then did Sherlock Hermes, who always appeared self-possessed, finally return in full.

"Why did I rank third?"

He muttered softly, "Besides the 'Bone Sculptor,' who else could have scored higher than me? The Fox, or perhaps Coco?"

After thinking it over for a while, he set the question aside in his heart.

Immediately, he began to ponder another matter:

"Whose pale and emaciated hand was that in the scene just now? And who was that fat man?

"The phantom images shown at the settlement are definitely important scenes related to the task, and they're arranged in the order the events happened. The Fox's decision to commit suicide determined our victory. That happened afterward...

"Is the fat man the murderer, then? If so, whose was that white hand?"

There were only two possibilities.

It could either belong to the Bone Sculptor or to Coco. Both were possible... Neither of their faces had appeared in the image.

But considering that the Fox had two images, which means his score could be higher than Sherlock's, there wouldn't be enough ranking space if Coco was also accounted for.

Meaning, the person who most likely undertook the task of 'killing the murderer' and scored the most points was probably the Bone Sculptor.

—A dangerous person indeed.

Being at Energy Level One and able to kill a Level Two Demon Scholar... His other path must be of a high grade.

"Lars Graham..."

Sherlock murmured softly, pulling a file from a cabinet behind him.

The lighting in his room was mediocre, the space cramped and not well ventilated. The air was filled with a mix of chemical reagents and dust, while ritual materials, books, and various scrolls and files were scattered haphazardly on the shelves and tables.

Though it looked chaotic, he actually knew exactly where different items were placed. At least he could always find what he wanted with ease.

Holding the file, he walked to the window, squinting as he carefully read.

"Born on February 29, 1824... 74 years old, huh."

Irisflower People, born in Higwell Town. His father was a baker, his mother a tailor.

"At 14, he began to learn sculpting under the tutelage of Master Albert Adelaid. At 18, he set foot on the Path of Beauty. At 23, after the death of Master A.A., he was recommended for further study at Westide University. At 28, he was employed by the university as a tutor.

"Held his first sculpture exhibition at 34, began to be called a master at 38, and at 46, he became the vice-dean of the Westide University Art Academy..."

Sherlock murmured softly to himself, swiftly reviewing the information at hand.

Then, his gaze settled on the middle part of the third page:

"...In 1893, invited to Avalon to sculpt a holy image for Queen Sofia. This work was completed in February 1896.

"...In 1895, became a special art professor at the Royal College of Law Theological Seminary, teaching 'General Aesthetics.' This position was resigned in June 1898."

Five years ago, he had traveled from Iris Flower to Avalon to sculpt a holy image for the queen who sensed her impending death. That was his last piece of work.

Three years ago...before the completion of the holy image, he started teaching aesthetics at the Theological Seminary. And he only taught for three years.

Although the scene was fleeting,

Sherlock saw it clearly—the ghostly figure of a white-clad girl was wearing the Theological Seminary's uniform.

"...Interesting."

Although the inspection of the missing person was still pending, it was becoming nearly certain.

This person was troublesome to deal with. As an international public figure, and a foreigner...convicting him would require conclusive evidence. And, likely, the only sentence would be deportation.

But if it could be verified that he had taken the Dusk Path, perhaps matters would be much simpler.

"Bone Sculptor is not to be touched for now, Fox..."

Sherlock murmured to himself, "And who might you be?"

The report for Her Majesty didn't need to be written in a hurry.

He wanted first to verify the information provided by the Fox, and then decide on the Fox's stance based on the results.

So Sherlock pondered for a moment and sat down at his desk to scribble on his map. He was calculating the location of the abandoned chemical factory in the Lohar District.

Then, Sherlock suddenly picked up the phone on his desk and spun the heavy dial with one hand.

The phone was answered almost immediately after ringing twice.

"Good morning, Edward."

Sherlock clamped the receiver between his neck and shoulder, continuing to mark up the map while speaking rapidly, "My dear partner, I hope you're awake by now—not woken up by me, but of your own accord. Yes, I need to see you—yes, it's troublesome. So I need your help, urgently. Please come see me right away. I'll treat you to breakfast; you pick the place.

"—Yes, in the Lohar District. The place called 'Sweater Brothers Association,' do you remember it?"

At this very moment.

In the Red Queen District, at the Supervisory Court office.

Chief Inspector Edward Moriarty answered the phone with his left hand clad in white gloves.

He had short, pure black hair combed neatly backwards. His face was somewhat angular, with deep, black eyes that were like chasms.

Compared to his younger siblings, Edward's appearance was much more ordinary. He had slightly high cheekbones and a square face, giving a sense of righteousness and solemnity.

He leaned back in his own seat, wearing the inspector's signature black suit, which looked almost like mourning attire. His robust physique easily filled out the suit. The thick coat only reached his waist, while below he wore fitted black trousers and black leather shoes. A corner of a white handkerchief was placed in his breast pocket, his left hand wore a white glove, while his right hand was bare. His knuckles and bones were distinctly visible, conveying a sense of strength.

Despite looking clearly displeased, Edward did not hang up the phone.

After all, this was his best friend, his classmate...his most reliable old partner.

Chief Inspector Moriarty's ungloved right hand slowly stroked the surface of the paper.

A long list of names was on it—this meant "awaiting inspection."

"Sweater Brothers Association..."

Edward muttered softly, squinting his eyes in recollection, "I've heard the name, but it doesn't ring a bell."

His voice was deep and magnetic, conveying a sense of reliability and steadiness.

"They must be a gang of Stranglers. They're named that because, during their time of poverty, they were all dependent on the current leader's mother's charity, who provided each of them with a set of similarly patterned sweaters. Later, when they formed a gang, they used these sweaters as the organization's name.

"What, have they crossed you? Or are you thinking of buying them off to work for you?"

"—According to a reliable intelligence report, they may be connected to the masterminds behind the Pelican Bar. And I've got information regarding their gathering spot."

Through the other end of the phone, Sherlock's slightly distorted voice came through, "So, I'm inviting you to join me in the investigation. I do have some concerns—if this intelligence is accurate, it indeed involves potentially lethal risks to me."

On hearing this, Edward's brows furrowed slightly.

In the depths of his black pupils, a dazzling silvery-white brilliance gradually gathered and shone.

"Really?"

Edward said in a low voice, "You know who's behind them."

"Sixty percent sure. After all, I haven't had the chance to verify it yet," Sherlock replied.

"Your sixty percent is quite high, Hermes. I trust you."

"Then come to my place to meet up, Chief Inspector. Bring your sidearm and white gloves."

"Alright, I'll see you in a bit."

Edward spoke concisely and hung up the phone.

He clipped a handsome white short gun to his waist and added two Elven Style silver short swords.

Afterward, Edward took out his white whistle necklace from under his collar and blew it with force.

The whistle made no sound, but after a while, the sound of a Gryphon flapping its wings could be heard outside the window.

He opened the window, let his black Gryphon mount inside, and fed it some food.

After eating, he prepared to ride the Gryphon to Sherlock's home.

At that moment, someone knocked on the door of his office.

"—Leave the report to Deputy Chief Asaad."

Edward responded indifferently, "For procurement approval, go to Lady Red. I need to step out."

"It's me, Edward."

The gentle voice of his foster father—James Moriarty—came from the doorway.

Edward's brow lifted slightly, his icy and stern countenance softened a tad.

He immediately went over and opened the door.

As he towered over his foster father, he leaned slightly and his tone became gentler, "Father, do you need something? You're here early."

"Are you heading out?"
Your journey continues on m v|l-e'm,p y r

This politely-spoken elderly gentleman glanced at the Gryphon eating inside the room, touched the brim of his hat, and made a light-hearted joke, "Coincidentally, I also have a sudden long trip to make."

"A long trip? How far?"

"Off to the Holy Nation. I was going to send Oswald in my place, but after some thought, it's better for me to handle something this important myself. I'll be back in about two weeks; take good care of your brother and sister during this time."

Old James spoke warmly, "Oh, and Aiwass is going back to school. Make sure you take care of that too."

"No problem, Father."

The silent and stern young man nodded slightly, "I will stay at home during this period and ensure Aiwass and Yulia's safety."

"Good, that's settled then. Glass Island is about to become chaotic... And one more thing," old James added leisurely, "wrap up the matter with the Pelican Bar nicely, make sure all leads are cleaned up. Let's put an end to it. If anyone else wishes to continue investigating, urge them to stay quiet."

"...Yes."

"Oh, and one more thing."

Old James suddenly asked, "Did you find the letter I asked you to look for?"

"Yes, indeed, I did not," Edward replied, "There were many things that should have been on the second body that were missing. 'Noble Red' was gone as well."

"It must have been taken away along with Aiwass," old James suggested gently, "After all, Veronica's 'Noble Red' is also in your brother's possession. In that case, stop searching for the letter."

"Father," Edward couldn't help asking, "which minister is it that's communicating with The Association? Can you tell me? I can't protect Aiwass if I don't know anything."

"Shh..."

Old James smiled, placing a finger on his lips.

Edward immediately quieted down.

And the old man said leisurely, "If Aiwass is endangered by his own justice and curiosity, then let him resolve it himself. Just last night, I sensed the presence of the Dream Realm. Aiwass has begun his first advancement ritual... The boy is finally starting to have some secrets of his own, which pleases me."

He squinted through his somewhat cloudy grey eyes, speaking warmly, "As for espionage, I advise you're better off not knowing. A secret is a form of power. But a secret in your hands is not yet a blade; it will only shackle your thoughts."

"Father..."

"—It will be soon. Edward, it will be soon. Sooner or later, I will entrust all this to you... but not just yet."

"...So what about now? What should I be doing now?"

Edward was silent for a moment before adding, "Aside from the wrap-up work for the Pelican Bar..."

"Now, you should do what you were intending to do before. Weren't you about to head out?"

The ever-calm old man squinted his eyes, patted the tall Edward on the shoulder, and said kindly, "But remember to eat something. Skipping breakfast is bad for the stomach."