Given the heavy patrol presence, it was obvious that this was the crime scene. The corpse of the mutilated executor's wife lay just around the street corner, twenty meters away.
The entire security squad had gone to great lengths to seal off the area to prevent contamination of the scene, and yet this guy, who had popped out of nowhere, was actually smoking here!!!
Thud, thud, thud.
The security officer stomped over to Sherlock in a few heavy strides. After confirming the man bore no insignia related to the Church or nobility, he naturally assumed Sherlock was merely an attendant for the carriage.
He lowered his massive, nearly three-meter-tall mechanical frame and glared ferociously at the man. "You! Put that cigarette out immediately!"
The mechanical arm lacked the fine motor skills to perform a delicate operation like "snatching the cigarette away." However, judging by his tone, he wasn't interested in just taking the cigarette; he sounded like he wanted to rip the man's head off along with it.
"Don't be so tense, brother. Smoking a cigarette won't destroy anything," Sherlock said, looking up and waving his hand unhurriedly.
"Even if it could, you steam-powered tin cans have been puffing away around here for hours. Whatever could be destroyed has likely been destroyed by now."
"Uh—" The officer's voice hitched.
As if on cue, the exhaust pipes on the back of his armor let out a hiss-hiss-hiss, venting several jets of hot steam.
As a security officer, his duties mostly involved brute labor like "assisting in the purge of small demons" or "escorting Church members." When it came to delicate tasks like protecting a crime scene, he really wasn't that adept.
Turning his head, he saw Miss Catherine standing not far away. At this distance, she undoubtedly heard their conversation clearly.
A wave of embarrassment rushed straight to his forehead.
He undeniably admired Miss Catherine. Or rather, most men who knew anything about this Judgment Nun would be drawn to her.
Young, beautiful, devout, brave, well-bred, and possessing an excellent lineage. Almost every virtue could be found in her. Even more precious was the fact that she was a Contractor who had reached the Second Stage.
This natural gap prevented countless admirers from daring to turn their admiration into love, forcing them to disguise it as a male's respect for the strong.
This only made the officer more furious! But he forced himself to display a shred of knightly professionalism, gritting his teeth as he said:
"Leave this place immediately, civilian! This is not where you should be!"
Before his voice had even faded...
"He cannot leave," Catherine said, speaking for the first time since arriving.
The officer turned back in shock.
Her blurry, soft features under the lamplight put him in a trance for a moment, making him unsure of what he had heard.
"Although it is hard to believe, from this moment on... this man is the lead investigator for this murder case."
The officer looked bewilderedly at the beautiful woman under the light, then lowered his head to look at Sherlock, who was still calmly smoking his cigarette.
He knew Miss Catherine would bring back a talented individual capable of solving the case, but he never expected it to be such an unremarkable civilian.
He couldn't fathom the reason, so he just stood there, frozen for a few seconds.
However...
He seemed to sense that Miss Catherine held no affection for this civilian, nor even a shred of respect. This made the young officer feel considerably better.
"Apologies," he said, hiding the resistance in his heart. "How should I address you?"
"Sherlock... private detective."
"Very well, Mr. Detective." He didn't use the man's name, nor did he offer his own. He simply continued in a procedural tone:
"Since that is the case, you should be aware of the nature of this incident. Therefore, before you see the body, you must swear an oath to the God of Order that you will not reveal any details of this case to anyone, including your closest kin and loved ones..."
He practicedly rattled off a long string of vows, but the general content was singular: Take this to your grave!
Sherlock had anticipated this procedure. To the people of the Upper City, civilians generally had no credibility.
He understood this perspective quite well. After all, people in the Lower City were mostly busy struggling to survive; credibility really wasn't worth much there.
So, he half-heartedly repeated the oath after the officer.
Once the oath was complete, a series of soft click-click-click sounds were heard. From the officer's armored arm, a black, thumb-sized thin card popped out.
It was a miniature phonograph record, storing the oath just recited. All such oaths would be sent to the Church's Inquisition. If anyone violated them, an executor would issue a warrant for their arrest and judgment.
Under the Church's rule, oaths were not ethereal promises where one could just raise three fingers, spout nonsense, and face no divine retribution if broken.
Instead, they were recorded, tangible constraints with real punitive effects.
Of course, the Inquisition wouldn't seriously treat every single oath with utmost gravity. In their words, the Holy Light does not concern itself with insignificant people.
Thus, the Inquisition never actively investigated anyone. The institution stood completely independent of the social system. Even if the Mayor, a General, or even the Emperor or the Pope wanted to investigate someone and check their oaths, they had to submit an absolutely reasonable and necessary cause.
...
The officer handed the newly generated oath record to a subordinate, then turned and signaled for Sherlock to follow.
Just a few steps away, in a spot untouched by the gaslight, a deep alley lay quietly hidden in the shadows.
At the boundary between light and dark, several figures in priestly robes stood piously and humbly. Their heads were bowed slightly, and they held brass pendants engraved with holy scriptures, chanting rhythmically.
Standing before these men was a towering middle-aged man, nearly two meters tall. He was bald, but his beard was thick and lush. His robe was predominantly blue, but a broad, jarring blood-red sash extended from his collar to the hem. as the night wind blew, the robe swayed gently, occasionally outlining the exaggerated, inhuman muscle contours beneath.
This attire indicated that this man was an Executor of the Adjudication Division!
Under the Church, the purest enforcers of violence.
Unlike the Sacred Legion along the Redock Strait, these men focused on internal purges within the Empire: oath-breakers, rebels, blasphemers of the Holy Light, and Contractors who committed unforgivable sins.
They possessed the cruelest tortures, the bloodiest methods, the strictest execution capabilities, weapons rivaling the Sacred Legion, and authority that superseded Imperial Law. They had almost everything—except mercy.
Therefore, in the eyes of most Imperial citizens, these fellows draped in blood-red sashes were even more terrifying than demons.
"Lord Balder." The security officer lowered his head as much as possible. Even with his steel armor making him taller than the other man, he exuded a clearly visible sense of servility. "This is Sherlock, a detective. He was brought by Miss Catherine..."
The man called Balder raised a hand, signaling no need to say more. He turned his head. His brow ridge was prominent, casting his entire eyes in shadow as he stared at Sherlock.
A few seconds later...
"I don't care about identity, profession, whether you are 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 heavy, betraying no sorrowful emotion, but Sherlock noticed that the moment the word "alive" was spoken, the security officer beside him shuddered subconsciously.
He was likely recalling certain tortures in the Church's blood dungeons that made one wish for death.
Having said his piece, Executor Balder stepped aside, allowing the light from the streetlamp to spill into the alley.
A shocking scene was thus presented before Sherlock's eyes.