Edward Moriarty

The fire in the fireplace crackled. Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, having simply draped a thick wool coat over himself.

His nearly amber-brown pupils gradually focused, growing sharper.

With a deep, forceful inhale, Sherlock laboriously sat up from the rocking chair, which creaked beneath him.

He rose and used the chemical instruments on the table to heat himself a cup of water, his hands trembling slightly. He heated it only to thirty or forty degrees, just enough to dispel the chill of the winter morning, then added three full tablespoons of honey.

After downing it in one gulp, he silently closed his eyes and stood motionless, his back ramrod straight.

He seemed to be savoring the taste of the honey water, or perhaps rapidly recovering his strength.

Only after a long while did he slowly open his eyes. The ever-composed Sherlock Holmes had finally returned in full.

"Why am I third?"

He muttered under his breath, "Other than the Bone Carver, who else could have a higher score than me? Fox, or Ke Ke?"

After thinking for a while, he set the question aside for the time being.

He immediately began considering another matter:

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

"Any vision displayed during the settlement must be an important scene related to the mission. Moreover, they're arranged in the order in which events occurred. Fox's suicide decided our victory, so that happened afterward...

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

There were only two possibilities.

Either the Bone Carver or Ke Ke. Both were possible... Neither of their faces had appeared in the scene.

But considering that Fox had two scenes, his score might be higher than Sherlock's. If Ke Ke were counted as well, there would not be enough places.

That meant the person who received the most points from the "kill the murderer" mission was most likely the Bone Carver.

What a dangerous person.

A Demon Scholar who could kill a Second Level demon while only at the First Level... His other Path was probably of a very high level.

"Lars Graham..."

Sherlock muttered under his breath and pulled a dossier from the cabinet behind him.

The lighting in his room was mediocre, the space cramped, and the ventilation poor. The air was filled with the mingled smell of chemical reagents and dust. Ritual materials, books, and various files were scattered haphazardly across the shelves and table.

Though it looked chaotic, he knew exactly where each item was. At least he could always find anything he needed with ease.

He pulled out the dossier, walked to the window, and narrowed his eyes as he read it carefully.

"Born on February 29, 1824... Seventy-four years old."

An Iris Person, born in Sigville Town. His father was a baker, and his mother was a tailor.

"At fourteen, he began learning sculpture under Master Albert Adelaide. At eighteen, he entered the Path of Beauty. At twenty-three, Master A.A. passed away, and he was recommended to Cite University for further study. At twenty-eight, he was hired by Cite University as a lecturer.

"At thirty-four, he held his first sculpture exhibition. At thirty-eight, he began being called a master. At forty-six, he became the vice dean of the Cite University Art Institute..."

Sherlock muttered under his breath as he rapidly reviewed the information at hand.

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

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

"...In 1895, he became a specially appointed professor of art at the Theological Seminary of Royal Law University, teaching 'General Aesthetics.' He resigned from this position in June 1898."

Five years ago, he had left the Iris People for Avalon to sculpt a holy statue for the queen, who had foreseen that her death was approaching. This was his final work.

Three years ago... before the holy statue was completed, he began teaching aesthetics at the seminary. And he taught there for only three years.

Although the scene had flashed by in an instant,

Sherlock had seen clearly that the white Maiden Ghost was wearing the seminary uniform.

"...Interesting."

The missing-person verification still remained, but by now, the answer was virtually certain.

This person would be troublesome to deal with. As an international public figure and a foreigner... conclusive evidence would be needed to convict him. And he could probably only be sentenced to expulsion.

But if Sherlock could verify that he had embarked upon the Twilight Path, dealing with him might become much simpler.

"The Bone Carver can't be touched for now. As for Fox..."

Sherlock muttered under his breath, "Who are you, exactly?"

There was no need to rush the report to Her Majesty the Queen.

He would first verify the information Fox had provided, then determine Fox's position based on the results.

Sherlock thought for a while before sitting at the desk and drawing. It was a map of the Lloyd District, and he was calculating the location of the abandoned chemical plant.

Then Sherlock suddenly picked up the telephone on the desk and rotated its heavy dial with one hand.

The phone was answered after ringing only twice.

"Good morning, Edward."

Sherlock wedged the receiver between his neck and shoulder. Continuing to mark up the map, he spoke at an extremely rapid pace: "My dear partner, I hope you're already awake—I mean, not woken by me, but naturally awake. Yes, I need your help—it's very troublesome. So I need your assistance, and it's urgent. Come find me at once. I can buy you breakfast; you can choose the place.

"—Yes, in the Lloyd District. The Sweater Brotherhood. Does that ring a bell?"

At that very moment.

Red Queen District, Inspectorate office.

Inspector Chief Edward Moriarty was answering the telephone with his left hand, which was covered by a white glove.

He had short, jet-black hair combed neatly backward. His slightly angular face bore eyes as deep as an abyss.

Compared with his younger siblings, Edward's appearance was much more ordinary. His cheekbones were slightly high, and his face was square, giving him an air of stern righteousness.

He leaned against his own seat, wearing the signature black suit of an inspector, resembling mourning clothes. His build was robust enough to fill out the suit with ease. The thick coat only reached his waist, while below it he wore fitted black trousers and black leather shoes. A corner of a white handkerchief protruded from his breast pocket. His left hand wore a white glove, while his right hand was bare. His knuckles and bones were exceptionally distinct, giving him an impression of strength.

Edward looked distinctly displeased, yet he did not hang up first.

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

The Inspector Chief Moriarty's ungloved right hand slowly brushed across the paper.

A long list of names was written there—meaning "awaiting inspection."

"The Sweater Brotherhood..."

Edward muttered under his breath and narrowed his eyes in recollection. "I've heard the name, but I don't remember much about them."

His voice was deep and resonant, inspiring a sense of reliability and composure.

"They should be a gang of the Strangulation Gang. They got that name because, back when they were poor, they relied entirely on the support of their current leader's mother, who knitted each of them a sweater in a similar style. Later, they formed a gang, and they used those sweaters as the name of their organization.

"What, did they offend you? Or are you planning to buy them off and have them do something for you?"

"—According to reliable intelligence, they may be connected to the people behind the Pelican Bar. And I've obtained information about their gathering place."

Sherlock's slightly distorted voice came from the other end of the receiver: "So I invited you to investigate with me. I do have some concerns. If this information is true, then there are indeed dangers here that could potentially cost me my life."

At that, Edward's brows drew together slightly.

Brilliant silver-white radiance gradually gathered and shone in the depths of his black eyes.

"Are you sure?"

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

"Sixty percent. I haven't had time to verify it yet," Sherlock replied.

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

"Then come to my house and meet me, Inspector Chief. Bring your pistol and white gloves."

"All right. See you soon."

Edward finished crisply and hung up the phone.

He strapped a beautiful white pistol to his waist and hung two Elven Style silver shortswords at his side.

Then Edward took out the white whistle necklace around his collar and blew hard.

The white whistle made no sound, but after a while, the sound of a griffin beating its wings came from beyond the French windows.

He opened the window and let his black griffin mount into the room, allowing it to eat something first.

After it had eaten, he prepared to ride the griffin to Sherlock's home.

Just then, someone knocked on the door of his office.

"—Give the report to Vice Captain Assad."

Edward spoke coldly. "For supply approval, see the Red Lady. I'm going out."

"It's me, Edward."

The gentle, soft voice of his adoptive father—James Moriarty—came from outside the door.

Edward raised a brow, and the icy severity of his face eased slightly.

He immediately went over and opened the door.

Because he was much taller than his adoptive father, he bent slightly, and his tone became gentler as well. "Father, what is it? Why have you come to see me so early?"

"You're going out?"

The polite old gentleman glanced at the griffin eating inside, adjusted the brim of his hat, and made a mild joke. "As it happens, I also have to make a sudden trip out of town."

"Out of town? How far?"

"To the Theocracy. I originally intended to have Oswald go in my place, but after thinking it over, I decided that for something this important, I should make the trip myself. I'll probably be back in about two weeks. Take care of your younger brother and sister while I'm gone."

Old James spoke gently. "Oh, right. Iver is going back to school. Remember to make the arrangements."

"No problem, Father."

The silent, stern young man nodded slightly. "I'll stay at home during this period and protect Iver and Yulia."

"Good. That's for the best. Glass Island is about to descend into chaos... There's one more thing." Old James added slowly, "Clean up the Pelican Bar matter properly and eliminate the clues. This matter ends here. If anyone wants to continue investigating, make them quiet."

"...Yes."

"Oh, right."

Old James suddenly asked, "Have you still not found that letter I asked you to look for?"

"No. It really isn't there."

Edward replied, "A lot of things that should have been on the second corpse were missing. Even her Noble Red was gone."

"Then Iver must have taken it with him."

Old James spoke gently. "After all, Veronica's Noble Red is also in your brother's hands. Since that's the case, stop looking for the letter."

"Father," Edward could not help asking, "which minister is actually in contact with the Society... Can you tell me? If I don't know anything, I can't protect Iver."

"Shh..."

Old James smiled and raised one finger to his lips.

Edward immediately fell silent.

The old man spoke leisurely. "If Iver is going to face danger because of his own sense of justice and curiosity, then let him resolve it himself. Last night, I detected the aura of the Dream Realm. Iver has begun his first advancement ritual... That child is finally starting to have some secrets of his own. I'm very satisfied."

He narrowed his slightly cloudy gray eyes and said mildly, "As for the matter of the spy, I advise you that it's better not to know. A secret is a kind of power. But in your hands, a secret cannot yet become a blade. It will only become shackles for your mind."

"Father..."

"—Soon. Edward, soon. Sooner or later, I'll hand all of this over to you... but certainly not now."

"...Then what about now? What should I do now?"

Edward was silent for a while before adding, "Aside from cleaning up the Pelican Bar matter..."

"Now you should go and do what you wanted to do before. Weren't you about to go out anyway?"

The old man who never grew angry narrowed his eyes, patted the tall Edward on the shoulder, and smiled kindly. "But remember to eat something. Skipping breakfast is bad for your stomach."