The Stranger from the Distant East

Ye Yan sat on the bed, dazed for several minutes, until his empty stomach let out a protest. Only then did he crawl out of bed, accepting the reality that he had transmigrated.

He walked to the desk and pulled back the blackout curtains.

Sunlight poured in, dispelling the gloom of the cramped room and revealing the gray, hazy sky overhead.

Ye Yan tilted his head slightly, looking at himself in the mirror.

It was an adolescent boy, wearing a dark brown vest paired with a white shirt and suspender trousers.

Black hair, black eyes.

But it was not a standard Asian appearance; his eye sockets were deeper than those of an Easterner, making him look like a person of mixed heritage.

Ye Yan shifted his gaze to the Encyclopaedia Britannica on the desk. Fortunately, as a liberal arts student majoring in English, he could glean some information from the books.

He reached out to flip through the pages, seeing the printed date and a name written in ink.

Ewan Dalmons, 1877.

"Is this Victorian London?"

Ye Yan put the book back, grabbed the keys from the desk, and intended to go downstairs to understand the situation in this era.

Suddenly, he smelled a strange, sour stench.

It felt as if a damp tongue had licked the skin of his neck, and an inexplicable sense of nausea welled up in his heart.

He looked down to see a pale male corpse lying face-up on the first-floor stairs, like a jellyfish washed ashore, his arms hanging limply over the edge of the steps.

This was clearly a terrifying sight.

Yet, when the sunlight from the second floor shone upon that peacefully smiling face, it gave off a holy, eerie illusion.

Ye Yan recoiled in fear, nearly missing his footing.

This world is way too dangerous! In my previous life, I'd only ever seen an urn; how is it that the moment I transmigrate after death, I encounter a corpse before I've even stepped out the door?!

At this moment, Ye Yan just wanted to call the police.

However, before he could take any further action, a violent knocking sounded on the front door downstairs.

"Open up! We are constables from the Westminster District. We've received a report from a resident about a murder here. Open the door immediately and cooperate with our investigation!"

"If you don't open it, we're coming in!"

The words had barely left the speaker's mouth when the door, already rattling from the blows, was ruthlessly kicked open with a loud crash.

Two constables wearing bulldog-style helmets burst in first. They gripped their truncheons, their faces etched with tension and caution, stretching their necks to peer into the room.

When their eyes landed on the pale corpse, their pupils contracted sharply, and their faces turned ashen in an instant.

"Fuck, you damn murderer!"

The constable raised his truncheon high, pointing it at Ye Yan standing on the stairs, and barked, "Stay still! Get down on the ground!"

Ye Yan stood where he was, hands slightly raised, trying to show he was harmless. "Wait, this has nothing to do with me. I also just..."

But his explanation was entirely futile; the constable with the truncheon had already charged up.

The two burly men subdued the boy to the ground in one motion, and another constable quickly pulled a pair of handcuffs from his waist, skillfully locking his hands.

"I'm not a murderer!"

Ye Yan shouted loudly, but it only earned him even rougher treatment from the constables.

"Don't try to argue, you scoundrel!"

"It's not an argument! I didn't kill anyone. You've already subdued me; can't you at least listen to my defense?"

"You'll have plenty of time to talk once you're at the station."

The men in blue had no interest in wasting words with Ye Yan. They hauled him away to Scotland Yard for interrogation, while the others remained to secure the scene and continue the investigation.

"Knock, knock, knock—"

"Is anyone there? I am a constable from the Westminster District. A murder occurred next door, and I need to ask you a few questions."

The tightly shut 221B Apartment opened instantly.

A tall, thin figure wrapped in a dark cashmere coat stepped out, his silver-topped cane tapping lightly against the ground.

"He is not the murderer."

"What?"

"He is the actual victim."

Holmes finished speaking and ignored the constable further.

He walked straight toward the street and stepped into a private carriage waiting outside.

"To Scotland Yard."

The low voice drifted under the coachman's greasy leather cap. The puddles crushed by the carriage wheels reflected the speeding two-wheeled vehicle, as well as the sharp gray eyes inside the cabin.

4 Whitehall Square, Scotland Yard.

This was the first time in Ye Yan's life that he had stepped foot inside a police station.

As a successor to socialism and a law-abiding citizen, he felt the greatest crime he had ever committed was failing to turn in a single dollar he had found on the ground to a police officer back in elementary school.

Yet, on his very first day of transmigrating, he found himself drinking coffee in a police station as a murder suspect.

And that wasn't even the worst part.

Sitting in the interrogation chair, Ye Yan could clearly see the name tag on the detective opposite him: "Greg G. Lestrade."

Some might find this name unfamiliar.

But Ye Yan had watched the BBC series Sherlock, and he knew this was Inspector Lestrade.

Oh, perhaps the man wasn't an inspector yet.

Hell!

Had he not transmigrated to Victorian England, but rather into the pages of Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes?

"Ewan Dalmons, fifteen years old. Your parents both died in a shipwreck a month ago."

"You have two uncles: Philip Dalmons and Jules Dalmons. Since Jules Dalmons is currently unreachable, your guardianship has fallen to Philip Dalmons."

Jules?

A flicker of doubt crossed Ye Yan's mind; he couldn't shake the feeling that the name "Jules" felt inexplicably familiar.

"Achoo—"

His nose tickled, and he couldn't help but sneeze.

The low temperature in the interrogation room made Ye Yan shrink his neck, and he stopped dwelling on that strange sense of familiarity.

Ye Yan shifted his focus, clutching the coffee in his hands and listening to every word of Lestrade's explanation, hoping to find a breakthrough to clear his name.

"According to our investigation, the man who died in the apartment was indeed your uncle, Philip Dalmons."

Lestrade read from the newly arrived crime scene report while observing the boy's reaction.

So far, there was no sign of grief.

This suggested a distant relationship with the deceased.

"The door was locked from the inside, the windows were undisturbed, there were traces of a third party in the room, and the time of the victim's death coincides with your..."

"We have also learned that you had a conflict with Philip Dalmons over an inheritance. He came to England this time specifically to take you back to France to live with him."

Hearing this, Ye Yan didn't quite know what to say.

Who could have guessed that he would transmigrate into this abnormal London just today? If Lestrade hadn't brought it up, he wouldn't even have known the identity of that corpse.

"As the prime suspect in a series of serial killings, do you have any explanation for this?"

Ye Yan blinked in confusion.

Had he accidentally hit a skip button? He thought he was being suspected of involvement in Philip Dalmons' death; how did he suddenly become the prime suspect in a series of serial killings?

"I'm sorry, Detective, I don't quite understand."

"It seems you don't read the newspapers."

Lestrade set down the suspect file, looked up, and fixed him with a scrutinizing gaze.

It was March in London.

Even without the rain, the daytime temperature was quite low.

Yet, the black-haired boy before him wore only a waistcoat, his hands pressed tightly against the warm cup, his entire body curled up in the chair like an ostrich.

A frail, unvigilant, and somewhat ignorant down-and-out youth—that was Lestrade's assessment.

But contradictorily, the boy possessed the aura of a noble descendant who had wandered into a slum. His eyes were clear and vibrant, and his every movement revealed a composed confidence and a maturity far beyond his years.

His excellent shorthand memory allowed Lestrade to instantly recall the boy's background check:

Raised abroad as a child, reclusive personality, almost no friends, moved to Baker Street with his parents a month ago, and after his parents' deaths, he had been living off odd jobs after being swindled out of his inheritance.

It was completely different from the gloomy, lone-wolf image in the files.

An unexpected discrepancy.

But Lestrade had always been patient.

He wouldn't jump to conclusions like those patrolmen, because he knew this case involved the mysterious.

And that was the reason he was sitting here conducting the interrogation.

The Criminal Investigation Department (CID) he belonged to appeared to be plainclothes detectives responsible for gathering criminal records, but in reality, they were hounds focused on tracking down all manner of mysterious cases.

Lestrade raised his hand and handed the latest The Daily Telegraph to the boy.

"Take a look."

Ye Yan curiously took the newspaper, his eyes immediately catching the headline on the front page: Horrifying! London Stunned by Bizarre Serial Case of Corpses Hidden in Horse Bellies.

So, even in this era of England, there were clickbait tabloids.

"Since the beginning of this month, the serial murders that have shaken Great Britain have finally seen a breakthrough! Scotland Yard..."

The report was filled with lengthy prose, but its content could actually be summarized in three sentences.

First, there are currently three victims; their bodies were all hidden inside the bellies of horses, and all died of asphyxiation.

Second, the three victims had no connection to one another during their lifetimes, with their professions spanning across the scholar, merchant, and laborer classes.

Third, regarding the peculiar state of their deaths, the faces of all the deceased displayed a hair-raising, smiling expression.

After finishing the report, Ye Yan finally understood why Lestrade would say he was the prime suspect in the serial murder case, as the manner and cause of Philip Dalmans's death were almost identical to those of the three victims.

"Finished reading?"

"Finished."

"Then, please think back carefully."

Lestrade tapped on the table, staring at the youth with eyes like torches: "Is there any evidence that can clear you of suspicion?"

He asked this because, although the youth possessed the motive and the time, he lacked the capability to commit the crimes. They had not found physical evidence, and evidence that could not be proven should not be accepted.

Ye Yan pondered for a moment and shook his head without hesitation: "I regret to say that I cannot provide any direct evidence to prove my innocence."

"But you don't look panicked at all."

Even though the situation was unfavorable to him, the youth before him displayed an extraordinary level of composure. Lestrade pondered to himself, what exactly gave the other party the confidence to be so calm and unhurried?

"That is because someone once warned me: never let yourself fall into the trap of having to prove your own innocence."

Ye Yan replied calmly.

Because he had no memories, he did not know if the original owner of the body had colluded with a third party to commit murder.

But regardless, these people were not killed by "Ye Yan."

Thus, when he spoke, his words were righteous and unafraid of anyone: "I admit that I do indeed have a motive, but I am even more certain that I am not the murderer."

"Unless the detective intends to force a starving vagrant to cut open his own stomach just to prove he didn't steal a loaf of bread this morning, I truly don't see anything for me to worry about."

He paused, looking straight into the inspector's eyes: "After all, the detective will catch the real killer, won't he?"

Lestrade was somewhat stunned.

As an experienced detective, he could certainly see the sincerity in the youth's eyes.

He had imagined several possible reasons for the youth's lack of panic.

For instance, perhaps he held some key clue that was unfavorable to himself, or had some unspeakable secret, or perhaps even had a prominent figure backing him.

But Lestrade never expected that the other party's confidence would stem from an absolute trust in his own abilities.

As a recently renowned detective at Scotland Yard, he had long grown accustomed to the critical gazes of residents and reporters. People were always keen to find flaws in his every decision, then impatiently waiting for the moment he would fail.

This near-harsh scrutiny had long become an inescapable shadow in his career.

Precisely because of this, when faced with this unreserved trust from the youth, a complex emotion mixed with both heaviness and joy could not help but ripple deep within Lestrade's heart.

What similar eyes...

He could not help but recall that sunny afternoon, when those blue eyes had also come bouncing toward him, full of trust, handing him a big red apple.

I cannot fail the trust of a child again!

Just as the detective sighed this in his heart, a strange message simultaneously appeared in Ye Yan's consciousness.

[Your words have caused a certain possibility for a detective to deviate from its course; obtained Soul Quality: Edge]

[Eloquence and understanding, a door opening in both directions.]

At the same time the strange message appeared, five pitch-black storage spaces emerged in Ye Yan's mind.

[You have successfully collected one [Fragment of Inside and Outside], obtaining Tier 1 curios: [Pen of Surface and Interior], [Diary of the Outlander]]