The Guardian

The prompt gave no introduction at all to the three pen names, simply asking Ye Yan to make a choice.

Naturally, he chose—

To decide later.

After all, the prompt had told him to choose carefully, and there was no time limit on selecting a pen name.

Still, Ye Yan did not intend to put it off for too long.

The prompt said that the pen name represented the Transcendental Ladder he would soon embark upon. He planned to first learn about this world's mysteries before choosing his own pen name.

But before that—

Ye Yan felt that the first problem he needed to solve was how to support himself from now on.

He remembered that most of the money the original owner had saved had been spent on that small bottle of vodka, while the inheritance left by his parents was entirely in the hands of his now-dead uncle.

Getting it back seemed rather troublesome.

No matter what, he was still a minor.

The only people who could serve as his guardians were Philip's widow and the Uncle Jules he had never met.

"There's something you may not know."

Holmes suddenly spoke.

"Under the latest revision of the Supernatural Management Act, any ordinary person who comes into accidental contact with mysteries must undergo a period of supervision."

Supervision?

That did not sound like a good word at all.

Ye Yan sighed and asked, "Will the freedom of someone under supervision be restricted?"

"The guardian must bear full responsibility for the supervised person's contact with mysteries. And all kinds of clues indicate that the mysterious Corpse Mover had a close connection to both you and Philip Dalmans."

At this point, Holmes paused.

"I will apply to be your guardian, as compensation for my earlier discourtesy."

A flicker of understanding passed through Ye Yan's eyes.

Although Holmes had not said whom he suspected, the implication in his words was already obvious.

Jules Dalmans.

That name appeared in Ye Yan's mind.

What normal person would move the corpse of someone unrelated to them, even using their ability to take it to an unfamiliar place unsuitable for disposing of a body?

Usually, something unreasonable often suggested some special connection between the two parties.

And Jules Dalmans happened to possess that special connection.

Suddenly, something stirred in Ye Yan's heart.

He abruptly remembered that when the inspector and detective had argued earlier, they had mentioned that the mysterious informant had called the police twice.

If Jules Dalmans was not only the Corpse Mover, but also the mysterious informant who had called twice—

Then...

His first call had probably been because of Philip's death. But was his second call, immediately afterward, really to urge the police to act quickly?

Could it have been because he had discovered the original owner's death?!

No, no, no!

Don't scare yourself.

"It's getting late."

Holmes suddenly spoke, raising his eyes toward the darkening sky beyond the window. "If we get back before seven, we might still catch Mrs. Hudson's best chicken curry."

After saying that, he turned back and glanced with a smile at Ye Yan's stomach, which occasionally rumbled in protest.

"I suppose you wouldn't want to miss a feast?"

Ye Yan returned to Baker Street with Holmes.

But instead of riding in the carriage compartment with the detective, he squeezed onto the driver's seat with Old Jack.

Compared with the sharp-eyed detective, the old coachman was a much better person to ask for information. Starting with London's dreadful recent weather, they chatted all the way to the complicated imperial system of measurements.

"God bless! Someone finally said it!"

Excited tears glimmered in Old Jack's cloudy eyes. "Little Ewan, you may not believe it, but I've lived for decades, and I still have to count on my fingers when I buy bread to work out the shillings!"

He excitedly waved his rough fingers.

"If I became Speaker, the first thing I'd do would be to make every shop in England price things in decimals!"

Ye Yan could not help laughing.

Old Jack's declaration reminded him of the joke from his previous life: "Round up everyone who doesn't eat cilantro and make them grow cilantro."

In short, Ye Yan and Old Jack hit it off at once.

As the carriage jolted along, the old coachman sketched for Ye Yan a distinctive picture of this era.

"If you're serious about buying books, you ought to go to that old shop on Charing Cross Road." The old man gestured with his rough fingers as he spoke. "Old Tom's shop has a brass scale. For sixpence, you can weigh out a stack of old books and take them away. But—"

He lowered his voice mysteriously. "Be careful not to weigh out those printed on poor-quality paper. The moment they get wet, they turn into a soggy mess."

Ye Yan listened attentively, while Old Jack rambled on about other ways of acquiring books.

The various outdated magazines at street-corner bookstalls, members-only libraries in wealthy districts that required an introduction to enter, and mysterious clubs in the St. James District that barred women from entering.

Unfortunately, he had not learned anything about Samsara Bookstore.

Where exactly was it?

The gas lamps along the street lit up one by one, casting dim yellow halos through the twilight.

As he listened, a new question arose in Ye Yan's mind.

Compared with the same period in his original world, this world's technological development was clearly far more advanced.

At the same time, it also possessed supernatural mysticism.

Yet what puzzled him was that people's lives seemed...

"Sir! Buy an evening paper!"

Suddenly, a scrawny figure rushed out from the mouth of an alley.

The newsboy chased after the carriage barefoot, bruised purple knees showing beneath his tattered trouser legs. Old Jack hurriedly pulled tight on the reins, and the old horse snorted as it avoided the child.

"No need, no need!"

Old Jack gave a feinting wave of his whip.

Startled, the newsboy staggered back beneath a streetlamp. His thin body trembled in the cold wind, and Ye Yan noticed several old newspapers tied with hemp rope clutched in his arms.

His fingers unconsciously tightened around the edge of the carriage. "Why not buy one? He seems..."

"Pitiful, right?"

Old Jack snorted through his nose.

The carriage rolled through a puddle, leaving only the newsboy's shadow far behind.

"But, Little Ewan, you should know that London has no idea how many pitiful newsboys like that. Did you see the wounds on him? I guarantee they were all from deliberately throwing himself in front of carriage wheels."

The whip traced an arc through the air.

"Wasn't he afraid of dying?"

At this point, Old Jack's voice suddenly sank. He continued, asking and answering his own question:

"No. He's a Penny Boy pushed out by the children from the slums. The other newsboys pool money for his urgent needs, while he trades his body for their pennies."

"As long as we stop, at least ten children like him will rush out of the alley..."

"But don't worry."

The old horse snorted, as though agreeing.

"We only need to get through this street. Once we're on the main road, there won't be so much trouble."

The carriage turned the corner.

The last thing Ye Yan saw was the newsboy being dragged into a dark alley by an older child wearing a battered top hat.

Farther away, a woman knelt by the wall as if struggling to swallow something, the lace trim of her skirt soaking in filthy water; workers, their bodies visibly scarred, were unloading wooden crates marked with the neat, square character for "tea."

Ye Yan stared blankly at the scene before him.

This world...

Amid the rattling jolts of the carriage over the cobblestones, Ye Yan's Adam's apple rolled with difficulty.

He suddenly understood.

In this world, the mechanical beasts of the World's Fair might shine with even greater glory and brilliance.

But at the same time...

The rotten filth festering in these dark alleys and gutters seemed all the more unbearable.