Chapter 67: Touch Of Madness
A heavenly martial body which has never even experienced a slight deviation cannot exist.–Aristotle1
Sherlock Holmes left Blackfriars Bridge.
When the dense, dark aura cleared slightly, an old man appeared.
“…Such a commotion and not a single visitor. Have all the gentlemen of London died? Tsk.”
Etiquette Has Fallen Down.
Just Like London Bridge.
The old traveler with a worn-out golf bag lamented and clicked his tongue repeatedly.
It’s common knowledge that the beggars are poor, but even the knotless beggars of lower rank wear at least shabby shoes.
However, despite the term vintage shoes being inappropriate, the old beggar walked barefoot.
In stark contrast to the expensive swordsmanship spike marks left by the markswordsman on the bridge. “Isn’t that right, Wiggins?”
“Yes, Dragon Head.”
When the old man mumbled while keeping his gaze fixed on the Jezail Mark the following child bowed his head politely.
A boy with curly blonde hair and neat features not hidden by the brim of a newsboy cap. On his right arm, there was a knot made from a short tie.
The boy’s name was Wiggins.
A single-knot beggar who had just graduated from being the youngest of the Homeless Clan, and also the grandson of the Dragon Head, receiving the attention of all the beggars.
Recently, he seemed to be engrossed in playing house with other beggar children his age, calling themselves the Baker St. Irregulars, but even that was endearing in the old man’s eyes.
It was because they cherished the intention of contributing even a small amount of strength to establish chivalry in the world.
“Didn’t I tell you not to call me by such formal titles when we are together?”
“You promised to call me by another name when we are alone.”
Wiggins answered in a much more polite tone than when roaming around Baker Street, bowing his head.
“…Yes, it seems I was the one who broke that promise first.”
Even where there were no eyes to see, Wiggins’s distant attitude was quite awkward.
However, the head of the Homeless Clan, Oliver Twist, just smiled bitterly.
Now was not the time to waste on such conversations.
“Hum…”
Like examining the grass on a golf course, Oliver Twist lowered his stance to inspect the energy that seeped into the tracks.
Even if it was a phenomenon created by the aftermath of Kung-Fu, the river flowing backward was an act that drastically defied heaven’s will, like the dead coming back to life to harm the living.
A horrifying omen by any standard logic.
“This energy… It matches the guy I saw in the afternoon.”
The Dragon Head recalled the face of the fisherman he witnessed in the afternoon.
A tall man who was not yet at the level of social facade but was still able to conceal his presence and energy with an advanced stealth technique.
The mysterious technique that blurred one’s presence was reminiscent of a Thug2 master from India.
It was only because of his own skills that he could notice something suspicious at a glance; an ordinary martial artist would have passed by without realizing he was there.
“I had thought he had a decent Kung-Fu talent.”
Oliver couldn’t hide his discomfort with the sticky energy floating above the bridge.
It is unheard of for the remnants of Essence left by Orthodox Kung-Fu to linger in the place where it was expelled for such a long time.
This was because their internal energy, cultivated through Breath Control, had been refined through the energy flowing between heaven and earth, and thus its traces dispersed quickly into the air, returning to the Essence of nature.
But Demonic arts are different.
What floated above the Blackfriars Bridge was the sticky, dense, and murky Essence created by Demonic Qi flowing backward through the meridians.
The traces left by Demonic arts, due to their peculiar nature, do not easily disappear and instead sink heavily, clinging to the surroundings.
“Of all things, it had to be a demon.”
The Demonic Qi felt here was undoubtedly the Qi Frequency of the man he saw during the day, although its nature had been reversed by Demonic arts.
Being exposed to Demonic Qi of this concentration could lead ordinary people or martial artists with low accomplishments to fall into a state of deviation or even possibly death.
“Perhaps, were you considering giving some guidance?”
When Wiggins asked, Oliver shook his head.
“No matter how lacking in talent the Headquarter3 may be, one cannot teach Dragon Slayer or Golf Technique to someone who indulges in murder using Demonic arts.”
“In that case, I’m relieved. There will be someone more suitable, whether in London or the Court of Miracles.4 For example—”
“I have no interest in that detective fellow.”
When Oliver interrupted, Wiggins asked with a crestfallen face.
“…Couldn’t you meet him just once?”
“This isn’t the time to discuss it. Stand back for now. I need to clean up this mess.”
After confirming that Wiggins had distanced himself sufficiently, the old gentleman opened the golf bag.
And then, among the dozen or so sticks inside, he picked out the one with the longest shaft and the thickest head.
Among the Golf Clubs of the Homeless Clan, the most powerful one, the 1-Wood.
Oliver raised the club he held in both hands high into the sky and swung it vigorously.
What unfolded was the pinnacle of the Golf Club Technique.
“Tee Shot.”
-Kwaang!!
The storm of internal energy stirred by the Tee Shot sent all the accumulated dark Qi swirling up into the night sky.
-Swinging Momentum, Raging Waves;
Dragon Head’s Special Move: Strong and Fierce Beyond Compare.5
“Good Shot, Mr. Dragonhead!!”
Applause echoed from Wiggins over the purified bridge.
Upon returning to the boarding house, I wrote a letter and then briefly hid it with some coins at a predetermined meeting spot with the Homeless Clan kids.
By the time I woke up, a member of the Baker St. irregulars, led by Wiggins, would have delivered it to the recipient.
Boiling water on the first floor, I brewed a blend of Mandragora and Nilgiri tea received from the Home Secretary and returned to the second floor of the boarding house, placing my ear against Watson’s door.
Amid the rhythmic breathing, an adorable snoring sound interjected offbeat.
It seemed she had collapsed from exhaustion.
After all, she hadn’t been able to sleep properly while chasing the Phantom Fist these past few days, which was understandable.
The only rest she had had was briefly dozing off while Lestrade stood watch at the hotel and taking a nap on the train.
I thought again that it was a good decision to give Lestrade a double-sided trick coin.
If not, Watson would have been even more exhausted than she is now.
I sat on the living room sofa, satisfied with the perfect outcome of the neat arrangement, and reminisced about the events I experienced at Scotland Yard and Blackfriars Church.
The stimulating adventure ended with a slight achievement.
This is not about the future compensation to be received from the Home Secretary, Postmaster General, and Ulrich Zuckerberg.
I have successfully protected the life of the Phantom Fist from the assassin.
Since the acupuncture was shallow, he should now be out of the comatose state and undergoing further interrogation.
Since Timothy Young was being controlled by foreign Kung-Fu and knew nothing from the start, extracting information about Moriarty would be nearly impossible, but there’s something more important.
He will be sentenced to death at trial, and Moriarty will be enraged that the Phantom Fist’s life is beyond his control.
Since there is no solid evidence that Moriarty is behind this case, it is still impossible to legally bind him.
However, the first clue to tightening his noose has come into my possession.
Following the lead that came from the Phantom Fist’s mouth, locating Moriarty’s base is just a matter of time.
There is no need to be impatient.
By taking the necessary steps one by one to gain the power to eliminate him, my sword will eventually reach him.
And in the London of this world, there are still things I have to do besides killing Moriarty.
“Watson…”
It’s not that I want to say that the lady sleeping in the next room is lacking as an assistant.
It’s just that I still need him.
The only person in the world who became my confidant, that man.
“……”
I moved to the table by the window.
I knew exactly where to start looking for Watson and continue tracking Moriarty.
-Click.
A secret drawer revealed a notebook.
I took a sip of the tea blend and opened the leather cover.
The reason I bothered to write something on paper, despite never taking proper notes, was only one.
It was because it was indescribably important.
The notebook didn’t contain something like the Baritsu secret manual.
It was a note I scribbled in illegible handwriting so that others in this world couldn’t read it.
‘…I will need to contact them soon.’
I began to read the record about the secretive organization that another Sherlock Holmes investigated in The League of Gentlemen.
I couldn’t help but be amazed as I read the memo.
Obviously, the things I experienced in this world remained intact in my mind.
So, I fully remembered the contents inside and the emotions I felt while writing them.
But even so, when I actually opened the notebook, I couldn’t help but smile.
‘Yes. This is just like me.’
No matter how the world changes, the person known as Sherlock Holmes did not change.
The first page of the notebook contained a story about a certain organization spanning London and all of Europe.
By combining small clues, I discovered the existence of this group, which handled all sorts of secret information across Europe.
This mysterious clan sold precious knowledge and information to those who paid the price, without distinguishing between right and wrong.
During my time training Kung-Fu under my master, I didn’t notice their activities because they selected their clients carefully.
The League of Gentlemen only opens its doors to the grandmasters or elders leading other sects, so there’s no way a junior like me could notice.
Even now, I haven’t gained any significant social status in the martial world, but to continue tracking Watson and Moriarty, it’s necessary to contact them and establish a connection.
And above all—
‘If I can gain the cooperation of the Afternoon Tea Party, I might be able to bridge the information gap with Moriarty.’
- TL/N: The original quote is as follows—The good for man is an activity of the soul in accordance with virtue, and it is through struggle and hardship that virtue is perfected ️
- TL/N: A member of the Hassassin, or in regular murim stories ‘Assassin’s Hall / 殺幕 / 살막’ ️
- TL/N: Main branch of the Homeless Clan situated in London ️
- TL/N: Name for the Homeless Clan’s Paris branch ️
- -揮桿勢與 掠岸狂濤, 幇主絶技 强猛無比 ️