Heavenly Demon Holmes: London’s Subjugation

We work like Yin Ghosts, and uphold the sunlit world.

-Butler Agency motto-

Behind it was a document safe, tightly locked.

Curiously, the Anti Kung-Fu Lock sealing the safe had no keyhole.

I was watching, wondering how he meant to open it, when Mycroft abruptly drew out the Fountain Judge Pen from his coat.

“Do you think I’ll peek?” In any case, the pressure Mycroft was giving off felt unpleasant for some reason, so I stepped back a few paces as told.

Only after confirming there was sufficient distance between me and the safe did he begin to draw up essence, slowly.

-Wooong!

From the Fountain Judge Pen’s nib, a pitch-black liquid surged out and began to float in midair. Unlike most Butler Agency Kung-Fuists whose proper call signs were not known, the face, real name, and call sign of Mycroft, who led them, were well known to Britain’s high officials.

Mycroft’s call sign, Crane-Pen, came from the image of a monocled civil official who walked with long legs as gracefully as a crane, and carried multiple Fountain Judge Pens.

But contrary to what those who did not truly know Mycroft imagined upon hearing the name Crane-Pen, his distinct weapon was not the Fountain Judge Pen itself, but what was inside it.

“It’s a damp, sinister Unique Weapon no matter how many times I see it. I can’t understand how a man can be born a man and use something like ink as a weapon.”

<Just as a master calligrapher does not choose his brush, a master does not choose his weapon. Ah. I have spoken of something too difficult for one as lacking as you. My apologies, Sherlock. Your elder brother begs forgiveness.>

“Could you spare some time soon, Mycroft.”

<For what.>

“I would like to request a duel for once, to strengthen brotherly affection. I’ll hand you a suitable branch, so why not measure your skill with this younger brother before Her Majesty. I am no master, so I will take up the Heavenly Demon Cane and take part in a life-and-death…, a bout.”

<Younger brother. I hope I misheard just now, but I believe I heard the words life-and-death duel.>

“A master as great as the Chief of the British Intelligence Butler Agency would not refuse the request of this lacking younger brother who seeks instruction. I beg you.”

<Why are you suddenly on your knees…>

“I hear the comrades of French Murim, to prepare a gift to send to their act of vengeance, no, their mortal enemy, lie atop sweet Buche de Noel for a full twenty years, licking rich foie gras, nourishing themselves as they savor their grudge.”

<Th…that is truly a lifestyle befitting the French, boasting an extremely elevated Engel coefficient.>

“It is not to be compared with the tale of enjoying liver while sleeping on firewood1, but this Sherlock will do anything to repay the harassment I have received from my elder brother all my life, with revenge. Kneeling is nothing—”

<I appreciate the consideration, but your true feelings are leaking through your English weapon. I will politely decline.>

“No! Why will elder brother not understand this younger brother’s heart!”

<Calling me brother only at times like this is of no use.>

I scrapped the fifth plan among my twenty plans to cripple Mycroft’s elixir field.

Seriously, who did he take after to be that quick-witted.

I turned my gaze back to the lock.

That ink floating in midair was the Unique Weapon that only the Chief of the British Intelligence Butler Agency, Mycroft Holmes, could use in all of Britain, Dusk Ink.

I had just mocked it as an unmanly Unique Weapon and the like, but to be honest, I did not know much about that weapon.

That mysterious paper-brush-ink, directly linked to its owner through intent and able to change color and shape at will, had the property of sensing vibration and Qi Frequency, making it a perfect tool for reconnaissance and wiretapping.

…That was Mycroft’s explanation, but even considering only the nature of that damp, sinister man who always hid not thirty percent but seventy percent of his ability, it was easy to infer there were secrets beyond that.

I thought there was a problem in calling something that cannot attack an opponent a weapon, but when I challenged him last time, he spouted airy nonsense like, “Information warfare is also combat, so ink is sufficiently a weapon,” and I lost the will to press further.

I once heard our master, when handing Mycroft the bottle containing Dusk Ink, say it changed its color and function depending on mood and intent, but aside from the man himself, no one knew what power it exerted in concrete terms.

Well, even I have never told Mycroft about the Heavenly Demon Cane’s functions and its various transformations, so perhaps it was a draw.

In any case, seeing him stingily hide this and that even from his younger brother, it struck me anew. He was a man as gloomy as could be, befitting the head of the Butler Agency.

I kept that thought to myself and watched in silence, when a small amount of the ink floating in the air began to creep into a gap between the lock’s parts.

-Click.

The next moment, with the sound of mechanisms meshing, the lock opened.

An Anti Kung-Fu Lock that wore a Damascus steel cover to prevent Poltergeist, and had no keyhole at all, was a structure that could not be opened unless ink was injected like that.

It was a device that disrupted external internal strength and made it impossible to move the internal parts directly, so by injecting a liquid moved by intent like that, he was indirectly manipulating the mechanisms.

The internal parts would also be made of a hard alloy that was difficult to destroy.

In other words, it was a seal that could not be undone by anyone but Mycroft.

Which meant the safe it guarded was stuffed with top-level secrets that only the Butler Agency Chief could view.

‘Wait… If he has Dusk Ink, couldn’t he create the sealed room I saw during the Phantom Fist case. Next time I meet Ulrich Zuckerberg, I should advise him that leaving gaps where liquid can seep into a lock may give an intruder an opening.’

With that method, he likely opens other people’s windows and doors in homes and offices as he pleases, coming and going while collecting information. As expected of the Butler Agency. Every single thing they do is filthy.

<Hm. Here it is.>

Meanwhile, with a face that gave no hint he had guessed what I was thinking, Mycroft began flipping through the files.

<Six years ago, a Butler Agency agent infiltrating Kazan Cathedral in Saint Petersburg filed a strange report.>

A faint emotion began to ride on Mycroft’s Direct Message.

Six years ago was not long after Mycroft had become the Butler Agency Chief.

It was back when I had graduated early from the academy and was preparing this and that to open my office and begin work as a consulting detective.

<Back then, I was a greenhorn who feared nothing in the world. At an age not yet twenty, I became an official directly under Her Majesty and gained tremendous authority, so nothing was in my eyes.>

He was arrogant enough even now.

Those words rose up to my palate, but I kept my mouth shut, because I did not want to waste this chance to hear the Butler Agency’s classified information.

<It was an unprecedented promotion. No. A post that had not existed until then was created, so the word promotion doesn’t fit.>

Precocious since childhood and lacking in nothing in whatever he did, after leaving our master’s side he caught the eye of a high official working in White Hall, and ‘created’ his current position.

This was not something that happened because he was particularly skilled at pleasing those in high places.

His character was undoubtedly twisted, but Mycroft’s Kung-Fu and depth of mind were profound.

Moreover, he possessed expert-level geopolitical knowledge, broadly understood the cultures of Europe’s nations, and above all showed overwhelming aptitude for devising schemes, including covert operations.

Not content with being merely creative, he came up with strategies so insidiously brilliant it made one sick, and he was such a talent that rather than simply fitting an intelligence agency, an organization had to be built to move around him.

I hated to admit it, but the birth of the Butler Agency had been possible only because Mycroft existed.

<The Butler Agency is a new organization that defends Britain’s security. The palace maids of the Eastern Depot and Western Depot, who had monitored Kung-Fuists and called themselves Her Majesty’s eyes and ears, did not welcome my existence. The Butler Agency and I had to prove our value. It meant we had to produce results somehow, amid countless people’s jealousy and sabotage.>

Was it my imagination?

Between the lines of Mycroft’s Direct Messages, deep sighs were mixed in.

“…”

It was something I was hearing for the first time.

That he had to withstand the Eastern and Western Depot maids’ pressure when he took the Chief seat.

Since Mycroft had never spoken weakly since long ago, this conversation felt so awkward it was driving me mad.

He had never treated me properly as a younger brother, yet now he was rummaging up old memories as if he had downed five or six glasses of whisky.

If he truly thought of me as family, he should have said it earlier.

<As long as one is born a man, as long as one belongs to a group, it is something one must experience at least once.>

That thought occurred to me, but when I saw Mycroft’s eyes return to calm detachment, I couldn’t say anything.

<In any case, the Butler Agency needed to establish a major merit within a short time. The Eastern and Western Depot maids were crying that the Butler Agency was unnecessary. If we failed to prove our value, everyone who joined the agency would be demoted. If it served Britain’s national interest, we could not afford to pick between water and fire.>

Without realizing it, I nodded.

White Hall and Buckingham Palace refer to sturdy buildings, but at the same time they can mean a battlefield split into countless factions, where schemes and power plays run rampant.

A hell in the mortal world, where seasoned monsters wage ugly fights over interests, to the point that even ‘that Mycroft Holmes’ feels dreadful pressure.

How could it be easy to survive there and climb the stairs of power?

I never want to set foot in such a place.

At minimum, one would have to be as gloomy as Mycroft to even attempt it.

“So the matter you took up six years ago was a Russia-related agenda.”

<Yes. We confirmed that the previous Tsar, Alexander II, went every week with his heir to Lake Ladoga, northeast of the capital Saint Petersburg, to enjoy fishing.>

The moment I heard that far, one possibility came to mind.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been spying on Russia since six years ago and assassinated Alexander II this year?!”

<Nonsense.>

“My apologies. I spoke nonsense for a moment.”

I nearly condemned my elder brother as trash by mistake.

<Alexander II favored his eldest son, Nikolai, who died in ’65. Fishing was the hobby of the second son newly designated as Crown Prince. What the Tsar enjoyed was hunting. It so happened that the time the Tsar found a new adviser overlapped with the time he began leaving for the lake every week to fish.>

“That reeks of something suspicious.”

<So we decided to verify it ourselves.>

“Wait. Didn’t you say the Butler Agency agent infiltrated Kazan Cathedral. No matter how much the late Tsar cherished his people, unless you’re an intimate, you can’t wedge yourself into a family outing—”

<As you say. So we had to use another method.>

“That method, could it be…”

<Yes. Every time the Tsar left the lake and returned to the palace, we searched Lake Ladoga as if combing for lice. We had to find out what he was plotting.>

He said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world, but I knew very well how absurd what Mycroft had just said was.

Because—

“You searched the entirety of Lake Ladoga?”

<Yes.>

Ladoga is the largest lake in Europe.

Its area reaches 4.37 million acres, and the number of islands alone amounts to 660.

“How can you make a subordinate do something so horrific?”

<It was for Britain’s national interest. He was given sufficient compensation, so do not worry.>

Even going around them one by one would be grueling. Imagining an Butler Agency agent dispatched to Russia having to move in hiding while evading surveillance and circle 660 islands made my mind feel like it would snap.

<As a result of searching the lake for half a year while avoiding Russian eyes, the Butler Agency finally learned what secret the Tsar had been hiding. It was—>

1. TL/N: sleeping on firewood while tasting liver is an idiom which means ‘to endure hardship and humiliation’ ️