Sherlock Holmes

The bloody prison is built in a deep mountain. Outside is an endless no-man's land. There are no newsboys here who deliver newspapers every day. There are only a few telephones that rarely ring. Those who deliver supplies also have no idea about this bloody place. Stay away from them, and drive away in a hurry every time after unloading, as if the resentful spirits killed by cruel criminal laws will float out of here and cast a curse on themselves.

In short, most of the staff inside the blood prison do not understand what is happening in the outside world in a timely manner.

For example, the warden may be aware of the serial murders that have been causing quite a stir in the past month, but the jailers working below have never heard of it.

What Whitechapel?

What a ripper.

After London, three cities have implemented curfews.

Why is the murderer missing in a room that is absolutely impossible to escape from?

These reports continued to bring anxiety and panic to the citizens of the empire during this period, and some administrative states even ordered local newspapers not to report such cases anymore.

The main reason is that this killer who has never shown up is really killing people all the time, and he really can't be caught.

Of course, the people in the Blood Prison knew nothing about this.

This place is a prison. Unless the murderer named Ripper is caught and is going to be sent to the Blood Prison, it has nothing to do with them and they don't need to know.

Over the past month, the jailers still worked on time every day, took shifts on time, and loudly ordered the prisoners to stand up and accept roll call. Everything was as usual.

I'm just a little confused. Logically speaking, the blond prisoner who was imprisoned three months ago should have been sentenced to death long ago, but why is he still alive and well now.

And has the legendary terrifying prisoner imprisoned at the bottom of the Blood Prison now turned into a lump of flesh that only knows screams and pain?

Well, in this information-deprived prison, the prisoner at the bottom was undoubtedly the most talked about topic among the guards or prisoners in the past three months.

The news of the death of Emperor Augustine is still under seal. The citizens of the empire don't know it, and the people in the Blood Prison certainly don't know it. They are just curious about what kind of terrible guy can be put into a place that has not been opened for decades. In the deepest prison, what on earth did he commit outside, and what kind of criminal is he who has extraordinary skills, but is also extremely terrifying.

And in the past three months, while people were constantly speculating and talking about it, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes.

A beam of light hit his face, and the not-so-bright gas lamp made him squint his eyes into a slit. He hadn't seen light for three months, even in hell, staring at the weird sun in the sky every day. Look, but in reality, his body still has not adapted to the sudden brightness.

At this moment, he found that he was tied to a cart. The restraints on his body were stronger than those on the bottom floor of the blood prison. Even his mouth was covered with a steel mask, covering his eyes below. All parts of the body, leaving only some holes to provide breathing.

"How long have I been imprisoned?" Sherlock asked.

Since he hadn't spoken for a long time, his voice seemed so hoarse and harsh that even Sherlock himself was stunned.

The jailer who was pushing the cart back and forth had obviously received orders and would not answer any of his questions. Only a few soldiers standing next to him with guns in their hands and waiting for him glanced at him for a moment.

From these eyes, Sherlock saw the most real fear.

I wonder if during this period of time, I have been rumored to have become a demon with three heads, eight mouths, and human skin.

After walking like this for a few minutes, he was pushed into a closed room. Eight fully armed soldiers, wearing helmets and bulletproof vests, holding submachine guns, and carrying military weapons behind them that were only used to deal with demons on the front line. Cannon, ready to surround him.

A jailer began to wash Sherlock's body with a high-pressure water gun. In the process, the thick blood that adhered to his body in the bottom layer of the blood cell was washed away.

Then, in the shocked eyes, the intact skin was revealed.

The people here knew more or less what was going on at the bottom of the Blood Prison, so they couldn't understand why the man in front of them didn't seem to turn into a miserable and rotten madman.

However, they didn't have time to think about it, let alone ask. In their minds, there seemed to be something even more surprising to them. In short, after washing Sherlock's body clean, several jailors used extremely complex techniques to Without untying his restraints, he put on a brand new prison uniform.

During the whole process, Sherlock was very cooperative, but he was a little confused about what he was going to do.

If it was to be executed by firing squad, then why would it take so much trouble?

With this doubt in mind, he was pushed out of the room, then walked through several corridors, passed through some spacious spaces between rocks, and finally entered another room.

As the cart was slowly rocked up, he saw the old man wearing a simple gown, sitting quietly on the chair in front of him.

At this moment Sherlock was stunned.

In his thirty years of life, he had certainly been shocked. When he walked into No. 221B Baker Street for the first time, when he caught his first glimpse of hell through the crack in the window, when he walked into the wind and sand of another world, When he comes into contact with the distorted sun outside, when the palace of thought appears in his mind, when crimson tears the cracks in the void, and when he crawls out, these moments are enough to shock Sherlock.

But he has never been like this today, staring and repeatedly using the most complicated reasoning to prove whether he was still dreaming. He only felt that he saw the skylight among the rocks and saw a person who could only be seen in the newspaper. Go. No, someone I haven’t seen in the newspaper for a long time.

The pale but strong hair like pine needles, the eyes as calm as the breeze crossing the sea, the wrinkles that left on the face, like the ravines that plowed through the mountains, made Sherlock silent for a moment.

He could only remain silent, because even he didn't understand why this old man appeared in front of him.

Dante looked up and down at this young man he had never seen before, his eyes swept over him, but he found that the other man was restrained too tightly, so he naturally looked at the warden who was hunched over and silent.

"Just put it down. I'm getting older and talking with my head raised like this is a bit tiring."

"yes"

The warden responded directly.

He didn't even dare to explain how vicious the prisoner in front of him was, and he didn't even dare to speculate whether untying the prisoner's restraints would cause any danger to the old man in front of him. He didn't dare to think about anything or question it. He didn't dare to disobey, he should do whatever the old man said.

This is not because of issues such as respect, humility, piety, or face, but because I can only do this and must do this.

Because what is in front of me is a god