Sherlock Holmes

Major General Ulysses asked many questions in an extremely cold manner.

In fact, that's not even a question, because everyone knows the answers to these questions.

That is. Impossible.

It is impossible to find the location of the demonic tide, it is impossible to chase it, it is impossible to take back Miss Nightingale, and even all these are things that do not need to be considered, because Miss Nightingale cannot be still alive.

But Sherlock still concentrated on chewing the food in his mouth, feeling that the boiling snow water in his stomach melted the cold cans, and then the escaping heat flowed along the blood vessels between the limbs, forcefully dispelling the deep-rooted emotions. Bone-marrow cold.

His joints finally regained feeling, and the muscles that were nearly necrotic due to the cold began to spasm under the mild temperature, emitting unbearable pain. Sherlock finally began to tremble, and all the bones in his body even made clicking sounds due to the trembling. There was a crisp sound, and the bodily fluids seeping out from the hoof tissue filled the lower layer of the skin, as if Sherlock's entire skin was being torn off alive.

But Sherlock was still focused on replenishing his temperature and physical energy. He didn't care about the extreme pain that would have long made ordinary people faint, nor did he care about the worried or questioning looks of the people around him, nor did he listen to the persuasion of the veterans beside him.

Deep in the back of his mind, he was having a conversation with another voice.

He didn't know what to call him: Holy Light? The palace of thought? A vault of clues? Deep red?

This kind of existence obviously surpasses his cognition as a human being. According to Sherlock's character, he should be very interested in conducting a series of wild discussions with this wonderful existence in his mind, but he does not have time.

"Actually, I don't know who I am now. In fact, I don't even know whether [my] personality recognition is applicable to an existence like mine." The voice in my head While chattering, the voice would turn into a male voice for a while, then a female voice for a while, and sometimes some language that Sherlock had never heard of would suddenly pop up. He could only guess what the other person meant from the context and logic: "But from your perspective From a human logic point of view, I suggest you call me Crimson, because this title only has three letters and is easy to pronounce and write."

"I don't care about this, I just want to know, where is Nightingale?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm really sorry. As I said, I'm not the Holy Light. So I can only confirm that she is still alive. As for the location, I can't find out."

Sherlock stretched out a hand and clenched it, feeling the tingling of the nerves in his fingertips and the fingertip joints that had shown some signs of relief, confirming that his body temperature was now off the edge of death.

This is actually good news, because Nightingale is still alive. Just knowing this is enough. As for where she is, Crimson can't tell herself, but she can find it by herself.

Avalanches and cold winds can cover up everything, but the passing of the demon tide is so powerful that it will eventually leave some clues.

The depression in the snow surface caused by trampling will cause the resonance to deflect the snow flow direction. Under a constant wind speed, although it is impossible to leave footprints, a large number of demons will definitely make these ten thousand years of snow form a trace. of arc.

Sherlock can track all of this, and he once told Watson that there was no such thing as "losing track" in his career. Even if he is buried under ten thousand years of frozen soil and snow, even if the demonic tide passes thousands of miles, he will still find the traces of the other party, and then chase him for thousands of miles, and finally take back his client.

So he took the last bite of food and then slowly stood up.

Major General Ulysses looked at the man in front of him. He knew that persuasion was of no use at this time. Just like when everyone was persuading him to retire and leave this place of life and death, but in the end, he still picked up the gun. , and walked towards the ranks of veterans who were waiting for their return.

"Don't try to take anything away. Rescue is coming too slowly. I need to transport these survivors back. Don't ask for a car. It's impossible to give you the remaining food. I can't stop you from dying, but I can't Watch other soldiers die because of your paranoia and madness."

"I know, so I'll go on my own."

Before he finished speaking, he didn't know how far he had walked before. Crimson, who had collapsed in the snow, slowly stood up. The snow fell from his body, and his huge body blocked the wind and snow, like a A loyal servant who waits for his master's orders at any time. He will never come back even if he goes through mountains of swords and seas of fire, and will only smile indifferently.

Sherlock looked at Crimson and said with a smile in his mind: "This behavior of yours is an expression, are you willing to accompany me?"

"It can't be said that you are willing or unwilling, but if you die, then according to the principle of feedback, I will probably be affected, so staying with you is an act of self-protection for me." Shen Shen Hong responded calmly.

"You can definitely be more sensational."

"According to what I know about you, you are not a person who cares about feelings." Shen Hong continued to comment: "From the perspective of human emotions, it should be impossible for any man, and about 65% of women, to be interested in Nan. Ms. Dingle's advances were indifferent, so I suggest you see a psychiatrist. I know there is a mental illness called 'apathy', maybe"

"I changed my mind. From now on, please shut up as much as possible." Sherlock sighed weakly.

Looking past Crimson, he saw Watson, who had been squatting on the periphery of the crowd, also stand up. Their eyes met, and they both understood what the other meant.

So Sherlock shook his head:

"You should be able to understand that if you follow me, it won't make any difference."

"I know," Watson lowered his gaze and murmured, "but I lost Miss Nightingale, and I have to make up for it."

"Of course, but please don't cause any trouble to me." Sherlock's tone sounded like he disliked the other party: "I am responsible for bringing Miss Nightingale back. During this period, you should manage the front line for her." medical team, you don’t want to wait for her to come back and find that your team is in a mess."

Watson was silent. Just now, he cut open Sherlock's chest. This behavior was undoubtedly crazy, and what Sherlock was doing now was even crazier, but both of them understood what the other said. In fact, everything is within a certain rational scope.

"It must be stupid to ask, but you will come back, right?" Watson asked.

"Do your best."

There are always various reasons for separation.

The tiny figure quickly disappeared into the wind and snow, and then, the outline of the huge third-order demon beside it also disappeared from sight.

This scene was very strange. The soldiers watched each other in silence, always feeling that this kind of persistence was admirable, but they could clearly feel the incomprehensible absurdity.

The man named Sherlock just left?

He had just miraculously come back to life, and then died again.

This continent is a place without any life. There is no food, no vegetation, and there will even be no sunshine for a long time in the future. There is only endless cold and death. Therefore, ignore what Major General Ulysses just said. There are more fundamental difficulties with those problems.

For example, what to eat? Where to sleep? How to survive?

Could it be that this man couldn't think of this?

Under the cover of night, a lonely dark red figure walked on the vast snowfield. The footprints behind him were deeply sunken, but in a few seconds, they would be buried by the wind and snow.

Of course Sherlock had thought of this.

But at the same time, he also thought of more things, such as his first meeting with the girl, his escape from the fire, the smile beside the hospital bed, the firm eyes when facing the patients, and the efforts to heal those seriously injured soldiers. , the posture of falling asleep tiredly.

Shylock never thought that one day he would be by Nightingale's side and take over her commission. Anyway, fate brought this man and woman together.

Looking at the pale world in front of him, he walked along a sloping snow curtain. A large group of demons once rushed through this area at a speed comparable to that of a war car traveling at full speed. The starry sky above his head would continue like this for three days. For months, this is good news because you can use them to determine your direction.

Crimson is not Holy Light, but it still possesses some Holy Light abilities. At least it can confirm that Nightingale is still alive, and if she is not dead now, it means that those demons do not want to kill her. thoughts.

why is that?

Sherlock's mind became even heavier.

Is this a friendship between friends, or a relationship between detective and client?

He didn't understand either. In short, his heart was like lava surging under the mantle of the earth, flowing quietly and silently, but full of suppressed flames, slowly washing away his rationality and madness. There is no anxiety, no pain, no sadness or anger in the intertwined thoughts. There is no possibility of anything, but there is everything.

Sherlock just felt that for such an amazing young girl, there were more people who needed help. She should be able to experience the closing of the gates of hell and write a profound mark on the history of mankind. , the ending should be that decades later, she died on a warm afternoon, and people would put beautiful wreaths on her funeral statue.

In short, it shouldn't just disappear into the demonic tide.

"What to do next?" A deep red voice came calmly from the depths of his consciousness.

"How long have we been walking?" Sherlock asked. He was sure that the direction he was walking in was correct. The only thing he needed to worry about was that the speed of the demonic tide was much faster than his own. If it continued like this, how long would it take? catch up with each other.

"It's been 5 hours." Crimson said.

Then, it asked very plainly: "So, how are you going to relieve your hunger."

Sherlock didn't respond immediately.

"According to your reasoning ability, you should be able to judge the speed of the demonic tide.

If we chase like this, we should not be able to catch up with each other.

The fastest speed you can show is 140 kilometers per hour, and I can reach 210 kilometers per hour.

So for such a long time, you have not shown the fastest speed. Is it because you are worried that your body will not be able to support the long-term pursuit? "

One by one, after Crimson no longer hid his self-awareness, he became more and more garrulous.

However, the question it raised is indeed critical, because this chase is definitely not a short-distance pursuit that can end in a day or two. In this vast area, who knows where the group of demons want to go. It's a long tug-of-war that lasts for a month, two months, or even longer.

Due to her special physical condition, Nightingale did not need to consider issues such as starving to death or freezing to death, but Sherlock could not. If he wanted to survive, he needed to replenish energy.

And if you want to show faster speed, you need more and more energy.

So what exactly do you eat?

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped and quickly fell to the ground.

Crimson on the side was stunned, not knowing what happened, but he quickly followed and fell to the ground.

It was particularly funny that such a big guy tried to huddle up behind a small snow bag.

"What's wrong?" Crimson asked softly.

"You are talking to me with your consciousness. There is no need to lower your voice."

"Well, that makes sense." Crimson said slightly embarrassed, "So, what happened?"

"Here comes food."

Sherlock said, pointing forward.

I saw a lone second-level demon wandering in the snow. The demon had a long beak, but no wings. From the perspective of the human world, it should belong to some kind of birds.

This is not important. What is important is that it is quite fat.

"." Crimson was silent. From its too scary face, there must be no expression, but now Crimson really wanted to put on a puzzled look.

"So, is the food you are talking about the devil?"

"Why, do you feel bad for eating your own kind?"

"From a certain point of view, the contracted demon has almost no self-awareness and is just a puppet. As for me, mentally, I don't seem to be considered a demon at all, and naturally I don't have any feelings of [distress].

It's not important anyway

The important thing is, you want to eat a demon? "

Before he finished speaking, there was a boom, and the snow around Sherlock suddenly exploded into the sky, and a plowed hurricane swept towards the demon.

This is the only physical strength Sherlock has saved.

The next second, his body appeared in front of the demon, and his clenched fist struck the opponent's Tianling Cap with a bang.

The demon almost didn't react. His head split open like a watermelon on the spot, and the red and white sticky tissue inside was shattered and splashed out from the crack.

Very good, one hit, painless death.

Sherlock held the other person's neck and walked back very satisfied.

It seems that the devil will be their food from now on.