Even after firing a shot, Ian holstered the still-cold revolver in the gun holster and stared at the vampire that had begun to regenerate. As soon as its brain recovered, the creature's limply hanging limbs twitched.
The time it had taken for that was roughly five seconds.
A speed neither too slow nor too fast.
The regeneration ability of a low-grade vampire appeared to be just about that level.
‘If the grade is higher or if something other than the head is severed, it’ll regenerate faster than five seconds. I’d better keep that in mind when hunting.’
He had no plans to go vampire hunting right away, but human affairs never play out exactly as planned. As long as two high-ranking vampires hiding in Korea remained alive and well, it wouldn’t be strange at all to suddenly be ambushed by them.
‘Thanks to the Management Bureau’s activities, the ghoul population isn’t as huge as it used to be, but that doesn’t mean they’ve dealt with the vampires. If I get the chance later, I’d like to capture one and at least run some experiments.’
With that thought, Ian exited the shooting range. Absinthe, who had been waiting for him outside, removed her headset and bowed politely.
“How is it? Does the firearm suit you?”
“Seems fine. More importantly, is it okay to use a vampire as a target? Those are expensive for you to purchase, aren’t they?”
“We purchase them at great expense precisely to use them in such places. Otherwise, we cannot even procure them.”
“Ah.”
“And occasionally we harvest organs or fangs. Since we use them as targets, we can take them out whenever needed. Vampires are a highly valuable commodity in many respects.”
As she spoke, Absinthe handed him a pre-prepared cocktail.
“It’s a cocktail called the Florida. It has almost no alcohol, so you can drink it without worry.”
“Is it free?”
“The Cartel’s policy strictly prohibits coercive sales.”
That meant it was free. Ian chuckled softly and accepted the glass tinged with lemon. A scent that was tart yet sweet, much closer to juice than a cocktail, wafted up strongly.
“Thanks. I’ll enjoy it.”
Ian took a sip of the cocktail and moved his feet. Absinthe stuck close to his side and added various explanations.
“Vampires that have started to develop intelligence are difficult to capture alive, and even if you do capture and use them, they try to escape, so they aren’t easy to handle like that. Werewolves are the same. In the first place, without moonlight, they’re no different from just hairy humans, so their regeneration ability isn’t remarkable.”
“Hmm.”
“Of course, when the full moon rises, a werewolf’s physical abilities and regeneration power surge dramatically, and we often aim for that time to procure materials excluding their weak points.”
“Similar to the Management Bureau.”
“Because it’s the most common method of utilizing the mystical. Though the Bureau is the original.”
They exited the fourth basement floor where the shooting range was located and ascended to the third, and then the second floor. As they stood at the edge of the ornate staircase, Absinthe informed him about the firearm-related services.
“If a problem occurs with the firearm, please first contact us through the app. Then we’ll set a date and provide a full inspection.”
“Is that free of charge?”
“For about half a year, yes. However, if the firearm malfunctions due to customer negligence, it will be switched to a paid service. Our dealers make that judgment directly.”
“A setup perfect for fraud.”
“Please do not worry. The Cartel is a business that lives on love and trust toward its customers. We never commit fraud.”
At her serious reply, Ian burst out a laugh.
In any case, with this, everything he had to do at the shop was finished. The firearm modification had been completed well, and though unintended, he had also obtained a tactical axe. He wondered just how often a mage would find himself in close combat, but having one was better than not, so he didn’t feel too bad.
As for the weight, it seemed light enough to wield easily with one hand. If he just properly tensed his grip, he wouldn’t lose it while swinging. He stared at the axe that stuck like a sticker to the inside of his coat, then turned to Absinthe and smiled.
“Thanks for the guidance. It got done faster than I thought, thanks to you.”
“I’m glad you are satisfied. When you visit again, I will come out to greet you once more.”
“No, there’s no need for that.”
Ian answered immediately and handed back the half-finished cocktail. Absinthe politely accepted the glass and stepped back.
“I will be looking forward to your next visit. I hope you return home safely.”
“Sure.”
Ian gave a suitable reply and opened the door himself, leaving the second basement floor.
In an instant, the scenery changed to the ordinary underground staircase of a shopping district. Light sliding down faintly from the first floor dimly illuminated the stairs.
He stared at that light for a moment, then, savoring the lingering taste of the cocktail, pulled out the picture fragment from his pocket.
The slightly rough texture unique to canvas was transmitted from his fingertips.
The drawn picture was the back of a human head.
Like someone praying reverently, a bald-headed man in priestly robes was bowing his head with his hands clasped together.
Fortunately, since it was not a part where the face was visible, staring at it directly caused no problems.
“……Hoo.”
Ian shoved the picture back into his pocket, took out a cigarette and put it between his lips, and began climbing the stairs.
All business at the Cartel shop was finished.
Now it was time to chase Irene’s trail.
*
Click. Click.
Inside the dark motel room, the sound of a camera shutter repeatedly went off. The room, which even sunlight didn’t enter, was briefly dyed pure white before returning to darkness. Only after this process repeated dozens more times did the shutter sound finally stop.
[This much for traces should do.]
A voice mixed with crackling noise cut across the motel room.
However, not a single person was present inside the room. Instead, a lump of a human who had died a gruesome death, and a monster that had replaced the place where its head should be with a camera, stood silently.
Black dress pants and a pure white shirt. Over them, a black suit vest and even a brown coat—the monster plopped down into a chair, rotating its camera lens. Then it enlarged the photos it had taken and began to look around slowly.
[I did well to follow the scent of the case. It’s been a long time since a murder scene made my heart race like this. Even in England, such gruesome cases aren’t common.]
Click, click.
[This is absolutely not a murder carried out through surgical procedure. The cells are fused together, and there are no boundaries between bones. It’s practically correct to view it as a single entity. Literally, fusion.]
Click.
[There is only one breed capable of this sort of deed.]
He took his hand off the lens.
[Mages.]
The freak drew a long smoking pipe from its bosom. At that moment, the cane placed beside the chair fell over with a thud.
Sherlock Holmes.
It was a cane engraved with such initials. After inserting the pipe into a gap between the lenses, he neatly placed the cane next to him again.
Tap, tap.
He poured oil inside the pipe and floated a glass fragment above the picture. When he pressed the shutter in that state, the oil rapidly rotated and ground down the glass fragment.
No smoke rose. Instead, a grinding sound echoed clearly.
But Holmes exhaled toward the empty air as if smoking a real pipe. The light leaking from the center of the lens struck the wall and scattered.
[Phew… A mad mage, then it really is Moriarty after all. I never imagined there would be a Moriarty even in such a small country. This is quite exciting.]
Holmes put the pipe back between the lenses, leaned back against the chair, and stared at the human lump.
Dozens of arms. Dozens of legs. And faces with various appearances. A simple, brute mass of corpses with not a single commonality.
[It would be impossible to identify the victims. Grasping the exact number would be hard, too. As expected, there’s no choice but to use Rewind to examine it in detail.]
Tap, tap.
Holmes lightly tapped the floor with his cane and rose to his feet.
[It can’t be helped.]
He placed both hands on the cane’s handle and began to stare intently at the human lump hanging on the wall. Then, the lens of the camera replacing his head rotated in reverse, radiating a fan-shaped light.
At that moment, humans were summoned from the empty air along with smoke.
“……Uh. Huh? What the, fuck.”
“Kyaa, kyaaaaa!! Don’t look! I said don’t look!”
“Wh, what the hell are you! Fuck, don’t come near me, you sons of bitches! Kidnapping?! Is this a kidnapping!?”
Ordinary people without any commonality continued to bloom in the air.
Those who had been moved first screamed in surprise, but only for a moment. They looked at the silently standing Holmes and the people appearing wherever his light touched and kept their mouths firmly shut. Conversely, their eyes were opened so wide they seemed about to tear.
“What the hell is this, fuck……”
Someone muttered. There was no answer, but everyone held the same thought as that voice.
Something utterly nonsensical by common sense.
A tall man with a camera attached where his head should be could not possibly exist in reality. And what about the people appearing as if teleported with smoke from thin air? Was that possible by common sense?
[Hmm.]
However, whether they screamed or remained silent, Holmes paid no mind to whatever they did and continued emitting light.
Then, at the exact moment the number of summoned people reached sixteen.
Crunch.
At the very back of the group. A woman who had been covering her naked body—perhaps just come from a shower—her body began to writhe. One arm bent in the opposite direction, muscles tearing and bones breaking.
“Huh?”
It wasn’t just her arm.
In less than a second, she was slammed into the corner of the wall and compressed as if dragged. Blood and organs splattered, and pain, unable to keep up with that speed, split the air.
“Ah, aaaaaah!!!”
Someone screamed. Like the woman, he was dragged to the wall and stuck. His upper body, still intact, was fixed upside down, his intestines dangling.
That was the start. Citizens with no connection whatsoever all moved at once and transformed. And mixed.
Crunch……!
Grotesquely piled corpses clumped together, forming a jelly-like mass. Skin regardless of race was covered in flowing blood, enveloped by red muscle, and disappeared. Crushed and squashed faces rose above it.
[Hoh.]
Is that the expression of a person on the verge of drowning when they push their face above water?
The heads of those struggling desperately to survive writhed like bugs, having lost eyes, noses, lips, and ears. The muscle replacing skin was covered in crushed organs and severed blood vessels, transforming into a grotesque form. It completed a shape resembling wings.
Before long, the transformation ended. Next to the corpse lump that had been in the room from the start, an identical lump was created. Holmes stopped the Rewind, tilted his head, and murmured in a slightly elevated voice.
[The total number of victims is sixteen. Seeing that the number of heads is less than that, it is presumed some are buried below. The lineage of the magic cannot be determined. However, if it encompasses over ten humans within the magic’s scope, they are certainly a skilled one.]
Tap, tap. The cane taps the floor.
[It is not an elaborate design. If it had been designed, it would be normal for there to be at least one commonality among the victims. Since there isn’t, it is most likely an indiscriminate murder. Presumed not to be a magic that singles out specific targets.]
Zing…….
Holmes’s lens rotated.
[A mage who enjoys thrill killings. And with a bold personality daring enough not to care about the aftermath, displaying the victims like works of art. The weaving of blood vessels like wings is proof. Mages related to art are extremely few. Most among them are related to music. Magic related to visual forms of art—like sculptures or paintings—is generally used only by the mages of Walpurgis.]
He prodded the lump with his cane. Blood and pus trickled.
[Magic associated with music only affects the mind. It is impossible to exert this kind of physical force. Therefore, it is reasonable to assume it was the work of a mage related to Walpurgis. Then, who among them committed such an act? An obvious question. There are exactly three suspects, and one died a year ago. The remaining are Vermina and Irene. However, Vermina was captured by the Clock Tower, had both arms and the parts below her knees severed, and is currently imprisoned in a state where she cannot even draw. So the only one left is Irene alone.]
Tap.
He neatly gripped the cane and broke into a laugh.
[Cases involving mages are exceedingly difficult because most of the reasoning must rely solely on senses, experience, and memory, but the pleasure when it turns out to be the correct answer is nearly indescribable. It’s on par with injecting opium straight into the brain.]
Using the blood on the tip of his cane, he drew letters on the floor.
James Moriarty is Irene.
The moment he completed the sentence in elegant English, a red circle bloomed on the back of his hand.
It was proof that his deduction was correct. Holmes smiled cheerfully and turned around.
[Let’s go, Watson! We need to take the initiative before Lestrade, so hurry!]
Tap, tap!
He rapped his cane repeatedly and pressed the shutter.
Click!
A light bright enough to illuminate the entire room erupted from the camera.
In the place where the light vanished, only a single black-and-white photograph of Holmes remained starkly behind.