The survivors collapsed to the ground, gasping and coughing violently; the relief of having escaped death was intertwined with bone-deep exhaustion and pain.
The air was thick with the scent of dust, blood, and the lingering odor of sulfur.
"Cough, cough... Is... is everyone still alive?"
Sheriff Marcus coughed up a bit of blood, struggled to sit up, and swept his flashlight over the group.
"I... I'm okay..." Police Officer Sam, who was supporting a companion, said in a weak voice.
"Smith... Smith doesn't seem to be breathing!"
Another Police Officer, Jack, shouted with a sob; the companion in his arms was the one whose ribs had been broken by the giant.
Watson, ignoring his own wounds, immediately rushed over to check.
"Move aside!"
He pushed Jack away, his trembling fingers reaching for Smith's carotid artery, then leaned down to listen for a heartbeat and breath.
A few seconds later, he slumped his head, his voice hoarse: "...He's gone. The broken ribs may have pierced his lungs or heart... He couldn't hold on."
A heavy silence, thick with the smell of blood, enveloped the group. Those who could still move found some torn tapestries and robes to crudely dress their wounds.
Until the shrill sound of sirens pierced the silence, and several police cars and ambulances with flashing red and blue lights pulled up to the entrance of the Theological Seminary.
It was the reinforcements that Sheriff Marcus had called for via radio before entering the underground; they had finally arrived.
Uniformed police and paramedics rushed in, and seeing the scene in the chapel and the gruesome state of the group, they all gasped.
The paramedics quickly took charge of the wounded.
Wright Williams, suffering from excessive blood loss and mental exhaustion, had fallen into a semi-comatose state and was urgently placed on a stretcher. Catherine remained unconscious, though her vital signs were stable, but her face was frighteningly pale.
Watson refused to get on a stretcher immediately, insisting on treating Wright Williams's wounds first, until he was "forcibly" restrained by the paramedics.
Holmes stood silently to the side, waving his hand to indicate he was fine, and refused to be examined by the medical staff.
Sheriff Marcus wearily directed the scene, cordoning off the Theological Seminary and controlling the ordinary faculty and students who had been awakened by the massive commotion and were now in a panic.
He looked at Holmes, his eyes complex, filled with gratitude, awe, and an even deeper sense of wariness and confusion.
"Mr. Sherlock... what happened today..."
Marcus spoke with difficulty, trying to find an entry point for this report that defied imagination.
"A chain reaction of explosions caused by a leaking gas pipeline, Sheriff."
Holmes interrupted him, his voice calm and without a ripple.
"As for what's underground... let it remain buried there forever. The truth is sometimes harder to bear."
He tightened his trench coat: "Some things, the less you know, the more soundly you sleep."
Sheriff Marcus looked at the unquestionable determination and deep-seated exhaustion in Holmes's eyes, then looked at the Police Officers being carried away, and finally nodded heavily.
He knew that everything that happened today would be sealed away as a secret forever, and they, the survivors, would forever carry the burden of this memory of terror that defied reason.
Holmes gazed at the distant, tranquil complex of the Theological Seminary, his face pale, his lips pressed tightly together.
The whispers brought by the book of eibon had receded like a tide for the moment; though no longer surging, they were stubbornly and secretly waiting, waiting for the next torrential wave.
What weighed even more heavily on his mind was Catherine's condition. Although she had been rescued, she had experienced the core impact of the ritual and had been forcibly connected by Claire as a "vessel" to that terrifying entity named neos keogai.
Her coma was by no means ordinary weakness, and the shattering of that blood-drop pendant did not necessarily mean the connection had been completely severed.
Would that "angel" existing in the depths of the starry sky really give up on a "vessel" so close to success so easily?
And then there was Gan, the lisping Cultist; he hadn't appeared at the underground ritual site. Where had he gone? Was he still locked in the police station's cell? Or was he with the remaining Cultists, like a viper lurking in the shadows, coldly watching them?
And... Joseph, that young man who had given his life to pass on information.
His sacrifice had bought a momentary victory, but had the secret evil forces that Claire represented, which might be scattered throughout Boston, been rooted out?
That copy of the book of eibon, which recorded countless forbidden pieces of knowledge, was now in his possession. Was it the key to ending evil, or a Pandora's box that would invite even greater calamity?
Countless questions swirled in Holmes's mind.
He took one last look at Clavius Seminary, which appeared exceptionally holy in the faint morning light, but actually hid endless darkness.
"It's over."
He whispered to himself, a phrase that sounded more like a cold question, dissipating into the breeze that carried the scent of grass and trees.
Holmes turned and walked toward the ambulance where Watson was; his silhouette was lonely yet resolute, and the shadows under the sunlight seemed even deeper and more vast than the darkness underground.
...
Three days later.
St. Michael's Cemetery.
A fine, cold drizzle silently covered every silent tombstone, soaked every inch of the newly turned soil, and enveloped every grieving person.
Two new graves stood side by side: on the left was Joseph Hawkins, and on the right was the young Police Officer Smith, two heroic men who had sacrificed their lives in the struggle against evil.
Black umbrellas formed a depressing sea in front of the tombstones, and the solemn crowd stood quietly beneath them.
There was only the monotonous sound of raindrops tapping on the umbrellas, and the low, echoing prayers of the priest in the distance, which seemed to be soaked with the rain as well.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..."
Catherine stood before Joseph's grave, rain sliding down her pale cheeks; it was impossible to tell if it was rain or tears.
She wore a well-tailored black dress, which made her exposed neck and wrists appear even more slender and fragile, devoid of any color, like a porcelain doll that had been washed out by the rain.
Her hands were tightly clasped in front of her, her knuckles white from the strain, and her body trembled slightly, as if she could be crushed at any moment by the heavy air of the cemetery and the cold rain.
A black umbrella covered the sky above her, shielding her from the driving rain; it was Wright Williams.
He was also dressed in a solemn black suit, holding the umbrella with his right hand, his left arm immobilized in a dark sling hidden beneath his suit jacket.
Only his stiff posture and the occasional slight furrow of his brow hinted that the wounds beneath had not yet healed.
His complexion was also poor, bearing the haggardness and exhaustion of someone recovering from a major illness, but deep within those dark brown eyes, a flame burned—a resolution that had been honed, becoming sharper and more persistent.
He stood straight, his gaze sweeping past the tombstones and into the depths of the curtain of rain, as if scrutinizing the shadows lurking there.
Sheriff Marcus stood in the front row of the crowd, near the side of Police Officer Smith's grave.
He had changed out of his duty uniform and was wearing a black suit; one arm was in a plaster cast, supported by a bandage across his chest, while his other hand gripped a large black umbrella tightly, the handle trembling slightly in his grasp.
His gaze landed heavily on Smith's coffin, which was covered with a police badge and flowers; his lips were pressed together, and deep within his eyes, there settled a complex emotion mixed with helplessness, anger, and a deeper, underlying anxiety.
The priest's prayer ended.
The crowd began to sob softly; someone stepped forward and gently placed the white chrysanthemums in their hand onto the wet base of the tombstone. The flowers were instantly wilted by the rain, and the white petals stuck to the cold stone.
Catherine stumbled forward and placed a bouquet of white chrysanthemums in front of Joseph's tombstone.
Her fingers brushed over her brother's name on the tombstone; the cold touch made her flinch, then she bit her lower lip tightly and turned to walk away quickly.
Wright Williams followed silently by her side, like a quiet guardian, shielding her from some of the crowd and the rain.
Sheriff Marcus took a deep breath of the cold, damp air, suppressing the surging emotions in his chest.
He took one last look at Smith's tombstone, his gaze sweeping over the mourning crowd, and finally fixed on the backs of Catherine and Wright Williams as they walked away.
He moved his feet with difficulty, passing through the crowd that was whispering and preparing to leave, and walked in the direction where Catherine and Wright Williams had gone.
In a relatively secluded area on the edge of the cemetery.
Wright Williams was whispering something to Catherine, but Catherine only shook her head slightly, her face as pale as snow. When they saw the Sheriff approaching, both stopped speaking.
"Mr. Williams, Miss Hawkins."
Marcus's voice was low and hoarse, carrying an undisguised exhaustion that sounded exceptionally clear amidst the sound of the rain and the rustling of leaves.
"Please, wait."