Sherlock's expression finally lost its playfulness.
He grew quiet, his eyes narrowed in focus as he observed the grotesque Abyssal entity crawling slowly out of the rift.
In this era, Contractors weren't exactly a rarity—the Church's massive congregation ensured a steady supply of candidates. However, those who reached the Second Stage were few and far between. Seeing a Second-Stage Contractor summon their Contract Demon was a sight that even a veteran of the Lower District might never witness.
Unlike the Old Priest's spider, the thing Baidel summoned was difficult to define in earthly terms.
If one had to describe it, it was a hideous fusion of insect and bison. Its skin was a patchwork of black-and-red scales that hung in loose, overlapping folds. On its multi-limbed head were the vestigial traces of several eyes, and the entire skull swayed with a drunken, rhythmic stagger. Its frontal mouthparts were a sickening array of mandibles and massive, protruding tusks, dripping with a highly acidic, sizzling ichor.
Its size was equally oppressive. It was easily double the size of the Priest's spider; its mere presence made the already small apartment feel suffocatingly narrow.
"To kill one's beloved is to invite Divine Punishment," Catherine said, her brow furrowing as she watched the creature emerge.
Baidel remained expressionless.
Then, suddenly, he let out a sharp, jarring burst of laughter—a dry, pu-cha sound.
Sherlock jumped. He had honestly assumed that this "stone-faced" Executive Officer lacked the genetic capacity for laughter.
As it turned out, Baidel wasn't very good at it. The rigid muscles of his face made the expression look like a mangled mask of agony. "Beloved? Don't speak in such sanctimonious platitudes. Karin was unfaithful. She deserved to die. This was no 'killing of a beloved'."
"And what of the dozen citizens you butchered over the past few months?"
"They were all unclean," Baidel hissed. "They merited the scourge."
"Who merits death is for the Tribunal to decide," Catherine countered. "You are a mere Officer, yet you have presumed to dispense private judgment."
Baidel shook his head, weary of the debate. He knew what happened next. The "unclean" woman was dead, and the Church would never let him walk away. From a purely rational standpoint, executing a Second-Stage Contractor over a single woman was a poor trade, but rules were rules. Regardless of logic, once you broke them, you were a dead man.
The Church was Holy. The Church was Inviolate.
Just then—
Cough, cough.
Sherlock offered a mild, awkward clearing of his throat.
"Um... sorry to interrupt the sermon, but... this is my apartment. And it's a rental. So, would you mind... taking this elsewhere?"
He had intended to ask them to "take it outside," but then he caught Baidel's gaze—a look saturated with the thickest, most concentrated murderous intent Sherlock had ever seen.
"Right. I see the negotiations have failed," he muttered with a sigh of regret.
Sherlock was the primary reason Baidel had been backed into this corner, yet he stood there acting like a confused, innocent bystander.
"Well then. Please, carry on. I won't disturb you further."
There was a hint of genuine apology in his tone. Then, with the grace of a cat, he turned and threw himself out the window.
A Detective's duty was to find the killer. The actual arresting? He decided he wouldn't be participating this time.
Outside, the night wind howled. The few stars that had struggled through the soot were gone, hidden by a heavy layer of clouds. The air was thick with a cold, wet dampness.
In truth, Sherlock was curious to see high-level Contractors tear each other apart, but the apartment was far too small. Staying to watch the show would have given him a survival rate somewhere in the single digits.
He landed lightly on the pavement. The street was eerily silent, as if the cramped flat above could no longer contain the mounting pressure between the three Clerics. The suffocating weight of the Abyssal energy was already bleeding out, saturating the long street.
Amidst that cold wind and the crushing pressure, shadows moved in the dark corners where the gaslight couldn't reach.
A massive suit of heavy steam-armor stepped slowly into the light.
Then three. Then five.
Ten... twenty...
Thirty... forty!
More and more emerged, their massive silhouettes overlapping until it became impossible to count them. The armor was painted a deep, obsidian blue. Ornate sunflowers—the crest of the Protective Knight Order—glimmered on their pauldrons under the flickering lamps.
In the damp night air, the sound of iron clashing against iron and the shrill hiss of venting steam began to rise like a chorus of war.
It was hard to fathom how so many men could have been moved into position in such a quiet street without a single sound. And it didn't end there. Looking at the buildings flanking the road, lights suddenly flared in almost every window. The sound of frantic footsteps echoed, growing louder as they mingled with the mechanical roar of the steam engines.
Enforcement officers appeared from nowhere, beginning the rapid evacuation of the residents.
Every exit to the street was sealed. Massive iron barricades were hammered into place. Overhead, the gargantuan bellies of two Zeppelin airships drifted into view, their powerful searchlights pouring down like pillars of liquid white, turning the night into a sickly, artificial day.
For a commoner of the Lower District, the scale of the deployment was staggering. Every soldier in the Knight Order stood with grim intensity, their eyes fixed on that unremarkable second-story window.
Sherlock, too, stood watching his apartment. His expression was one of profound anxiety.
"These heavy-handed bastards," he muttered to himself. "They better not tear the whole building down... it was so damn hard to find rent this cheap."