The Shepherds Are Dense

Chapter 53: Soul-Search Spell

Sherlock was careful, his eyes sweeping his environment as he traced the slim trail from memory, until he came to a stinking ditch and a hulking pile of trash.Maybe because of more factory waste dumping, the living trash here was even more terrible than his nightmare of the deserted chemical factory. The water smelled worse, almost covering the way completely and choking the air with a foul odor. As Sherlock approached to investigate the stack, cockroaches skittered out from under.

Behind him, stiff-backed, furrowed brows, walked Edward.

He gazed at the dump with a scowl, clearly reluctant to go on.

"…How did you come upon this spot, Hermes?" Edward inquired from where he waited.

"First-hand information from my progress ceremony, buddy," Sherlock answered openly, holding back nothing from his veteran acquaintance. "Once we pass over this rubbish and ascend over this ridge, we'll see the old chemical factory. The Sweater Brotherhood's lair is there."

"Then move aside."

Sherlock stepped aside grudgingly.

He observed as Edward—ordinarily serious and draped in somber elegance—produced one of the elven shortswords from his belt.

White runes erupted into light upon Edward's right wrist, charging up to the tips of his fingers and onto the blade's spine.

"—By law, I am granted the Right of Passage."

Upon his command, bright white light surged forward in bursts like a gale.

A force irresistible as a storm broke from the sword point, clearing away the garbage pile to either side.

A broad avenue opened—large enough for ten individuals to walk shoulder to shoulder. A thin, misty, radiant road stretched across the earth below their feet.

Throughout the pile, a number of weak lights came on: three green and one black.

"Appears your information was accurate, Hermes," Edward replied, putting away his sword. "There are traps here. Three aligned with the Path of Adaptation, one with the Path of Love. None of them high-level."

"I assumed so."

Sherlock led the way, looking around. "The form of this heap wasn't natural. It wasn't dumped by humans or wind. There's a noticeably clean path through the garbage where there would've been debris. The true safe path is likely the heap."

"Not intended to be deadly," Edward went on, following. "If there was blood or corpses, it'd attract attention to their position."

"So the Sweater Brotherhood actually here," Sherlock frowned, lost in thought. "Although I confess, I expected something different. I thought perhaps they were demon scholars."

"And why's that?" Edward inquired.

"Because someone said they had connections to whoever's behind the Pelican Bar."

Sherlock broke it down, "And whoever operates the Pelican Bar ought to be associated with the Crimson Nobility Society. You know them—murderers, cultists who make sacrifices, thieves, demon scholars. But they have heritage—particularly the Xingtin branch.

"If they're supporting the Brotherhood, this trap rather. lacks complication."

Edward was quiet for a moment.

He knew there was no such association—the Sweater Brotherhood was well below that caliber.

They were little better than bullies. Even if some of them were Awakened, they were still small-time operators. The Crimson Nobility Society wouldn't bother.

But Sherlock could think what he liked.

Actually, Edward rather hoped that he did.

His old friend Hermes, despite his laziness and arrogance, had good instincts along the Path of Wisdom. He was good at finding things out.

That was why Edward had accompanied him—Edward feared Sherlock would actually probe too deeply by himself.

While his father never exactly told him, Edward had a general notion of what lay behind the Pelican Bar.

Those individuals members of the Crimson Nobility Society.

Apparently, it was a covert organization of demon scholars who were comprised mainly of Avalonians, with some mentors from Xingtin.

Edward knew better.

It was not a simple illegal supernatural organization. It was a , supported by the Xingtin Kingdom, with the goal of overthrying Avalon's knightly rule.

Their king was a .

That giant's blood originated from the Alktos Kingdom—the ancient giant empire that was overthrown by Avalon's first king, Lancelot I, with the aid of the elves.

During those times, great giants dominated the island and stood guard over the little humans. They were powerful enough to resist the Empire's power and remain independent.

There was no evidence that the head of the Crimson Nobility was of imperial birth, but as a giant—already a rarity on the continent—he probably came from the old nobility, if not royalty itself.

Some other leaders in the society were half-giants. Although not necessarily as big or muscular, they were larger and more powerful than ordinary humans. Their title, , suggested their blue blood.

Avalon in the present had no nobles—there was only power for the knights. Knighthood could be conferred by the royal family, but little else. They had no real power and influence, depending on new knightly houses loyal to the crown to hold some influence over the Round Table.

But those new homes had no means and were likely to be swayed by their sponsors—often successful merchants.

Professor Moriarty, Edward's adoptive parent, dealt in precisely such commerce.

Some of the older knightly clans flourished, others declined. The former took up sponsorship, while the latter did not.

Some saw themselves as , better than the plebian bloodlines of new knights. Some became tired of the constant squabbling in the Round Table and the strings pulled from behind the scenes. Some grew greedy and fantasized about reversing the tables, taking wealth into their own hands.

Though they differed, they shared a single purpose:

To restore aristocratic rule.

So aside from the Xingtin agents, even some Avalon ministers secretly backed the Crimson Nobility Society.

Edward didn't give a damn about Avalon—or Alktos.

He was once a street rat. He turned into a "Moriarty." Afterward, he graduated with honors and became an Inspector, responsible for surveilling suspect knights, rooting out corruption, and unmasking foreign spies.

He caught glimpses of the grime behind the curtain. The law was there not for justice, but to serve to maintain the authority of the Round Table—not even the authority of the Silver and Tin Halls.

Compared to all that, paying Professor Moriarty back for his kindness was more important.

Edward had once asked his foster father which side they were on.

James simply replied:

"You stand on my side, Edward."

Edward felt glad now the Brotherhood wasn't affiliated with the Pelican Bar.

If they were… he wouldn't be able to put a stop to Sherlock uncovering more.

Hermes was too clever. Too intuitive.

Even a tiny pause could alert him.

Edward didn't have too many friends.

He didn't want to lose another one.

Luckily, this was a dead-end lead.

"

Edward said to himself.

That decided it.

He had another case on his hands. One that had to be settled quickly to protect both civilians and his loved ones. After all, they weren't supporting the Crimson Nobility—they sought to preserve .

So Edward addressed:

"Actually… perhaps they connected.

"I just recalled that there's another case. The Inspectorate is investigating something codenamed 'Redstone.'

"A shipment of high-powered, portable alchemical bombs was smuggled in from the Pelican Bar to Avalon. I think they were bought by someone on the high level of the kingdom. But they're too risky to keep at home—too easy to trace.

"If they haven't been relocated yet, they're likely still in Lorher District. And if the Brotherhood is hiding out in that chemical factory… well, keeping them there makes a great deal of sense."

Edward's face changed just then.

He had felt it.

A heartbeat.

Sherlock saw a beat later. His head jerked up.

Blue-white light blazed in his eyes.

"【Stasis】!" he ordered.

A flash of blinding light burst outward like a stellar birth.

From the shadows at their backs, an assassin cloaked in stealth was abruptly pushed out—his body immobilized beneath a white-wrapped shell, like a statue.

Half a second afterward, he struggled free.

Grasping the restraint wasn't firm, the assassin's eyes grew keen. He reversed his hold on his dagger, dropped to a crouch, and blended back into the darkness, hoping to kill Sherlock and make his escape.

But then—instinct shrieked.

"【Arrest 】."

Edward's voice was chill.

Two white glowing triangles coalesced on either side of the assassin's wrists, holding them magnetically together. He lurched forward, his poisoned dagger dropping harmlessly to the floor.

The triangles then interlocked, forming a six-pointed star, and lifted the assassin into the air.

Got lucky. Guessed right.

Edward smirked faintly and walked up to the now-panicked young assassin.

"Hook, line, and sinker, Hermes."

He spoke slowly.

"I’m going to begin. Plug your ears."

"No need. I’m not some delicate maiden. And those Stranglers are bound for the gallows anyway."

Sherlock folded his arms, calm.

"I carried the handkerchief for this very moment. I can't act myself—but you, being an Inspectorate officer, have the right of instant execution."

"I wonder," he added dryly,

"that little girl on your staff who worships you—has she ever watched you rummage through someone's memories?"

"You think this is bad, Hermes? What we do at the Inspectorate is much dirtier."

Edward scoffed.

"Good thing I never became one of you people back then."

Sherlock drawled,

"I assumed you were too senior to conduct field missions."

"I began at the bottom, Hermes. And I'm not that senior. I shouldn't really talk about it—it's still on a need-to-know basis. But in three years' time, I'll regale you with my very first mission."

He produced a white handkerchief from his chest pocket and advanced.

His giant shadow and slow, purposeful stride were sufficient to freeze blood.

"N-No. I'll speak! I'll tell you all. spare me. please."

The assassin, neatly dressed and unexpectedly youthful, shook.

"No can do, punk. You're already dead."

Edward's tone was cold.

"How many corpses have you disposed of? Five? Six?

"You thought you were so smart, concealing the bodies and the blood—"

He spread out the handkerchief, redolent with a magical anesthetic, and slapped it against the assassin's face.

The man gasped and struggled, muffled moans issuing forth.

White light exploded from Edward's eyes. Five radiance runes streamed from his fingers, slithering up the assassin's scalp, lighting his oily black curls.

"—By law, I am granted the Right to Search."

Edward pronounced gravely.

With a gurgling scream, tendrils of gray-white smoke wafted from the assassin's eyes, ears, nose, and mouth—slowly drawn into Edward.

Finally, he released the spell and let the corpse fall to the floor.

Blood dripped from the sides of the handkerchief still stuck to the dead man's face.

The illuminated sigils on his throat, the back of his ears, and scalp faded gradually.

Edward did not even take the trouble to retrieve his handkerchief.

He could only attempt the soul-search spell once a day—and the masked face would register the target as "already searched."

"We hit the right place, Hermes—at least half of it.".

"The Sweater Brotherhood have something to do with the Crimson Nobility. You were correct."

He stopped.

"—One of those batches of alchemical bombs is cached , in that chemical factory."

(End of Chapter)