Silent Crown

Chapter 120 A Letter from a Stranger 3

Outside the boiler room, the weather was still burning as if it were an even bigger boiler. Even the ocean breeze had stopped at one point. The entire city seemed to be submerged in boiling glue. It was unbearable.

Above the dazzling, radiant, heavenly city, a cloud of polluted smoke rose among the tall uptown buildings. As the boiler room workers fervently created wind, the ashes flew with the flames. The remains of sins rode the hot wind, rising from the crude boiler, finally escaping its hold. They were free outside the boiler, and expanded like a drop of ink in water.

The black smoke seemed solid like metal in the windless air. It rose slow and thick as if it was determined to reach the stars. From afar, it looked like a black pillar reaching into the sky. Just like how one bird flying away in fright would lead to a flock of birds flying, a second cloud of black smoke rose soon after. And then a third, and a fourth…

Everyone in the city looked toward uptown in confusion, looking the smoke that seemed frozen in the air. The people discussed amongst themselves. Some counted the smoke stacks excitedly, "Five, six… eleven, twelve… sixteen, seventeen! Seventeen!" Under the blazing sun, between the ocean and the sky, above the dazzling city were seventeen clouds of black smoke. They rose from the earth to the air, like pillars holding up the sky. Just as the legends said, the glorious bloodlines were pillars that held up the empire…but these things were polluted to the bone.

Many looked at the angry and humiliated clouds of smoke and laughed gleefully, as if seeing faces swollen from being slapped, but the well-informed witnesses became cautious, ingraining in their mind the name of the man who had practically set uptown on fire—Sherlock Holmes. Who was Sherlock Holmes?

--

"This is a warning," Shaman said in downtown. "A challenge and a warning to everyone."

"Warning?" Ghosthand asked in confusion, "To whom?"

"To anyone who can see it." The Shaman studied the smoke pillars as if observing an art masterpiece. His eyes were full of appreciation.

"Is this Holmes getting interested in downtown as well?" Ghosthand refused to believe it, as if it were a joke.

"Why not? Every creature needs his own hunting ground, is that not true?" The Shaman chuckled in the darkness, "Those who have gone to the Dark World know that some fallen tribes like to put up a sign, marking their territory to show that they are sovereign. Some are delicate bones, others are dried corpses or wild totems. When you see them, you know that you should turn around and leave. They’re waving at you. And when you look at the sign… they are also looking at you."

--

"What a great show. Amazing." The white-haired youth stood before the window, studying the black smoke in the sky. He chuckled lightly, "Really, it looks much better than all your faces from before." No one replied.

"Let’s just see this as an omen for the return of the wanderer." As if studying those faces, he murmured, "This is just an offhand reminder. Someday, you’ll need to finish paying the debts…"

The shadows of times past flashed through the youth’s eyes. He closed the curtains slowly, moving on from the scene. In the dark room, he sat in a chair, feeling the endless strength leave him bit by bit. The pain and contradicting feelings in his heart, the confusion and frustrations that kept him awake at night finally seemed to disappear. What replaced them was the long-awaited exhaustion. It drowned him like a tidal wave.

Smiling, the youth closed his eyes. The nightmares of the past would not appear in his peaceful dream, right? Finally, he could sleep for a bit.

--

"F*ck, f*ck, f*ck!" someone swore in a hoarse on a small boat slowly leaving the port. Cursing, the man flipped a table in rage, "F*ck Holmes. F*ck Holmes!"

Glaring at the evil smoke snaking above Avalon, his eyes were wild and hopeless, "I should’ve killed you, you d*mned b*stard!"

As if he had serious malaria or a strange disease, the man’s skin was green and red, but his face was deathly pale and covered with chickenpox. He curled up in the corner of the ship, panic in his eyes. He was wrapped in a blanket, but his body shook uncontrollably. Under the blanket, his skin swelled, bubbling and rotted.

No one could imagine that the arrogant and proud Pyramid King would be reduced to this state. He looked like a dead and rotting rat. Anyone could see that it was all over for him.

Ever since he had realized that he lost his notebook last night, he started panicking. At first, he hoped that Holmes could not read his notes. But who would have known that his code could be read as easily as a novel?

In the morning, he received the news—many people were secretly searching for him. He had hoped the elites could protect him, but when he found out that they had received mysterious letters, he knew that it was all over for him. In the past, they had been the Pyramid Scheme’s protective shield, but now they were the ones out for the Pyramid Scheme’s blood.

Soon, his hard work would be uprooted and wiped out cruelly, with a new face after they erased his existence. A new dog would be in place to continue working for the elites. He must die—he would die. Nobody would allow someone who knew too much to live, especially someone like Sam, who was willing to say anything to survive.

As his innards twisted in pain, he bit down on the blanket, forcing himself to endure the dizziness and fatigue. He could not fall asleep. Once he did, everything would be over.

"Faster, faster…" he murmured, his eyes full of fear. He had thought that his escape was perfect, but when he boarded the ship, he realized that he had been cursed with the Blood Curse. He realized that the fatal noose had been around his neck all this time. If he moved even a little, he would die from asphyxiation.

Now, he just wished he could leave Avalon as soon as possible. The musician who had cursed him was in Avalon. The further he was from the city, the weaker the curse would be. He could only hope that he could find someone who could undo the curse in time, but this was impossible. The crisp voice in his ears was getting clearer.

It was the melody of the noose, digging into his bones and destroying him, "One blind mouse, two blind mice, three blind mice! See how they run!"

All that could be heard in the stillness was the sound of the boils popping, and Sam’s pained moans. But somehow, he could hear children singing quietly. The song was cruel, eating away at his life like maggots in his bones, "Cut off their tails, dig out the small eyes, the cute furry body. Rip off their paws, shave the sweet bone marrow, the warm organs are gone…"

The crisp voice continued to sing in his ears, "Did you ever see such a sight in your life, as three blind mice…three blind mice, three blind mice…"

Face ghastly pale, Sam suddenly opened his mouth and threw up the food in his intestines. They had rotted, like stew made from garbage…

Sam froze. He raised his hand blankly. His trembling hand was numb. It seemed to have disappeared, and that was left was a bag of skin and bones. He looked up at the drawer. The mirror on it had shattered. The shards landed before him, reflecting his withered face.

Warm blood flowed from his eyes, nose, and mouth, cruelly taking away any warmth from his body. He tried screaming out in despair, but he no longer had the strength to scream. He wanted to cry, but had no tears. He prayed to the gods, to the demons, to the monsters, to anything that could help. He was willing to give up anything in order to live.

"Including your soul?" a sandy voice asked softly in his ear. He used the last of his strength to raise his head, looking at the figure that had appeared.

Sam no longer had the strength to be afraid. Bloody tears of gratitude rolled from the corner of his eyes. He blinked with difficulty. The blinks seemed to say, "Please save me, please save. Please, you must save me. No matter what…just let me live."

"Then sign this." The cold shadow tossed him a contract branded with a music piece, "If you still have the strength to sell your soul, you can live."

Finally saved, the Pyramid King writhed painfully on the ground. Like a decaying caterpillar, he squirmed toward the open contract.

He was like a sinner in hell squirming toward heaven, begging for salvation. Full of hope, full of humiliation, full of joy, he raised his rotting hand bit by bit and pressed it down onto the contract. The paper lit up with a cloudy light and lit up in flames, vanishing.

"Very good." The black-robed shadow smiled in the darkness and snapped his fingers. The children’s voices suddenly stopped, disappearing with a scream. All that was left was a dying and decaying body on the ground, using its last breath.

"Congratulations. You can continue living after selling your last item." The shadow reached out a delicate and white hand. The amber ring on his finger reflected a gentle yet eerie light. "Greet your new master."

On the ground, the Pyramid King shed tears of gratitude. He kissed the ring sincerely, "Yes, my great master, the great Professor, the great…Lord Moriarty."

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