Whoa......

In the office area of the Order Keeper on the Ninth Parish Street, in Sherlock's woods hut, the dim light of the washroom flickered slightly, and the water tap of the washbasin was flowing with water.

Sherlock stripped off his dirty clothes, leaving only his white shirt and shorts, and leaned under the tap, happily washing the sweat and stains from his face.

The six of them hurried back to Birzinham, and then went back to their places.

Rheintes and Allen went overnight to the Inquisition of the All-Knowing Annon Church on First Parish Street to report on the situation at the Syndicate Farm.

Rooney, Origan, Van Tucker, the three went home separately.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was to clean himself as soon as he entered the door.

Looking at the image of the aftermath reflected in the mirror on the wall, Sherlock laughed to himself.

He never thought that the first time he went on a field mission, he would encounter such a terrible incident as Cindiri. Although he was protected the whole time, he did not suffer any harm.

But thinking back on the whole process, recalling the scenes I saw with my own eyes, those terrifying and disgusting inhuman monsters, the bloodthirsty madness that was close at hand, the panicked experience of being chased and fleeing......

To say that you are not afraid at all is to lie! As a simple traverser, a young man who is not ready to fight in another world, Sherlock feels that he has done a good job if he did not fall behind or lag behind when he fled......

After all, his extraordinary ability has nothing to do with physical strengthening. Besides, he doesn't have any fighting skills and experience, and as a keyboard warrior, he doesn't even know how to hold a gun and shoot......

Sherlock laughed self-deprecatingly as he carefully scrubbed the stains off his body. Until he felt clean and comfortable, he soaked his clothes in a wooden basin and changed into dry pajamas again.

Holding the gas lamp with the glass cover of the iron base, he returned to the bedroom, where Sherlock sat cross-legged on the bed and placed the little antique book in front of him.

It's still the same quaint, old, and decaying little book. Even Sherlock himself could see the handwriting when it was opened, and it was only an antique book in the hands of others.

After taking a deep breath, Sherlock turned the first page.

Click, hiss...... The page flipped, making a strange sound like tearing film.

In the first page, it is still full of obscure and strange strange patterns, as if it is a page where thousands of blood vessels are intertwined.

There was an invisible aura of decay, as if enveloped in it.

Every word twists and wriggles, giving the illusion of a trance.

"Praise the nature of silence and decay and death, praise all the realm of darkness and twilight—the Doomsday Shadow Council. Blighter. Guldan".

Sherlock stared at the name at the end, took a deep breath, and was about to roll back, but his hand stopped.

This is the territory of the Ninth Diocese of the All-Knowing Church!

Am I too risky to open a book with a hint of evil here?

Sherlock thought for a moment and pulled out a gold-encrusted rose pocket watch from under his pillow.

"The items on my body can be brought to the world in the mirror, or it is better to look through antique books there, which is safe and controllable!"

With a decision, there was a click, and the gold-encrusted rose pocket watch opened.

He stared at the thick fog that swirled around the mirror of the inner cover, and began to say silently:

"The old Creator was, the old Creator is now, and the Old Creator will always be ......"

The syllable of the last word is chanted.

Darkness reigned in front of Sherlock's eyes.

The air became viscous, cold, deep, and distant......

Sherlock became ethereal, rising in the vastness of space.

A vast and magnificent boundless realm began to appear in front of me.

He sat on a huge bronze chair that looked like a royal throne. It's like a monarch descending and looking at the neatly arranged "mirrors" around him.

Countless "mirrors" are suspended in layers around the bronze seats, surrounded by an eerie but tranquil fog.

And then beneath the myriad mirrors, a separate gathering area is carved out. Four classical exquisite seats cast in gold loom in the clouds and mist.

Sherlock withdrew his gaze to the small antique book in his hand.

The first page is still open.

But in this "mirror world", the rotten atmosphere that originally shrouded the first page, as well as the dark and eerie perception, have been greatly weakened, and almost no longer appear.

Sherlock reassuredly turned the second page.

On the page, there is a large whirlpool of countless black lines and black mist swirling and converging. Float like you breathe and come to life.

A line of ancient Ibia. Celtic text, emerging alongside:

"Dedicate your flesh and soul to the ancient mausoleum buried deep in history......"

Other than that, nothing has changed.

The whirlpool did not jump out and turn into black water, nor did the white bone altar appear.

Everything was fine, and the second page was in front of Sherlock's eyes.

"Huh?"

Sherlock scratched his head with his fingers.

That makes some sense...... Judging from the experience gained in the underground tombs of the Cindiri Farm, there is definitely something that has been absorbed by the antique little book.

Sherlock thought about it, and was a little at a loss as to what to do with the situation in front of him. Originally, in his imagination, turning the second page, there must have been some movement.

At this moment, the third page moved slightly, and actually squirmed by itself, and opened it by itself.

On this third page, the first row of ancient Ibia. Celtic Script:

"The end of the soul of all things, the other side of the world......"

Underneath the handwriting, there is a "mirror" that occupies the entire page.

The boxy "mirror", like a mosaic on the page, reflects Sherlock's surprised face, which is completely normal.

"This ......"

Sherlock has had countless ideas, countless speculations, and even exaggerated beliefs that a horrific and catastrophic group of evil spirits will be turned out......

But I never expected to turn out a mirror......

"The end of the soul of all things? The other side of the world? Sherlock frowned and pondered this passage, feeling that it seemed to mean "the underworld"?

From the meaning of the creation song, we can know that the soul of all things is the underworld. It can also be called the other side of the world......

Just as Sherlock was reasoning, there was an itch on his forehead.

A hair fell off, fell on the mirror, and instantly melted and sank into obscurity.

Sherlock's eyelids jumped, and he thought for a moment, trying to reach out a finger to touch the "mirror".

Hey?

When the finger touched the mirror, it suddenly seemed to sink into the water, and it actually reached in!

Sherlock could feel the tip of his finger, as if poked in some cold "water", still felt in the "inside" of the mirror, not swallowed.

He thought for a moment, let go of his guts, and continued to reach out to the mirror.

All five fingers sink into the ......

Wrist sunk into ......

The arm also sank into the ......

Sherlock gritted his teeth and continued to lean inside.

A cold, damp late autumn wind, blew on Sherlock. His whole person is like a slippery fish, involuntarily and completely integrated into the "mirror".

It's so effortless, he's got in!

There was nothing terrible going on, it was like lifting a curtain and walking into a house in late autumn.

The sight in front of him quickly changed from darkness to light.

Sherlock began to look around with great doubt, nervousness, apprehension, and anticipation.

He found himself standing at the intersection of a street.

There are messy houses of varying heights. And these houses, from the perspective of architectural form, are the old style of England hundreds of years ago, which is completely incompatible with the present.

There are no high-pole gas street lights, no horse-drawn carriages, no pedestrians and vendors on the streets. There are no tall buildings in sight, and all the buildings seem to be covered with a layer of dust, bleak and old. There is a mottled and peeling sense of age everywhere, and the color looks more gray.

The light in the environment is also hazy and jerky, as if observing the world through a layer of dusty glass. The air was okay, and it didn't smell like the smog and smoke of factories and workshops today.

Sherlock touched his face and body, just like he had sat on the bed in the bedroom before, his white shirt with a thin cloth dressing gown and long pajama pants, complete and real.

He tried to walk a few steps, and in the silence of the street, slippers hissed, hissed. He seems to be the only one on such a whole street.

"Where the hell is this? Is it really the underworld? ”

Sherlock walked slowly and suspiciously, looking around, looking for answers.

He was sure that he was still in England. Because although the surrounding architectural style is extremely old, as a top student of history and archaeology, you can recognize it as an old British building.

But as for whether it is the so-called "underworld", Sherlock is not sure. Because what the "underworld" is like, it is estimated that few people know.

"Huh?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up, and he found a broken street sign.

He hurriedly trotted over, wiped the dust off the street sign, and took a closer look, which read: "Paddington Street, Paddington Riverway, Capital London".

"It's London, the capital of England??" Sherlock stared in amazement at the carved text on the sign, and yes, it read "The Capital of London".

He hastened to search his memory, indeed, before England 1499, the capital London had opened a small internal canal, called the Paddington River. But today it no longer exists, only the old Paddington Bay area.

"Three hundred years ago?!"

Sherlock looked up at the buildings around him. If this is really London, the capital of England 300 years ago, it is indeed completely in line with the style of that era.

At this time.

Click, click, click...... The sound of horses' hooves was heard.

In this silent and deserted street, the sound of horses' hooves is particularly harsh.

Even if Sherlock wanted to find a place to hide, it was too late, so he could only stay where he was and turn his head to look.

Arrived were three knights on tall horses. They are all about forty years old, and their images are different. But they all wore the old-fashioned knightly costumes of hundreds of years ago, with narrow cuffs, bloomers, a wide belt around their waists, and long swords on their shoulders.

"Haha...... A prophet was discovered! ”

One of the three men who rode his horse beckoned, laughing in surprise and eagerness, as if he had seen an old acquaintance.

"Prophet? What do you mean? Sherlock looked confused, but still kept his composure, calmly and pretending to be calm as he looked at the three people who arrived.

The sound of horses' hooves approaching, the middle-aged man who spoke, with a beautiful mustache and dark gray eyes, wore a fur hat with feathers on his head.

He grabbed the reins, stopped in front of Sherlock, looked at him a few times, and asked with a polite smile:

"Glad to meet you, Prophet. What do you call it? ”

Sherlock kept his composure, smiled, thought for a moment, and said in an indifferent tone:

"You can call me...... Watson. ”