The blood prison was built deep in the mountains, outside of which there was no endless no-man's land, where no newsboys would deliver newspapers every day, only a few telephones that rarely rang, and those who delivered supplies also avoided this bloody place, and after each unloading, they hurriedly drove away, as if those resentful spirits who had been killed by the cruel criminal law would float out of it, and curse themselves

In short, most of the staff inside the blood prison do not know what is happening in the outside world in a timely manner.

For example, in the past month, the warden may have known about the serial murder cases that have caused a lot of uproar, but the prison guards working below have never heard of it at all.

What a white chapel.

What a ripper.

After London, three cities have imposed curfews.

What is in a room that absolutely cannot be escaped, the murderer is gone.

These reports caused constant anxiety and panic among the citizens of the empire during this time, and some states even ordered that local newspapers should not be allowed to report on such cases.

The main reason is that this killer, who has never shown his face, is really killing people all the time, and he really can't catch it.

Of course, the people in the blood prison don't know anything about this.

This place is a prison, and unless the murderer named the Ripper is caught and sent to the blood prison, it has nothing to do with them, and they don't need to know about it.

For a month, the jailers continued to work on time every day, on shifts, shouting loudly at the prisoners on time, accepting roll calls, and everything was as usual.

It's just a little puzzled, the blonde prisoner who was locked in three months ago should have been sentenced to death a long time ago, but why is he still alive and well.

And the legendary terrible prisoner who was imprisoned at the bottom of the blood prison has now become a lump of flesh that knows only screams and pain?

Well, in this closed cell, the prisoner at the bottom of the prison is undoubtedly the most talked about topic by the guards or prisoners in the past three months.

The news of Augustine the Great's death is still being blocked, and the citizens of the empire don't know, and the people in the blood prison naturally don't know, but they are just curious about what kind of terrible guy can be thrown into the deepest prison that has not been opened for decades, what exactly did he do outside, and what kind of criminal is that kind of guy with heavenly means, but extremely terrifying.

And in the past three months, in the midst of people's constant speculation and chatter, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes.

A beam of light hit his face, the not too bright gas lamp made him can't help but narrow his eyes into a slit, he hasn't seen the light for three months, even if he stares at the weird sun in the sky every day in hell, but in reality, his body still hasn't adapted to this sudden brightness.

At this moment, he found himself strapped to a cart, the restraints on his body stronger than those at the bottom of the blood prison, and even his mouth was covered with a mask made of steel, covering everything below the eyes, leaving only a few holes to provide breathing.

"How long have I been locked up?" Sherlock asked.

Since he hadn't spoken for so long, his voice was so hoarse and harsh that even Sherlock himself was stunned for a moment.

The jailer who was pushing the cart back and forth was obviously ordered not to answer any of his questions, only a few soldiers with guns and waiting for a moment cast their eyes on the next few soldiers.

From these glances, Sherlock saw the truest fear.

I wondered if I had been rumored to be a demon with three heads, eight mouths, and human skins outside.

After a few minutes of walking like this, he was pushed into a closed room, surrounded by eight heavily armed soldiers, wearing helmets, bulletproof vests, armed submachine guns, and carrying military hand cannons that can only be used against demons on the front line.

A jailer began to rinse Sherlock's body with a water cannon, and in the process, the thick blood that had attached to him in the bottom of the blood cell was washed away.

Then, in a series of shocked eyes, the intact skin was revealed.

The people here more or less knew about the situation at the bottom of the blood prison, so they couldn't understand why the person in front of them didn't seem to have turned into a miserable and rotten madman.

But they didn't have time to think about it, let alone ask, and there seemed to be something more surprising in their minds, anyway, after washing Sherlock's body, several jailers used extremely complicated techniques to dress him in a brand new prison uniform without untying him.

During the whole process, Sherlock was very cooperative, but he wondered what he was going to do.

If it is an execution, then why go to such a great length.

With this doubt in mind, he was pushed out of the room, then walked through several corridors, through some of the large spaces between the rocks, and finally, into another room.

As the cart was slowly shaken up, he saw the old man in a simple gown sitting quietly on the chair in front of him.

This moment Sherlock was blinded.

Of course, he has been shocked in the past thirty years of his life, when he first walked into 221B Baker Street, when he first glimpsed Hell through the crack in the window, when he walked into the wind and sand of another world, when he touched the twisted sun outside the sky, when the temple of thought appeared in his mind, when the crimson tore open the crack in the void, and when he climbed out, these moments were enough to shock Sherlock.

But he had never been as glaring as he was today, and repeatedly using the most complex reasoning to prove whether he was still dreaming, and he only felt that he had seen the light of heaven in the rocks, and had seen a man who was only in the newspaper. No, someone I haven't even seen in the newspaper for a long time.

The pale but stiff hair of pine needles, the eyes as calm as the breeze crossing the sea, the wrinkles that left wrinkles on his face, and the ravines that ploughed through the peaks, silenced Sherlock for a moment.

He could only be silent, because even like him, he didn't understand why this old man appeared in front of his eyes.

Dante looked the young man he had never seen before, his eyes swept over him, but he found that the other party was too tightly bound, so he naturally looked at the warden next to him, who was hunched and silent.

"Put it down. I'm getting older, and I'm a little tired of always talking with my head tilted up like this."

"Yes"

The warden responded directly.

He didn't even dare to explain how vicious the prisoner in front of him was, and he didn't dare to speculate whether untying the prisoner would cause any danger to the old man in front of him, he didn't dare to think about anything, he didn't dare to question, he didn't dare to disobey, whatever the old man said, he should do.

It's not because of any respect, humility, piety, face, etc., but it can only be like this, and it must be like this.

Because there is a god in front of him

(End of chapter)