Major General Ulysses asked many questions with great coldness.

Actually, that's not a problem at all, because everyone knows the answers to these questions.

That is. No way.

It is impossible to find the location of the demon tide, it is impossible to catch up, it is impossible to take Miss Nightingale back, and even all this is something that does not need to be considered, because Miss Nightingale cannot still be alive.

But Sherlock still chewed the food in his mouth intently, feeling the boiling snow water in his stomach melt the cold canned food, and then the escaping heat flowed down the blood vessels between his limbs, forcefully dispelling the cold that penetrated deep into his bone marrow.

His joints finally became conscious, and the muscles that were almost necrotic because of the cold began to spasm at a moderate temperature, emitting unbearable pain, and Sherlock finally began to tremble, and his bones even made a crunchy sound from the trembling, and the body fluids that seeped out of the hoof tissue filled the lower layers of the skin, as if they were going to tear off Sherlock's entire human skin.

But Sherlock was still focused on replenishing his temperature and physical strength, he didn't care about the extreme pain that had already made ordinary people faint, nor did he care about the worried or questioning eyes of the people around him, and he didn't listen to the persuasion of the veteran next to him.

In the depths of his mind, he was having a conversation with another voice.

He didn't know what to call the other person: Holy Light? A temple of thought? Clue small vault? Crimson?

This existence was clearly beyond his perception of being a human being, and according to Sherlock's personality, he should be interested in engaging in a series of whimsical discussions with this wonderful being in his mind, but he did not have time.

"Actually, I don't know what I should be now, in fact, I don't know if [I] personality cognition is suitable for an existence like me." The voice in my head was babbling, sometimes it became a male voice, another it became a female voice, and sometimes even some language that Sherlock had never heard of suddenly appeared, and I could only guess the meaning of the other party from the context and logic: "But from the perspective of your human logic, I suggest you call me Crimson, because this title is only three letters, easy to read and write." ”

"I don't care about that, I just want to know, where the hell is Nightingale?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm so sorry I said, I'm not the Light. So I can only be sure that she is still alive, and as for the whereabouts, I can't find out. ”

Sherlock held out a hand, then clenched it, feeling the tingling of the nerves in his fingertips and the knuckle joints that were already showing some signs of relief, confirming that his body temperature was now off the brink of death.

This is actually good news, because Nightingale is still alive, and it is enough to know this, as for where she is. Crimson couldn't tell herself, but she could find it herself.

Avalanches and cold winds can cover everything, but the magic tide is so powerful that it will eventually leave some clues.

The resonance of the snow surface caused by the stamping will cause the snow to deviate in the direction of the flow, and although it is impossible to leave footprints in the state of constant wind speed, a large number of demons will definitely make the snow of 10,000 years form a traceable arc.

Sherlock could keep track of all of this, and he had told Watson that there was no such thing as 'getting lost' in his career. Even if it is buried by the frozen soil and ice and snow for 10,000 years, even if the demon tide passes thousands of miles, he will still find the traces of the other party, and then chase for thousands of miles, and finally take back his client.

So he took the last bite of his food, and slowly stood up.

Major General Ulysses looked at the man in front of him, he knew that persuasion was useless at this time, just like everyone was persuading him to leave the army and leave this place of life and death, but in the end, he still took up his gun and walked to the ranks of veterans who were waiting for his return.

"You don't want to take anything, the rescue is coming too slowly, I need to transport these survivors back, don't want a car, the rest of the food can't be given to you, I can't stop you from dying, but I can't watch other fighters die because of your paranoia and madness."

"I know, so I'll go on my own."

Before the words fell, I didn't know how far I had walked before, Crimson, who had collapsed in the snow, slowly stood up, the snow slipped from his body, and his huge body blocked the wind and snow, like a loyal servant who was waiting for the master's order at any time, and the sword mountain and the sea of fire would never return, and he would only smile indifferently.

Sherlock looked at Crimson and said with a smile in his consciousness: "This behavior of yours is an expression, are you willing to accompany me?" ”

"I can't say I want to or don't want to, but if you die, then according to the principle of feedback, I will probably be affected as well, so following you is an act of self-protection for me." Crimson replied calmly.

"You could well say something more sensational."

"From what I know of you, you're not a person who cares about feelings." Crimson continued: "Judging from human emotions, it is unlikely that any man, or about 65% of women, can be indifferent to Ms. Nightingale's overtures, so I suggest you see a psychiatrist." I know there's a mental illness called 'apathy,' maybe"

"I've changed my mind, from now on, you try to shut up for me." Sherlock sighed feebly.

Looking beyond the crimson, he saw Watson, who had been squatting on the periphery of the crowd, also standing up, looking at each other, they both understood what each other meant.

So Sherlock shook his head:

"You should be able to understand, you go with me, it won't work."

"I know," murmured Watson, his eyes down, "but I have lost Miss Nightingale, and I must make up for it." ”

"Of course, but please don't bother me." Sherlock's tone seemed to dislike the other party: "I'm in charge of bringing Miss Nightingale back, and during this time, you should manage the front-line medical team for her, and you don't want to wait for her to come back and find your team in a mess." ”

Watson was silent, just now he directly cut Sherlock's chest, this kind of behavior can undoubtedly be called crazy, and what Sherlock is doing now is even more crazy, but both of them understand that what the other party says and does is actually within a certain range of reason.

"It must be silly to ask, but you'll be back, right?" Watson asked.

"Do your best."

There are always various reasons for each.

The small figure quickly disappeared into the wind and snow, and immediately after, the silhouette of the huge third-order Great Demon beside him also disappeared from view.

This scene is very strange, the soldiers look at each other silently, they always feel that this kind of persistence is admirable, but they can clearly feel the incomprehensible absurdity.

That man named Sherlock just left?

Just miraculously resurrected from the dead, and then stepped into death again.

This continent is a place where there is no life, no food, no grass and trees, and even for a long time in the future there will be no sunshine, only endless cold and death, so . Removing the problems that Major General Ulysses just mentioned, there are more fundamental difficulties.

For example, what to eat? Where do you sleep? How to survive?

Couldn't this man think of that?

Under the cover of night, the crimson lonely figure walked on the vast snowfield, and the footprints behind him were very deep, but in a few seconds, they would be buried by the wind and snow.

Sherlock certainly had that in mind.

But at the same time, he thought about more things, such as the first meeting with the girl, the escape under the fire, the smile at the bedside, the determined look in the face of the patient, and the tired and deep sleep posture after healing the seriously wounded soldiers.

Sherlock never imagined that he would one day be by Nightingale's side and take over her commission, and fate would have brought the man and woman together.

Looking at the pale world in front of him, he walked along a sloping curtain of snow, an area where a large group of demons had rushed by, as fast as a war rush at full speed, and the starry sky above him would last like this for three months, which was good news, because they could be used to determine his direction.

Crimson wasn't a holy light, but it still had some of the power of holy light, and at least it could be sure that Nightingale was still alive, and if she wasn't dead now, it meant that the demons didn't want to kill her.

Why is that?

Sherlock's mind was a little heavier.

Is this a friendship between friends, or a relationship between a detective and a client?

He didn't understand it, but in short, his heart was like the lava surging under the mantle, flowing silently, silently, but it was full of suppressed flames, slowly washing away his mind that was intertwined with reason and madness, without anxiety, without pain, without sadness and anger, without anything maybe, and with everything.

Sherlock just felt that a wonderful girl like that, that she had more people to be treated, that she should be able to experience the closure of the gates of hell, that she should be able to write a strong stroke on the course of human history, that the ending should be decades later, on a warm afternoon, and that people would lay beautiful wreaths on her funeral statue.

In short, it shouldn't just disappear into the tide.

"What's next?" In the depths of his consciousness, a crimson voice came calmly.

"How long have we been gone?" Sherlock asked, he was sure that there was nothing wrong with the direction he was taking, the only thing he needed to care about was that the speed of the demon tide was much faster than his own, and if it continued like this, how long would it take to catch up with the other party.

"It's been five hours." Crimson Road.

Immediately afterward, it asked very flatly, "So, how are you going to relieve your hunger?" ”

Sherlock didn't respond immediately.

"According to your reasoning ability, you should be able to judge the speed of the demon tide.

If we chase like this, we shouldn't be able to catch up with each other.

The fastest speed you can show is 140 kilometers per hour, and I can reach 210 kilometers per hour.

So for so long, you haven't shown your fastest speed because you are worried that your body will not be able to support a long chase? ”

One thing to say, after Crimson no longer hid her sense of self, she became more and more chattering.

However, the question it raises is really crucial, because this chase is certainly not a short-distance tracking that lasts for a day or two, and this vast area, who knows where those demons want to go, if you can't figure it out, it's a long tug-of-war that lasts for a month, two months, or even more.

Nightingale doesn't need to think about starvation or freezing to death because of his special physique, but Sherlock can't, if he wants to live, he needs to replenish energy.

And to show more speed, you need more energy.

So what exactly to eat?

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped, and quickly crawled to the ground.

Crimson on the side was stunned, and he didn't know what was going on, so he quickly followed and lay on the ground anyway.

It's extremely funny that such a big guy wants to work hard to curl up behind a small snow bag.

"What's wrong?" Crimson asked in a whisper.

"You're talking to me with your consciousness, you don't have to keep your voice down."

"That makes sense." Crimson was slightly embarrassed: "So, what the hell is going on?" ”

"It's time to eat."

Sherlock said, gesturing ahead.

I saw that a lone second-order demon was wandering in the snow, the demon had a long beak but no wings, and from the perspective of the human world, it should belong to some kind of bird.

It doesn't matter, the important thing is, it's quite fat.

“.” Crimson was silent, and there was certainly no expression on its terrible face, but now Crimson really wanted to put on a puzzled look.

"So, the food you're talking about, is that the demon?"

"What, eating your own kind, it's distressing?"

"From a certain point of view, the contract demon has almost no self-awareness, just a puppet, as for me, from the ideological point of view, it seems that I am not a demon at all, and naturally there is no such thing as [distress].

In short, it doesn't matter

Importantly, do you want to eat a demon? ”

Before he could finish speaking, he heard a thud, and the snow around Sherlock exploded into the sky, and a ploughed hurricane swept towards the demon.

This was the only amount of physical strength Sherlock had preserved.

And in the next second, his body had already appeared in front of the demon's body, and his clenched fist slammed into the opponent's heavenly spirit cover.

The demon barely reacted to anything, and the brain melon seeds cracked on the spot like watermelons, and the red and white slimy tissue inside was crumbled and splashed out of the cracks.

Very good, one blow kills, painless death.

Sherlock grabbed the other man's neck and walked back satisfied.

It seems that the devil will be their food from now on.

(End of chapter)