Edinburgh, a city located on the east coast of Scotland.
Seagulls soar in the air, overlooking the city as if surveying a freshly constructed stage, adorned with layers of ancient buildings and the famous Arthur's Seat.
But the charm of Edinburgh lies not in its scenery, but in its citizens.
The Scots carry a spirit of longing for freedom.
In the afternoon, sunlight casts its glow on the Forth Bridge.
The bridge, made of steel, divides the east and west with its structure, creating starkly different atmospheres at dawn and dusk, like the line from Du Fu's poem, "separating light from darkness."
Scottish gentlemen bask in the sun on the riverbank below, digesting their midday meal.
Arthur Conan Doyle and his wife, Louise Hawkins, stroll along the riverbank.
As Sherlock Holmes had been concluded for almost seven years, Doyle had received few interviews and had low exposure, so he wasn't recognized for the moment.
He is currently pondering deeply with his head down, trying to conceive something.
At this moment, a newsboy runs over.
"Extra! Extra! Today's edition of The Scotsman has an extra supplement."
Hawkins asks, "Won't you take a look? The Wednesday supplement of The Scotsman seems to contain a novel that might be beneficial to your writing."
Doyle shakes his head.
He has indeed been pondering how Sherlock Holmes should return for the past few days, and any way to find inspiration is worth a try, but he decides to pass on The Scotsman.
"You know, I detest those hypocritical newspapers. The Scotsman claims to steadfastly refuse to serve as a tool for any party or faction, aiming to reflect the interests of ordinary Britons... hmph... but what's the result? It's become a 'devoted to liberalism' newspaper."
As he speaks, Doyle shows a disgusted expression.
The current editor of The Scotsman is Charles Alfred Cooper, who is strikingly similar to the one from The Manchester Guardian, both seemingly indoctrinated with liberalism.
What's worse, both Charleses wield considerable power and have been in their respective positions for 21 and 29 years, respectively.
It's unknown how long their iron-fisted rule will last.
Doyle murmurs, "The times are degenerating, and people's hearts are not ancient."
Hawkins sighs silently.
"Since you don't like reading The Scotsman's news reports, why not just read the previous issues?"
Doyle pretends not to hear and walks to the side to watch two old gentlemen playing chess.
They have already reached the middle game.
One of the old gentlemen has just captured the opponent's rook and is leisurely placing the chess pieces into the wooden box.
He banter with his chess opponent, "Old John, isn't it about time to end this?"
Old John looks up and scolds, "Shut up!"
The elderly men around watching the game can't help but laugh.
"Old Charlie, don't play these tricks. Play properly. Advising others to surrender here, what skill is that?"
"Just said the rook shouldn't move like that. Admit defeat~ Admit defeat~"
"Don't listen to him, Old John. You move the knight over there, yes, there."
"Get lost! Playing like you is just giving away! Listen to me, move the king to the side, keep him in check first~"
...
Chess is very popular in Scotland, and most people can play a few moves. Otherwise, there wouldn't be a chess opening named after the region in chess notation.
The elderly men discuss with great enthusiasm.
But with so many people and opinions, the more difficult it is to decide, and no one knows how to make the next move.
Old Charlie sighs.
"You guys discuss it first."
After speaking, he shouts to a nearby newsboy, "Kid, get me a newspaper."
The newsboy puts down the hanging mailbag in front of him and rummages inside, asking, "Which newspaper do you want? We have The Times, The Manchester Guardian, The Scotsman..."
Old Charlie interrupts the list of newspapers.
"The Scotsman."
Upon hearing this, Doyle couldn't help but click his tongue softly, "Tsk..."
He strides away.
Hawkins grabs her husband and says softly, "Don't you think it's romantic and suitable for reading and studying here?"
Doyle can't help but feel a little overwhelmed. ＞▽＜
Looking around, he checks the environment.
Where's the romance?
Heh, women...
He can't help but comment, "Ruth, look up, we're under the Forth Bridge, the train passing overhead, the clatter of the wheels, the roar of the whistle piercing the sky. Isn't reading here a form of self-inflicted punishment?"
Hawkins looks at her husband with some admiration.
"'The clatter of the wheels, the roar of the whistle piercing the sky'..."
She repeats Doyle's original words.
Doyle knows his wife's character well and tries to change the subject.
But it's too late.
Hawkins says, "Didn't you just describe it? Isn't it romantic?"
Doyle can't help but be speechless.
At this moment, behind the couple, Old Charlie's voice comes, "Hey, did you guys see the supplement of The Scotsman today? Who wrote 'And Then There Were None'?"
Someone asks, "Is it very well written?"
Old Charlie nods.
"It's very well written. I... I think... I think this book is better than Sherlock Holmes."
The surroundings become extremely quiet, with the sound of a train passing over the bridge, but unable to affect the area below the bridge. The bridge above and below seems to be two completely separate dimensions.
After a long time, someone says, "Old Charlie, although Dr. Doyle has gone to London and has little to do with us Scottish folks, you can't arrange him like this, can you? Better than 'The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes'? Are you kidding me!"
Old Charlie's face turned red.
"Really! I'm telling the truth! Don't believe me? Come and see for yourselves!"
Instantly, people crowded around him.
The remaining old men who couldn't get in had no choice but to go find the newsboy and buy out The Scotsman.
For a while, no one played chess, and they all gathered in groups to read the newspaper.
The surroundings became even quieter.
Doyle and Hawkins couldn't help but glance at each other.
This scene was all too familiar to them, reminiscent of the publication day of The Strand Magazine when the Sherlock Holmes series was still being serialized.
At that time, almost the entire London was reading the novel, and the streets were deserted.
Doyle hurried forward, stretched his neck, and tried to see the contents of the supplement, but could only see the sparse heads of the old men.
He cleared his throat and said, "Gentlemen, could you lend me a look?"
Someone turned around and looked at him as if he were a fool.
"Who are you?"
Doyle showed a confident smile and said, "I am Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes."
The old men looked at each other and suddenly burst into laughter.
Old John said, "If you're Conan Doyle, then I... erm... you really are..."
It seemed he recognized him.
Doyle was overjoyed and asked again, "Can you lend me a look?"
Old John hesitated for a moment, but ultimately shook his head and said, "Sorry, Dr. Doyle, this 'And Then There Were None' is really interesting. It's even better than your... uh... anyway, I want to finish reading it now."
With his face failing, Doyle's expression froze.
Could it really be better than what he wrote?
He subconsciously glanced at the newspaper supplement and was surprised to find that the author of the novel column was not in English, but only two simple letters -
Lu.
"Lu... Lu? Lu Xishi!?"
He was dumbfounded.