"I'm off. Have a great weekend, everyone!"
"Good job, Jimmy!"
"Great work, Manager James!"
In a London trading company.
Manager James left energetically, as he had for the past few months. No, today his steps were even lighter.
'Today is finally...!'
Payday... would be nice, but there was another day just as important that came once a month.
It was the release day of The Strand Magazine.
As a respectable London citizen, a devoted Sherlockian, and recently a Hanslowian, he found his expenses nearly doubled every month on this day.
In fact, his month-long frugality was solely for this day.
Missing the release of DawnBringer? How could anyone do that!
With that thought, he entered his favourite bookstore, frequented by him and some fellow novel enthusiasts.
It was a bit secluded, but that made it perfect for finding competitive titles like The Strand Magazine.
'Really, the last one was the best!'
Who would've thought the new rival detective and warrior of light, Lightray, was an apprentice of Gottfried Wilhelm von Leibniz and childhood friend of Edmund Earhart. Watching these two warriors protect London's peace while unaware of each other's identities was like seeing Hannibal and Scipio.
It completely quenched the thirst left by Sherlock Holmes' death... or did it?
For a moment, James wondered.
Of course, DawnBringer was fun.
It was powerful enough to be a flagship series for The Strand Magazine on its own.
That's why he was so enthusiastic about it.
Edmund Ehrhart in DawnBringer made his heart race and look at back alleys with curious eyes.
The recent purchase of a useless but stylish left-arm guard from Nyun's Saga was because of it.
But if asked whether it had the same flavour as Sherlock Holmes... it didn't.
The thrilling battles with unique mythological and legendary elements were great.
But it lacked the cold, rational deductions and narratives of Holmes, or the witty remarks from Watson during serious moments. It didn't have that weighty detective story atmosphere.
No matter how delicious whiskey is, sometimes you just crave a cold beer. They might both get you drunk, but they aren't the same.
'Well, it can't be helped. Britain's pride Sherlock is already dead.'
He was coming to terms with this, but also knew he would carry this bittersweet longing for life.
Suppressing this disappointment, he tried to enter his favourite bookstore.
But he couldn't.
He rubbed his eyes and re-read the advertisement stuck on the bookstore window.
─New work by Arthur Conan Doyle in stock!
Arthur Conan Doyle.
The brewmaster James desperately sought.
He should be thrilled, but his reaction was the opposite.
"Damn it, he's at it again! Time to rally the members for another boycott!"
This was because the most recent release was a dull historical novel.
Who wouldn't be angry when a brewmaster stops brewing beer to make vinegar under the guise of wine?
He hadn't been this angry even when his favourite Stoke football club was relegated a few years ago.
'Ah, I feel like throwing a firebomb...'
But the line below.
─Sherlock Holmes returns! New full-length novel The Hound of the Baskervilles out now!!
"A full-length novel...!?"
Made him move.
Ah, I can't resist this!
James rushed into the bookstore. Other regulars were already browsing the books with more fervour than usual.
Distinguishing himself from them was pointless. James was already one with them.
And soon after.
He emerged from the bookstore as a triumphant victor, holding the new novel The Hound of the Baskervilles.
He entered a nearby café, unwilling to waste time running home, ordered a coffee he barely knew the name of, and slowly opened the book.
There, in a familiar style he had recently revisited, were the words:
<"Mr. Holmes, it was the footprint of a gigantic hound!"
At those words, I felt a shiver run through me.
Dr. Mortimer's voice was also trembling, as if deeply affected by his own words. Holmes leaned forward in excitement. His eyes gleamed sharply.
"Doctor, you saw those footprints?"
"As clearly as I see you, Mr. Holmes. I saw them distinctly."
"There are many sheepdogs on the moor, aren't there?"
"Indeed. But Mr. Holmes, I've travelled widely and never seen a dog like this. It was─it was a footprint of a hound beyond the natural size.">
"Oh, ohhh...!"
He had returned.
Finally, he has returned! The great guardian of London as he remembered him. The cold, rational consulting detective.
Their calm yet kind neighbour had finally come back.
Of course, the setting is 1889, well before Sherlock Holmes fell at Reichenbach Falls. It's not exactly a resurrection, but rather a new release of prior content... but what does that matter?
For now, the joy of reading Sherlock Holmes's new adventure was what mattered most.
Moreover, this one was particularly enjoyable.
'It's so much fun...! Far more than the previous works!'
James knew that Arthur Conan Doyle's novels had a higher quality than his short stories.
However, this The Hound of the Baskervilles was even more intriguing.
For example, in this work, Sherlock only appears at the beginning and end, while the middle section, filled with mysteries and the unravelling of events, is essentially handled by John Watson.
Watson's blunders remain, but his background as a former soldier is well-utilized, showcasing him as an active fighter, which was quite impressive.
Additionally, while other full-length Sherlock Holmes novels were set in foreign locations like America or India, dragging out the story and ruining the atmosphere... this one didn't have that.
Of course, the scale was smaller than before. It purely took place in Dartmoor, England, but that allowed James to immerse himself even more as a fellow Englishman.
And above all... there was something that captivated him in the climax.
It was precisely this.
***
"Shh, be quiet! It's coming!!"
Holmes shouted. I instinctively loaded my revolver.
From within the encroaching mist, the sound of something racing toward us was faint but constant.
The fog had crept up to less than fifty yards from where we hid.
I looked at Holmes. His face, though pale, was filled with determination, and his eyes sparkled... until it appeared.
─Grrr! Grrrr!! Grrr!!
With frozen hands, I gripped my gun and sprang up. I nearly fired at the horrifying figure that sprang from the fog.
It was a massive, pitch-black hunting dog.
But, dear God.
This was no ordinary hunting dog.
Flames flickered from its bared fangs, and smoke billowed from its eyes, which burned red. It appeared as large as a lioness.
Without a doubt, there was no beast more ferocious and menacing than that monstrous figure that emerged from the mist.
I noticed that the beast was chasing Sir Henry. I could not allow that.
Whether it was the soldier's spirit that had slept since Afghanistan or the courage of a friend willing to protect Sir Henry's life, I found myself pulling the trigger of the revolver.
Bang!!
The beast let out a chilling howl. It seemed I had hit it. When the dog turned its head toward me, one eye bled profusely amidst the smoke.
As I stepped forward, Holmes—surprisingly able to make such a sound—called my name as if in a scream.
"Watson!!"
"Holmes, go with Lestrade!! Leave this to me!!"
"But!!"
"Go now! We must catch Stapleton!!"
After a brief hesitation, Holmes whispered that he would trust me and then ran off.
Good, I inhaled deeply and muttered.
"I once had a dog. I know what you are. You're just a beast."
I interpreted the dog's howl as "pain." It washed away my fear. If the dog was injured, dear God. That meant it wasn't a ghost but a product of the Lord.
Then, I could kill it.
I calmly aimed at the bleeding dog.
How long had passed? Had Holmes captured Stapleton? I missed Mary. Had Sir Henry escaped? My thoughts raced through my mind in a brief moment.
The dog lunged.
I pulled the trigger.
"Ugh!"
My arm was yanked back by the recoil. Had it not been for that, the bullet-dodging monster would have turned my head into rags along with my hat.
After rolling to the side, I tried to calmly aim at the dog again. But that demon's spawn was faster. Soon, I was rolling with the beast.
"You beast!!"
I waved my hand, grabbing the fallen hat and pressing it down on the dog's head. Luckily, it was right where the dog's one remaining eye was.
The terrible dog let out a horrific scream and retreated.
Only then did I seize its scruff and mount it. I had finally secured my position. It seemed that the wrestling techniques I had learned in the army still had their use. Finally, I delivered a bullet to its brain.
The gunshot echoed in my ears, and after the dreadful creature thrashed a few times, it fell silent forever. Blood flowed freely from the hole in its skull.
As I exhaled a sigh of relief, Sir Henry Baskerville approached me.
"Dr. Watson!! Are you okay? My God, what was that?"
"Whatever it was, don't worry. It's dead now."
"Indeed. You have completely vanquished the ghost of the Baskerville family!"
Sir Henry's sparkling eyes were overwhelming. I forced a smile as I examined the dog.
The beast lying dead before us was clearly no ordinary hunting dog based on its size. It was savage, emaciated, and abnormally large. It looked like a hybrid of a wolf and a lioness.
Especially, even in death, blue flames danced around its enormous jaws. I suppressed my discomfort and reached out to touch its muzzle.
Soon, that flame began to flicker on my hand.
"Phosphorescent material. Cunningly prepared to perfection."
"How could this be? Who could do such a thing...?"
"Well, I'm just as baffled."
I frowned. No matter how much I was a specialist in human medicine, biology teaches that humans and beasts are essentially structures of flesh and bone.
This creature was abnormal.
I examined the massive beast's body. As I stripped away its black fur, a small tattoo-like marking appeared on its flank.
At the front was a capital letter M, followed by a series of numbers.
What could this mean? I was curious to know more, but Sir Henry's wellbeing took precedence. In truth, I wasn't exactly normal myself.
And I would later regret that.
At that moment, I should have properly asked Holmes about this M and the series of numbers.
About that man, the worst criminal in Britain, the center of colossal evil.
***
"That's amazing..."
A little boy... too young to even be called a child, Charlie sparkled with his eyes wide as he listened to the daycare teacher recite The Hound of the Baskervilles.
About to turn six, Charlie loved books.
Hanslow Jin, Arthur Conan Doyle, Lewis Carroll. Each one a magician of stories that could leave a profound impact on a child.
This daycare was no ordinary facility. It was established by the Alice and Peter Foundation, founded by Lewis Carroll and Hanslow Jin.
And with the goal of 'eliminating illiteracy,' it naturally had a substantial collection of books for a daycare.
Thanks to that, Charlie boasted a wealth of reading for a poor singer's second son and was nurturing big dreams.
"Hey, are you going to try going out there again?"
"You can't. You're too young."
"I'll do it anyway."
What Charlie clutched tightly was none other than a public poster about casting for a minor role in the Savoy Theatre's Peter Perry.
No matter how low the bar was, they only accepted children from ten years old for minor roles, but who knows? Even at six, maybe he could get lucky and land a spot?
The impoverished boy, Charlie, thought as he clutched the poster tightly.