If it weren't for Lan Qingyou's appearance, and if she hadn't killed him, he would still be the overlord of the Abandoned City, a slave owner commanding tens of thousands of soldiers.
But now, because of Lan Qingyou, everything was gone.
Because of Lan Qingyou's aggressive stance—not even bothering to offer a greeting—he had lost everything.
The city was gone, the Crystal Palace was gone, and the slaves he had spent months painstakingly accumulating were gone as well.
Without these, what was the difference between him, Sherlock, and an ordinary person?
And because of the things he had done previously, it was now impossible for him to keep operating in this region.
After all, his reputation was trashed.
He didn't even need to think to know how those whose slave contracts were dissolved because of his death would defame him on the regional channel, or even the world channel.
In his eyes, all of this was Lan Qingyou's fault.
In fact, it was indeed Lan Qingyou's doing.
But so what?
Killing for treasure was a tale as old as time; Lan Qingyou felt no remorse, not even a hint of embarrassment.
Whose life wasn't worth living?
Since she had obtained Spoon, killing him and suppressing the news about Spoon had become the top priority.
Anyone who had read even a bit of fantasy novels would know what to do.
However, Lan Qingyou hadn't expected that Sherlock could actually be resurrected.
"If that lab rat from before hadn't found me an item capable of resurrection, I really would have been killed by you."
Sherlock sneered.
But at the mention of that item, Sherlock couldn't help but feel a pang of heartache.
That item was a one-time use, and now it had been wasted on such a pointless occasion.
Fine, since he couldn't stay here, he would just move to another place.
Starting from scratch and wandering around—did that even matter to someone like him?
Thinking of this, Sherlock looked down at his feet.
Good, although his clothes had been hacked into rags, at least they had left him his shoes.
Those inferiors... when he had the chance in the future, he would settle this debt with them properly.
Gnashing his teeth, Sherlock crouched down and took off the shoe on his right foot. He then pulled out an object the size of a sole that looked like a small calculator.
On closer inspection, it looked more like a small mobile phone that could fit in half a palm.
"Who is it?"
When Sherlock pressed the numbered buttons and connected the call, a raspy voice came from the other end. The originally bright moonlight was obscured by dark clouds, making the mass grave appear eerie and terrifying.
"Steve, it's me, Sherlock."
When the call connected, Sherlock immediately identified himself.
"So it's you. Why are you calling me? Don't you know that staying up late is bad for your health?"
"I'm sorry, I failed."
"Hmm?"
"Today, the Witch of the Tower suddenly appeared in my castle. Without a word, she started a relentless bombardment. In the end, I died."
"Idiot! Didn't the club meeting tell you to keep a low profile?"
A thunderous voice came from the other end of the phone.
Even the previous raspiness became less apparent.
"I'm sorry, I didn't expect the Witch of the Tower to interfere in my business. I don't even know how she appeared in my castle."
Sherlock apologized with a bitter smile.
"We only took you in because we're of the same race, and yet you managed to screw things up?"
"What could I have done!? The Witch was flying! She was like a B-2 bomber, constantly dropping glass bottles that could explode! Can you imagine the scene of bombs raining down on you from the sky!?"
Having been scolded by Steve, Sherlock's temper flared up as well.
Damn it, I was the lord of a city, and you're just a damn phone maker yapping at me like a dog.
What club, what recruitment—it's all about damn profit. You think I don't know what kind of people you are?
So, with his temper rising, Sherlock simply started cursing back at the other man.
And it worked wonders.
Steve on the other side went silent.
After a long silence, Steve's voice finally came through the phone again.
"...What do you plan to do next?"
"I can't stay in District 666 anymore. I need to go somewhere else to make a comeback, and then I'll find a way to fight my way back here."
"Since there's a flying witch in District 666, don't even think about going back for now. I heard she has already joined Tarot Villa."
"What!"
Hearing the words Tarot Villa, Sherlock was suddenly shocked.
As a member of the club, he naturally knew what kind of organization Tarot Villa was.
It was a dangerous organization that used the guise of academia to actually gather talent from various fields everywhere.
He hadn't expected that Lan Qingyou, the world's number one witch, had actually joined them. Didn't that mean Tarot Villa's threat index against them would rise exponentially?
"Is this true?"
Sherlock asked with difficulty.
"It's true. Members of the club have verified the news from multiple sources. Several others we had our eyes on have also joined. It's said that people from Tarot Villa have already contacted Ingrid and are currently in contact with Riesling."
"...Ingrid, Riesling... aren't those two already targeted by the club?"
Sherlock frowned again.
"But we aren't as convenient as they are."
At the thought of someone in Tarot Villa being able to cross the barriers between regions, Sherlock opened his mouth but didn't say anything further.
After all, that talent for crossing regional barriers was truly convenient.
First being killed, then Lan Qingyou joining Tarot Villa, and now talents like Ingrid and Riesling being in contact with Tarot Villa—how was there not a single piece of good news today?
Now, if the people the club favored were absorbed one by one by Tarot Villa, their organization would likely find things increasingly difficult in the future.
It seemed he had indeed been too high-profile, to the point of being targeted by the people from Tarot Villa.
Whatever happened to the club was one thing—it was just a temporary shelter anyway—but his own life ultimately had to be protected by himself.
"Do you understand the club's awkward situation now?"
Seeing that Sherlock wasn't speaking, Steve spoke up.
"Fine, I admit I was too high-profile before. I'll be more careful and cautious in the future."
Now that he was asking for a favor, Sherlock lowered his head.
"As long as you know. I've already contacted the teleportation master. Just wait where you are for two minutes."
With that, Steve hung up the phone without even waiting for Sherlock's reply.
"Damned bastard."
Sherlock put down the phone with a grim expression and tucked it back into his shoe to use as a sole.
And as he was placing the phone, the dark clouds in the sky happened to dissipate, and the bright moonlight once again shrouded the earth.
It happened to shine right on his phone.
On the back of the phone was a trapezoid pattern surrounded by an open mouth. Inside the trapezoid, a row of words was written in a script that had basically gone extinct on Blue Star: 'Gravel Club'.
Namely—Gravel Club.
Rate on N.U.
