The detective is dead, I did it.

Chapter 4 Oh no, I've become a heretic!

A young woman was standing outside the door.

She was about twenty-five or twenty-six years old, with dark brown curly hair draped over her shoulders. She had a beautiful face, wore heavy makeup, and a dark red long dress with a low neckline that revealed a patch of snow-white skin.

Her eyes were light gray, and she was staring intently at Li Ang.

"How is it?" she asked in a low voice. "Is it under control?"

Li Ang didn't react. Control what?

Before he could answer, a picture suddenly flashed through his mind.

In the hallway, the woman stood in front of a man and said, "Go and restrain that detective! Don't let her ruin our plans."

Then he saw the man point at him and say, "Me?"

"Yes!" the woman replied decisively.

This time, Li Ang was smarter and knew that this was probably his own memory.

He composed himself, a confident smile playing on his lips. "Don't worry, it's under control."

"Well done!" she said. "Lord Hughes will be very pleased."

"Lord Hughes..." Leon asked casually, "Where is he now?"

"Downstairs. The sacrifice is complete, Norman is dead, we just need to wait for all our people to retreat."

"I see."

Oh no! It seems I've been dragged into some terrible incident.

Upon hearing the word "sacrifice" from the other party, Li Ang instantly realized that he had become involved with some heretics.

No wonder the detective noticed something amiss in the letter and even requested that an armed detective be sent to help. Unfortunately, the detective was killed before he could even mail the letter.

Now, they're truly in a dilemma.

Just then, the woman's nose twitched, and her expression changed: "Wait! Why does the room smell of blood?"

not good!

Li Ang was about to close the door, but the woman was faster and pushed it open.

Then she saw the detective's body on the bed and froze.

In response, Li Ang quietly crept to the counter next to him, where there was a fruit knife, the very one that had killed the detective.

Surprisingly, the woman laughed.

"Li Ang," her voice trembled slightly with emotion, "you...you really killed her?"

Li Ang: ???

What does that mean? Does killing someone outright count as a form of control?

"That despicable woman reported three of our strongholds all by herself! Three! We, the entire Church of the Primordial Lord, wish we could tear her apart and drink her blood!"

She moved closer to the detective and, after confirming that the girl was not breathing, said excitedly, "I never expected that you would do such a great job so quickly. Lord Hughes will definitely reward you."

"Is that so?" Li Ang tried his best to appear calm and collected. "Then... about my sister?"

He was stunned for a moment as soon as he said it.

Sister? When did I get a sister?

Suddenly, a memory surfaced in my mind—

It was a rental house in East London, but calling it a house would be an understatement.

It was just a cubicle partitioned off from the basement of a cheap apartment building, with no windows and only a small iron door leading to a ventilation shaft on the ground.

The furnishings inside were very simple. A bed made of old wooden planks and bricks took up most of the room, and a tattered blanket was laid on the bed.

This is his home, and his sister's home.

A blonde, blue-eyed girl sat on the wooden bed.

Her face was very thin, and her skin had an unnatural pale color due to long-term malnutrition and lack of sun exposure.

"Brother, I'm sorry. I ruined a piece of fabric today, and the foreman docked all my wages," she said dejectedly.

No wages meant no dinner that day. Even the cheapest black bread cost three pence, which was exactly the price of her daily wage.

Li Ang took out the four pence he had earned carrying bags at the dock that day from his pocket, stuffed three pence into his sister Ketura's hand, and kept one pence for himself.

"Go buy a black bread," he said. "And remember to hide the rest of the money."

Ktura's eyes lit up for a moment, then dimmed again. "Brother, aren't you going to eat?"

One loaf of black bread is only enough for one person's dinner.

"I've already eaten," Li Ang said.

He had never actually eaten it. A dockworker's daily meal consisted of a bowl of watery oatmeal porridge, so thin you could see your reflection in it, and half a piece of sour black bread.

This amount of food is far from enough to sustain a person's heavy physical exertion for a day; his stomach is now aching from hunger.

Ketura was very sensible. She knew her brother was lying, but she didn't expose him. Instead, she took the money and went out to buy a black bread to share with him.

Li Ang then took off his clothes, revealing two bloody marks on his shoulders from the rope binding them.

Unable to afford ointment, I could only apply cold water to the affected area to try and relieve the pain in my shoulder, while my arm continued to tremble.

Even so, we must continue tomorrow, and we must continue the day after tomorrow.

Until one day he dies of exhaustion on the dock, or Ketura grows up, or they save enough money to move to a place with better air.

But that's simply impossible.

This is a slum in East London, the poorest and dirtiest corner of the British Empire. Here, simply being alive is a luxury.

Every day, children die from hunger and disease, and no one cares because so many poor children die that even the people collecting the bodies are too lazy to count them.

The landlord raised the rent by half a shilling last month.

Old Tom next door was dumped on the street on a cold, rainy night because he couldn't afford the rent, and was found dead in a ditch the next morning.

No one called the police or investigated; his body was disposed of carelessly, and new tenants moved into his room that same afternoon.

That's the rule in East London: live or die.

Three days ago, Li Ang saw a line of text on a recruitment notice at the factory gate: Textile factory is recruiting workers. Anyone over nine years old is welcome. The work week is six days a week, fourteen hours a day. Lunch is provided.

Ketura works at this factory. Next to her are female workers who are even younger than her.

They were hunched over, their fingers were raw and bleeding from being rubbed by the spindle, and their eyes had become nearsighted or even strabismus from staring at the yarn in dim light for a long time.

Li Ang didn't want her to become like that.

So he took on heavier sacks and worked longer hours, hoping that one day he could provide her with a better living environment, or at least prevent her from becoming like the girls in the red-light district.

Then, a group of people kicked open the door, restrained the two of them, and left them with the words:

"If you want her to live, you'd better obey."

All the clues have come together.

Because his sister was in the hands of these heretics, he was forced to obey their orders to control Detective Charlotte, and then, for some unknown reason, he ended up killing her with his own hands.

Having figured everything out, Li Ang's temples throbbed.

Are you worried about your sister?

The woman walked up to Li Ang and said, "Don't worry, as long as you continue to serve Lord Hughes, your sister will live a good life."

"Not only will you not have to work fourteen hours a day in that textile factory, but you'll also have food and clean water. Of course, all of this is on the condition that you behave well."