The decisive means of politics is martial arts.

–Max Weber1

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Westminster Palace overlooking the city of London.

The majestic roof and pointed spires covered in gray clouds have long represented London Murim, showcasing the grandeur of the British Empire to the world.

Originally a royal residence, this palace has transformed into a venue where members of parliament and ministers gather to conduct public affairs.

This place, where the Parliament of the British Empire convenes, is a pandemonium of arrogant and ambitious politicians.

The House of Lords, known as the nickname of the The League of Gentlemen, and the House of Commons, with all members belonging to The Royal Combat Society, form the heart of the British Empire discussing the major and minor affairs of Murim.

Here, aside from the politicians engaged in power struggles for the honor of being buried across the road in Westminster Abbey after death, one could witness a diverse array of human figures.

Notably among them are

the ministers belonging to Her Majesty’s Government leading the British Empire’s Cabinet.

“Looks like I won’t be going home today either.”

William Vernon Harcourt, the Home Secretary, who ranks fourth in the Cabinet protocol order and holds a key position in major national public affairs, was buried in a pile of documents as usual.

The Secretary was moving his hands tirelessly as if conducting an orchestra, yet strangely, both his hands were empty.

Nevertheless, handwritten signatures and seals were being completed one by one on the mountain of documents, thanks to a perpetual pen and stamp following his left and right hands precisely in the air.

Poltergeist.

Harcourt was actively utilizing martial arts that could only be used by those who had reached a certain realm or attained enlightenment in his work.

“Whew.”

Having been busy approving documents for a while, he paused to catch his breath and opened a drawer.

As Harcourt raised his hand, an invisible force opened the envelope inside and extracted its contents.

It was a letter that had arrived in the morning, which he hadn’t had the chance to check due to the demands of official duties.

The sender was the Cleveland Police Department of the United States.

It was a report on the arrest of several Mormon followers and a note of thanks for the cooperation from the British side.

“…What a hassle.”

Though the collective crime of the Mormons was certainly an intriguing topic, Harcourt was in no position to concern himself with incidents in other countries.

The Home Secretary placed the letter back in its place and resumed his work, though his mind kept replaying the horrific incident from three weeks ago.

A resurrected corpse used martial arts to kill people.

In the course of resolving the case, Scotland Yard secured the custody of a man named Stangerson and thoroughly interrogated him at Harcourt’s direction.

As a result, he confessed to various criminal activities, including murder, kidnapping, and confinement, which had been carried out by the Mormons in the northwestern United States.

Stangerson, who was forcibly extradited to the United States, was charged with murder, and the Mormons who had been wreaking havoc were also made to pay for their deferred crimes.

However, even if one case was safely concluded, it did not mean the Home Secretary’s work was done.

The Home Office is a large department responsible for maintaining public order, immigration, law enforcement, and even intelligence and national security.

It was only natural for Harcourt, as the head of such a vast organization, to be overwhelmed by the massive volume of work.

However, the reason he had to immerse himself in work, staying at Westminster Palace day and night for a week, was different.

“…There’s no way to find him.”

It is suspected that the excommunicated Modern Clan monk Frankenstein lured the hunter with promises of power for revenge, turning him into the worst Dead Man.

The reappearance of the archfiend, who had long hidden his traces, was likely to intentionally cause chaos in London.

The vanished Public Enemy of Murim had returned, but not a shred of evidence or lead was left for tracking.

Harcourt’s overwork was to persuade the parliament.

To gather information on the reappearance of the Public Enemy of Murim and prepare for his crimes, new legislation was needed.

Unfortunately, the premonition that the Unorthodox Leftwing faction would continue to plunge London into chaos was becoming a reality.

“I’ve prepared a blanket and snacks.”

Clark, the attendant who remained by his side, even foregoing going home, draped a blanket over the Secretary’s shoulders and placed refreshments on the table.

A sandwich expertly prepared. Yet it provided no comfort.

He only confirmed with weary eyes that what lay before him was food, then quickly took a bite.

He was in a situation where every minute and second was precious, needing to handle as much work as possible.

“That’s enough. You can go first.”

“Apologies, but I will attend to you while you are in the office.”

“…Do as you wish.”

The attendant was as earnest and loyal as ever. Sir Harcourt, seemingly resigned, closed his mouth again and focused on his work.

The space was quite silent, save for the sound of the clock’s second hand moving, the pen scribbling, the pages turning, and the crackling of the firewood in the fireplace.

His office, facing the Thames, was modest.

Everything was arranged efficiently, structured to allocate time and focus to work.

The only hint of William Harcourt’s personal touch, not as the Home Secretary, lay in the neatly arranged books and records on the shelves.

Legal books, martial arts manuals, drafts of columns, and speeches.

Visitors could grasp his background at a glance, seeing the spines of books that reflected his studies in martial arts and law, and his career in the legal and journalistic fields.

Thanks to this career, Harcourt was among those who understood well that the power of language was as potent as law and martial arts, even in a world ruled by strength.

His insight into the potential for this series of murders to cause significant social unrest was also due to the acumen he had developed over time.

‘The day the public hears about the case… Just imagining it is terrifying.’

Recently, in London, there had been a noticeable increase in intelligent crimes and martial arts-related murders.

However, the number and quality of the police were still insufficient for Scotland Yard to handle all these cases.

Harcourt was turning a blind eye to people resorting to the hands of amateur detectives because there was no way to improve this reality in the short term.

The fact that the previously disappeared Public Enemy of Murim reappeared indicated that someone was indeed trying to cause major chaos in London.

Among the martial arts murders, incidents like the recent Dead Man murder could stir public unrest just by word spreading on the streets.

If meticulous incitement by an expert’s touch is added, there is a possibility of a large-scale riot.

This case, in terms of strangeness alone, is comparable to the murder by a corpse.

As much as he hated to admit it, his help was indispensable to solve this dreadful headache.

-Knock knock.

“A guest has arrived.”

At that moment, a soldier guarding the corridor announced the arrival of the visitor.

“Let them in.”

Before Harcourt could finish speaking, the door opened, and a man with tousled hair peeked in.

His hawk-like gray eyes were fixed directly on Harcourt.

His face bore heavy fatigue, with traces of languor and laziness that didn’t match his sharp gaze or jawline.

Though not a nobleman, Harcourt is the fourth-ranking government official in protocol.

Yet, the other party showed no signs of intimidation even with a minister in front of him.

Brazen, yet maintaining a gentlemanly poise and ease that exuded an enigmatic atmosphere, the man captivated those around him.

The man, nodding slightly as a greeting, leisurely walked into the office as if it were his own and sat down without being asked.

Then he asked,

“Sherlock Holmes, at your service. What can I do for you?”

Crossing his legs, with hands clasped on top.

“……”

The Home Secretary couldn’t help but sigh.

Regrettably, this fiercely cynical consulting detective was the only hope to lighten his burden.

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“Holmes, you’re in front of the Secretary. Mind your manners.”

Watson entered the office a few beats late, looked between me and Sir Harcourt, and then exclaimed with a startled face.

“And who might that be?”

“This is my excellent assistant and personal physician, Dr. Watson.”

“I see.”

Sir Harcourt had no interest in Watson from the start, merely confirming who my companion was.

On the other hand, Watson seemed frozen, perhaps intimidated by being in the office of someone as high-ranking as the Home Secretary.

“I seem to have inadvertently been discourteous.”

I offered an emotionless apology, observing the Home Secretary with a square jaw and thick beard.

I knew well that Sir Harcourt, with his strong presence reminiscent of a Greek philosopher’s statue, had risen to his position solely through merit.

He was also known for using brief and concise language, complementing the verbose nature of Prime Minister Gladstone.

Based on this information, I assumed he wouldn’t act tiresome like a typical bureaucrat.

I was merely trying to engage in a comfortable conversation, but Watson had unnecessarily become apprehensive.

“…Remain seated. I didn’t summon a detective to discuss etiquette.”

As expected, the Home Secretary didn’t take issue with my attitude.

It seemed he was astute enough to judge who was at a disadvantage.

“Let’s do that.”

I replied, and Watson cautiously sat next to me.

“I’m William Harcourt. Please understand that I summoned you urgently due to a pressing matter.”

Sir Harcourt formally introduced his name and status.

He simply introduced himself as the master of this office, without the arrogance typical of high-ranking officials who expect to be revered.

“You could have called me when you had some free time. I assumed that, being a minister, you would delegate most of your duties to your subordinates.”

“It’s already been a week since I couldn’t return home. The coming week will likely be the same. I have no such thing as free time.”

I sarcastically remarked, annoyed that he just summoned me and kept staring at documents, but instead of getting angry, he was tirelessly moving his eternal quill pen and seal in the air as if performing magic.

“Then let’s get straight to the point. How much did Lestrade tell you?”

“I heard four people died in a locked room.”

“You put it simply. It’s a serial murder case.”

“Considering the number of people who die daily in London from overwork and poverty, it’s not that many.”

“…That’s true, but what if just four murders

could tarnish the royal dignity and cause social unrest?”

Saliva started pooling in my mouth in less than three seconds.

1. TL/N: The original quote is as follows—The decisive means for politics is violence ️