The Shepherds Are Dense

Chapter 112: The Death of Moriarty

After brewing tea, York shed his suit jacket, wearing only a brown plaid shirt.He looked less like a lawyer or Lloyd’s Society executive and more like a friendly neighbor.

Serving tea, he sat across from Aiwass, fingers interlaced at his chest, speaking softly.

“I don’t see Prince Lloyd as the ‘royal shame.’

He likely didn’t consider himself part of the royal family.

To me, he’s a hero—challenging authority, shaking the crown’s power.

“The Path of Authority is a shackle.

Those bound by it can’t defy higher orders—a rigid, cruel hierarchy, like an anthill or beehive.

Knights can’t act this way, but don’t they wish to?

No one wants to be a slave to their path’s power.

The Silver-Crowned Dragon demands loyalty, restraint, order—but must we obey?”

York’s voice lowered, confiding, “Have you ever wondered how a common-born Prince Lloyd kept Lloyd’s Society from being swallowed by the crown?”

Aiwass raised an eyebrow, staying silent, his face showing faint confusion and curiosity.

He sensed York’s intent but held back, letting him continue.

“Simple,” York said slowly, revealing a hidden truth.

“Lloyd’s Society exists because it’s the collective will of Roundtable Hall’s knights.

It’s the symbol of merchants.

Countless people uphold it.

Over sixty percent of knight families have at least one direct member secretly in Lloyd’s Society.

We share secrets—secrets are a blade.

“Do you think the crown doesn’t know?

They do, but they’re powerless.

Lloyd’s Society thrived by siphoning royal authority, and now the crown can’t reclaim it.

The times are changing, and we move forward unstoppably.”

“Why tell me this?” Aiwass asked after a pause, feigning hesitation.

York extended his left arm, palm up.

Suddenly, his pupils glowed with amethyst clarity, and his forearm’s skin wrinkled and bulged, writhing like a snake.

Four headless, scaleless black serpents burst from beneath his wrist’s skin—

Finger-thick, these demonic creatures had no heads, only a cavity lined with dense, sharp teeth, like severed snakes or gaping leeches.

They reared up, swaying aimlessly like vines in the wind.

Lily tensed, her gaze sharpening, ready to act.

Aiwass shook his head, signaling her to stand down.

The silent maid stayed behind him, but her expression was gravely serious, her hands glowing faintly with green web-like cracks.

York smiled warmly, unfazed, and said, “Do you know how Prince Lloyd won Queen Marlena’s heart?

He was a gifted poet.

Some lines from his work:

*‘One day, I shall break these leaden chains;

I shall rise with the smoke, free as the wind;

I shall shine, radiant as stars, luminous as moonlight…’”*

Before York finished, a dialog box appeared before Aiwass:

[York Hermes offers to teach you “Breach of Oath.” Pay 48 public experience to master this mystic art?]

The Breach of Oath, a Path of Transcendence mystic art, emphasizes defying the Path of Authority.

It breaks vows, escapes shackles, and evades pursuit—a cunning skill for those who pledge but choose to defy.

Aiwass thought decisively.

The skill’s utility was limited, and learning it risked polluting his ability pool.

Mystic arts could conflict, and without a reset potion, he couldn’t take the chance.

Besides, 48 experience for a standard-tier art was steep.

[You probably only memorized that one verse, huh?] Aiwass mused.

York’s actions confirmed his allegiance.

Aiwass dropped his mild, confused facade, his expression turning calm and cold, as if his earlier demeanor was pure performance.

“…Devourer Demon?” Aiwass countered.

A rare familiar, lower than lesser demons, on par with demonic hounds, summonable by demonologists.

Weak in attack, it was used for torture or interrogation, its size adjustable to invade or envelop any body part.

Its writhing, bee-sting-like teeth injected mild toxins, easily breaking off inside the body like cactus spines, causing intense, lasting pain and humiliation.

Hiding such familiars within one’s body undetected was a hallmark of a fourth-level Parasite Demon.

Not a demonologist, but an advanced demonhost profession.

Unlike demonologists, demonhosts were nearly fused with their bonded demon, inseparable.

To become a demonhost, one started as a Phantom Demon Egg, but with a dark-attribute demon.

Before awakening, they were called “demon-possessed.”

Dark demons loved controlling their host’s body, often harming or killing others when unleashed.

If persuaded by their demon and entering the Path of Transcendence, they’d bond symbiotically.

Demonhosts couldn’t summon other demons or study rituals or demon control, as their demon blocked such knowledge, and dark mana dulled their intellect.

But if a demonhost resisted, retained rationality, and advanced to Parasite Demon, the dynamic reversed.

The host transcended the demon, gaining control, immune to possession.

They could house multiple lesser demons, carrying them internally, and at higher levels, even bond additional demons.

“You’re a Parasite Demon, aren’t you?” Aiwass stated firmly.

York’s eyes widened in surprise.

He withdrew his hand, the Devourer Demons vanishing.

“Your demonology knowledge is astounding, Aiwass,” York marveled.

“You’re the only first-level transcendent I’ve met who could identify a Parasite Demon.”

“So that’s why you whisked me away?” Aiwass raised an eyebrow.

“You sensed I’m also a Path of Transcendence transcendent.”

“Under Authority’s sway, we transcendents should help each other,” York said naturally, smiling.

“We’re the same kind.

I’m here to bring you into the fold.

And there’s another reason…”

He pointed to Aiwass’s left pocket.

“With higher clearance, you’d sense it too.”

Aiwass touched his pocket, realizing instantly—the Noble Red ring.

“Don’t worry,” York said, pressing his hands down reassuringly.

“I know you likely got that ring from Veronica.

We don’t pry into such things.

You’re a Path of Transcendence peer, right?

Recruited by them, you’re practically a new member.

Taking a senior member’s token after killing them is normal, no issue.

Keep it.

With it, you’re part of the Noble Red Society.

That’s my word.”

“I see,” Aiwass said, understanding dawning.

It wasn’t an alliance between Lloyd’s Society and Noble Red—their leadership overlapped.

“You said over sixty percent of knight families have members in Lloyd’s Society,” Aiwass said after a pause.

“Does that include the Moriartys?”

York’s lips curled into a faint smile, his wrinkled face enigmatic.

“What do you think?”

“Let’s end this charade,” Aiwass said, his voice low from his wheelchair.

Despite his lower status and power, he showed no deference.

He extended his right hand, his palm cracking open, glowing with violet light—a sign of his Path of Transcendence resonating with his resolve, and a subtly hostile gesture.

To others, it might be offensive, but for Transcendence, it affirmed conviction and practice.

York smiled, satisfied, and answered candidly, “Yes.

Professor James Moriarty is, of course, one of us.”

“As a prominent Glass Island merchant, how could he refuse?

But he’s not a Transcendence peer, so he’s not in the Noble Red Society.”

“If my father’s already with you,” Aiwass said bluntly, “why recruit me?

The Moriarty family is already on your side.”

York’s intent to recruit him was clear, though unspoken.

The pressure from the suspected leak was immense—York urgently wanted Aiwass in Lloyd’s Society, ideally before the vice president arrived.

“Then let me share some intel early,” York said, smiling smugly.

“This is why Lloyd’s Society exists—

Reliable sources say Professor Moriarty went missing two days ago.

No body was found, but bloodied clothes were.

Divination confirms James Moriarty is dead.

His death will likely reach Avalon within a week.”

The Hermes-named lawyer gave Aiwass a genial smile that grated on him.

“This isn’t a threat, just advice.

Neither you nor Inspector Edward are his real children, and with James dying suddenly without a will, your inheritance will face obstacles.

Join us.

Compared to your foster father, we prefer Transcendence peers like you.”

Aiwass nearly laughed aloud.

[James Moriarty, dead?

Not a single word of that is believable.]

The intel might be true, but Moriarty wasn’t so easily killed.

Divinations could be wrong.

This was surely a staged death to slip out of Avalon’s turmoil.

The enigmatic professor, the final boss of version 6.0, wouldn’t die obscurely in a forgotten corner.

Even if Aiwass knew it was fake, and others might too, the “death” of James Moriarty’s public identity would still destabilize Avalon uncontrollably.