At the director's signal, the Object-like researchers dressed in lab coats charged forward.

Their expressions and movements, which seemed devoid of any real motivation, only made them appear more grotesque.

Their movements were far more zombie-like than those of the camp residents.

Lackluster and half-hearted, yet they staggered straight toward us with relentless determination.

Some of them, even with severed limbs and bleeding profusely, charged at us like zombies.

Conscious of the thick, blood-soaked floor that hindered movement, we braced ourselves for the clash.

It was Junior Number 2 who made the first move.

Bang! Bang!

Two shots rang out, and two researchers fell to the ground.

Their heads burst open as they collapsed, but new researchers quickly filled the gaps left by the fallen ones.

Junior Number 1 and I took our positions in front of the client and Junior Number 2, shielding them.

These were the same researchers who had slaughtered the ninjas.

Winning against them seemed unlikely.

We needed to buy time and come up with a plan to break out of this situation.

Boom!

With a loud crash, a researcher with twisted limbs went flying.

The flying researcher bowled over several others who were about to charge in.

We fought like this for a few minutes.

Just as Junior Number 1, who had been bowling with the researchers, suddenly let out a shout.

"Ah!"

"What's wrong?"

I asked while swinging Watson with all my might.

"These researchers… even after their heads are blown off, they start moving again."

Looking where my junior was glancing, I saw the headless researchers slowly getting back up.

What is this, are they Dullahan or something?

Do we have to completely crush them to stop their movement?

That kind of task could only be handled by Junior Number 1, but if he had to deal with each one like that, he’d run out of stamina first.

Meow.

The Object cat perched on the client’s shoulder let out a small, uneasy cry.

"Senior! Do something!"

We were getting increasingly exhausted, and we were being gradually pushed back.

Unlike the fake zombies we saw in the camp, these researchers were real monsters that wouldn’t stop until they were completely incapacitated.

Junior Number 1 was visibly fatigued, gasping for breath, and Junior Number 2, out of ammo, had started fighting with two hammers.

If we didn’t find a way to buy some time to catch our breath, we’d be in serious trouble.

I lifted Watson high and called out to him.

"Watson, protect us!" "Watson, protect us!" "Watson, protect us!"

Smoke began to billow out of the gas lamp, swirling around our group.

The ominous, blood-red smoke seemed to have a physical presence, pushing the researchers back and creating an empty space around us.

The researchers tried to break through the smoke, but it didn’t budge.

"Ugh, I’m exhausted."

Junior Number 1 leaned on his hammer and sat down, crouching.

The light from the burning gas lamp cast strange shadows in the smoke.

It was Watson.

Watson was giggling in the shadows, drawing letters with his shadow.

[It’s been a while, Holmes.]

[You’ve already used your second chance?]

[This job doesn’t look easy.]

[Is this the time you finally die?]

[Protection only lasts for 10 minutes.]

[There are many interesting Objects here.]

Watson was still as erratic as ever.

I clapped my hands to draw everyone’s attention and spoke.

"Take a short rest. I need to figure out a way to get us out of this situation."

I approached the place where Watson’s shadow was cast beyond the smoke and spoke to him.

"Watson!"

The gas lamp in my hand echoed with giggling sounds.

And as if responding to my words, numerous strings of text appeared in the smoke and then disappeared.

[What’s up, Holmes?]

[Why?]

[You only have one wish left.]

[This time, are you going to fail?]

To complete this request, I had no choice but to rely on Watson’s power.

Watson’s criteria for helping were always vague, but by now I had a rough understanding of those criteria.

The criterion was 'trials.'

As long as helping left Holmes with an 'appropriate' trial, Watson would sometimes offer direct assistance.

So asking Watson to bring the client’s brother here, or to kill the director, was out of the question.

First, I asked Watson a question.

"Watson! Can I ask you to kill the director?"

The laughter from the gas lamp stopped.

[That’s something I can’t do.]

[Isn’t that against the rules?]

[It’s against the rules!]

[But it’s impossible.]

[Killing Objects isn’t our domain.]

[Actually, we don’t even know how to kill them.]

[That’s something for Holmes to figure out!]

[Why not make another request?]

As expected, Watson’s response was negative, but impossible?

That was surprising.

Watson, who usually dealt with Objects by simply snapping their necks or whatever, was now admitting weakness?

That must mean the director is a particularly tricky Object.

Just looking at how he stood there, with blades stuck all over his body, it was clear he wasn’t ordinary.

So what kind of help should I ask for to get out of this situation?

At that moment, I remembered the text from the director that was displayed in my monocle.

[As long as the Director exists, he controls the researchers.] [As long as the research is not complete, the Director will regenerate.] [As long as the wish is unfulfilled, the research will not end.]

If my monocle wasn’t missing anything critical, then fulfilling the director’s wish would stop his regeneration and possibly end the existence of the researchers.

"Watson! Then how about telling me the director’s wish?"

Laughter began to emanate from the gas lamp again.

[Are you really going to go with that?]

[Sure, that’s fine.]

[Hearing wishes, seeing wishes, fulfilling wishes—that’s what we do.]

[It’s simple.]

[Is that your final wish?]

[Easy.]

[I think I can tell you that.]

Seeing Watson’s reaction, I made my request.

"Watson, tell me the director’s wish!" "Watson, tell me the director’s wish!" "Watson, tell me the director’s wish!"

At my words, Watson’s shadow leaned down towards me.

[I can’t let the director hear this, so I’ll whisper it just to you, Holmes.]

[Bring the gas lamp closer to your ear!]

[Closer, closer.]

When I brought the hot gas lamp close to my ear, I heard voices, as if different people were whispering all at once.

"The director, his desire is 'to learn the origin of Objects.'"

"If he learns the origin, the director will lose his power."

"But he doesn’t even remember that’s what he wants, so it won’t be easy."

"Is this the time Holmes finally fails?"

"Is Holmes going to die now?"

Damn.

That was my first thought upon hearing Watson’s answer.

It was information that I couldn’t immediately use or figure out.

Watson’s protective barrier was already starting to fade, as if it might collapse at any moment, and I could feel the anxious gazes of my juniors on my back.

We’re in a crisis.

If we run away now, Watson will kill me, but I don’t see a way out of this situation.

Should I tell the juniors to run away without me?

Just then, I heard a cat’s cry.

Meow!!!

The sound was so loud, it was hard to believe it came from a small kitten.

The urgency in the cry was palpable.

Meow!!

It was as if the cat was desperately searching for someone.

Following the sound of the cat’s cries, I stepped out of the room and found myself in a long hallway.

A seemingly endless corridor, soaked in blood, with bloodstained concrete and rusty metal doors lining both sides.

Meow!

Using the distant sound of the cat’s cry as a guide, I continued to move forward.

Meow!!

Judging by the increasing volume of the cat’s cries, I was getting closer to it.

Just as I was thinking this, researchers appeared in front of me, blocking my path.

The overwhelming stench of blood.

These were the researchers responsible for managing this torture chamber.

They looked human, but they weren’t.

Their forms were blurry, connected to the shadows.

They seemed to be servants bound to something within the shadows.

Though they blocked my way, their demeanor was strange.

Their expressions showed no motivation.

They didn’t seem to think they could stop me.

It felt as though their only intention was to buy time.

There were quite a few researchers, and if I tried to take them all down one by one, it would cost me a lot of time.

But now I had the Golden Reaper!

The Golden Reapers suddenly popped up at my feet.

Though they emerged with bright smiles from the Golden Reaper Garden, they quickly became sullen.

The strong stench of blood that filled the basement.

Maybe they were upset by the smell of human blood?

They seemed more angry than anything at the unpleasantness of the place.

The first targets of the Golden Reapers were the Object-like researchers drenched in the smell of blood.

The researchers, who had been holding blood-soaked torture tools and facing off with me, found themselves facing the wrath of the Golden Reapers.

Though the researchers didn’t go down easily, they were no longer able to move after being riddled with holes from the Golden Reapers.

And after dealing with the researchers, the Golden Reapers dispersed with urgent expressions.

What’s up with them now?

The scattered Golden Reapers began to move as if searching for something.

They hopped around everywhere, from the lights above to the corners of the hallway.

What are they up to?

When I opened one of the doors in the hallway to check inside, I found the Golden Reapers scattered throughout the room.

The room was a torture chamber with a chair in the center, and the victim, left in a horrific state, was tied to the chair.

The Golden Reapers were all clinging to the corpse.

Splish, splash.

They tapped the blood-soaked corpse’s face with their tiny hands, shedding golden tears as they wept.

They looked like they were wailing with wide-open mouths, but without lungs, no sound came out.

I understood that feeling well—being sad without being able to make a sound was frustrating and only made the sorrow worse.

Even without words, I could sense their emotions.

Were they feeling the pain of the tortured victims?

The Golden Reapers pushed and pulled at the corpse’s cheeks and lifted its eyelids, silently screaming for it to open its eyes.

When I stepped back out into the hallway, I saw the Golden Reapers, now even more enraged, gathering.

Meow!

I moved toward the urgent sound of the ghost cat’s cry, with the enraged Golden Reapers at my side!