Chapter 35 : Jack the Ripper (1)

Jack the Ripper.

The ghost of death.

We don’t really know who he was, and we probably never will.

For hundreds of years to come, people will guess and wonder about his identity.

The documentary The Ghost of Death describes Jack the Ripper in a single sentence.

Jack the Ripper.

A suspect who will never be caught.

This ghost that appeared in 19th-century London vanished into history, leaving behind only unsolved mysteries.

Even Conan Doyle, the father of Sherlock Holmes, and Joseph Bell, the inspiration for Holmes, failed to identify Jack the Ripper.

At one point, there were rumors that DNA analysis had uncovered Jack the Ripper’s identity, but it was never officially recognized.

The DNA in question was not reliable, and too much time had passed for accurate information.

In the end, Jack the Ripper’s identity remained hidden in the shadows.

That ghost of death emerged from the shadows and appeared before me.

“This bread is really delicious!”

With a bright, cheerful smile,

A phrase floated above the elegantly curved golden eyes.

[Complete Jack the Ripper’s murder.]

Reward: The Ghost’s Knife

In 19th-century London, two kinds of lives existed.

The glamorous life of the wealthy in townhouses.

And the life of the poor, visible from the terraces of those houses.

East End.

London’s dark underbelly, where the lower class was crammed together.

With no jobs available, prostitution flourished, and the number of orphans grew—this was the reality of the slums in the East End.

Vanessa was a seamstress living among orphans in that place.

She took joy in personally sewing clothes for the ragged children and taking care of them.

“Vanessa! More bread!”

“Oh no, there’s none left.”

“Ugh.”

“The nuns will bring more on the weekend.”

“But that bread tastes bad!”

“Then you should buy your own.”

She was their eldest sister and caretaker.

“Thanks for sharing the bread. The kids love it.”

“Oh, um, sure.”

“I’ll definitely pay you back.”

Her charming golden eyes curved gently.

Then, humming a tune, she continued knitting.

Vanessa was so consistently positive that it was impossible to understand why she was called the notorious Jack the Ripper.

That made it all the more confusing.

[Complete Jack the Ripper’s murder.]

Reward: The Ghost’s Knife

Why had the system given me such a quest?

‘Jack the Ripper killed prostitutes.’

The people she killed were all prostitutes.

It was commonly said there were five victims, but some argued there were more.

Many prostitutes had been murdered in the East End.

The Whitechapel Murders.

It had long been publicly suggested that those murders might have been the work of Jack the Ripper.

But the truth was unknown.

Jack the Ripper himself was a ghost, shrouded in mystery.

However, from what I had seen, Vanessa was not a woman who would kill without reason.

It was impossible to associate this woman with a pleasure killer.

If Vanessa really were that kind of woman, the number of victims would have been much higher.

Jack the Ripper.

She must have had a reason to commit murder.

And that reason must be why the system had given me this quest.

I silently watched the red-haired woman happily continue her knitting.

Life in the slums was not easy.

Orphans who couldn’t find work had to either dig through trash or pickpocket just to survive.

“You little rats!”

“You’re making the streets filthy! Get lost!”

To London’s gentlemen, the children of the East End were nothing more than pests.

It was common for them to be kicked for no reason.

“Oh dear, Allen. You’re hurt again. I told you not to go to the West End. Let me see your arm.”

Vanessa quietly treated the injured children.

Of course, treatment only meant washing leftover fabric and wrapping it around their wounds.

In the East End, getting real medicine was a luxury.

“I’ll heal you.”

Jeanne stepped in to heal the injured children in Vanessa’s place.

A warm light seeped in, and their wounds began to close, making Vanessa’s golden eyes widen.

“…Is this holy magic? That’s amazing.”

She gazed at the divine power with enchanted eyes.

When the healing was done, she asked Jeanne,

“Could I have such an ability too?”

“Unfortunately, Vanessa, you don’t have an aptitude for holy magic.”

“I see… That’s a shame.”

At Jeanne’s reply, Vanessa was genuinely disappointed.

When I asked why she was so interested, her answer was unexpected.

“Well, I wanted to become a nun.”

“A nun?”

“Yes! The nuns come every Sunday to give out bread. I wanted to be like them, but I guess I can’t.”

She spoke casually, smiling brightly, as if her dream being crushed didn’t matter.

But I could sense the deep sorrow hidden beneath.

Vanessa’s dream was to be a nun who handed out bread.

I stayed by Vanessa’s side for several more days, observing her.

I needed to understand how this woman would become Jack the Ripper.

During that time, I also learned about the darker side of the East End.

There was one particular trait among the prostitutes in the East End:

Somewhere on their bodies, they all bore a red flower petal mark.

“What is that?”

“Looks like you’ve never seen White Blossom before.”

“What is White Blossom?”

“It’s a sign that someone has engaged in prostitution and been infected with Blossom Poison. Those infected no longer feel hunger or thirst, so many prostitutes actually hope to get it.”

I was speechless.

Blossom Poison.

It was how Astaroth, one of Solomon’s 72 demons, increased his followers.

Known as the Patron Saint of Prostitutes, Astaroth infected those in the trade with Blossom Poison.

Victims would no longer feel hunger or thirst, but eventually, they would turn into monstrosities.

Blossom Poison was a horrifying curse that needed to be purified immediately upon infection.

Yet, according to Vanessa, prostitutes considered infection a blessing.

The gangs of the East End managed the infected prostitutes and openly sold Blossom Poison.

“They’re pitiful. They don’t even know that once they’re infected, they’ll turn into monsters.”

“You don’t know?”

“Yes, no matter how much I explain, they just take it as jealousy.”

“How do you know that, Vanessa?”

“I saw the person who gave birth to me get infected with Blossom Poison and turn into a monster.”

The government immediately exterminated them.

Vanessa’s words were emotionless, as if she was merely listing facts.

“It would be better to die as a human, at least.”

“If monsters are appearing, why is it so quiet?”

“Well, because this is the East End?”

I had heard that the East End was London’s dark underbelly, where the poor were gathered.

But this was beyond my imagination.

The British government knew that Blossom Poison was spreading, yet they ignored it.

When prostitutes turned into monsters, they quietly disposed of them.

It wasn’t even reported in the newspapers.

To the people of the East End, disappearances weren’t unusual—after all, they were just poor people.

Since Blossom Poison naturally controlled the population, the British government was simply allowing this “phenomenon” to continue.

[Complete Jack the Ripper’s murder.]

Only then did I begin to understand the meaning of that phrase.

And why a killer like Jack the Ripper had appeared in London.

Jack the Ripper.

The ghost of death.

He was a monster born from neglect.

“Allen hopes to become a soldier. Raphael wants to run a bakery when he grows up. Ciel wants to be a jeweler, and Yuri…”

Vanessa’s face lit up as she spoke about the children’s dreams.

But both she and I knew how unlikely those dreams were to come true.

Vanessa knew it better than anyone.

Because this place was London’s trash heap.

Listening to her, I carefully spoke up.

“Vanessa.”

“Yes?”

“How about sending the children to an orphanage?”

The scissors in Vanessa’s hands froze mid-cut.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, she resumed cutting the fabric.

“I’d love to, but the church won’t take children from the East End.”

“I will help you.”

I turned to Jeanne.

She had been silently listening but now gave a small nod.

I arranged for the children under Vanessa’s care to be taken in by the cathedral’s church.

It cost money to place them there, but that was no issue.

“Oh, this is a katana?”

One of my antique items was quite valuable in 19th-century England.

On top of that, when Jeanne demonstrated her holy power, the London church gladly accepted the orphans.

In the church’s domain, divine power was an undeniable authority.

“Sis! You’ll come visit, right?”

“Of course, I will.”

“Vanessa! You have to come!”

After saying farewell to the children, Vanessa gave me a bright smile and a word of thanks.

“Thank you. I feel relieved now.”

She gazed wistfully at the church.

“Oh, I really wanted to be a nun… What a shame.”

“You already seem like one.”

“Just hearing that makes me happy.”

Vanessa smiled warmly.

“But I could never be as good a person as Jeanne.”

After saying those words, Vanessa disappeared from the East End.

And then, three days later—

[East End Crime Firm Wiped Out!]

[Gang Turf War Suspected as Cause…]

[Peaky Blinders Expanding into London?!]

The gang that had been selling Blossom Poison had been completely annihilated.

London newspapers reported it as a gang war, but I knew the truth.

“They’re pitiful. They don’t even know that once they’re infected, they turn into monsters.”

“It would be better to die as a human.”

Vanessa, at the very least, wanted the prostitutes to die with their dignity as humans intact.

Rather than turning into monsters and disappearing without a trace.

[Complete Jack the Ripper’s murder.]

I had to find Vanessa.

But I had no ability to track down someone whose whereabouts were unknown.

Even if I searched all of England, finding Vanessa would be nearly impossible.

Because she was the ghost of the East End.

So, instead, I sought out someone who could find her for me.

Late at night.

A townhouse in West London.

The exterior, made of brown brick, was decorated with portraits of a man with a pipe in his mouth.

The entire house was dark, except for one brightly lit window on the second floor.

Using shadow-stepping techniques, I scaled the wall and slipped silently toward the lit window.

Inside, by the light of a candle, a middle-aged gentleman was writing.

“Who’s there?”

The man, who had been scribbling with a fountain pen, looked up as the window creaked open.

If Sherlock Holmes truly existed, it would be him.

The man I had come to find—

The father of Sherlock Holmes,

Arthur Conan Doyle.

He was the only one who could uncover the ghost’s true identity.