Like a mantle woven from darkness itself, the god-forged armor wrapped around Lloyd—not so much a divine carapace, but a writhing mass of serpents, climbing and coiling upon his flesh, interlacing to become this eerie suit of scales. From every seam of that armor, blinding white flame surged outward, as though beneath the plates there was no mortal body—only a sacred spirit wrought entirely of fire.
"Szabo… to kill a demon, you must destroy not just its heart—its brain as well."
A deep voice breathed beside his ear as the burning blade swept effortlessly downward. The imprisoned arm fell away with a crack.
The wound carved by that sword was no clean cut—only scorched charcoal remained. Extreme heat obliterated every cell the moment the blade struck, leaving nothing behind but drifting ash.
Then the light of the heavens pierced the suffocating dark.
Lloyd, wreathed in flames, stood upon the wooden stake. The ground beneath him buckled and smoldered under the heat. His wounds sealed slowly, not quickly enough for comfort—but enough to ensure he would not die yet.
This was the nightmare strength of a demon. Even if its brain were destroyed, instinct would still drive the body. Even if its heart were crushed, the will alone could push the corpse to fight on. And one like Lloyd—whose tainted blood ran nearly pure—could even force regeneration. The cost was… steep. Yet compared to life itself, such costs meant nothing.
"So this is the sliver of hope sealed within the Box…?"
Staring into that silent, holy radiance, Szabo's eyes filled with tears.
"In the end… you are nothing like me. From the same blood, I received only this twisted flesh… and you walk as something divine…"
Even the cursed ichor had forsaken Szabo. Though he shared the same lineage as Lloyd, their paths diverged into cruel contrast. His warped body curled inward, his head drooping like a child abandoned by the world.
"Divinity… nothing but a lie."
The serpents climbed Lloyd's throat, drinking his blood, and in return gifting their hardened scales to reinforce his armor.
The burning sword hung low. Lloyd bent his body—a silent omen of the strike to come.
Dawn approached. It would illuminate all things; darkness would have nowhere left to hide. Yet like the revelry before death, the moments before dawn were the darkest—the night deepest, shadows taking one final, furious stand.
The rock ceiling above dried, beads of moisture vanishing into steam. Flames had reached the lowest levels now—purging squads driving the inferno downward. Demon or human alike—none could survive such lethal heat. Bodies would blacken inch by inch, crumble into ash, and sleep forever beneath the earth.
The world rumbled in collapse. Fragile crypts fell layer by layer like an ancient body whose organs failed one by one. It was dying. Soon these deepest chambers would be crushed beneath the upper stones. Time for the two of them was running out—shards of rock and choking dust cascaded from above, rippling the waters at their feet.
Only one would leave this place alive.
A tarnished rapier lunged through the swirling dust, crimson eyes burning with envy—envy for Lloyd, envy for every soul in the world. Steel clashed with fire, dark metal glowing red-hot where blood sizzled into vapor upon touching it.
"No one chooses their birth. But the future—we choose ourselves!"
Szabo screamed, monstrous and contorted, yet clinging hopelessly to survival—his sole remaining wish.
Their blades collided in ruthless rhythm. Technique no longer mattered—mere swordplay meant nothing in this place. This was not the art of killing a man. It was the struggle to slaughter a devil.
No feints, no finesse—only primal monstrosity. They tore at one another like beasts. Sparks burst from scales gouged by Szabo's blade; fiery steel devoured corrupted flesh, only for the grotesque tissue to regrow, replacing what had been burned away.
Like the ouroboros devouring its own tail—destruction birthing rebirth—until one fell and did not rise.
"There is no turning back, Szabo. Some choices—once made—can never be undone."
Lloyd's tone was cold, almost weary.
Tonight's horrors all traced back to the sacred coffin—and to the doctor bound to it. Lloyd had handled abominations such as this before. He knew it well: the doctor's secret blood had spread, warping countless people into demons. And Szabo… the only one who retained his mind.
Or perhaps he had sought the blood. Desired it. For that twisted body could no longer endure otherwise—only the secret blood offered a chance to live.
Lloyd struck again and again—like a blacksmith pounding steel into shape—hammering flame against flesh.
Driving Szabo back. Pursuing without pause. Steam roiled upward as the water boiled, their warped reflections flickering beneath them.
Another deafening roar. Collapse drew near.
Lloyd gathered every ounce of strength—his sword fell like a blazing judgment—
and Szabo's rapier shattered, glowing red as it broke.
That blade had been his companion for years. Now it died.
He seized the broken shard, tendrils of regenerating flesh coiling around the metal, and rammed it into the narrow gap between Lloyd's scales—piercing deep into living fire.
Szabo roared, teeth sinking into Lloyd's flesh. He no longer had a sword—but he had fangs. He had arms strong enough to drag his foe beneath the river and drown him.
He was not done. Not yet.
The ceiling finally gave way. A storm of falling stone crushed the cavern, shattering the underground river. Their struggle was swallowed whole by the sudden collapse. Water surged, flinging them against jagged rock before dragging them into the depths.
In the murk beneath the surface, the flames still burned—mad and desperate—twisted shapes entangled in their final frenzy. For a heartbeat they separated, then crashed together again, fighting like feral beasts in a torrent that showed no mercy.
The crushing weight of shattered stone bore down upon them. Dark blood seeped from the gaps in their divine armor and torn flesh, drifting with the currents before crashing against the jagged walls of the abyss.
Sabo tore into Lloyd with clawed hands and razor fangs. Plates of blackened iron armor fell away like molting scales, and scorching fire burst forth beneath, while the burning staff-blade twisted again and again through Sabo's abdomen—killing him endlessly, only for him to claw his way back each time.
His snarling wails echoed through the collapsing dark. He clamped down on Lloyd's skull with both hands—unyielding, even as those flames licked up and burned his flesh away—pinning him like a vice. With brutal force he slammed Lloyd against the jagged protrusions of the riverbed.
Lloyd's assault faltered. Something within him jammed—preventing a full monstrous transformation. The flames sputtered… but at the last moment, he tore free from Sabo's grasp, ignoring the agony wracking his body. His burning hands seized upon Sabo's skull—and with a blaze of annihilating heat, everything was boiled into nothing.
In that murky, bluish void, the faint light flickered… yet the overwhelming torrent swept it all aside.
Their vicious struggle dragged on until both were near spent—blood loss, wounds, the frigid water crushing their lungs. They loosened their grips, drained, and were swept toward the edge of the sewer outlet.
No grand finale awaited them—only two ruined bodies washed ashore like discarded, dying strays.
Seconds passed. Or perhaps minutes. One of those bodies twitched again. A twisted hand clawed the ledge, and Sabo dragged himself up onto land. He gasped wildly, torn flesh writhing at his abdomen. Cold air seized his lungs. Tears slipped free—not sorrow, but the raw, animal confirmation:
He was alive. Still alive.
He had lost everything, reduced once more to a desperate fugitive. His lone remaining arm dug into the ground as he pulled himself forward—leaving a long smear of blood behind.
His sight was a soupy haze. Only the caress of cold air told him which direction led onward. Lloyd's last strike beneath the waters had nearly melted his skull—his vulnerable eyes destroyed. He would need time to heal.
Freedom was so close he could taste it. This escape route—he built it himself. He knew every turn. Beyond the narrow sewer lay the River Thames, where small boats drifted by and offered paths to hidden docks. Once he reached the Thames, he would be unstoppable. No one could catch him again.
Behind him, Lloyd also crawled free of the water, retching. Blood and river water poured from his mouth. His face had gone pale, the black armor nearly obliterated. His staff-blade long lost—but that battered Winchester remained locked in his grip.
"Sabo… you have nowhere left to run."
Leaning against the wall, Lloyd spat mockery at the crawling figure.
He knocked the shotgun against the stone. Flooded. Jammed. Useless. A long, weary sigh escaped him as he pressed a hand against his wounds, trying to stand.
Sabo ignored the words. He thought only of forward. Lloyd lunged, pinning him to the ground. Blood once again tried to ignite—but a jagged bone-blade erupted from Sabo's flesh, stabbing deep into Lloyd.
They wrestled like cornered beasts. The bone-blade cleaved one final time—skewering Lloyd's thigh and nailing him to the earth.
Sabo did not revel in victory. He simply kept crawling.
Watching that stubborn silhouette, Lloyd felt a sudden, aching pity. Death had already rapped upon his door… yet he still clung to life with desperate hope. In that fleeting moment… Lloyd understood him.
Sabo had only one thing left—his life. And life, unlike all else, would never betray him. That alone was enough. Had always been enough.
He dragged himself on, burning pain consuming what remained of him. Then Lloyd saw it—the shard of steel jutting from Sabo's torn flesh.
His own staff-blade.
During the chaos below, Lloyd had unknowingly driven the blade into Sabo's abdomen—straight through the heart.
Sabo was already dead.
The flames had already devoured his organs from within.
At last, he halted. All his strength spent—and still, he had failed to escape this pit of shadows.
"Is this… where I die?"
He looked up as Lloyd approached—leaning on the bone-blade that pierced him. He was a wreck—ragged clothing hanging loose, expression calm yet mournful. Like a friend arriving late to the funeral.
"Mr. Holmes," Sabo whispered hoarsely, "Life is a gamble. You go all in with the chips you've got, trying to seize everything the world denies you. I thought… I thought I had won. And yet—just a little more… I was just one step away…"
Blood-red tears rolled down his grotesque face. He had reached Englewig. Old Dunling. He had possessed wealth and power. He had even shed the deformity that once caged him. Everything he had ever wanted—within his grasp.
And now, all of it turned to ash.
"Will you pray for me?" he asked, voice quivering. A last request to the pastor he once knew.
A long silence. Then Lloyd answered, quietly:
"There's no need, Sabo. You never believed in God. What meaning would prayer have for you?"
Lloyd walked past him, into the glow ahead, without looking back.
"When death comes, it simply comes. No heaven. No hell. Only eternal quiet."
Sabo stared for a long time… then a strange peace softened his ruined face.
"I see… Still… what a bitter ending…"
White fire surged—devouring demonic flesh, then the brain, leaving only blackened bone that crumbled and fell into the surging waters of the Thames below.
His charred skull drifted past Lloyd in the current. In that brief glance… there was a serenity there—unthinkable on such a monstrous face.
The fugitive had finally stopped running.
And embraced the peace that had awaited him all along.