"You… you're saying I came into contact with the Secret Blood a long time ago, and that I became this so-called compatible vessel back then?"
Eve said it aloud, still unable to believe it. In her memories, the first half of her life had been effortless. She was the princess of Phoenix. All of Old Dunling waited for her to come of age. Whoever married her would, in effect, inherit half of the great House of Phoenix.
"Yes. That's the only possible conclusion," Lloyd replied casually. "Old Dunling is far more complicated than I imagined. For example—I was convinced the fiends were extinct. And yet, after all these years, I've run into them here."
He spoke as if it were nothing worth mentioning. As long as people were still alive, it barely qualified as a problem.
"The fiends were wiped out more than a decade ago," Eve said. "That was the most jubilant moment in the history of the Hunter Order. Everyone drank themselves senseless. We doused the last fiend with burning holy water and watched it die, howling in agony."
"To be safe, the Order kept watch over the world for several more years, until we were certain they were truly gone. No prey left in the forests, no reason for hunters to hunt. So I retired," Lloyd went on. "Came to Old Dunling to chase a dream. Like I said—I've always wanted to be a detective."
He rambled on like an old woman, and Lloyd really was a strange man. In a scatter of idle chatter, he sketched a world that was grotesque and terrifying, yet his tone made it sound like he was teasing a big cat at the zoo. Whether it was habit or nature, Eve couldn't tell.
Optimism?
She studied that lazy, world-weary face. Warm sunlight filtered through the glass and fell across his features—a perfectly pleasant scene—yet his expression looked like someone owed him millions. The cold ruthlessness from before was nowhere to be found.
This… was he just shamelessly carefree?
"Wait," Eve said suddenly. "So that means—you're also a compatible vessel?"
Only then did it fully sink in. Like her, Lloyd possessed the Secret Blood. In fact, he seemed to know far more about it.
"Yes," he said. "But it doesn't matter anymore."
He sounded utterly unconcerned as he slowly stood up and looked at her.
"Eve, your situation is far more complicated than what we've talked about today. But at least for now, you're safe. If you ever need help—this is my card."
Staring at the soaked piece of paper, Eve finally remembered that Lloyd was a detective. A second-rate one, perhaps—but among detectives, he was probably the most dangerous.
"From state secrets to catching cheating lovers, this detective takes all jobs," he said lightly. "If it involves fiends, double the pay."
He slicked his wet hair back, picked up the Winchester beside him, and prepared to leave.
"Where are you going?" Eve asked quickly.
"Home," Lloyd replied, turning back. At some point, he had regained the ability to walk steadily—an almost unbelievable vitality.
"But… didn't you tell that doctor to get medicine for you?"
"I just wanted him out of the way," Lloyd said. "That 'friend' of mine has had it bad enough. Middle-aged, divorced, his only child doesn't even live with him anymore. Letting him get dragged deeper into the dark? Have mercy on the poor man."
This was coming from someone who had blasted open Buscarlo's door with a shotgun. Now he was acting all considerate. Sometimes Eve truly couldn't tell what kind of detective he was.
He was like the wind—always moving faster than words. By the time Eve tried to say anything else, the door had already closed.
Lloyd was gone.
The room felt abruptly hollow, like a hamster whose cage had been ripped away, leaving behind an inexplicable emptiness. Eve knew she had already stepped into the darkness. There was no path forward except to keep going. Fear lingered—but at least the real world had finally come into focus.
Her gaze dropped.
The cheap ink on the soaked business card had bled and blurred, but the words were still barely legible.
"Outer District, East Irins Ward, Cork Street 121A."
"Lloyd Holmes."
…
Sunlight poured through the glass windows, driving away the last chill of winter. Warmth spread through the body—pleasant, deeply comforting.
Shrike struggled to open his eyes.
Above him was a familiar ceiling, painted with mythological frescoes: furious gods casting down fire, banishing twisted demons from the mortal world.
As he stared, Shrike chuckled softly. He thought that if anyone repainted it in the future, they ought to add airships and cannons. Those were far more reliable than distant, intangible gods.
This place had once been a monastery, later converted into a hospital. Every time he was wounded and lost consciousness, he woke up here again—as if it were a reset point in his life. And every awakening came with something unpleasant.
Shrike tried to move.
His arms wouldn't budge. They were restrained.
Of course.
"You're awake?"
A familiar voice came from the other side. Shrike turned his head, dazed. Robin lay on the neighboring bed, his chest wrapped in blood-stained bandages, a respirator strapped to his face. His breathing sounded like a broken bellows, wheezing loudly.
"You're… still alive?" Shrike said, equal parts relieved and incredulous. That strike should have been fatal.
"Yeah. Galahad's sword went off target," Robin replied, glancing sideways at him. His tone was light, but his injuries were severe—just turning his head looked exhausting.
"Being alive is good," Robin added. "What happened in the end?"
"It was Nicola," Shrike said slowly. "You know how the Perpetual Pump lunatics think—completely impossible to predict. They treated the battle as an experiment on an Old-Era Godframe. The experiment failed. Galahad lost control. It took everything we had to subdue him. As for where he is now… I don't know."
The memories of that night still filled Shrike with dread. A black angel had opened its arms to him, its razor-sharp wings nearly slicing him apart.
"But one thing's certain," he continued. "Right now, he's probably wishing for death. To those people at the Perpetual Pump, we're all just test subjects. No human rights whatsoever."
Shrike wanted to curse out loud, but even speaking sent waves of pain through his body. It was unbearable.
"I hope you can understand them," a voice said calmly. "They're just great men who trade ethics and morality for knowledge. Society needs people like that—though, of course, not too many."
Red Falcon stepped into the ward. As one of the few upper knights still stationed in Old Dunling with nothing urgent to do, he felt it was his duty to check on two colleagues who had narrowly survived.
"Thank heaven this insane world needs them," Robin muttered weakly. "Otherwise I'd lock those lunatics in an asylum for life."
Red Falcon stopped beside their beds. The injuries were grave, but at least both men were awake. At that moment, a group of nurses entered, wheeling in a complicated machine.
The sight of it made Shrike's head ache instantly.
He tried to scramble out of bed, but the nurses gave him no chance. The head nurse strode forward and threw back his blanket in one sharp motion. Beneath it were white hospital garments and layers of bandages—his limbs bound tightly with restraints made of leather and linen.
"Sir, please cooperate," the head nurse said calmly, pulling the machine up to his bedside. "This is standard procedure. We need to make sure you haven't been contaminated."
The other two watched on, thinly disguising their schadenfreude.
The corruption of demons was profoundly unnatural. Anything that had ever come into contact with them could become a vector of infection.
From the accumulated knowledge of the Purification Directorate, it was determined that contamination always began in the nervous system: first the corrosion of will, then the warping of flesh. In the final stage, the victim themselves became a new source of contagion.
To prevent such viral expansion, the Directorate conducted a Will Appraisal on all personnel after every engagement with demons. The method had been devised by the people of the Perpetual Pump—a fact that only deepened Burrow's desire to see them dead.
Red Falcon maintained the outer perimeter. Robin's injuries were too severe for further strain.
This appraisal, therefore, was carried out solely for Burrow.
The nurses moved with practiced precision, scissors flashing as they trimmed a section of hair from the back of Burrow's head. Then they gently inserted the needle-like electrodes into the exposed skin.
"This may hurt a little,"
one of them said.
"I've been through it. I know exactly how much this damned thing hurts,"
Burrow replied wearily. Pain was tolerable—what he truly could not endure was something else entirely. But before he could finish the thought, the head nurse pulled the main switch.
Sparks burst from the instrument.
Burrow felt as if he had been seized by unseen hands, his entire body dropping downward.
First, the softness of the bed.
Then, the concrete beneath it.
Then deeper still—
falling, endlessly,
into darkness.