It felt like plunging into a bottomless ice sea.
Endless cold and darkness wrapped around the once-warm body. No matter how fiercely you struggled, how desperately you reached upward, you could never touch the faint glimmer of light drifting farther and farther away above you. A crushing sense of suffocation clamped down on your throat. All that remained was the fall—unceasing, inevitable—until you finally reached the floor of the abyss.
In the end, nothing was left.
Aside from the cold, there was only thought, drifting and circling in the dark. Gradually, even the sense of time dissolved. You could no longer tell how long this had lasted, until the last fragment of awareness sank as well, swallowed by the black.
"Commencing will assessment."
"Electrodes live… recording values…"
Someone whispered in the darkness.
So this was not death yet.
His eyes opened, and he was dragged back into this mad world once more.
Galahad began to cough violently. Beneath the translucent breathing mask, flecks of blood were expelled. He gulped for air as the machine roared, pumping a mist laced with analgesics into the mask.
His exhausted gaze swept back and forth. There was nothing to see but steel walls—and upon the iron dome above, a carving of intertwined serpents. They coiled and knotted together, biting their own tails, black scales dark as night, until they formed a single, unbroken ring.
The ouroboros.
A religious symbol, by some accounts—said to represent the cycle of life and death, or reincarnation, or something equally vague. In esoteric alchemy it was described as the crystallization of the soul. But Galahad knew perfectly well that, in his mind, it had only ever meant one thing.
Infinity.
Perpetual motion.
It was a concept proposed by the first Grand Director of the Mechanicum—the same man who had invented the great steam engine. On that foundation, he declared that there ought to exist a machine in this world which, once started, would never stop. It would require no further energy input. He borrowed the symbol of the ouroboros and named that imagined device the Perpetual Engine.
Galahad's understanding of mechanics was rudimentary, yet even he knew this violated the law of conservation of energy. Such a thing could not exist. And yet, like so many of humanity's mad fixations, that Grand Director was convinced the machine was real. He built the Perpetual Pump atop the Mechanicum itself, pursuing his ideal machine—an endeavor that continued to this very day.
"I thought you'd be unconscious for at least a week," a voice said nearby. "Didn't expect you to wake up this fast."
Nikola strolled over, a cup in hand. His pallid face was framed by heavy dark circles; his steps were light, almost floating, as though he might drop dead at any moment.
"How do you feel?"
He sat down beside the container. Galahad tried to move and only then realized he was sealed inside a semi-transparent tank. Pale green fluid enveloped him completely. Leather and steel restraints held him in place. His mortal wounds were slowly healing in the solution—but on the other side, exposed metal cables lay submerged in the liquid as well.
"Like a nightmare…"
Galahad replied weakly.
Noticing his gaze, Nikola continued.
"Please understand. You were contaminated by an Old-Era Godframe. If you lose control again, we scientists won't be able to stop you."
Nikola glanced around with a thin smile. Surrounding them were others in the same uniform—ghostlike figures who walked without a sound. There was no idle conversation here, only the clicking of keys and the scratch of equations being written down.
There were young faces and old, and even people who worked while connected to massive external circulation machines, their lives sustained as they labored. Every one of them was a towering authority in their own field. It could be said that they were the ones who had pushed humanity's understanding of the world to its current edge.
The Mechanicum advanced mortal technology.
Above it, the Perpetual Pump sought the power of gods.
This was the true center of the world's science—the intellectual heart of all Inverg. If these people died, Inverg's technological progress would stagnate for at least a decade.
"So this is your insurance?"
Galahad gathered a bit of strength and looked at the cables soaking in the fluid.
"Of course. Above us is the Furnace Pillar. With the Queen's approval, we have top-priority power access. If you lose control, all I need to do is pull the switch—and you'll get to experience what it feels like to be struck by Odin's lightning."
Nikola forced an ugly smile.
"The sensation should be very brief. Less than a second, really. Without the Old-Era Godframe, your brain will be flash-fried instantly, and your body will carbonize into a pile of ash. Then I press the drainage button, and you can embrace the Thames."
Galahad did not appreciate the joke.
"Nikola. You didn't used to talk this much nonsense."
"For a terminal patient, a little comfort is only polite, don't you think?"
"You think those damn cold jokes are comforting?"
These lunatics had stayed underground too long. Their mental states were, frankly, unstable.
"Very well," Nikola said. "Let's skip this unpleasant part."
His expression sank into stillness, flat as dead water. He picked up a report from nearby, stepped to the edge of the container, and spoke to Galahad.
"Galahad, your will assessment results are poor. You've been polluted by the Old-Era Godframe."
"Just give me the outcome. I'm a Knight-Commander—I know what those Godframes are made of."
Galahad's voice was calm, utterly unconcerned with the so-called 'terminal diagnosis.'
After a brief silence, Nikola slowly read off the data.
"Forty-seven percent of your neural system has been eroded by the Old-Era Godframe. It hasn't crossed the critical threshold, but the damage is severe. Treatment should reduce the contamination somewhat—but only somewhat."
"In other words," Galahad said, his expression changing for the first time—only for an instant, before returning to its usual indifference,
"this corrosion is irreversible."
The Old-Epoch God-Armor was a classified weapon of the Perpetual Engine. No one quite knew how those lunatics had managed to create such a thing. It possessed the traits of demons—yet unlike demons, it could be controlled by human hands.
But like any double-edged blade, to wield it was no different from fighting a demon itself. Even as humans used it, they endured its corrosion.
"Yes. Contact with demons leads to contamination. That aberrant taint then erodes us. Once the source is removed, the erosion usually subsides over time. But for those who have been exposed too long—like you—the level of corrosion declines only slowly, and in some cases even rebounds. And once it crosses the critical threshold… you begin to demonize. At one hundred percent, you become a demon."
This was something every member of the Purification Agency knew. Yet spoken aloud at this moment, it carried a peculiar cruelty: those who fought demons would, in the end, become demons themselves.
"But don't worry," Nikola added calmly. "I'll propose to Arthur that you be reassigned. You're no longer suited for frontline duty, Galahad."
As if reminded of a long-forgotten past, Nikola continued.
"Shall I help you plan your retirement? You could go to my hometown. It's a bit far from Inglvig, but the weather is bright, and it's a rather pleasant place to grow old."
Hometown?
Galahad paused, momentarily dazed. He had known Nikola for years, yet had never once heard him mention a hometown. Nikola had been a foreign student from some obscure place—someone who, in his very first semester at the Royal Institute of Mechanical Engineering, had plunged the entire campus into blackout while pursuing one of his inventions.
He had not been disciplined. A researcher from the Mechanical Faculty, temporarily serving as acting director, had recognized Nikola's talent and recruited him on the spot.
A madman had stepped into a madman's paradise, and risen swiftly ever since. In Galahad's eyes, Nikola's life consisted of nothing but inventions and explosions.
"Yes, my hometown. If I hadn't heard that Old Dunlin was the most advanced place in the world, I wouldn't have left at all."
"Leaving one's homeland… that sounds heavy. Why did you come here?"
"For science."
"Science?"
"Yes. Science. Galahad, you're just a brute. I've seen your university transcript—your mechanical engineering was frankly appalling."
Geniuses were always like this, casually mocking mortals in idle conversation.
"Whether it's political power or exquisite swordsmanship, their impact on the world is minimal—at best, they influence a few generations. Science is different. Every person in this world benefits, directly or indirectly, from technology. That's not something ideals or force can achieve. Those who truly change the world are not politicians, nor warriors—but scientists."
The dull eyes dulled by sleep deprivation suddenly lit up. It was hard to believe that Galahad could see something resembling ideals in the eyes of this madman.
"So, Galahad—no matter what decision Arthur makes, don't resist it. If you continue down this path, you'll only become a demon. And your impact on this world will remain negligible."
It sounded almost like persuasion.
"…What did I do while I was unconscious?"
Ignoring Nikola's words, Galahad lowered his head after a brief pause, gazing at his body submerged in pale green fluid. He had lost control—but he was alive. He remembered the overwhelming power he had felt after donning the God-Armor. By all logic, the armor should have eroded him to death. Yet he had survived… which meant someone had subdued him.
"You nearly killed Robin and Shrike," Nikola said evenly, "and then, while enduring smoothbore artillery fire and high-voltage currents, you nearly killed me as well."
He analyzed the battle in a clinical tone, his gaunt face devoid of expression—perhaps years of sleeplessness had burned his facial nerves numb.
"A thirty-kilogram warhead barely slowed you. Even lethal mercury vapor failed to stop you. In that sense, your loss of control was useful. Aside from Lancelot's Old-Epoch God-Armor, the others still require recalibration. I have no desire to retrieve any of you a second time."
Lancelot.
The familiar name echoed once more, stirring an indescribable feeling in Galahad.
"That man… can actually control the armor?"
The memory was nightmarish. Even knowing him as a comrade, the fact that someone could endure such horror filled Galahad with an uncanny sense of distance.
"He was born for the God-Armor," Nikola replied. "You Grand Knights have all undergone neural specialization. Compared to ordinary people, you can endure demonic will far longer—sometimes even ignore most of the corrosion entirely. And Lancelot stands above you all."
Nikola recalled the first experiment. Lancelot, the test pilot, had shown no loss of control when fully encased in the Old-Epoch God-Armor—not even a flicker of emotional disturbance. Absolute rationality, cold as a machine.
Following Nikola's instructions, he completed every high-difficulty maneuver with ruthless efficiency and unquestioning obedience. Arthur had ordered a separate evaluation just for him. Lancelot passed with a perfect score.
"You know how special the Old-Epoch God-Armor is. It took the Perpetual Engine years to produce the first batch. Every deployment requires Arthur's personal approval—yet Lancelot was granted autonomous authorization to carry one."
Nikola paused, then waved the matter away.
"That's enough. You need rest. The residual matter from the God-Armor in your body must be flushed out. Sleep."
Apparently tired of the conversation, Nikola denied Galahad any chance to respond. He pressed a switch nearby. A new gas flowed through the breathing mask and into Galahad's lungs. Within seconds, his consciousness sank once more into darkness, his body drifting into heavy sleep within the container.
Watching the sleeping face, Nikola's expression slowly hardened. He moved to the rear of the vessel, where Galahad's body could be seen through the semi-translucent wall.
His back was an eerie gray. Most of the flesh appeared necrotic, dissolving gradually in the pale green fluid. Fine clusters of tumors sloughed away. The damage was even worse than Nikola had described.
"The areas assimilated by the Old-Epoch God-Armor have been excised," an assistant reported, stepping forward. He had been recording data from the shadows ever since Galahad regained consciousness. "Based on neural activity during the conversation, Galahad's corrosion level is stable."
"That bad, huh…"
Nikola knew all too well what the God-Armor was made of. Assimilation by such a thing was little different from localized demonization. Still, they had pulled Galahad back from the brink. Otherwise, the Perpetual Engine's incinerator would have been his only destination.
"Send the report to Arthur. What happens to Galahad next is his decision."
Nikola signed his name at the bottom of the report. Halfway through, he seemed to realize he had forgotten something. After rummaging through his pockets, he finally found his nameplate. No wonder Shrike called this place a nest of lunatics—lunatics so blissfully absorbed that they couldn't even remember their own names.
He raised his pen, then froze midair, staring at the figure within the vessel like a statue.
Once withdrawn from the front lines, Galahad would never set foot on the battlefield again. Though Nikola had traded most of his emotional intelligence for raw intellect, he understood all too well that this would be a devastating blow for Galahad. And Nikola himself bore part of the blame. If not for his experiments, perhaps Galahad would have been unharmed.
As if to console himself—and Galahad as well—he murmured softly.
"So you see, no single person can truly change the world. But I am different, Galahad.
I am a scientist.
I am destined to change the world."
As the words fell, arcs of lightning several meters thick tore across the steel dome above. The flash illuminated the darkened corners, bleaching Nikola's face pale white.
Thousands of cables were arranged in concentric patterns, like the apparatus of some arcane ritual. Lightning and thunder burst forth intermittently, as though a god were descending.
The staff had all come to a halt—not to rest, but to wait. Every preparation was complete. All that remained was Nikola's command to begin.
After one last glance at the sleeping Galahad, Nikola handed the signed report to an assistant. Beneath the dense columns of data lay a single line of crooked handwriting:
Nikola Tesla.