Outer City — East Ilyns District, Cork Street 121A
A full week had passed since that night of madness.
No one came knocking. Nothing strange followed. Everything faded like a dream—one that, upon waking, left nothing behind.
Lloyd tried to find Shrike. He went out armed to the teeth beneath a pitch-black trench coat, looking like a man ready to raze a city if needed. It was pointless. Shrike seemed to have vanished entirely, unaware that anything had even happened, absent for days on end.
He lay submerged in the bathtub, warm water washing the exhaustion from his body. Every inch of him soaked in heat, savoring a rare and fragile calm.
Madam Vandervelde was taking her afternoon nap. His conveniently cheap roommate was still pulling overtime at the factory. In this modest house, Lloyd was alone at last.
Above him, a dim yellow lamp glowed. From the street drifted the ordinary sounds of life. He relaxed despite himself, raised a cigarette, and took a deep drag. It felt… good.
It had been many years since Lloyd last dealt with demons. His connection to darkness should have long since withered away. And yet that hideous blackness refused to let him go—seizing him again just when he had nearly forgotten it ever existed.
He climbed out of the tub, wrapped in a white towel, damp footprints trailing behind him as he walked toward the bedroom. His wounds were still healing. The serious ones remained, but the minor injuries had nearly closed, leaving behind dark red scars that had yet to fade.
Since that night, neither Shrike nor Eve had contacted him. Lloyd didn't care much about that. What troubled him were the unanswered questions.
It was now clear that Wall's abnormality was demonic in nature. Wall had been a crewman of the Silverfish, and he had come into contact with that mysterious Holy Coffin. Which meant everyone aboard that ship had been contaminated. At least sixteen potential demons were now roaming the city.
The second mystery was the shadowy organization that attacked the underground sanctuary that night. Lloyd distinctly remembered encountering a massive mass of Mawchew Weed in the hidden passage. Yet Old Dunling showed no signs of disturbance afterward. There was only one possible conclusion—the organization had handled everything perfectly.
From this alone, Lloyd inferred that their scale was likely no smaller than that of the Demon Hunter Order.
What a headache…
The situation was becoming clearer. This was a struggle between two secret factions, and he was the unlucky bastard caught in the middle.
The only remaining uncertainty was Shrike's role in all this. Lloyd had always believed him to be an underground kingpin, amassing wealth through smuggling. But now, Shrike himself was riddled with questions.
With a sigh, Lloyd dressed neatly, gathered himself, and left the house.
Winchester rested beneath his coat, pressed close to his body. A black deerstalker hat was pulled low, partially shading his gray-blue eyes. His cane-sword had snapped during the fight with Sabo, and a replacement was still being forged by the blacksmith.
"Strange indeed…"
He lifted his head. Endless pale light spilled through the gloomy sky. Hard to believe—Old Dunling was actually a little brighter today. The clouds still lingered, but they had cracked open just enough to let the light through.
Lloyd had already begun a new life. He had no business meddling in affairs like this anymore. The sensible choice would be to buy a ticket, take a ship somewhere far away, and rest properly.
But everyone has a bottom line.
Even Lloyd—vile as he was—had one. Though "bottom line" hardly seemed a word meant for him. Still, he did have one. It was just very, very low. About five meters underground.
He stopped by a street-side flower shop and bought a single white flower, humming a tune as if he were on his way to meet a beautiful lady.
He boarded a steam tram, watching the scenery slide slowly past, anticipation quietly swelling in his chest.
This was one of his small pleasures—boarding a random steam tram and riding it all the way to the terminus. Given the speed and the sheer size of Old Dunling, the journey usually consumed an entire day.
Several hours later, Lloyd finally arrived at the last stop.
It was rare for this place to be free of cloud cover. A ruined church stood on desolate grassland. Not far away loomed the steel city, steam and rail steadily encroaching, devouring the land bit by bit. In a few more years, this place too would likely be swallowed by iron.
When Lloyd first arrived in Old Dunling years ago, a few priests still visited this church. But people had gradually left for factory work in the city. One by one, they disappeared—until even the priests abandoned the place.
Only Lloyd returned from time to time, to visit an old friend.
He stepped over weeds and barbed wire. Among a scatter of broken stones, he found the heavily weathered gravestone. The inscription had long since eroded beyond recognition. Without Lloyd's memory, no one would even realize this was a grave.
"Good morning!"
Lloyd greeted it cheerfully, then removed the white flower from his chest and placed it at the base of the stone.
"Honestly, every time I come here, I can't help thinking—you've been dead for a really long time now, haven't you?"
There was none of the solemn reverence of a mourner. It was more like an enemy taunting another's grave: Surprised? I lived longer than you.
He joked for a while, but the smile soon faded. Even Lloyd hadn't expected to return here one day—like a reunion dictated by fate.
After a long silence, his gaze hardened.
With a sharp motion, he drew Winchester. His lips moved in a low prayer as he pulled the trigger.
"Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. Resist him, firm in your faith."
The hushed prayer merged with the thunder of gunfire. Solid stone shattered piece by piece, until the grotesque thing within was finally revealed.
A wave of warped, uncanny sensation washed over Lloyd, as if he had unleashed a demon. He didn't care. There was nothing left for him to fear.
When the final bullet left the chamber, the last of the protective casing collapsed. The black box lay fully exposed before him.
It had been sealed away for many years, yet its surface was smooth—as though it had only just been placed there.
Dark gold patterns spread across it. Layer upon layer of sacred script was engraved into its surface, hymns praising divinity and the holy. Lloyd lifted it, pressed it into the familiar recess, and it opened with a soft response.
"Long time no see."
Cold radiance flooded his vision. Under the light, they glittered like diamonds. But when he focused, he saw the truth—perfectly crafted blades, one after another.
Just like his cane-sword. Simple in form—blade and hilt alone—long and slender, like silver nails.
His eyes reflected on the polished edges. Fine inscriptions traced the steel. And should they taste blood, they would paint the most crimson of tapestries.
…
It was a hall drowned in darkness.
Only through the skylight at the crown of the dome did a thin spill of light descend, illuminating the vast circular table below.
Gazing up at the patch of cerulean sky beyond that opening, Red Falcon sometimes lost his sense of place entirely. This was the most secret chamber of the Purification Order. Even as an Upper Knight, every visit required him to be blindfolded.
He knew he had not been moved far—so he must still be within Old Dunling.
And yet Old Dunling had no sky this blue.
Harrier, beside him, wore the same look of quiet disorientation. Despite having served the Order for years, he could count on one hand the times he had entered the Shattered Dome. More than once he had been tempted to break protocol and rush out of the chamber just to glimpse what lay beyond. If ever there were a good chance, today would be it—but his wounds had not yet healed. He had been brought here in a wheelchair.
"Our situation is… far from favorable."
The voice came from the far end of the round table. Following the surface scarred by countless sword marks, there was nothing to see but darkness—yet both men knew exactly who sat there.
The Supreme Commander of the Purification Order.
The Knight King.
Arthur.
To be honest, the two of them felt a faint, creeping unease. They were only Upper Knights. What merit had they, to be summoned to the Round Council Chamber for a face-to-face audience with Arthur himself?
"So what exactly is going on?"
A recklessly calm voice cut in. "You summoned us personally… and even called in a patient. I assume that means things are already spiraling out of control."
Only then did Red Falcon realize there was a third person nearby.
She made no attempt to conceal herself. Bathed in the dim glow, her figure was elegant, draped in vivid blue-violet robes. If not for the familiar mask upon her face, Red Falcon might have mistaken her for a noblewoman who had wandered in by accident.
"Blue Emerald?"
Harrier sounded genuinely surprised. He hadn't expected to see her here.
"Enough catching up," Arthur said.
Though his tone carried a smile, all three of them straightened at once.
"Nearly all knights stationed in Old Dunling have already been deployed. Our defenses here are thin, and the enemy's whereabouts remain unknown."
"Ever since the Sacred Coffin entered Inverg through the Holy Sepulcher, demonic anomalies of varying severity have erupted across its territories. Knight Commanders are being run ragged. It's an obvious diversion—our enemies in the shadows are trying to shield the Sacred Coffin."
"For that reason, Lancelot departed aboard the Dawnward Voyager, carrying the Old-Era Divine Armor, to hunt it down. Yet despite all this time, he's found nothing conclusive. According to our projections, we have roughly one week left. After that, there's a high probability the Sacred Coffin will be smuggled out of Inverg."
"We must find a way to keep it here."
In the darkness, Arthur's eyes seemed to burn with fire. His voice was steady—but the gravity of it weighed heavily on all three.
"No matter how many ordinary soldiers we throw at this, it won't be enough. I need knights who have undergone neural augmentation—those capable of resisting demonic corruption. Unfortunately, our losses have exceeded expectations."
"At present, the only personnel Old Dunling can spare… are the three of you."
"What about Galahad?"
Harrier asked at once. Galahad was his friend. Under normal circumstances, Old Dunling had three Knight Commanders. Two had already been dispatched to pursue the Sacred Coffin, and after that night, Galahad had vanished as well.
The voice in the darkness paused before answering.
"This operation was originally meant for Galahad. But he has been detained by the Perpetual Engine. His physical condition—and his level of corruption—make him unfit for action, at least for now."
"So this mission will be led by you, Harrier."
"Me?"
Harrier froze. His injuries hadn't even fully healed—and he was being sent out again?
"I know this order puts you in a difficult position," Arthur said quietly. "But among those present, you understand the situation best. I need you to lead them. You will have my full support."
"This is too rushed," Red Falcon protested. "We don't even fully understand the objective."
"I don't want it this way either," Arthur replied. "But we are out of time. According to Lancelot's latest report, he has narrowed down the Sacred Coffin's approximate location."
"I don't need you to defeat the enemy. I only need you to go there and create chaos—to stall them as long as possible. Lancelot will handle the actual engagement."
His voice remained calm.
Too calm.
It sounded dangerously close to a death sentence.
"Then why not have Lancelot go there himself?"
Blue Emerald finally spoke, breaking her silence. "There's no need to complicate things this much."
A long sigh rose from the darkness. After a moment, Arthur answered.
"Because he can't make it back in time."
"In recent weeks, every Knight Commander has been subjected to sustained, proactive demonic assaults. Endless waves of demons are tying them down. This time, the demons aren't hiding at all—they're acting openly, all for the sake of the Sacred Coffin."
"Even the Dawnward Voyager has been forced to stop at the port of Rendona due to depleted fuel. It needs resupply."
"For the first time in many years, the demons have mobilized en masse. We underestimated their numbers. That's why we can only scrape together a team like yours."
"You all know this—ordinary people who fight demons will eventually be corrupted. That would only swell the enemy's ranks."
"…No," Harrier said slowly. "That can't be the only reason."
He had been thinking for a long while. His own life meant little to him—but he sensed another danger lurking beneath the surface.
"Inverg is our home ground. Even mobilizing the army, we could crush them with ease. Why go to such lengths? Is it really just fear that contamination would collapse the military?"
As he spoke, his hand rested against the side of his wheelchair—on a concealed compartment. Inside was a gun.
In his memory, Arthur had always been the embodiment of absolute rationality—never one to make meaningless sacrifices. Yet today, his words were riddled with gaps. Enough to raise alarm.
After all, when fighting demons, even a leader losing his sanity was not beyond possibility.
"…That's true."
Arthur rose and stepped out of the darkness.
Exhaustion filled his eyes. White hair and deep wrinkles had overtaken what was once a handsome face. He looked like a lion at dusk—aged, battered, as though he had just endured a long and brutal war.
"I wouldn't be this desperate under normal circumstances. We possess the most advanced fleet in the world. The Sacred Coffin should have no way to escape by sea."
"But this intelligence… changed everything."
A document slid across the round table toward them. The envelope bore a highest-classification seal stamped into thick parchment. By rank alone, none of them should have been allowed to see it.
"Read it. It's no longer truly classified. After this is over, I intend to convene a full Round Table and make it public."
Arthur pulled a cigarette from his coat. Normally, he never smoked—but under immense pressure, he still found himself taking a few drags, as if pretending he could momentarily step out of his own life.
"I know some of my recent decisions have drawn criticism—supporting the development of Old-Era Divine Armor, authorizing neural specialization experiments. But there was no alternative."
As the pages rustled, everyone's breathing seemed to stop. Shock and dread crept into their eyes—until Arthur's voice broke the suffocating silence once more.
"Before the invention of the steam engine, the Gospel Church ruled the nations. Not because of faith—but because they possessed the Demon Hunter Order. They alone could fight demons."
"Even after we founded the Purification Order and broke free from the Church's control, they remained the true experts in combating demons—the brightest torch in the night."
Arthur's voice trembled.
"Yes. Just as the report states. We can now confirm that the Demon Hunter Order was officially disbanded… six years ago."
"The brightest torch in the night… went out six years ago."