The sea began to howl as the rising wind drove the tide forward. Waves smashed against the coastal reefs, shattering at last into pallid foam that dissolved into the air.
A solitary lighthouse stood upon that roaring sea. Blue-green moss crept over scarred stone bricks, and at its highest point the guiding flame burned in silence, releasing an eerie, ghostly green glow.
After a brief peal of thunder, torrential rain poured down, as if some forgotten god were weeping for having been cast aside. Rushing water warped the contours of the world, carrying bone-deep cold as it scoured everything clean.
"The Purification Agency has arrived. We need to evacuate now."
A voice broke the silence. Neutral in tone, it emerged from beneath a beaked mask. The mirrored lenses of the plague doctor reflected the幽green light, lending him an indescribable sense of the grotesque.
"They're carrying heavy firepower, and Lancelot is with them. We can't hold our ground."
He looked toward the figure standing at the edge of the high platform. The green glow outlined his silhouette—a man who seemed like a priest, dressed in church vestments, the hems of his sleeves sewn with silver crosses.
"You should go first. I'll stay here."
The man replied calmly, gazing down at the earth below.
He did not care what would happen next. In this moment, the only thing that mattered to him was the present—this present that had haunted him for so long.
"Even though we managed to trap that train, the Dawnbound is still pursuing us from the sky. To draw Lancelot away, we sacrificed a great many people, and all we gained was half a minute."
"How long can we hold it?" he asked suddenly.
"You mean… this night?"
The man nodded. He knew very well what could kill demons, and just as well what could make them stronger.
"Sunrise has been delayed. Endless clouds and darkness are sheltering this place."
There was a hint of uncertainty in the plague doctor's voice.
"Are you sure about this?"
He doubted him. Leaving the man here alone would mean nothing but death.
"Yes. Right now the Nightmare Phantasm has taken control of the train—we have the advantage. And according to our intelligence, there's still a demon hunter over there, isn't there?"
A trace of nostalgia flickered in the man's eyes. He looked at the wound on his arm; as the secret blood surged, searing white flames rose within his gaze.
"It must be a demon hunter. Only a hunter's spirit-sight can reach so deep into the Gap. That's why I can see him—and he can see me."
Like a delighted child, his words carried madness and joy.
"Plague Doctor… after all these years, I've finally met another demon hunter. I'm overflowing with questions—and with happiness."
As he spoke, the white flames roared higher.
For six years he had believed himself to be the last demon hunter. Now another had appeared in this desolate world, and the feeling was strange, beyond words.
"Then I'll begin preparing the transfer of the Sacred Coffin."
The plague doctor said no more. Though they had not worked together long, he understood exactly what kind of man this was. He shifted directly into formal procedure. Tonight, the Sacred Coffin had to leave Invelvig.
"Go. Speed it up. Don't worry about casualties. In the end, only you and the Sacred Coffin can leave anyway, can't you?"
The demon hunter spoke with disarming calm. Just as he had once done beneath the catacombs of Sabo, he was a man already destined to die—a martyr offering himself for some greater cause.
"Send my regards to the Mentor. Tell him I look forward to seeing him in the new age."
The plague doctor nodded, turned, and left.
The demon hunter fell silent. He gazed upon the world beneath the lighthouse, all of it shrouded in that ghostly green light.
Within the sound of rain, the world was changing.
Demonic corruption could spread through countless media—light included. Wherever the eye could reach, the land's former solidity was gone. It had softened like flesh. Vast, malformed tentacles grew from the base of the lighthouse, stretching across great distances until they completely engulfed what had once been a town.
This was a living land. People lay embedded within its flesh, bathed in green light, appearing to sleep—smiles of sweet dreams on their faces.
Every face bore the same expression. They were immersed in a single shared dream, and it continued to spread outward like a virus, through every possible medium.
Tentacles coiled around the railway. Upon it thundered a train called the Radiant, racing forward like prey about to leap into a trap.
The plague doctor descended the spiral staircase slowly. The interior of the lighthouse had become a breeding sac of flesh; crimson organs hung everywhere. At the very bottom lay an elderly man, resting at the center of it all, his face peaceful, content.
The plague doctor spared him only a glance before striding away. He already had the experimental data he needed. Any further observation was meaningless.
As his gaze moved on, it passed beyond the lighthouse. Beneath the rain were figures worn thin by the storm. They shivered in the freezing wind, the cold air nearly choking them, yet none stopped. Bearing steel upon their shoulders, they advanced like ascetics on pilgrimage.
At first there had been hundreds. Now only sixteen remained.
They were consumables. When one fell, another took his place, continuing to bear the heavy sacred burden.
Ash-gray robes clung to their bodies, stained with streaks of brutal red. More blood poured from their eyes, noses, and mouths. They swayed, yet stubbornly held up the iron coffin.
In the darkness, whispers seemed to rise—slowly fermenting ill omens, murmurs and prayers intertwining until they became a sacred hymn.
The ascetics sang.
They sang of a great age.
And so more blood spilled from their features, as if squeezed out by some unseen force. Their bodies withered rapidly, drying and collapsing. Before a single sob could escape, they crumbled like broken ash, washed away by the rain.
Another man stepped into the vacant place, bracing the load. He prayed.
"Everyone, please—pick up the pace."
The plague doctor said this, though he did not know whether they could hear him. They were like stubborn sea turtles, advancing toward the ocean no matter the danger.
All he could do was follow behind them, watching as they moved toward the tide. Yet at one moment, as if guided by some malign chance, his gaze drifted to the sacred object they carried.
From beginning to end, he had done everything he could to avoid looking directly at it. But now, it seemed some presence had finally found its opening—and seized it.
Look at me…
What do you desire?
Knowledge… or eternal life…
In an instant, whispering voices flooded his mind. His vision shattered into chaos. Cold sweat poured from him, his heart racing, and just as he neared collapse, a holy prayer resounded within his soul.
The sound was vast, like the tolling of a great bell, rising higher and sharper.
The plague doctor struggled to his feet. Before him, the ascetics still moved toward the sea. They paused, as if waiting for him. Sensing his escape from danger, they resumed their murmured holy words, stumbling onward.
Forward—into the tide.
The water rose to their waists, then to their necks. When even the plague doctor began to think this was nothing but a march to death, a wooden boat burst through the waves.
As if fate itself had decreed it.
The sea swallowed their heads, yet arms reached out, clutching the boat. Together they lifted the heavy sacred burden aboard. Waves slammed into the plague doctor; his soaked garments became shackles. No matter how hard he struggled, the boat of hope remained just out of reach.
Then, in that moment of despair, countless hands seized him. The ascetics hoisted him up as well, lifting him onto the boat. Thunder split the night sky. Beneath the dark blue sea, he saw—only for a moment—rows of serene, holy faces. They seemed to smile as they gave the boat one final push, sending it away from shore.
The ascetics died.
They sank into the freezing tide, their last strength spent in setting the boat adrift. The plague doctor turned his back to the sacred object, breathing heavily, his face twisted.
He did not believe in gods. Yet in this moment, everything aligned with such cruel precision that it was impossible not to feel some unseen hand guiding it all.
The wooden boat had no sail. There was only just enough room for the plague doctor and the object called the Sacred Coffin. Driven by the waves, they were carried onward—toward the place that had already been decided.