Countless believers flooded into this holy city, celebrating the Night of Divine Nativity. Though winter had already set in, the city still burned hot, stirred by the thunder of innumerable hearts.
This was a sacred festival of the Evangelical Church. According to the Gospels, the so-called God was born on this very day. With His birth, the first ray of sunlight pierced a world of utter blackness, and thus a rain of fire filled the skies, setting the entire world ablaze for seven days and seven nights.
Demons that once roamed the desolate lands perished beneath that firestorm. From their ashes, new life was born. Even the ancient glaciers could not withstand it—melting away until surging seas swallowed more than half the world.
Only after this destruction did a beautiful new world slowly rise.
Yet in the Revelation, this day bears another meaning. The scripture tells that when God descends, the darkest shadow alone is cast at His feet—that shadow is the Abyss. On this day, not only did the divine appear, but the demons that would do battle with Him also crawled forth from the darkness.
"What are you waiting for, child?"
Stepping down from the carriage onto a blood-red carpet, Archbishop Lawrence looked at Lloyd, who still stood rooted in place, and voiced his doubt at the young man's hesitation.
"I'm thinking,"
Lloyd replied slowly after a long pause.
"Thinking about what?"
"Everything."
As if he had just heard a joke, Archbishop Lawrence smiled and walked closer.
"There's no need for that anymore. What you must do now is accept the honor and revel in this victorious celebration."
The war between the Demon-Hunting Order and the fiends—waged for hundreds, even thousands of years—had finally come to an end. Every sacrifice had become worthwhile. Torches burned fiercely in the night, until endless darkness was reduced to ash.
Blood had turned into mead. Corpses had become soft bread. Even the air itself seemed sickeningly sweet.
Lloyd could not help but look around. Faces were alight with fanatic joy. Sacred prayers rose and fell with the organ music in the cathedral, the melody boiling higher and higher, as though the entire world were singing in praise.
Yes—this truly was a day worth celebrating. Long ago, a god had been born on this date. And in this far-distant future, the last demon would finally be nailed to the cross.
So the masses rejoiced.
"Come, Lloyd."
Archbishop Lawrence extended his hand once more, as though offering an invitation.
Behind him, at the end of the crimson carpet, the great doors of St. Nalo Cathedral slowly opened. Endless light spilled through the widening gap, and the hymn swelled ever louder.
"Lloyd, what are you still waiting for?"
Lawrence's hand remained outstretched. Yet on the other side, Lloyd seemed frozen in place.
He gazed quietly at the archbishop, gray-blue eyes filled with pity and remembrance.
"No," he said softly. "That place was never meant for me… In fact, neither Florence nor the Evangelical Church truly belongs to me."
As he spoke, Lloyd casually adjusted his garments. From within the holy vestments, he deftly produced a metal case, took out a cigarette, and lit it.
"I recall you don't smoke,"
Archbishop Lawrence said slowly, as if noticing a flaw in the scene.
"True. It's a bad habit I picked up back in Old Dunlin."
Lloyd looked around at the revelry, as though watching a farcical play.
"Do you remember, Archbishop Lawrence? You were the one who led our specialized training as demon hunters. You told us then that demons are corrosive—that before such terrifying erosion, human will can only offer a pitiful resistance."
"And so we needed a guiding star," he continued. "Something to show us the way when we fall into darkness."
Lawrence understood what Lloyd was implying, and his expression grew more solemn.
"You mean to say that all of this is an illusion—that the Seven Hills, even myself, are nothing more than hallucinations born of demonic corrosion?"
Lloyd smiled and nodded. He had seen through it all long ago, yet perhaps out of nostalgia, he had lingered rather than leaving at once.
"Then tell me, Lloyd," Lawrence asked again, "if you know this is an illusion, how do you judge it?"
A guiding star can take many forms: an object, a sentence, even a natural phenomenon. What it is doesn't matter. What matters is that the moment you know it exists, you can distinguish illusion from reality.
"I remember you never found your own guiding star," Lawrence went on. "Such a thing requires absolute trust and uniqueness—qualities many people never find."
Like a small boat in a storm, human will trembles amid a demonic tempest. To escape, one needs direction—one unwavering star to lead the way. Yet the night sky is crowded with countless stars; only one can be so singular that it is never mistaken for another.
"Which is precisely why we accepted the Baptism of Divine Grace, isn't it?"
Lloyd replied calmly. The cigarette was already half-burned, pale smoke curling upward.
"In that ritual, our minds are refined. And within our memories appears something that does not belong to us—yet is known only to us."
He spoke with the confidence of someone holding the winning hand.
For once, Archbishop Lawrence stopped smiling. A dangerous aura seeped from beneath his kindly demeanor.
"So… is it forty-two?"
The only thing Lawrence could think of was that strange, seemingly meaningless number Lloyd had mentioned before. Yet as a guiding star, it was absurdly inadequate.
Forty-two of what?
Forty-two birds? Forty-two swords? Or the number engraved on a bronze plate?
It was far too vague.
Lloyd shook his head, rejecting the answer.
"No. It's me."
"…What?"
For a moment, Lawrence failed to understand. Lloyd quickly clarified.
"Lloyd Holmes. Isn't that name itself a guiding star?"
"But there are many people in this world. What if someone shares your name?"
Follow the wrong star, and the boat will never leave the storm.
"That won't happen," Lloyd said. "Because this name is special. It barely qualifies as a name at all—it's merely a symbol that stands in for one."
Lloyd liked this name. It was the embodiment of a wish.
"Besides…"
His hand moved to a familiar place, and from beneath the robes he drew a keen blade.
No one stirred at the sight of Lloyd drawing his sword. He was a priest, a paladin of the cathedral, a demon hunter.
This was a place where faith could take solid form. All who entered were believers of God, bound by absolute trust—laughable, perhaps, yet as firm as steel.
No one believed Lloyd capable of sacrilege. In their eyes, he was just like them: a most devout believer.
"What are you trying to say?"
Archbishop Lawrence also placed his hand beneath his robes. The sword that had followed him through countless campaigns rested there, hidden within crimson cloth, awaiting his command.
"What I mean is this: more importantly, this is not my dream… it is his."
"Just like the name Lloyd Holmes—at this moment, that name has not yet been born."
Lloyd stared quietly at the reflection in his blade. The face mirrored there was not his own. Aside from the same gray-blue eyes, the two faces were utterly different.
It really has been a long time.
Gazing at that familiar visage, Lloyd was filled with emotion. Even after so many years, that man's influence remained. Even as Lloyd nearly forgot him, he was dragged once more into that man's dream—a dead man's dream.
From the very beginning, Lloyd had realized this place was false. It was another person's memory, another person's dream. On the Day of Divine Nativity, he had never been among the Seven Hills, nor had he possessed the authority to speak directly with Archbishop Lawrence.
Only he had that right—the one who lived deep within Lloyd's soul.
"If I didn't still have things to do," Lloyd murmured, "I'd really like to stay here a little longer."
He looked upon the beauty that no longer existed. In the next instant, the sword slashed upward.
True to his title as leader of the Demon-Hunting Order, Archbishop Lawrence reacted with astonishing speed despite his age—faster even than Lloyd. His blade moved like lightning tearing through the night, splitting the air with rolling thunder.
Steel crashed against steel. Sparks and shrill clangor intertwined, like the tolling of a bronze bell.
All eyes turned toward them. From the sky, a shard of metal fell—a broken section of blade—embedding itself in the crimson carpet.
"Impressive… truly,"
Lloyd exclaimed, gripping the broken sword. Even in an illusion, Lawrence was this formidable—so formidable that the outcome was decided in the very first exchange.
"Your will has been eroded," Lawrence said gravely, his blade resting lightly against Lloyd's neck. "This is not a dream. This is reality."
Such cases were common within the Order. After years of slaughter, demon hunters often suffered deepening corrosion, until reality and illusion blurred beyond distinction. Throughout their conversation, Lawrence had tried to guide Lloyd toward his guiding star, hoping he might escape the darkness. But Lloyd had already confused everything, trapped within the storm.
"I haven't at all, Archbishop Lawrence,"
Lloyd replied, utterly unconcerned by the blade at his throat, still wearing that reckless smile.
"Your behavior is like a madman trying to prove he isn't mad."
"So it's an unsolvable loop, then?" Lloyd asked.
"We can cure you."
"You mean by reinforcing the silver binding bolt?"
Lloyd laughed, clearly mocking him. When Lawrence fell silent, he continued.
"There's actually another way to prove whether this is a dream."
Ominous intent hid within his words. Lawrence sensed it and instinctively swung his sword—but this time, he was a step too slow.
The broken blade drove straight through Lloyd's chest.
Laughing wildly, yet with longing in his eyes, Lloyd gazed upon the city.
If you're trapped in a dream, then all you have to do is wake up—so long as you can wake up.
"It's good to see you again, Archbishop Lawrence."
Blood poured forth uncontrollably, leaving his warm body as if in farewell.
"Let the relics of the old era end here."
With a smile, Lloyd wrenched the broken sword free—and before Lawrence's stunned eyes, he plunged it into him once more.