Beneath the pitch-black canopy of night, grotesque, sprawling masses of blood-flesh filled the ground entirely. They surged upward and sagged again, like folded mountain ranges severing all paths and horizons.
Save for the dim, ghostly green lights flickering at the far edge of sight, the world seemed utterly devoid of illumination. And yet, within this deeper stillness, a new fire began to burn from the abyss.
The clotted flesh crackled as if scorched earth, shriveling under heat. A faint glow bloomed beneath its dark-gray surface, and in the very next instant, a sharp nailed sword burst through. Blazing white fire raced along the裂开的 seam, raging wildly until it burned open a hole large enough for a man to pass through.
Shoving aside the hardened flesh, Lloyd crawled out amid rising white steam. He gasped for air, then bent over, retching violently.
Dark red flesh spilled from his mouth, blood dripping from the corner of his lips. He looked utterly exhausted. After emptying his stomach, he propped himself up with his sword and sat heavily to one side.
After a brief calm, he suddenly laughed.
He had gambled correctly. Death truly was the way out of the dream. Once you died, the dream ended. Had Lloyd not done so, he would have remained under the demon's erosion, sinking deeper with time until he finally stood alongside the darkness itself.
"So they really know their craft,"
Lloyd muttered, his expression grim.
Everything just now had been a dream forged by demons. In the past, Lloyd might truly have been unable to find his guiding star, unable to walk out of it. Unfortunately for them, that so-called "Archbishop Lawrence" had still revealed a flaw. Whether it was the ownership of the dream, or those ancient grudges, there was one detail that mattered immensely to Lloyd.
The name Lloyd Holmes was one he had only taken after arriving in Old Dunling.
He struggled to his feet. Indulging in memories had its appeal, but more urgent matters awaited him. The contamination of Ender Town had clearly spread—twisted flesh had already crept this far.
If his guess was correct, what he had encountered was a phenomenon known as the Nightmare Phantasm: a large-scale illusion ritual achievable only through demonic means. It required a Dreamweaver to sustain it—and now, that Dreamweaver was using the spreading flesh to continuously expand the dream's boundaries.
That was likely why the Purification Agency, despite fighting on home ground, had found the battle so arduous. Anyone who stepped into this dream domain would be assaulted by the illusion at once. Unless one possessed extraordinary willpower, or some psychological anchor akin to a guiding star, escape was nearly impossible for ordinary people.
The spreading flesh imprisoned the body; the dream shackled the mind. Given enough time, anyone trapped within would become a demon.
The eerie green light rose at the edge of his vision. Ender Town lay close at hand. Yet the Radiant Glory had been forced to a halt, and everyone aboard the train was now trapped in the trial of the dream. Lloyd had no choice but to proceed on foot.
He had to be fast—fast enough to kill the Dreamweaver before those unfortunate souls were transformed.
With that thought, Lloyd set off toward the green glow, sprinting along the rails. The secret blood within him awakened further with every stride, his body surging forward like a hunting cheetah.
Then—thunder.
It happened almost in an instant. The flesh beside him was torn apart, and a sharp blade jutted out at an impossible angle, carrying lethal intent as it stabbed straight for Lloyd.
He drew his nailed sword. A clear, ringing clash followed. The enemy was terrifyingly fast—so fast that Lloyd couldn't even discern his form at first. Then a howling wind came from behind, and flashing steel filled his vision.
Another crisp chime. Sparks burst as blades collided.
The force behind the strikes grew heavier and heavier. Lloyd barely managed to fend off the attack from his rear. Two shadows separated in a blink, finally halting at a safe distance, facing one another across the blood-soaked ground.
"I've finally found you."
The voice carried a note of fevered excitement.
Hearing that slightly distorted tone, Lloyd lifted his head. At the other end stood a man wielding a sword.
Lloyd said nothing, his gaze sharpening with caution.
Refined by centuries of accumulated experience within the Demon Hunter Order, Lloyd stood at the very peak of human physical capability. Even so, in that brief exchange, the slightest misstep would have seen him cut down.
A demon?
Another demon with self-awareness.
Slowly raising both nailed swords, Lloyd lowered his stance, like a tiger poised to strike, eyes locked unblinkingly on his foe.
"So wonderful…"
The man spread his arms wide, as if to embrace the entire world. His eyes gleamed with a fervor unlike anything Lloyd had ever seen. From the moment Lloyd had laid eyes on him, that manic excitement had never faded.
It was hard to say whether that emotion was joy or something else entirely—and that unsettled Lloyd.
He had seen rage, hatred, and blades swung in pursuit of desire. But someone who took pleasure in slaughter like this was rare. In plain terms, this kind of person was a madman.
"I'm Ed. What's your name?"
Ed spoke with exhilaration, making no effort to conceal his intent as he swung his sword and crashed straight toward Lloyd.
Frankly, Lloyd had no interest in dealing with lunatics.
He answered with silence.
Sword light flashed back and forth. The ringing tremor of metal echoed like a symphony of steel, sparks bursting in quick succession.
Enemies though they were, strangers though they had just met, the two shared a strange, unspoken rhythm. After several dozen seconds of combat, they would retreat almost instinctively—only to clash again moments later.
They were studying one another, using the brief pauses not only to gauge their opponent, but also to let their numbed hands recover.
"Why won't you talk?"
Ed played the madman to perfection. His style was even more ferocious than Lloyd's—wild, unstructured, as though hammering rather than fencing, guided purely by instinct.
Even so, Lloyd gradually gained the upper hand. He began to suppress Ed's movements. Once he forced this madman into a corner—or caught even the slightest opening—Lloyd was confident he could end it with a single decisive blow.
"Are you mute?"
The deranged muttering echoed again as a brutal strike came down from above. Ed's attacks were broad and reckless, every swing committed with full force.
In Lloyd's eyes, a phantom tableau unfolded.
He was calculating.
Within his vision, he saw himself counterattacking—slashing from different angles, in different ways. Some attacks failed outright. Some traded injury for injury. Others were turned aside and punished by Ed.
Only one attack succeeded.
Lloyd lunged directly into the descending blade. One sword rose to parry; the other drove straight toward Ed's chest.
Without hesitation, Lloyd chose it.
The parrying blade dipped. Both swords erupted with a shrill light as they surged toward Ed's torso.
And in that very moment of commitment, Ed's pupils narrowed—bestial.
The falling blade accelerated abruptly. At that speed, Lloyd would be struck before his own sword could pierce Ed's chest.
In that instant of realization, Lloyd's heart tightened.
This Ed was more than just a madman. He was a rational madman. From the very first exchange, he had been probing Lloyd's patterns—deliberately slowing his own attacks to lure Lloyd into misjudgment.
And so, like a film suddenly sped up, the deadly exchange concluded in a heartbeat.
Before Lloyd's blade could reach Ed, the descending strike hit him. Though he raised his other nailed sword to block, one arm alone was not enough to withstand such force.
A thunderous crack rang out, as if steel itself were tearing apart. The blocking sword shattered the moment it made contact. The falling blade carved a deep gash across Lloyd's shoulder. Struck early, his grip shifted—and though his thrust landed, the blade failed to fully sink in.
This gamble ended with Lloyd paying dearly.
But surrender was not in his nature.
In that instant, the Demon Hunter's inhuman physique revealed its worth.
He released the embedded sword, shifted his weight onto his planted foot, and snapped his other leg upward—kicking the sword's hilt lodged in Ed like driving a nail with a hammer. It plunged deeper. Using the recoil of the kick, Lloyd slammed backward onto the ground, clutching his wound as he rolled up and retreated.
He didn't even have time to check Ed's condition.
Dropping the shattered blade, Lloyd raised Winchester in one smooth motion. His blood surged into the chamber. He pulled the trigger.
A round wreathed in blazing white flame screamed through the air.
There was no surprise.
It struck Ed squarely—and the searing white fire erupted in a roaring blaze.