Many have said that the craft of killing can also be called an art.
That was something a friend of Lloyd's once said long ago. He had been an outrageously flamboyant witch hunter—wielding an elegant rapier, a handkerchief tucked neatly into his pocket, immaculate white gloves on his hands. After every mission, he would drench himself in perfume as if the stench of death were an insult to his senses.
Lloyd had once believed the man was nothing more than a fastidious narcissist. Only later did he realize that the elegant hunter truly was an artist. His swordplay was sublime. Watching him kill was like watching a dance: when the final step ended, the enemy collapsed in weakness, crimson blood scattering like red petals flung from a balcony, while not a single drop stained his body. He moved on like the wind itself.
Remembering that old friend was not some deathbed montage of memories. It was simply that Lloyd suddenly understood—he himself had reached something akin to an artist's realm. The instantaneous judgment, the razor-thin exchange, the way the situation had reversed in a blink under his counterattack… If that friend were here, he would surely be applauding.
Lloyd drew a fresh nail-sword from the case hanging at his waist and stared coldly at the mass of burning white flame, waiting only for the figure within it to perish.
But the scene he expected never came.
Instead, a nightmare began.
From the boiling purity of white, a pitch-black silhouette slowly emerged. The searing white fire seemed to coil around him like mist. He pulled the nail-sword from his own chest and casually tossed it aside. Ed looked at Lloyd with a grotesque grin. Then, in his pupils, a whiteness akin to those flames began to expand—like a fire igniting in the abyss, roaring, blazing, until it finally spilled out of its dark prison.
"Does it hurt?"
He regarded Lloyd with smug satisfaction and raised the blade in his hand.
The earlier exchanges had been too fast—like graspable flashes of white light. Lloyd hadn't even been able to discern Ed's weapon. But now he saw it clearly, just as pain like burning fire erupted from the wound on his shoulder.
The self-healing of the secret blood had been suppressed. Some force was blocking his regeneration, leaving the wound twisted and horrific.
"…Holy silver."
Lloyd recognized the sword—and the realization chilled him.
The weapon in Ed's hand consisted of nothing but blade and hilt, like a long silver nail. Like Lloyd's own nail-sword… or rather, like the nail-swords of the Witch Hunter Order.
It had been used for many years. Well maintained, its edge was still keen, though the once smooth surface was now marred by countless scratches, shallow and deep alike—marks of who knew how many slain foes.
"Holy silver," Ed said softly. "An alchemical creation infused with faith. When each great saint dies, they offer themselves to the burning furnaces. Their dying bodies chant hymns as molten silver engulfs them. After it cools and is refined by alchemists, it becomes what we call holy silver."
The madness in Ed's eyes slowly faded, replaced by nostalgia and a trace of sorrow. He gently stroked the blade.
"Witch hunter—this weapon is lethal to monsters. But to us… it is just as deadly."
"I know."
Lloyd cut him off. For the first time, he truly faced the enemy before him, emotions surging within.
"We are witch hunters. We carry secret blood—and that blood originates from monsters. Which means, in truth, we are nothing more than monsters who can control their transformation."
"Yes," Ed murmured. "And so the holy silver that kills our enemies will also kill us."
His voice dropped, then madness surged back. He gripped the nail-sword, the tip lowered slightly—the familiar stance of Bolognese swordsmanship.
"So what do you call this?" he asked. "The dragon slayer becoming the dragon?"
As if mocked by fate itself, Lloyd looked at the witch hunter before him and laughed helplessly.
"This was your doing, wasn't it? Apart from the dead monsters, only we still understand how to use monster-born technology."
"What do you mean? This nightmare illusion?" Ed scoffed. "I couldn't manage something like that. At most, I'm just the hired muscle."
"You're working for monsters?"
"Is there a problem with that?"
Lloyd shook his head. Slowly, he raised his nail-sword and took a stance mirroring Ed's. Reflections of burning eyes flickered along their blades. In that vast battlefield, this moment had become their dueling ground.
"Then what is it you truly want?"Lloyd asked his final question.
"There are many reasons," Ed replied. "For years, I've been searching for my own kind. I have far too many questions."
"What do you want to know?"
Lloyd's face hardened. He had believed himself the sole survivor. It now seemed fortune had favored more than just him.
"Many things. Why the Order was dissolved. Why the world no longer needs us. And why—"His voice rose into a roar."—Order Thirteen!"
Order Thirteen.
For a fleeting instant, Lloyd's thoughts froze. Then the blinding flash of a blade dragged him back to reality. He barely parried, his mind racing uncontrollably.
Why Order Thirteen? What madness had the Order committed in its final days?
This was slaughter between two witch hunters. Savage swordplay wrapped in searing white flames. Ed's secret blood was awakening, his strength and speed climbing second by second. The impact from his blade grew heavier with every strike.
"What are you waiting for?" Ed bellowed. "Witch hunter—wake that filthy secret blood already!"
A devastating blow from the nail-sword forced Lloyd back. He raised his Winchester and fired, but under the protection of awakened blood, Ed's movements had become unnervingly swift. A shot that should have been unavoidable was evaded by sheer footwork.
"We don't have to kill each other!"
Lloyd blocked another strike and shouted.
He and Ed might be the last witch hunters. Perhaps if they combined what they knew, they could unravel the deepest mystery of the Order. But Ed refused.
"There's no chance left, witch hunter!"
Another heavy strike crashed down, carving a deep scar into the ground.
"Then who are you working for now?"Lloyd gritted his teeth. He had never expected the long-dead Order to still obstruct him after all these years.
Ed did not answer. He only pressed the attack.
"No… who are you really?" Lloyd suddenly demanded. "All witch hunters died on the Night of Holy Descent. Who are you?!"
A realization struck him. At last, Lloyd saw the inconsistency tying all these events together.
This time, Ed stopped. Instead of attacking, he stared at Lloyd with manic delight, like someone who had uncovered a hidden treasure.
"So you do know what happened that night," he said.
At last, the fog surrounding the Witch Hunter Order thinned. Carrying years of hatred and confusion, Ed spoke slowly.
"Of course I'm a witch hunter. It's just that while you were celebrating the Holy Birth Day at the Seven Hills, I was still outside, carrying out a long-term mission."
"You know what happened next," he continued.
Though Ed offered little detail, a complete story had already taken shape in Lloyd's mind. He remained silent, those memories buried where they were never meant to be unearthed.
"The Night of Holy Descent erupted. Afterward, the Pope signed Order Thirteen. The Witch Hunter Order was dissolved, and those who once defended humanity became rats in the sewers—slaughtered at will."
"Why?" Ed asked, like a child who cannot understand the world. "Why did we end up like this, witch hunter?"
He kept asking, as if questioning Lloyd, as if questioning himself.
Looking at Ed's face—mad yet broken—Lloyd remembered leaving the Order after the Night of Holy Descent. He had anticipated a purge. He simply never imagined it would be Order Thirteen.
"Isn't this outcome better?"Lloyd suddenly shot back, his usual irreverence creeping in.
"That rotten corporation finally died. We're free now. Why cling to hatred? Isn't it better to live freely and chase your dreams?"
He even laughed, as if amused by his own words.
But Ed shook his head. He looked at Lloyd as though at a man deceiving himself.
"Witch hunter, you're more pitiful than I am," Ed said coldly. "I faced my pain. You hide behind ridiculous dreams. The fact that you still carry a nail-sword proves it."
Like a venomous curse, his words cut deep.
"You're afraid too, aren't you? Afraid that monsters will step out of the dark at any moment—so you cling to that nail-sword and never let go."