[Connection lost.]
[Reconnecting…]
[Connection failed.]
Shattered thunder and blood sprayed across his vision. Lloyd stood upon the earth like a statue, cut off once more from the Stasis Sanctum only seconds after their last successful contact.
For an instant, countless thoughts surged through his mind. In the end, he forced them down, clenched the blade and firearm in his hands, and set his face into something feral.
It was a swift godframe—agile as a swallow skimming low before a storm. The old-era, first-generation godframe Lancelot wore was completely overgrown with demonic matter. It granted tremendous power, at the cost of far more violent corruption. Yet the Knight-Commander handled it flawlessly. From the moment the battle began until now, even his heart rate had remained steady.
The grappling hook lashed out like a whip, striking the colossal fiend. Lancelot cut through the air like lightning itself, his blade tearing great wounds in the flesh along his path.
He wielded the old-era godframe as though it were an extension of his own body. Even as his form swayed violently at high speed, the weapon maintained perfect balance. He sprinted, dragging the sword behind him, carving wounds into the monster as he went.
The giant abomination let out a heavy, muffled moan, then—unnaturally—accelerated. For a creature of such mass, its sudden speed was like a collapsing mountain. Just as the blow was about to land on Lancelot, searing white flame swept past. The black-armored knight leapt upward, his blade biting deep, embedded like a mountaineer's ice axe.
A distance beyond human reach was crossed with ease. Roaring fire clung to the dark godframe, and the silver-infused blade delivered agony beyond endurance. The monster wailed.
"Destroy the heart and the brain. That's the only way to stop it!"
Lloyd's voice rang out over the channel. Riding the cable, Lancelot circled the fiend. He did not reply—never one for words—but as he moved, he fired without pause. The hand cannon erupted again and again, bursts of light illuminating the monster's grotesque body.
"Shrike! Fire at my mark!"
Lloyd hated people like this—cold, unreadable. You could never tell whether they'd understood you at all.
"Mark? What mark?"
"You'll know it when you see it!"
Swift as a cunning fox, Lloyd jammed his sword into the flesh like a climbing staff and charged forward across the living mass. Against a monster of this size, the real difficulty was simple: no blade could reach its heart. He needed a weapon sharper still—sharp enough to pierce several meters of dense flesh.
Aboard the Radiance, gun barrels adjusted one by one. Soldiers strained against the gun carriages, the thunder of battle roaring in their ears. Some, already psychologically shattered, collapsed unconscious where they stood.
Relentless corruption had placed enormous strain on the troops. That they had held this long was already remarkable. Countless sky cavalry descended from above, reinforcing the Radiance's defensive line.
The battle had now narrowed to this single colossal fiend. If it fell, the firepower of the Dawnward would be enough to plow the entire land flat.
"Fire! Shrike!"
Lloyd's roar echoed through the channel, and then white-hot flame tore through the black of night.
That was Lloyd's mark.
And so, all cannons spoke at once.
A storm of iron screamed through the air. Lloyd swung around to the monster's rear, using its massive body as a shield. The ever-silent Lancelot instantly understood. Riding the cable, he slipped into the shadow as well, then drove his blade deep into the creature to anchor himself.
A few brief seconds passed.
Then the explosions struck at close range.
Shattered steel and torn flesh filled the air. The enormous form staggered, nearly toppling—yet in the end, it steadied itself, standing stubbornly upon the earth.
Its massive body twisted at an impossible angle, then slowly straightened. Blood poured from countless wounds, washing over both men, dyeing them red in an instant.
Lloyd gave it no time. He surged upward, and within seconds reached the top of the monster. Its mangled, grotesque head loomed within arm's reach.
A wound several meters wide gaped open. Fresh flesh spilled outward, steaming with gunpowder heat and littered with innumerable fragments of shattered iron.
Beneath it, warped white bone formed a crude armor. Much of it had fractured, yet it still clung together, stubbornly shielding the vital organs beneath.
"We're being pinned here."
Staring into the vast wound, Lloyd spoke, belatedly realizing it.
The creature possessed terrifying vitality. Even sustained artillery fire could not deliver a killing blow. As long as it lived, it would hold them here. Yet abandoning it was no option—Radiance's defenses alone would never be enough to finish it.
As that thought formed, Lancelot leapt past Lloyd. The grappling hook snapped tight, binding him to the monster.
In that moment, the silent knight brought his sword down, driving it deep into the bone.
"Head."
One word. No more.
Lloyd understood instantly. Under the gaze of countless eyes, his blade thrust straight through the skull.
But in the next instant, the flesh writhed unnaturally—then hardened, erupting into a forest of spikes.
Exploding thorns.
The suddenly protruding spikes slammed into the black godframe, throwing off showers of sparks, and hurled Lloyd violently away.
Below, Lancelot fared no better. Crimson flesh twisted like living serpents, ignoring his strikes, refusing to die. With a piercing howl, the monster flung them both aside and charged toward the lighthouse.
The earth trembled. The grotesque colossus thundered forward, its vast body in full sprint. Countless rounds slammed into it, yet none slowed it even slightly.
This was its method of attack.
Its sheer mass was the perfect weapon.
"Damn it!"
Lloyd cursed as he ran, but he could not catch up. Its stride was too long—each step left a crater in the ground. And then, heavy thunder rolled down from the heavens.
Aboard the Dawnward, machinery turned. Power surged. Scalding steam vented, and a hardened warhead launched from a rail dozens of meters long, carving a brilliant arc across the night sky before slamming into the monster.
The brightest explosion yet blossomed before them, flames roaring skyward.
At last, the onrushing steps faltered, if only for a moment. As though a titanic blade had fallen, a vast, bloody gash opened across the monster's front—bone and muscle laid bare. It howled in agony.
And in that instant, Lancelot caught up.
The razor hook struck its shoulder. The winch screamed as it spun, and the black cable fell from the night sky—
Striking Lloyd in its final inch of extension.
Lloyd froze for a fraction of a second—then his entire body was wrenched upward.
Lancelot clung to the cable with iron resolve and, with a violent heave, hurled it skyward.
Blazing white flame erupted from the pitch-black god-armor. Lloyd fell like a descending meteor, crashing down with merciless force.
The saint-silver spike sword plunged into the wound left by the second barrage, driving savagely through shattered bone and torn flesh. Only when the entire blade—and even Lloyd's sword hand—had disappeared into the mass of blood and meat did he finally halt. Then, from within that wound, endless white fire surged upward and detonated.
Another agonized shriek rang out. The demon unleashed the last of its strength—countless barbs and slabs of flesh ruptured and fell apart. The hooked lines embedded in its body tore free, and Lancelot, mid-swing, lost all momentum and crashed downward.
Once more, the black god-armor shielded Lloyd from the assault, yet the riotous surge of flesh hurled him high into the air.
Fire burned fiercely in the darkness, until it guttered and seemed to fade. Yet it had not truly died. Warm embers lingered, waiting for their moment—to ignite once more in the name of some so-called destined vow.
Above Winchester, the final trail of light erupted. Surging white flame, like a dragon's exhalation, roared through Gula's gun. It struck the demon squarely in the head, and incandescent fire consumed everything that remained.
Lloyd landed steadily upon the ground. A torrent of steel tore across the night sky—hundreds of kilograms of ammunition poured into the burning figure. It staggered, on the brink of collapse, until at last, upon the charred, hollowed skeleton, ash-gray snow drifted and scattered in the wind.
Epilogue · The Holy Grail
Warm ash-snow floated on the wind. The Plague Doctor extended a hand and gently caught the fleeting cinders. They rested briefly in his palm; with the faintest friction, they crumbled into dust and vanished into the air.
This was the end of an era—and the arrival of another.
The raging white flames were still clearly visible, even from such a distance. The blackened bones within seemed to struggle, swaying faintly amid the fire. A distant, indistinct wail brushed past the ear.
"It seems… everything is over."
The Plague Doctor lowered his head, gazing at the small boat being swallowed by the waves. The sea was in a fury. Had it not been for this steamship, he would now be sleeping beneath the ocean, sealed forever alongside that iron coffin.
Beneath the dark-blue surface, the demon's face still lingered. At their core, they were living beings. These incompletely mutated monsters, bound utterly by the waves, sank inch by inch, dying upon the ocean floor.
"This is not an ending," a voice said. "It's merely a new beginning."
A man in a dark yellow raincoat approached. The ship pitched violently amid the raging waves, yet he walked as if on solid ground, maintaining exquisite balance. A rope was clenched in his hand as he dragged the heavy iron coffin across the deck.
"You look like you took quite a loss. That was your last demon, wasn't it? Making so many of them is no easy task."
The Plague Doctor turned toward him. All those demons had been released by this man. Without them blocking the way, the steamship could never have fled so far to escape the Dawnseeker's pursuit—the colossal eye suspended in the heavens. On an open sea so utterly exposed, there would have been no hope of escape.
"Compared to what I gained," the man replied lightly, "those losses were insignificant."
He chuckled. An unimaginable strength erupted from his frame. The iron coffin—so heavy that the ascetic monks had needed all their might to lift it—seemed weightless in his hands. He dragged it directly between himself and the Plague Doctor. As a gale swept over the deck, the tattered cloth covering it was torn away, revealing the mottled, ancient shell beneath—laid bare before them both.
"Hah… this feels truly unpleasant."
The Plague Doctor drew a deep breath. Fatigue and pressure weighed heavily in his voice as he shifted his gaze aside, avoiding direct eye contact as much as possible.
"You still don't seem used to it," the man said softly. "It's actually quite well-behaved. Just give it a little honey, and it listens."
He caressed the uneven surface gently. The cold of metal seeped into his body, and visions bloomed before his eyes—memories, hallucinations, and strange whispers that flooded his mind. Yet he appeared unaffected. Calmly, he raised his hand, drew a blade, and sliced a fatal gash across his wrist. Blood poured forth.
The blood flowed along the seams of the iron coffin like an unfurling scroll, filling every groove and pattern, until upon the ancient metal surface it formed something eerie and unnatural.
From the corner of his eye, the Plague Doctor witnessed it. The strange sensation gnawing at his sanity vanished—but something even more unsettling took its place. A grating, teeth-aching tapping sound arose, like coils of serpents rubbing their fine scales together. The blood was completely absorbed, as though the coffin had drunk it all—not a single drop spilled.
It was as if the coffin were alive. That brief feeding had finally soothed it.
"So this is how you contain it?" the Plague Doctor asked. "With blood?"
He found it oddly fascinating—never having imagined that something so grotesque subsisted on blood alone.
The man shook his head, covering his wounded wrist, gazing at the coffin with near obsession.
"More precisely, it feeds on secret blood. Of course, this only satisfies it for a moment. It will grow ever more greedy, until it demands cruel sacrifices."
"But for now, keeping it quiet is enough. After all, that witcher is over there—I'd rather not invite unnecessary trouble."
The Plague Doctor nodded slightly. As the blood was consumed, the coffin's corrosive influence seemed to fade for a time. It lay there like an ordinary coffin, silent and still.
"So," he asked at last, after a long pause, "may I know what this thing actually is?"
The man smiled.
"Knowing too much is rarely a good thing."
"But it's part of my payment, isn't it?" the Plague Doctor replied calmly. "I am a physician—a scholar. I have an endless hunger for knowledge."
"Even if it costs you your life?"
The Plague Doctor fell silent for a moment, then nodded firmly.
"Of course."
A heavy voice issued from beneath the beaked mask as he spoke.
"How wonderful…" the man murmured, peering into the darkness beneath the mask with evident delight.
"I like people like you—people with ideals. Idealists, all of us. Unafraid of death in pursuit of what we believe in. It's a magnificent feeling."
"Then what is it?" the Plague Doctor asked again.
"I have spent my entire life seeking the essence of life itself. I have dissected countless demons… and in truth, demons are still a form of living being—simply one that transcends conventional understanding.
"For all these years, I have tried to uncover their true nature, and found nothing. You said this thing would help me break through my research. I hope you do not intend to break your word."
Beneath the trench coat, flesh writhed unnaturally, raising bulges across the fabric. For a fleeting instant, the Plague Doctor seemed to lose his human outline—or perhaps he had never truly been human at all, merely a monster concealed beneath heavy clothing, barely maintaining a human shape.
The man nodded.
"I never break my promises," he said. "But before that… would you like to hear its story? There are very few left in this world who even know it exists."
A hoarse laugh escaped his throat—an invitation, a temptation, a bargain offered by the devil himself. The Plague Doctor understood these madmen's unspoken rules well enough: once you know something, you are bound to the darkness behind it.
He nodded resolutely.
And so, the long-sealed tale rose once more to the surface.
"It happened long ago," the man began. "After the Eastern Crusades, several centuries past. We destroyed most of the heretics. On the surface, the Templar Orders waged the wars; in the shadows, the Witch-Hunter Conclave carried out the decapitations. Neither kingdoms nor armies could stand against us. That was the Church at the height of its glory—when the entire Western world trembled beneath our feet."
Lost in the memory of that glorious moment, a faint glimmer shone in the man's eyes.
"After that, the so-called demons were once wiped from the world. For the centuries that followed, the hunt continued—until a few years ago, when we killed the very last demon."
"The last demon?"
The Plague Doctor asked in disbelief.
"Something like that can really be exterminated completely?"
"Of course it can. Think of a calm water surface disturbed by ripples. Those ripples are demons. As long as the source of the disturbance remains, an endless number of demons will continue to be born."
"We captured that 'source'—that thing which embodies the very concept of demons."
The man paused, pondering carefully. Even after all these years, he found it difficult to describe that grotesque existence with any words humanity possessed.
"The Church calls it the Holy Grail. But as for me, I prefer to simply call it a demon."
He spoke casually as the steamship released vast clouds of white mist, cutting through the waves toward the far edge of the horizon.
"That was a truly epoch-making scene. I'm grateful I witnessed it with my own eyes.
Its execution was held in the Cathedral of Saint Naro, within the Place of Seven Hills—the site where every pope is crowned, and where their bodies are laid to rest.
The clergy first bathed the demon in blessed holy water. Sharp iron spikes pierced its limbs. The sacred choir sang at full voice, accompanied by the majestic thunder of the pipe organ.
This execution nearly exhausted the Church's entire reserve of holy silver—a metal lethally toxic to demons, yet so scarce that it was usually used only as plating.
But this time, we gave it a bath of holy silver. Its body was cast into the boiling metal, and Florence's finest smiths surrounded the still-molten ingot, hammering it amidst its wails into the shape of an iron coffin. Then, under the Pope's prayers, line after line of holy scripture was engraved upon it."
His fingers brushed lightly over the carvings that barely resembled words anymore. No one knew what this iron coffin had endured over the years; the sacred inscriptions had long since blurred into obscurity.
"This is the true nature of the Holy Coffin.
It is the grave of the concept of demons."
The revelation was staggering. In that instant, all sound seemed to vanish from the world. The Plague Doctor sensed only something approaching—something that, within that unnatural silence, clamped tightly around his throat. His flesh turned cold and rigid as frost spread outward from within, surging toward his heart and brain.
At the brink of life and death, a blood-soaked, twisted limb shattered away. The Plague Doctor clutched his severed arm, gasping for breath.
"This is the entrance fee," the man said lightly. "After all, when meeting a being of such distinction, one must present a gift."
He slowly sheathed his spike-sword, its polished blade still stained with blood.
The Plague Doctor's arm fell upon the iron coffin. Then, as if time itself accelerated, the blood dried instantly, leaving behind a gray-black stain. Flesh and bone withered, shrinking away, and together with the remaining scraps of cloth, dissolved completely into a small pile of dust.
"I'd appreciate a bit of advance notice next time,"
the Plague Doctor said through the pain.
Even as he spoke, the torn wound began to writhe unnaturally. A pale white bone pushed forth, followed by fine strands of muscle knitting themselves together, layer upon layer. In the blink of an eye, a new arm had formed.
"So that means," he continued, "what's inside this coffin is the last demon?"
The thought sent a chill down his spine. The realization that he had been beside something so dangerous for so long filled him with dread.
"More or less. But don't worry—what's inside now is merely its remains."
"Remains?"
"You can think of it as a corpse. Though it's not entirely dead. Things like this are notoriously hard to kill. After all, to a certain extent, it represents the concept of demons themselves.
We don't know how many such 'conceptual entities' exist, but they should all be extraordinarily difficult to destroy. It's like light—if you wanted to eliminate the concept of 'light,' you'd have to destroy not only everything that emits light in the world, but also literature, songs—everything that evokes the idea of light."
The man looked at the Plague Doctor.
"To uncover such knowledge, we lost a pope… perhaps more than one."
Taking a deep breath, the Plague Doctor tried to put some distance between himself and this cursed thing—but behind him lay only the sea. There was nowhere to flee.
"Relax. It's still controllable. It's only a corpse now, acting purely on instinct. The most troublesome part has already escaped. What remains is quite docile."
"Escaped?"
The Plague Doctor froze. "You mean that damned thing is no longer under the Church's control?"
He realized his mistake halfway through the sentence. With the remains already before him, it was inevitable that control had been lost.
"Yes. Humanity has always overestimated itself. We were never qualified to wield the power of miracles."
The man's hand brushed across the metal surface, finding a tiny seam—so small it nearly vanished into the intricate patterns. Had he not seen with his own eyes how it escaped, he might never have found it.
"Since the Night of the Holy Descent, I've lost all trace of it. The Church was gravely weakened by that night as well. Even after all these years, they haven't finished reclaiming the secret blood. Still, I suppose I should thank it—otherwise, the Church would have captured and executed me long ago."
"No one knows where that damned thing fled to… for all we know, it might be lurking within your mind—or mine."
The man chuckled darkly. The Plague Doctor did not find it amusing in the slightest.
"Here. This is your payment."
It was five milliliters of blood, sealed within exquisite quartz. Like a slender crimson thread, it caught the faint light and gleamed like a ruby.
"Five milliliters of the Grail's blood."
The Plague Doctor accepted it, his voice tinged with doubt.
"So this… is its blood?"
Sharing the name "Holy Grail," he could not afford to take this lightly.
"Yes—and no. That thing is profoundly strange. What we call 'blood' or 'body' is merely a manifestation, a crude projection of something fundamentally incomprehensible.
But one thing is certain: this is the purest secret blood in the Church's history—infinitely close to absolute purity."
A liquid miracle. The Plague Doctor suppressed the excitement rising within him, but the man spoke again.
"So, what will you do next? One of the most precious things in this world now rests in your hands."
Putting the Grail's blood away, the Plague Doctor's voice returned to calm.
"Of course, I'll continue my research. My book is nearly finished—thanks largely to your assistance."
"Oh? And what will you call it?"
The man gazed toward the far horizon. A faint glow rose there, driving away the darkness and bringing with it the warmth of hope.
Dawn had come. This night of despair was finally ending.
"I haven't decided yet. My research concerns humans and demons. Demons possess far too many bizarre traits—like stomach-chewing grass and the phantasms of nightmare realms. They're not merely a strange force; they have their own 'species.'
One trait, in particular, is deeply alluring. Fear the sea, and they evolve gills. Unable to fly, and membranous wings grow between their limbs. Sever a limb, and it regenerates swiftly. No matter how harsh the environment, as long as the demonic contamination is strong enough, they can adapt and evolve."
The beaked mask turned toward the man.
"Care to help me name it? Consider it a courtesy, given your generous payment."
The man thought for a moment.
"Hmm… how about On the Origin of Species?"
The Plague Doctor fell silent for a long while, then said,
"Not bad."
A booming steam horn echoed from afar. The ship sent to receive the man emerged at the edge of the horizon. He hoisted the iron coffin onto his shoulder, the heavy metal gleaming in the morning light.
"Then this is farewell. I hope we'll have opportunities to work together again."
The Plague Doctor nodded.
"Farewell, Mentor Lawrence."
Lawrence returned the nod with a gentle smile and stepped into the dawn.
"And you as well, Mr. Charles Darwin. May we meet again—in the sinners' hell."