The iron serpent hurtled forward like a quarrel loosed from a war bow. At the instant it crossed paths with the fiend, the fire-gun in Lancelot's grasp detonated. A violent bloom of heat burst outward, hammering into the monster like a smith's flaming maul. Within that god-shaking blast, the chains binding Lancelot snapped one by one, and the jagged knight strode free in a single, thunderous bound.
He moved with the swiftness of a lightning strike. Keen-edged steel screamed as it sheared through the air. A heartbeat later, a heavy body crashed down upon the earth, sliding with impossible control and gouging deep furrows into the ground as it bled off speed.
When the dust at last thinned, a savage silhouette emerged beneath it.
It was the first time Lloyd had ever seen an Old-Century Godframe so clearly. During the operation in Ender Town, night had swallowed everything, and he had glimpsed only a blurred outline. Now Lancelot stood upon open ground, fractured sunlight limning every detail of his form.
The armor was masterfully wrought, plates interlocking with meticulous precision. Through the narrow seams, one could glimpse flesh writhing slowly beneath. Steam conduits and machinery lay protected under the shell, while indicator lights glowed a calm, harmonious green—the Old-Century Godframe was fully under control.
It was a perfect union of steamcraft and demonic biology, a weapon of slaughter no ordinary mind could have conceived. To face such a Godframe was a trial heavy enough to crush even the resolute.
Yet after the first shock passed, Lloyd found himself strangely surprised. The sight defied his expectations. He had imagined an Old-Century Godframe as some towering behemoth, but Lancelot's frame seemed almost lean. Beyond the necessary plate protection, there was no excess armor.
This Godframe had clearly been built for absolute mobility. Its profile was lithe, almost light. Grappling gear extended from the back down along the arms. Aside from the blade at his side and the Godframe fire-gun, there was nothing superfluous. With that deep azure paint gleaming across its surface, one could well believe he moved with the fury of a thunderbolt.
Lloyd had no time for further thought. From the smoke of the fading explosion, the black fiend leapt out once more. Even Lancelot seemed taken aback. After such searing heat, a direct hit should have killed it—or at the very least robbed it of movement for a time. Yet the creature fled as though nothing had happened.
Lloyd gave chase, and the azure knight broke into a sprint. A grappling hook shot from his arm, biting into a distant rail. A miniature motor whined as it reeled him in. At the same time, he drew a blade bright as a sliver of fallen light and let it trail along the ground, sparks shrieking in its wake as he closed the distance at terrifying speed.
The motion flowed like water. There was none of the ponderous weight one expected from steel. For a fleeting instant, it seemed not a Godframe knight who moved, but a living man—dancing a lethal waltz, slender blade singing in his grasp.
The two figures converged in a blur. But just as Lancelot was about to reach the fiend, the creature's form suddenly dropped away. His blade carved only empty air, slamming into the ground and leaving a vast crater. The force of the strike sent the steam pipes beneath the earth shuddering, and a moment later scalding vapor burst upward, engulfing the Godframe in a searing cloud.
Lloyd arrived seconds later, breath tight in his chest—two legs were simply no match for a grappling line. He stared coldly at the spot where the fiend had vanished. The area was riddled with steam wells between the factory blocks; because of the massive exhaust requirements, an entire zone had been designated for their construction.
"Don't tell me it went down there."
Boiling steam roared from the shaft. A normal person would be cooked through in mere seconds inside that well. Even a fiend would suffer grievous damage. But if its tenacious vitality let it survive, then amid that labyrinth of pipes, Lloyd had little hope of ever dragging it back out.
Lancelot remained silent—but his silence did not mean stillness. He unshipped the Godframe fire-gun from the rack on his back, the burning muzzle aimed straight into the steam well. With the terrible might of that dragon-breath blast in such a confined space, a single shot could melt the armor off even a Godframe knight, let alone a fiend.
But the consequences would be just as dire. This was a factory exhaust well. No one could predict what kind of chain reaction such a shot might trigger.
The witcher did not give up. Winchester still in hand, he was turning over his options when the tight thread of sensation in his mind abruptly went slack. The fiend's presence he had been tracking went silent.
"Wait! Don't fire!"
Lloyd pressed one hand down on the icy barrel. Truth be told, the weapon felt like an iron pillar even in his grip.
Lancelot, of course, was not one to obey Lloyd outright—at most he would consider the suggestion. Lloyd heard a low murmur from beneath the helm. A moment later, a reply came through from Central Monitoring.
"Fiend signal confirmed gone. Geiger index falling—returning to normal."
Blue Jade's voice crackled over the channel, placing a full stop on the sudden clash. As the fading crimson readings dwindled away, it seemed the fiend truly had been killed by the superheated steam. Cleanup units were already en route. They would seal the area for now and retrieve the warped, steam-cooked flesh from some deep underground conduit.
"Looks like the poor bastard got steamed to death."
Lloyd let out a cold laugh. The fiend was dead at last—yet he felt oddly dissatisfied. After such a long hunt, it hadn't fallen by his hand. Like a hunter denied the final strike, he felt the edge of his thrill dulled.
He lifted his gaze to Lancelot. The tall figure stood like a mountain, jagged frame clad in sharp-lined plate, the style of it like a blade hidden within its sheath.
Lloyd could feel the weight of the gaze from behind that mask. The enigmatic Lancelot was watching him.
He had heard much of this Knight-Captain from Red Falcon, Shrike, and the others. Beyond praise for his iron will, there was always talk of his mystery.
Within the Purge Directorate, everyone bore a codename. The names of the Knights of the Round Table from Inglvig myth were the highest honors, reserved only for those at the very top—like Duke Phoenix, who oversaw the entire order. His codename was Arthur.
Below them were the High Knights beneath the Knight-Captains. Their codenames were usually taken from birds. Even so, most still had their birth names, and those close to one another often knew them.
But Lancelot was the exception.
Every time he appeared, he wore the Old-Century Godframe. In another sense, no one had ever seen him without it. No one knew how tall he truly was, how thin, what his face looked like. From his voice alone, they could confirm only his sex.
Some within the ranks had even speculated that Lancelot was not human at all, but some creature born of the Perpetual Pump's experiments. After all, only a monster could wield a Godframe so perfectly—and only a monster would refuse to remove it and show the world the flesh beneath.
Lloyd studied that mask with naked curiosity, but Lancelot offered no answer. Then, as though receiving some unseen command, the knight turned and strode back toward the iron serpent that had borne him here.
That was a seat of steel.
As Lancelot lowered himself onto it, mechanisms clamped shut, locking him firmly in place. A moment later, figures in white coats crawled out from the shadows of the chamber. Upon the pale fabric was emblazoned the sigil of a serpent devouring its own tail — the mark of the Perpetual Pump. They were maintenance technicians.
They connected pipes and circuits to the divine armor. Soon, frigid gas flooded its interior, pacifying the once-raging demonic matter within.
Like a restless lifeform lulled back into slumber.
Lloyd could clearly feel the power of the god-armor fading away. Yet the faceplate did not spring open. It was as though Lancelot had fallen asleep along with the armor itself.
At last, the plating of the Iron Serpent sealed shut once more, cutting off Lloyd's view, enclosing Lancelot inside like a coffin of steel.
Not long after, Joey arrived, late and out of breath. He panted heavily at first, but quickly regained his composure, becoming once more the neat, orderly man Lloyd knew.
A gentle smile rested on his face — the same expression he had worn when Lloyd first met him.
Lloyd glanced at him, then toward the Iron Serpent. Amid the hiss of venting steam, the massive machine began to move along the rails, slowly at first, then faster, until it vanished from Lloyd's sight.
"Have you ever seen what Lancelot really looks like?"
The question slipped from Lloyd almost against his will. It was rare for him to suddenly take such an interest in someone.
Joey shook his head. He seemed to understand Lloyd's curiosity.
"The identities of the Knight-Commanders are classified. Within the Purge Agency, only Arthur knows their true faces."
"Is that so?"
Lloyd found it strangely intriguing. He had assumed the Purge Agency was merely another organization continuing the old demon-hunting traditions. But after these past days, he had come to realize it was far more complex than he had imagined.
More Iron Serpents rolled in from the far end of the tracks. At last, the battlefield scavengers had arrived.
…
"I confess to you, my mentor."
Inside the confessional booth of a church, a man leaned against the wall, staring blankly into the dimness above.
His entire body reeked of rot. Dried blood caked his cheeks. His tattered clothes were riddled with wounds. Yet as his flesh writhed, those wounds began to close. In a grotesque, skin-crawling spectacle, bullets were slowly pushed out from his body, one after another. And still, he seemed not to feel the pain, only gazing upward in a daze.
"In the name of God, I absolve your sins."
The voice came from behind the curtain. A figure could just barely be seen listening to his confession.
A faint light flickered in the man's hollow eyes, only to dim again moments later. Tears welled up and spilled over. He slowly raised a hand, yet it was as if he saw hallucinations — countless people screaming at him in rage.
"But… but I killed people. Many people. Cruelly."
"But they were sinners, were they not? You were merely carrying out your justice. God will forgive all of this."
The voice was like warm sunlight.
"Really?"
The man's voice trembled, as though he had never expected such an answer.
"Yes. Everyone has their own justice, their own creed. What is innocent in your eyes may be sinful in another's. You cannot judge the hearts of others — but you know your own nature. The only one who can truly judge you… is yourself."
His breathing grew ragged, as if he had just been granted something he had never received before — affirmation. The unacknowledged had finally been acknowledged. He tried to stand, but the movement tore at his wounds, forcing a cry of pain from his lips.
"I feel like I'm not myself anymore."
He spoke in confusion. Once, he had been so cowardly. Now he could slaughter people one after another without hesitation.
"Then perhaps you have finally found your true self."
The mentor's voice echoed through the narrow space like a spell, repeating again and again.
"Do not stop, child. Your work is not yet done. The justice that must be carried out has not yet been fulfilled, has it?"
Like a lost lamb suddenly shown the way, the man muttered the mentor's words over and over, as though strength had returned to his limbs. But then he broke down again, sobbing.
"I don't think I can do it anymore. I can't. I met some people… they were strong. I almost died."
The curtain was drawn aside. The man stiffened in fear. Then an aged hand reached in, placing several syringes before him. A solemn voice followed.
"You are a child of God. We will not abandon you. If there are mighty enemies, then we shall grant you a blade. Go, and carry out your justice, child."
The man stared at the syringes as though he were looking at hope itself. Trembling, he reached out. The movement tore at his wounds, drawing a low groan of pain, yet he did not stop. At last, his fingers closed around hope.
But then the aged arm reached out again from behind the curtain and seized him tightly.
Terror flooded him. The grip was impossibly strong; he could not break free. Fear consumed him, until the mentor's voice sounded once more.
"But all things come with a price, child. Do not be afraid. The power you seek requires only a small offering of yourself. Are you willing?"
"I am!"
He answered at once, not giving the mentor a chance to say more, as though afraid he might lose the opportunity.
"I have nothing left. If this alone can fulfill my wish, what more could I possibly ask for?"
His eyes ignited, like ashes flaring back into flame.
The mentor paused, then laughed softly. His voice curled around the man's ears.
"Yes… that is right, child. This is the correct path. This is justice. Those people could not give your girl the justice she deserved — so you will deliver it yourself. God will forgive everything you do… for you have already offered up everything you are."
As the words sank in, something inside the man hardened into resolve. He rose from the pool of his own blood, his blood-soaked hand gripping the mentor's through the hazy curtain. He could just make out the figure beyond.
"Thank you… Mentor Lawrence."
Blood seeped out through the gap beneath the booth door, spreading quietly across the floor. In its crimson reflection, the man's twisted silhouette loomed.