"Lloyd!"
Arthur's voice called out to him, distant and wavering, as though carried across a fractured dream. Lloyd's vision blurred—he could not make out the man's face.
"I'm fine…"
He answered, though his steps faltered, unsteady beneath him.
"I just… need a moment… to clear my head…"
Inside his mind, pain tore like a storm unbound. Shattered memories flickered again and again before his eyes, jagged fragments that refused to settle.
One by one, the pitch-black god-armor fell away from his body, striking the ground with cold, metallic chimes.
…
Lloyd could scarcely recall how he had emerged from that suffocating darkness below.
Now he stood beneath a dim and brooding sky. The towering structures of Old Dunling rose like spears thrust into the heavens, like ancient forest giants, blotting out what little light remained.
Cold air surged into his lungs, sharpening his senses, dragging him back from the edge of collapse—yet the dull, persistent ache within his mind lingered, gnawing at him still.
Arthur had remained behind, overseeing the aftermath of the Evermoving Pump. The damage there was grave—perhaps even more so than the sudden appearance of Bishop Lawrence. Never since its creation had the Pump suffered such devastation. Every soul involved had been stirred into vigilance.
"So… that damned project is being delayed, then?"
Feeling somewhat steadier, Lloyd turned toward Merlin, who had escorted him out. The alchemist's face was composed, but beneath that calm lay a quiet, seething fury.
"It would seem so. Security must be reinforced, and repairs will take time… You may enjoy a brief respite, Mr. Holmes."
Merlin spoke evenly.
"And, of course, you have our gratitude. Without your intervention, the cost might have been far greater."
Lloyd paid little heed to the thanks. His gaze drifted, hollow and distant.
"Is that so… Merlin, tell me—what do you know of the Gap?"
At those words, Merlin's brow tightened.
"And why would you ask that?"
"I need information about it."
Lloyd's breath came shallow and uneven. Seeing his state, Merlin did not press further. He only replied, quietly—
"That, Mr. Holmes… is a promising beginning."
"…What?"
"I mean—you've learned to seek help from others. That is no small thing."
Merlin lifted his eyes to the heavy sky, as though speaking more to himself than to Lloyd.
"Humans are creatures of the collective. Alone, one is always fragile."
"Hearing that from you is… rather strange."
Lloyd cast him a sidelong glance. This peculiar alchemist, with those soulless eyes—any words from his lips seemed inevitably touched by mystery.
"We'll inform you when the project resumes. And if you uncover anything new regarding the demons… do let us know."
They were allies now—truly so. Against the inscrutable Bishop Lawrence, unity was their only recourse.
"I see…"
Lloyd coughed harshly, his body betraying him.
"You're injured?"
Merlin's tone carried a trace of concern.
The demon hunter had changed the moment the creature fell—refusing to linger, insisting on departure, as though fleeing from something unseen.
"How could I not be? But I'm a demon hunter. So long as it doesn't kill me… I endure."
Whether it was self-mockery or quiet pride, even Lloyd himself could not tell.
Though he still wore the shape of a man, he knew well—he had long since ceased to be one. No ordinary human could withstand such things.
Merlin said no more. He respected Lloyd's will.
"Then… farewell, Mr. Holmes."
He raised a hand in parting. From the far edge of the industrial district, a train approached, its iron body cutting through the haze—ready to carry Lloyd away from this armed fortress.
The hunter's steps were slow as he departed.
Watching him go, Merlin exhaled deeply, murmuring under his breath—
"The Gap…"
But then—
A sudden sound broke the stillness behind him.
The gate creaked open.
A staggering figure emerged, driven forward by desperate urgency.
Merlin's expression shifted—first surprise, then anger.
"Ovis! What are you doing?!"
No one would have guessed that this frail, sickly boy was the enigmatic Lancelot—the ace of the Purge Agency, the only one capable of perfectly wielding the Old-Era god-armor. His identity had always been hidden, known to but a few.
And yet, here he stood—exposed.
"Merlin… I can do it. I can!"
Leaning on a cane, Ovis trembled, sweat streaming from the pain that wracked his body—yet his face burned with fierce exhilaration.
"I can pilot the Old-Era god-armor again!"
Merlin caught him, anger flickering in his voice.
"You're nearing the third stage! How many times must I tell you?!"
"No… Merlin… the erosion—it's receding. I can do it again."
Light blazed in Ovis's eyes, desperate, fervent.
"Test me again. Please… believe me—I can!"
By the end, his voice had softened into something perilously close to pleading.
For Ovis, this was everything. The only thing that had ever truly belonged to him.
Merlin froze for a moment, struck by the madness in the boy's gaze.
"Calm yourself, Ovis… You need rest."
"I can do it, Merlin! I can still pilot it!"
He repeated the words again and again, obsession creeping into every syllable.
"You're still young, Ovis. This path will destroy you."
Merlin could not help but say it—but the boy did not care. Not in the slightest.
The gate opened once more.
Medical staff rushed in. Somehow, Ovis had escaped their custody.
Before he could say another word, a syringe pierced his arm.
The sedative flooded his system, numbing his nerves—yet his eyes remained locked on Merlin.
His hand—unyielding, like iron—clutched Merlin's coat, refusing to let go, until the doctors forcibly tore him away.
"I can… still go on, Merlin…"
His final words trembled like the last gasp of a drowning man.
Merlin watched, a rare unease stirring within him.
Ovis had always been composed. This… was the first time he had broken.
"What happened?"
He turned to the masked physicians restraining the boy.
Their voices came muffled behind thick visors.
"According to Lancelot's protection protocol, we secured him as soon as the alarm sounded… but he collapsed—convulsing in agony."
They recounted the scene.
"Before we could administer treatment, he recovered on his own… and then escaped. Frankly, it's astonishing he could move at all in that state."
"And his erosion level? Did you reexamine him?"
"No. He seems… unable to accept reality. Likely delusional."
"I see…"
Merlin pressed a hand to his temple, weariness creeping in.
Ovis was dragged back toward the Evermoving Pump.
Yet no one noticed—
the faint curve of a smile at the corner of his lips.
As though something unseen had granted him strength… and a terrible, unwavering conviction.
…
For reasons he could neither name nor grasp, ever since he had slain Hona and stepped out from that grotesque "Rift," an indescribable force had taken root within Lloyd, gnawing at him without rest.
It was not a wound of flesh, but of the mind—a violent intrusion he had never before endured.
He staggered through the crowded streets. Old Dunling, even beneath the bite of winter winds, still pulsed with restless life. The noise, the movement, the endless tide of people—yet to Lloyd, there was only exhaustion, and a pain so deep it felt alien.
"I… what is happening to me…?"
Leaning against the damp wall of a narrow alley, he slid down, powerless.
His vision fractured.
That Rift.
He had killed a man within it—
and in the outer world, the aberrant demon had died as well.
There was a connection.
He was close—so close—to touching the truth.
But something clawed within him.
It scraped, tore, and writhed beneath his skin, as though trying to crawl out from the depths of his being. It pressed against his throat, crushing his breath, forcing his mouth open in desperate gasps. Thought itself became a luxury he could no longer afford.
The hunter did not yet realize how far he had fallen.
His face had gone pale as drained blood, his pupils dilated. Hallucinations bled into reality—yet he could not perceive them as such.
Fragments of Hona's memories surged through his mind.
A shattered life collided with Lloyd's own will—
then, slowly, impossibly, they began to merge.
Two separate existences, forcibly stitched together, forming something new. Something unnatural.
"He looks terrible."
A voice, distant.
"He'll recover."
Another replied.
"Will he?"
"It's not his first time."
"…But he's forgotten."
"That's because of you."
"..."
The voices hovered near his ears, indistinct—like words torn apart by a raging storm, sharpened into unrecognizable noise. Lloyd forced his eyes open wider, searching—
No one.
As though the voices belonged only to his own unraveling mind.
The brief rest lent him just enough strength to stand again.
But his thoughts felt as though they had been struck apart by a heavy blow—chaotic, fractured beyond repair.
And then—
A strange, unsettling familiarity.
It surged through him like a distant echo.
He had experienced this before. Long ago.
The same confusion. The same disorientation.
But he could not remember.
What returned first was not sight—but sensation.
The scent of memory rose faintly—
the bitter chill of a sea wind.
Lost fragments began to surface, one after another, fitting together like pieces of a long-forgotten puzzle.
He remembered the voyage.
A distant route—originating from faraway Florence.
Back then… he had been like this.
Or perhaps not.
Time had eroded certainty.
He remembered arriving in Old Dunling—
and beginning a new life, under the name Lloyd Holmes.
Then—
A drop of crimson fell.
It struck the frozen ground, hissing like acid, corroding stone as pale vapor rose into the air.
Blood.
His hands were stained red. He pressed his nose, but the bleeding would not cease.
"He… is like you."
A whisper in the stillness.
"That indescribable form of existence."
Figures murmured in the distance.
Their shapes were swallowed by mist, reduced to indistinct gray masses—unreachable, unknowable.
"Yes… often, the body is merely a restraint."
"When there is a body, the formless will finds a vessel."
"And thus, even the abstract gains substance."
They spoke, as if discussing something trivial.
"When something that does not exist gains form—
it can be observed."
"And what can be observed… can be killed."
Who…?
Clutching his throbbing head, Lloyd strained to locate the source.
The voices were ancient, obscure—like whispers from something that stood above him, watching.
It was… intolerable.
Who are you?
The shadowed figures seemed to sense his awareness.
Silence fell.
"Shh…"
As though fearing to awaken something that slumbered beneath reality itself, the voices vanished.
In that instant, all sound ceased.
No wind. No voices. No world.
As though Lloyd had gone deaf.
Then—
The street began to warp.
Centuries-old stone shattered apart. Frozen soil burst upward. Rusted pipes twisted and tore under unseen force, spewing steam and foul water in violent disarray.
It was as if the world itself were a grand painting—
and a colossal hand had torn it to pieces.
In the aftermath, amidst a vast, pale tide—
he saw him.
A distant figure, drenched in crimson.
"Law…rence…"
Lloyd reached for his nail-sword—
But grasped nothing.
In his vision, Lawrence the Bishop seemed to sense something. Slowly, he turned—
Just as their gazes were about to meet—
The crimson figure vanished.
A sealed fragment of memory was forced open, piercing into Lloyd's very being.
He fell.
Endlessly.
Like a body surrendered to gravity, he plunged—
until he struck the ground with crushing force.
Illusion, perhaps—
But the pain was real.
Before him lay a deep, black well.
He remembered.
The Well of Sublimation—where secret blood was refined.
Then… could it be—
He jerked his head upward.
A familiar dome loomed overhead.
The Stillness Cathedral.
Ruined long ago—yet now it stood intact, solemn and untouched, as though the chaos of the Night of Descent had never come.
Or perhaps—
That night had not yet begun.
He was trapped in a memory.
A strange, suffocating recollection—just like the nightmare he once could not escape.
"We begin now. Medanzo has already led the hunters to guard the Cathedral of Saint Naro. This place is yours."
A figure approached.
Familiar.
Rage and cold surged together.
It was Lawrence.
Lloyd's instinct was immediate—he tried to raise his nail-sword—
But he could do nothing.
He had no control.
This had already happened.
A past long buried within him.
And yet, amidst the pain, a new question emerged—
Whose memory is this?
Why now?
What is happening to me?
No answer came.
Only suffocating helplessness—
Until a forbidden name surfaced.
"Watson…"
He whispered it.
The name of the devil.
And the illusion shattered.
The world snapped back into place.
—or rather, Lloyd's fractured delusion came to an end.
The forming bridge of the Rift was severed.
The unearthed memories were buried once more.
Sound returned.
A flood crashing into silence, releasing all that had been suppressed.
The enclosing dome vanished.
The bleak skies of Old Dunling reclaimed the heavens.
Through blurred vision, Lloyd saw a figure approaching—
footsteps echoing sharply, closing in at a run.
Then—
The nail-sword he leaned upon shattered.
And at last, he could no longer stand.
He collapsed.