An emotion beyond description surged through him—an exultant frenzy of vengeance tangled with fury, and beneath it all, the bitter hatred born of betrayal.
Though Lloyd had seen the man for only a fleeting instant—his face blurred by the violence of motion—he recognized him all the same. In that single heartbeat, the truth struck him like lightning.
It was the man who should have died on the Night of Sacred Descent.
"Never thought you'd still be alive… Archbishop Lawrence."
The voice that emerged from beneath the divine armor carried no trace of human feeling. The knight encased within it seemed to have drifted toward something no longer entirely human, sinking quietly into the depths of darkness.
"L–Lloyd!"
Behind him, Eve seemed to recognize the grotesque figure and cried out in shock.
Beside her, Selyu's expression shifted slightly. She had heard Eve's words clearly. She had not dared connect the monstrous silhouette before her with the person in her memory. Yet when the knight turned his head, though his face remained hidden, that inexplicable familiarity declared his identity.
"Run! Hurry—run!"
Eve shouted at him. The pressure Lawrence exuded far surpassed anything they had faced before. This was a man who carried death with him. To cross blades with him meant only ill omen.
But Lloyd slowly shook his head.
"You should go. I'm staying."
How could Lloyd flee?
He had carried that strange and dreadful burden for many years. At times he had believed he would simply die some unremarkable death in Old Dunling. Yet now, as the long-dormant truths of the world began to stir once more, he had finally seized another fragment of the truth.
What a cruelly fated reunion.
After the Night of Sacred Descent, Lloyd had believed he would never again have the chance to uncover the truth behind it all. Yet the man who should have died long ago now stood before him once more.
Lloyd knew well the terrifying power of Archbishop Lawrence.
Before the Demon-Hunter Order collapsed—before the Night of Sacred Descent ever erupted—Lawrence had stood as the Grand Preceptor of the Order, and a Cardinal of the Gospel Church. A demon hunter who had survived through uncounted years.
Demon hunters, by their very nature, were too uncontrollable to ever become rulers.
But Lawrence had been the exception.
He was the gray between black and white—the medium that bound the two together.
Lloyd understood the gulf between them all too well. Though Lawrence's body had grown old, the secret blood within him would never age with time.
He remained a blade as sharp as ever.
At most, only the sheath had begun to wear.
Yet Lloyd had no thought of escape. It was not merely vengeance. Whatever purpose had brought Lawrence here, Lloyd knew that at this moment he alone might be able to hold him in place.
Strangely, he felt no fear.
More than once Lloyd had relived the Night of Sacred Descent in his mind. If he had been granted the chance to choose again, he would have died there—rather than live on like this, the last survivor left wandering alone.
Blazing white flames roared with delight, setting the emerald grass aflame. Warm evening winds carried drifting embers, while gray ash swirled and dissolved beneath the night sky.
Amid the ruins, Lawrence slowly rose to his feet.
His gaze settled upon the pitch-black divine armor.
He was as astonished as Lloyd. In his understanding, the Medanzo demon hunters had long since been wiped out. Yet here, in this distant corner of Old Dunling, they had crossed paths once again.
"How could this be? You should all be dead."
Lawrence spoke with disbelief, yet a wider smile spread across his face—like a man who had stumbled upon an unexpected gift.
On that final night, the Seven Hills had been sealed shut, and the Knights Templar had poured out in full force. Rivers of blood had flowed before dawn.
And even so, some had clawed their way out from the mountain of corpses.
There had been the fallen Ed.
And now—this furious Lloyd.
"Yes… why indeed?"
Lloyd stepped through the burning sea of fire, walking toward Archbishop Lawrence.
There was something deeply unsettling about him now. Lloyd seemed almost like a demon himself, radiating a suffocating pressure of corruption.
So Watson had not lied.
Lawrence was alive.
Which meant the others—the ones who most deserved to die—might still be alive as well.
So everything Lloyd had done had been in vain.
Nothing had changed.
But…
There was still time to set things right.
Within the blazing white inferno, the knight's silhouette stretched into a monstrous shadow. As he advanced, the strange divine armor began to grow and spread, like countless serpents slithering across his body. They coiled around him before finally creeping toward the greatsword, twisting together to sharpen and strengthen its edge.
Yet the one truly shaken now was not Lloyd.
Archbishop Lawrence gripped his nail-sword, steady as a hunting beast—yet for the first time, doubt stirred within him. Watching the figure emerge from the sea of flames, his thoughts raced wildly.
Still, he could not understand how a Medanzo demon hunter could possibly have survived.
They had defended the Cathedral of Saint Naro. When the Night of Sacred Descent erupted, they had been the first to fall.
Although Lawrence had later betrayed the Gospel Church and fled, he remembered that night clearly.
They had all died.
"How could this be?"
The black knight before him resembled a reaper who had crossed the River Styx. After so many years of wandering in death's shadow, this lone ghost had finally found the enemy it sought for vengeance.
"Repent," the black knight said quietly. "While you still have time."
The secret blood within Lloyd surged toward its critical limit.
This was the furthest he could go.
"No… you're not a demon hunter of the Medanzo branch. You're not!"
Suddenly Lawrence's voice sank low.
He had lived far too long. As memories flickered through his mind, he recalled the details of that night. Slowly he raised the nail-sword again, endless doubt burning in his eyes.
He knew the truth.
Every Medanzo demon hunter had died.
Lawrence was certain of it.
After all, it had been he himself who had buried them.
But there was no longer time for questions.
The black knight charged forward like a burning war chariot. Flames and wrath surged with him as the blade descended.
Steel clashed against steel with a shrieking cry, like countless restless spirits howling in agony, lamenting the terror of death.
"Come!"
The blade fell like the guillotine of judgment, slamming into the earth and igniting the surrounding grass. In the next instant, a flash of swordlight burst forth—the sharp nail-sword striking against the black divine armor, sending showers of sparks scattering into the night.
The old body moved as though youth had returned to it.
Lawrence's figure became so swift it was nearly impossible to track. Only a streak of crimson cut through the air, and Lloyd's attacks sliced through nothing but empty space.
Lloyd spun violently.
If he could not match Lawrence's speed, then he would simply widen the reach of his attack.
Gripping the greatsword with one hand, he swept it in a crescent arc—but the blade caught only the edge of Lawrence's red robe. The next moment a far fiercer strike slammed into Lloyd's chest.
Fortunately, the divine armor absorbed the blow, leaving only deep scars carved across its surface.
"Who exactly are you?" Lawrence's voice drifted through the roar of battle. "I distinctly remember your guards were the first to die."
He had been the Grand Preceptor of the Demon-Hunter Order. Lawrence remembered the name of every hunter who had ever served beneath him.
But the divine armor concealed Lloyd's face. Without seeing it, Lawrence could not identify him.
"You don't need to know."
Blazing white flames surged upward, swallowing Lawrence's vision in an instant.
Then the greatsword descended.
It split the flames apart, its crushing momentum capable of cleaving stone and iron—as though it meant to split Lawrence himself in two.
Yet the expected result never came.
As though he had already known where the blade would fall, Lawrence merely shifted his body slightly aside, letting the strike pass.
Then the nail-sword slammed brutally against Lloyd's visor.
The old hunter possessed a strength beyond imagination.
The blow struck like a blunt hammer. Lloyd's ears filled with a piercing ring, and a scorching pain erupted across his face.
The black visor began to shatter.
Large plates of armor peeled away like falling scales. A savage wound carved its way from Lloyd's brow to his forehead.
Lawrence raised his battered nail-sword.
Against the divine armor, most of his strikes had been useless. The steel had been left riddled with cracks from the relentless clash.
But now—
At last—
A trace of blood stained the blade.
Lloyd's blood.
"You have no chance, child," Lawrence said calmly.
He wrapped a fold of his crimson robe around the blade, wiping away the blood before smiling faintly at Lloyd.
"As long as you are a demon hunter, then you must have been trained under me. I know the fighting methods of every branch—whether Michael or Medanzo. Each one carries a fatal weakness."
His voice softened.
"You've reached your critical limit… haven't you?"
Pressure. At this moment, the only thing Lloyd could feel was an endless, crushing pressure.
Perhaps the six years he had spent in Old Dunling had dulled the edge of this weapon he once was. Or perhaps it was simply the overwhelming strength of the man before him—the Head of the Order. In the clash between Lloyd and Archbishop Lawrence, Lloyd held no advantage at all. If anything, he was being subtly suppressed.
Then again, that was only natural.
The man before him was the head of the Demon-Hunting Order—an ancient monster who had lived for an unknowable length of time.
Unlike the Demon-Hunting Order, those who ruled the Evangelical Church were, in truth, mere mortals. They possessed no secret blood, no strange and dreadful powers. They fell ill, they aged, and eventually they died.
Yet among them, Archbishop Lawrence was an anomaly.
Secret blood flowed within his veins—power stolen from demons themselves. That cursed essence allowed him to live far longer than any ordinary man, so long that most of the cardinals in crimson robes no longer even knew where he had come from.
He was living history.
His life might well have spanned the greater half of the Church's existence. Every technique used by demon hunters had once been taught by him, and even the different branches of power that later emerged had been systematized by his hand.
In battle, Lloyd was to Lawrence what a pane of glass is to the eye—completely transparent.
And yet Lloyd did not even know what Lawrence's authority truly was. Judging from the level of corruption he could sense, Lawrence had barely even stirred the secret blood within his body.
"Demon hunter," Lawrence said as he strode forward in long steps, "you don't look very well. Why not try pushing your secret blood a little higher?"
Whether it was mockery or provocation was impossible to tell.
The old man's aged eyes suddenly burst into a pure, blazing white. Dragging his nail-sword behind him, he carved a path of thunderous light across the ground.
Lloyd did not answer.
He remained where he stood, watching Lawrence approach. The divine armor covering his body began to grow as if it possessed a life of its own, spreading and knitting together until the shattered faceplate repaired itself.
And then the nail-sword arrived in an instant.
Yet suddenly, breath began to fade away.
Even the roaring flames seemed to freeze, solidifying like dust that glowed with blinding light.
Watson stood beside Archbishop Lawrence.
Upon the polished edge of the nail-sword, the reflection of the woman's face appeared—her expression filled with naked disgust.
"Lloyd, you're no match for him," she said flatly. "Among the demon hunters, perhaps only that senior of yours wandering within the Gap could fight him. As for you now… you have no chance of winning."
"So you came out just to say that?" Lloyd replied coldly.
He watched the blade slowly approaching him. The entire world seemed frozen in place.
But he knew the truth.
It was simply that his thoughts had accelerated—so fast that even at this fatal moment, he could still exchange idle words with Watson.
"No," she said with a faint smile. "I'm reminding you to run."
"You know you can't break through the critical threshold. After all… from the very beginning you never truly integrated with the Grail."
"Or with me."
Watson walked closer and gently placed a hand upon the cold surface of the divine armor.
"The one who could truly be compatible was that lonely ghost who died inside the Gap. You are nothing more than a temporary vessel."
Like a devil whispering temptation into the human heart, she spoke softly.
"You know what will happen if you cross the threshold under these conditions, don't you?"
Lloyd remained silent.
In his vision, the fatal blade continued to advance. It was already close—no more than a few dozen centimeters from his chest.
"In the end," Watson murmured, "isn't this what you've always wanted? To break free from your chains?"
Lloyd suddenly remembered the man who had once sat upon a bench in the frozen wasteland.
The senior who had died before him.
If Lloyd crossed the threshold, he would begin to transform into a demon.
And once that transformation began, he would produce real corruption—spreading influence over everyone around him. Through that spiritual contamination, Watson's prison would finally gain a path of escape.
That hateful devil would be truly freed.
She would erode Lloyd, and through him spread like a virus into the world.
"I don't need that," Lloyd said quietly.
"At least… not yet."
"Really?" Watson tilted her head. "You might die here."
"But if I die," Lloyd replied calmly, "won't you die with me forever?"
He looked straight at her.
The woman's expression slowly stiffened.
It was a rather satisfying sight.
"So, Watson," Lloyd continued, "just as you said—we're bound together. A symbiotic relationship. If one prospers, the other prospers. If one falls, the other falls."
"I am your vessel. You live because of me."
"So if you don't want us both to end here…"
"Why don't you start saying something useful?"
Never once had Lloyd revealed Watson's existence to anyone. Because of that, she possessed no medium through which she could escape.
She was trapped upon an island called Lloyd.
And when the tides finally swallowed that island, she too would vanish—forgotten forever within the world.
For to be forgotten…
was the truest form of death.
Watson stared at him.
For a long time she said nothing. At last, as though conceding defeat, she spoke.
"You've extorted a devil," she said coldly. "Sooner or later, I'll take it all back from you."
In the next instant, the hand she had placed upon the divine armor slowly sank into it.
A cold beyond description spread outward.
Even the blazing Pure Flame burning across Lloyd's body seemed to lose its warmth, as if he had plunged into the abyssal chill of an endless deep.
Then Watson stepped forward.
Bit by bit, she walked into the armor itself.
This time, it was as if she had replaced Lloyd entirely—becoming the knight inside the divine armor.
The accelerated thoughts began to slow, returning to their normal pace.
And in that same instant, the thunderbolt—too fast for mortal eyes to follow—crashed down.
But this time…
it failed to strike Lloyd.
The Black Knight appeared like a phantom behind Archbishop Lawrence.
The greatsword rose high above his head—
and then fell,
like the blade of an executioner delivering a final judgment.