That was a torrent that swallowed the horizon.
Blazing white currents surged like a living dragon awakened from ancient slumber. Sparks scattered in all directions, breaking into swarms of flickering particles that danced wildly in the air—until, with the swing of Lloyd's blade, the searing brilliance erupted into a violent explosion.
The Pure Flame rose unchecked.
In a single instant, its burning tide swallowed the entire courtyard.
If the sword could not strike with precision, then the answer was simple—expand the killing field. Expand it until Archdeacon Lawrence had nowhere left to escape.
Within the ocean of white fire, a crimson figure ignited.
Lawrence's Secret Blood surged with him. It had been a very long time since he had swung his sword with such force. His aged body was like a machine long sealed in some forgotten warehouse—rusted, silent, and buried beneath dust. Yet now it roared back to life, its gears grinding into motion once more, shaking loose the dust and iron filings of time.
Within the blinding radiance, the Nail Sword struck Lloyd's divine armor for the second time.
But this time, Lawrence's blade failed to move him even an inch.
This was Lloyd's authority—
the power that bore the name of the angel Medanzo.
In the Gospel, Medanzo stood closest to the Throne, nearer to God than any other angel, crowned with countless titles of glory. And just as that celestial guardian watched over Heaven's gates, the Medanzo Hunter stood guard outside the kingdom of Heaven that existed upon the earth.
His authority was simple. Pure.
It lacked the eerie foresight of the Shandafon branch, and it did not blaze with the endless radiance of Michael. It was nothing more than iron armor.
Yet that armor—heavy, black, and absolute—was enough.
Enough to stand unmoved in the midst of the torrent.
Enough to embody an immovable despair that crushed every enemy who faced it.
Under Watson's blessing, the Secret Blood rejoiced wildly.
After all, a hunter was merely a human who carried demon blood in his veins. But now the will of a demon had joined that body as well. A perfect monstrous will ruled over the Secret Blood, pushing it further into the abyss of darkness.
[Secret Blood Awakening: 30%. Critical threshold reached.]
[Warning! Warning! Warning!]
The Silver Bind Spike roared within Lloyd's mind.
But soon its voice faded away.
Watson's power fused with Lloyd in near-perfect harmony. Beneath her strange and mysterious nature, nothing that occurred could truly be called impossible.
"…Finally caught you."
The voice twisting from Lloyd's throat was already beginning to warp, his expression burning with rage.
Blow after blow rained down, yet none of them halted Lloyd's advance.
The black divine armor served as the perfect shield as he pushed forward through bursts of sparks.
Lawrence dropped to one knee.
The Nail Sword raised above his head was already riddled with cracks, while the blazing greatsword loomed above it like the sun itself.
Looking at the face illuminated by that white brilliance, Lloyd let out a hoarse laugh.
Even after all this time, Lloyd could still remember that night with absolute clarity.
The Seven Hills had drowned in a surging sea of fire, as though hell itself had descended upon that sacred city. Every miracle, every glory—defiled without mercy.
Back then he had been nothing more than a guard on rotation, carrying Secret Blood in his veins as he stood watch outside Saint Narro Cathedral.
Behind him rose that magnificent structure—
Heaven upon earth.
No one could have imagined that the destruction would erupt from within Heaven itself, born from the breach of a mysterious "Messiah-class" containment object.
It had once been something recorded only in history books.
And yet it appeared in reality.
The entire night sky burned crimson, just like it did tonight.
In that despair, Lloyd had been powerless.
He had not even understood the full truth of what was happening. He had only been dragged along by others, barely surviving in the end, crawling his way into Old Dunling.
But things had not needed to become so disastrous.
Though it was the first recorded breach of a Messiah-class containment, the majority of the hunters had been stationed within the Seven Hills that night. The Hunter Order had more than enough strength to contain the situation.
And yet at the most critical moment—
Archdeacon Lawrence vanished.
Not just him.
At that moment, it felt as if the entire Evangelical Church had betrayed the hunters.
The Templar Knights surrounded the Seven Hills but refused to enter the battlefield.
The Still Temple remained silent, ignoring every desperate call for aid.
And the Pope delayed lifting the restrictions of the Silver Bind Spike.
Mistake upon mistake.
Layer upon layer of failure forged the greatest tragedy.
That night, the Seven Hills became nothing but a death arena—
leaving the hunters alone to battle the mysterious containment object.
Lloyd roared.
Not only for his own vengeance, but for all those who had died without explanation.
During the mission in Ende Town, he had once understood the confusion in Ed's heart all too well.
But life was like this.
Twisting. Unpredictable.
The wind howled.
The blade flashed pale and merciless.
For the first time, Lawrence's speed faltered.
Or rather—it was the first time he failed to surpass Lloyd's.
The greatsword came crashing down, drawing a streak of crimson blood.
Lawrence's dim red robe darkened further as blood flowed from his wounds. Yet in the next instant his figure twisted through the air, delivering a savage strike toward Lloyd.
But like a divine sentinel that could not be shaken, the black armor bore the blow without a single new crack.
The next moment the massive armor slammed into Lawrence.
Like a charging war chariot, Lloyd drove him backward—
smashing straight through the wall.
The manor's ancient castle had stood for many years. Perhaps influenced by the Holy Evangelical Papal State during its construction, its interior architecture mirrored that style: enormous columns supporting sweeping vaulted ceilings.
During the Radiant War, it had even served as a military fortress.
Yet now those historic walls—once capable of withstanding heavy artillery—were shattered effortlessly by Lloyd.
The battlefield shifted from the courtyard into the interior halls.
Within the narrow corridors, Pure Flame surged wildly like a blazing white furnace. The knight armors lining the walls melted within the fire, collapsing like the bodies of long-dead warriors.
Here indoors, Lloyd's wide, sweeping attacks were restricted.
But the same limitation applied to Lawrence's ghostlike speed.
This was Lloyd's strategy.
From the start of the battle until now, Lawrence had never once used his authority. Every exchange had relied only on that eerie speed and flawless swordsmanship.
Even though Lloyd had forced him onto the defensive, Lawrence still controlled the rhythm of the fight. And with the countless years he had lived, Lloyd could not help wondering what hidden trump card the old archdeacon might still possess.
Lawrence said nothing.
His figure stepped upon the jagged ridges of Lloyd's armor, attempting to leap upward and sever his head in a single strike.
But the cramped space restrained his speed.
Lloyd did not even swing his sword.
He simply raised his fist—and smashed forward.
With a thunderous crash, Lloyd shattered the stone tiles above. The entire section of ceiling began to collapse.
Yet Lawrence had already climbed through the breach the moment it broke.
Dust and flames filled the air, obscuring Lloyd's vision.
But he did not stop.
Following Lawrence's trail, he forced his way to the second floor—
Only to be greeted by countless demons lunging toward him.
Lloyd had not expected this.
He had believed the Pure Flame unleashed in the courtyard had already incinerated them all. Yet many more had been hidden here.
Still, it was nothing to worry about.
In Lloyd's current state, such demons posed no threat whatsoever.
At this moment he was a walking god of death. Their assault was nothing more than moths rushing toward a flame.
And then—
A crimson figure suddenly appeared within the swarm of demons.
"Lawrence!"
Lloyd roared as he brought his blade crashing down.
Archdeacon Lawrence had tried to blend into the swarm of demons, hoping to strike from the shadows. Lloyd's sword fell in a ruthless arc—but the creature that died beneath it was merely a demon cloaked in crimson robes.
Then, without the slightest warning, a sharp spike-sword cleaved downward.
It struck Lloyd's spine and erupted into a cascade of sparks, shrieking against the armor with a piercing metallic scream.
"Remarkably sturdy…"
Archdeacon Lawrence studied the mark left upon the divine armor—a faint white line, nothing more.
He could not understand how Lloyd had done it. The Secret Blood had not awakened any further, and yet the armor upon him had grown ever more resilient. Had it possessed only the strength it once had at the beginning, that single strike would have done far more than split open the hardened shell. It would have cut Lloyd in two along with it.
Just as one hunts prey—splitting hide and flesh, and finally severing the spine hidden within.
"Or perhaps… I've simply grown old."
Lawrence murmured to himself. As Lloyd turned to face him, the old cleric spoke with an almost casual regret.
One cannot truly defy age. Even though the Secret Blood still surged within his veins, it had lived far too long alongside him. Lawrence was not certain whether such a thing as Secret Blood could grow old—but even if it could not decay, a man's will inevitably does.
He had never forgotten his ideal. It was that ideal that carried him through centuries of solitude. If anything had changed, it was that the fiery fury of his youth had long since faded. In its place remained the cold caution of an old fox.
Sometimes, he even envied young men like Lloyd.
Their flames still burned fiercely.
A flash of sword-light swept forward—but this time, a gauntleted hand wrapped in black armor seized it mid-strike.
Within the burning sea of fire, Lawrence could not help but feel a trace of surprise. Until now, Lloyd's attacks had always been predictable. His combat thinking had been easy to anticipate—after all, he came from the Demon Hunter Order, and the very techniques he used had once been taught by Lawrence himself.
But now something new had appeared.
Lawrence had never expected Lloyd to abandon the offensive altogether and attempt to disarm him first.
Lloyd let out a savage roar.
Since all his techniques had originated from Lawrence, there was no point in relying on the Order's teachings anymore. He would fight with nothing but his own will—like a beast, guided only by instinct.
An immovable force surged through the spike-sword. Lloyd yanked the weapon forward, dragging Lawrence closer, and his greatsword crashed down like an iron hammer.
Metal thundered against metal, the vibrations battering the eardrums.
It was nothing less than a symphony of iron.
Dust and flames erupted once more, swallowing their forms from sight. Lloyd could not tell whether his strike had landed. His hand still gripped the spike-sword with iron resolve, and from the resistance at the other end he could tell that Lawrence was still locked before him.
So Lloyd charged again—like a maddened rhinoceros.
His heavy divine armor surged forward like a war chariot, slamming Lawrence backward. Walls shattered one after another beneath the impact, until even the massive stone pillars beneath the cathedral's dome were broken apart.
For any ordinary man, such relentless collisions would have long since reduced him to pulp.
But Lloyd refused to stop.
It was not enough.
For killing a mysterious archdeacon, this was far from enough.
The war chariot burst through the castle walls and into the rear courtyard. As the dust slowly settled, Lawrence still clutched the sword tightly. His body was drenched in blood, his appearance utterly disheveled.
Yet he had never released the spike-sword.
Unlike Lloyd, the authority of Medanzo could generate weapons directly from the armor itself. The massive blade in Lloyd's hand was not truly a sword at all—it was more like a blade-shaped plate of armor. It seemed alive; from the cracks beneath it, fresh metal constantly grew and spread.
The spike-sword in Lawrence's grip was his only weapon.
Just before the final impact, he twisted it with all his strength. Under the monstrous force of the two combatants, the solid blade shattered with a violent snap. Gripping the broken sword, he retreated a step backward—
But the burning iron knight had no intention of letting him escape.
Black and crimson figures crossed again and again, each collision igniting dazzling showers of sparks. The final clash erupted into a towering blaze.
Both men slowly retreated, stopping at opposite ends of the courtyard—as though this were the brief intermission of a duel to the death.
The green lawn had long since been scorched black. Ash drifted through the air like ghostly grass.
The Secret Blood had reached its threshold.
Thirty percent awakening.
This was the final limit Lloyd could still control. If it exceeded that boundary, Watson might break containment as the corruption surged forward.
But even this was not enough.
He was not like that predecessor who had died young—the true monster capable of containing Watson completely. Within that man, Watson had been imprisoned perfectly, like a battery endlessly supplying power.
At the thought, Lloyd could not help but give a bitter smile.
After all, that man had been the leader of the Medanzo Demon Hunters.
Or perhaps… it would be more accurate to call him Medanzo himself.
Though he had always hated that name.
Within the Demon Hunter Order, different authorities created different branches. Each branch was named after an angel, and the most perfect weapon among them would inherit the angel's name.
Just like Michael—the one who had been hunted down and slain by the Templar Knights.
"What terrifying strength," Lawrence said slowly, gripping his battered spike-sword. His gaze rested upon the demonic black knight standing opposite him.
"Why not awaken the Secret Blood further? You could do far better."
He could clearly sense Lloyd's level of awakening.
Thirty percent.
Lawrence could not understand it. If Lloyd had pushed the Secret Blood to sixty percent—entering the second phase of demonic transformation—then the moment they clashed, Lawrence would likely have been overwhelmed… perhaps even killed.
But Lloyd had not done so.
It was almost as though he feared something.
"I'm beginning to think you resemble someone."
Lawrence's eyes narrowed as he studied him.
The threshold had not been crossed, and yet such power had suddenly appeared. No… it was not power at all. It was simply that Lloyd had become far more adept at wielding the Secret Blood.
This time, the beast's strength was no longer commanded by human will.
The beast itself had taken hold.
The jagged divine armor trembled—and then began to crack.
Fragments peeled away like iron scales, as if some living creature were shedding its skin. The old armor fell away in clattering shards, revealing beneath it a newborn substance far stronger.
Heavier.
Crueler.
"Death itself… perhaps?"
A twisted, mocking voice emerged from within the armor.
For a brief moment, Archdeacon Lawrence could not be certain whether the life within that armor was still human.
It was as if some ghost had donned the armor of a god—
and crossed the distant ages,
returning at last to claim its vengeance.