"This… is all that I know of the Night of Holy Descent."
Within the long, breathless tunnel, Lloyd leaned against the mottled carriage of the steam subway. Across from him sat Merlin and Arthur, their figures dimly cut against the murky air.
A faint stream of smoke slipped from his lips, rising and dissolving into the stagnant gloom. He had smoked too much—his throat burned. Lloyd coughed hard, then flicked the stub from his fingers. At some unnoticed moment, three or four others had already gathered at his feet.
"What a long night it has been."
Merlin broke the deathly silence. Whether he felt relief or sorrow, even he could not tell; he could only sigh, as though he were no more than a spectator to fate.
"Yes… unbearably long," Lloyd murmured. "Sometimes I feel the Night of Holy Descent never truly ended. Its aftershocks are still rippling through the world."
He let out a quiet breath. Those memories were not the kind one revisited without cost.
"Still… I suppose I owe it some gratitude. I was only a guard, but I guarded Saint Nalo Cathedral. We Medanzo demon hunters… we hear things. Secrets others never touch."
"For instance—the militarization project born of greed. If it truly succeeds, it will ignite another war. And I fear the dead will outnumber even those lost on that night."
Arthur gave a small nod, his voice carrying a weary resignation.
"That is the world we stand in now. Centuries ago, war was simple—numbers, sharper blades, stronger horses. But no longer. The age advances. Our last war was fought with sword and shield… the next may be fought beneath a sky filled with falling shells."
"Everyone is restraining themselves," he added. "Maintaining a fragile, delicate balance."
Merlin nodded stiffly. As one of the last surviving alchemists, his mind was consumed by forbidden knowledge; matters of political tides and worldly balance were far from his domain. A nod was all he could offer.
"Then tell me, Mr. Holmes," Merlin continued, "as a demon hunter… is there any way to bring down Archpriest Lawrence? You must have felt it—that level of corruption. Ordinary soldiers would only march to their deaths. Even you… could not withstand such power."
His tone sharpened slightly. Capturing Lawrence was now paramount. With the archpriest's unfathomable nature, it was not impossible he might summon another Night of Holy Descent within Old Dunling itself.
"I don't know…" Lloyd said at last, his voice adrift.
"He wasn't wrong. I am his shadow. All demon hunters are. The way we wield power, the way we slay demons… he taught us all. He is the teacher of every one of us."
"And I… was never his finest student."
Archpriest Lawrence—the only demon hunter among the bishops of the Gospel Church. No one knew what he had done to earn that blood-red robe. No one knew how long he had walked this world. Even on that night of devastation, he had not fought with his full strength.
He was terrifying.
More terrifying than any demon Lloyd had ever faced.
For Lawrence knew everything a demon hunter knew.
He was the hunter who hunted hunters.
"…Troublesome," Merlin muttered. Then, almost abruptly, "Mr. Holmes, would you be interested in assisting with a research project? If it succeeds… we might gain at least a sliver of a chance against him."
"What kind of project?" Lloyd asked, his gaze lingering on the alchemist. There was something hollow in Merlin's eyes—something that never failed to unsettle him.
A stiff smile crept across Merlin's face.
"New technology. This is a new age, Mr. Holmes. No longer an era where supreme chivalry alone wins wars."
"What rules the battlefield now is technology—military technology. Ever-expanding. Ever-hungering."
War airships. Rail-mounted cannons. New firearms.
And… relic armors of the old century.
It was a force not unlike demons themselves—except this Pandora's box had been opened by human hands, born within the minds of scholars.
"So," Merlin concluded lightly, "consider it. And then… shall we leave this dreadful place?"
He glanced down the silent tunnel, where dust drifted like the remains of something long dead—like the grave of a forgotten beast.
…
In life, there are always places—moments—that resemble save points.
Return to them, and it is as though you are remade. Cleansed. Reset.
The definition is subtle. If one were to reduce it to numbers, then after crossing such a point, all your values return to their optimal state. Yet these "save points" take many forms, and mean different things to different souls.
For some, it is a cup of coffee that rekindles the mind. For others, a night's sleep—or a lavish meal.
For Lloyd, there were many.
But the one he relied upon most… was this.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was plastered with posters—mostly advertisements for restaurants, showcasing all manner of strange and curious dishes.
Beyond the dim window came the hurried rhythm of hooves. As night descended, a sea of candlelight rose to meet it.
After leaving the underground and parting hastily with Arthur, Lloyd had returned to 121A Cork Street. Perhaps it had been too long since he had last slept in his own bed—he had collapsed onto it and fallen instantly into unconsciousness, only waking when the sun had already begun to set.
Merlin was no doubt buried in his weapon research. Yet for the sake of opposing Archpriest Lawrence, Lloyd had agreed without hesitation.
This was no longer his war alone.
It was a war between the Purge Agency… and Lawrence himself.
The entire organization had begun to move at full speed. Sealed maintenance routes were reopened one by one. Workers descended into the vast underground labyrinth, searching for any hidden breeding grounds of demons.
The inner districts were placed under total lockdown. Armed patrols marched day and night.
Curled in the corner of his bed, Lloyd sat in complete darkness. Not a trace of light touched the room. Silence reigned.
He stared into that darkness, unmoving—his thoughts unreadable.
When he returned, Madam Vanrud had still been asleep. Age had finally begun to weigh upon her, it seemed—though for Lloyd, it spared him the trouble of explaining his absence.
His roommate was gone as well. Whether work had claimed him, or something else, Lloyd did not know.
Everyone lived their own lives.
Like parallel lines—visible, yet never intersecting.
Their days were simple, ordinary dramas, concerned only with bread, oil, salt, and tea.
Lloyd's life, however, was a war-torn horror.
One misstep—and he would join the ranks of dead demon hunters.
Perhaps they would all sit together in molten lava, trading jokes. Perhaps, in hell, they might even meet demons again—laughing as they cut them down, rekindling old grudges.
…Assuming, of course, such an afterlife truly existed.
In truth, perhaps it was better this way.
Those who crossed paths with men like Lloyd rarely met good ends.
Not everyone possessed the courage to face demons.
His hand reached to the bedside.
The cold touch steadied him.
The first thing Lloyd had done upon returning home was prepare his weapons. A cane-sword plated with holy silver rested at his side. On the other, a fully loaded Winchester.
He had no intention of facing demons again with nothing but a dining knife.
He picked up the Winchester.
In the dark, leaning against the wall, he ran his fingers slowly along the barrel. Beneath his touch, he felt the shallow grooves of engraved letters. He had long since memorized them—sight was no longer required.
"Do not go gentle into that good night…"
he whispered.
Medanzo's favorite poem. He had even carved it into his beloved gun.
He once called it a poem that cursed death itself.
Arrogant.
Was it reverence—or ignorance? To curse inevitable death… it was like a madman swinging his blade at the heavens.
And yet, in this moment, Lloyd understood something new.
A faint light stirred within his gray-blue eyes.
Yes.
Do not accept death quietly.
Even if Death itself knocks upon your door—you should answer it with a gunshot through the wood.
You should rage.
You should burn.
"Rage, rage against the dying of the light,"
he murmured.