Steel ground against steel, teeth interlocking in a merciless bite. At times, one could almost believe the Perpetual Pump to be a living organism—no mere machine, but a mechanical lifeform. Its vast and intricate structures served as organs, and within conduits cast of cold metal, currents surged like blood through veins.
The boy lifted his head, staring at the metal ceiling above. Perhaps all who awaken from a sickbed share the same quiet truth—what greets them is never a circle of concerned faces, nor the bloom of celebration, but only the dull, indifferent expanse of a ceiling.
"You look stable, child. The Divine Armor protected you. Otherwise… you might never have woken again."
The doctor, seeing him stir, began his examination, recounting in passing what had transpired during his long unconsciousness.
The boy said nothing. He simply stared upward, lost within the sealed corridors of his own mind.
The doctor seemed accustomed to such silence. Unbothered, he continued his routine, placing fresh medicine by the bedside before finishing his work.
The ward held no one else. It had been prepared for him alone—a room that belonged solely to him.
When the doctor left, silence returned, settling like dust. Perhaps it was the medication, but a heavy drowsiness crept over the boy. Yet he resisted sleep. His lower body was numb, absent. He tried to push himself upright with his hands, but the lingering pain shackled him in place.
"Well now, Ovis. Seeing you awake… that does my heart good."
The door opened once more. Merlin stepped inside, cheerful as ever—though the smile stretched across his near-lifeless face carried an unsettling edge.
He approached the bed and helped Ovis sit up. The boy looked young—too young, almost as if he had not yet reached adulthood.
"How do you feel this time? Still having nightmares?"
Merlin paid no mind to Ovis's indifference. He had long since grown used to it.
"Yes… but they're blurred."
Ovis finally spoke, his voice calm, almost detached.
To lose consciousness within the Divine Armor was perilous. The power of the aberrations would continue its erosion, and in that state, the pilot's will lay utterly defenseless. The process would accelerate—inevitable, merciless.
It had been a long time since Ovis had blacked out within the armor. This time, he had suffered grievous wounds. That he still lived was nothing short of fortune.
"What did you see, exactly?" Merlin pressed, as though conducting an experiment.
"It's vague… You know how dreams are. No one records them whole. I saw only a gray illusion… and heard something obscure… Why are you asking this?"
Ovis turned to him. Merlin did not usually ask such things.
Dreams were strange things. One never remembered how they began. Their worlds were chaotic, absurd—yet as if guided by some unseen force, the mind accepted them as natural, even when they defied all physical law.
"We've taken on a new test pilot. You've seen him—Mr. Lloyd Holmes. To be honest, the idea of a demon hunter piloting an Old-Era Divine Armor… unsettles me."
"After all, every knight's first synchronization carries immense risk."
"Everyone's first time does," Merlin muttered, almost to himself.
He fell silent for a long moment before continuing.
"You remember what I told you about 'connection,' don't you? The more one engages with aberrations… the more one endures erosion… the more one begins to perceive things that defy description."
"Connection?"
Merlin nodded.
"I asked Mr. Holmes as well. He described it as a connection to the darkness… like descending into a deep, cerulean sea. The deeper you go, the more you feel its vastness… and its terror."
"It's something I only recently came to realize. Erosion distorts the nerves, yes—hallucinations can be explained that way. But this… this is different. It feels as though the mind itself is reaching toward another world."
There were things Merlin did not say. As an alchemist, he knew that within ancient, forbidden traditions, this phenomenon had long borne a name.
The Interval.
"At first, I thought it was merely erosion at work. But I've noticed—everyone who has been touched by it experiences the same kind of fleeting, specific illusion. Every single one…"
His voice drifted, stretching thin—then suddenly vanished.
"Ovis—what did you see the first time you piloted the Divine Armor?"
The question came sharply. The alchemist seemed to ignite from within, something like fervor flickering behind his hollow gaze.
Ovis paused. That memory was the clearest of all—impossible to forget.
"That was—"
Before he could finish, a thunderous alarm tore through the Perpetual Pump. Sirens roared, echoing across every chamber. Indicator lights flared red in unison, and beneath their harsh glow, the world was drowned in a feral crimson.
Like a boiling, burning hell.
It was as if something infernal had seized the entire underground complex. Emergency protocols engaged—steel bulkheads slammed down one after another, sealing passageways as currents surged through them. Security personnel armed themselves with experimental weapons, advancing through emergency corridors, while researchers fled toward designated shelters.
"What's happening?"
Merlin rushed to the door, attempting to force it open—but the system had already locked it down. Cursing under his breath, he fumbled for his key. As the Chief Technologist of the Perpetual Pump, his key could override any door, under any condition.
"It's… the Old-Era Divine Armor. I can feel it—the erosion."
Ovis shouted from the bed. The creeping presence was everywhere, gnawing at the edges of perception.
"Let me out. Prepare the armor for me—I can subdue it."
"Shut up! Use that damned thing again and it will kill you!"
Merlin snapped, turning on him.
For a moment, the tension fractured into silence.
Ovis sat frozen, staring at him—disbelief flickering across his face.
"…What did you just say?"
"I said you can't use the armor anymore! Lancelot—you may control it perfectly, but that doesn't mean the erosion isn't there!"
With that, Merlin forced the door open and rushed out. As if fearing pursuit, he sealed it tightly behind him once more.
Left alone, Ovis stared ahead, unable to process what had just unfolded. Neither the imminent danger beyond the walls, nor the chaos of the facility, could reach him now.
…
Half an hour earlier. The workshop.
"So—you want me to test this?"
Lloyd tilted his head upward, gazing at the container descending along the rails as he spoke to Tesla.
After a series of examinations, the three "white mice" had all been declared physically stable. Coincidentally, a second-generation Divine Armor had just completed calibration. And so, the first test run began, as though it had always been inevitable.
The container bore warning markings in industrial yellow. Its iron surface was scarred with countless scratches—like the dying struggles of some beast trapped within.
As it opened, the erosion spilled outward—
—and the grotesque form of the Divine Armor revealed itself.
Unlike New Hope, the second-generation Divine Armor was markedly smaller. Forged through the pinnacle of modern craftsmanship, its refined plating encased a fully protected internal mechanism. Intricate, resplendent engravings sprawled across its gleaming surface, each line etched with almost obsessive care.
As Lloyd gazed upon the armor, an unexpected sense of familiarity stirred within him.
"This unit," Tesla explained to the three of them, "is registered under the designation Weaponsmith. It was deployed during the operation in Ender Town."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"It was manufactured at Bohans Military Works, then urgently transferred to Old Dunling during that mission. I imagine all of you have seen it before. Back then, it was piloted by Bailao."
He rested a hand lightly against the cold metal.
"To ensure that even High Knights could operate it effectively, we significantly reduced the proportion of demonic components in this second-generation model. The trade-off, of course, was reduced agility—but not to any critical extent."
Lloyd narrowed his eyes, still studying the armor.
"I remember it being… more dangerous than this."
The words came out vague, uncertain—more instinct than memory.
"You're thinking of its armaments," Tesla replied. "The Weaponsmith was designed for suppression—multi-weapon deployment against aberrations. Originally, it carried two large weapon racks on its back, along with numerous external systems and additional plating. But this is only a prototype. There's no need to arm it to the teeth, is there?"
He knocked on the armor's surface. Even stripped of its mission-specific weaponry, the thing was lethally complete. Fully armed, it could have torn through the entire Perpetual Engine.
Lloyd circled the towering construct once. It looked less assembled than sculpted—carved from a single mass of steel, seamless and impenetrable, without a single obvious weakness.
"So… where exactly do I get in?"
After a full rotation, he still found no answer.
"Here."
Tesla pulled a valve.
Cables feeding into the armor surged with power. A steam engine deep within let out a low, awakening hiss—and the entire construct shuddered to life.
There were two known methods to activate Old-Era Divine Armor. One involved placing the pilot directly within the core frame, where growing flesh would fuse them with the incoming armor. The other—Lloyd's method—required full assembly and preheating, followed by entry through an access point.
The armor moved.
Slowly. Unnaturally.
It dropped to one knee, head bowed, its immense form resembling a jagged steel mountain.
Lloyd had expected an opening at the chest, like New Hope. Instead, the seam split open at the junction between the back and the nape. Steam poured outward as a dark aperture revealed itself—an abyssal gateway inviting him in.
"Once I'm inside… what do I do?" Lloyd asked, climbing the ladder and standing atop its back. He peered into the darkness—and felt, for the first time, a flicker of unease.
"Nothing," Tesla answered. "But this is your first synchronization. I can't predict what will happen—especially since you're a Demon Hunter."
Even he sounded uncertain.
A Demon Hunter. An Old-Era Divine Armor.
Two catastrophes in waiting—now forced into union.
Neither the Evangelical Church nor the Purging Agency had ever truly understood what demons were. Their corrosive nature defied research; the scholars of the Perpetual Engine remained stalled, while the Church could only veil the unknown beneath the language of divinity.
"I have only one thing to say, Mr. Holmes," Tesla added at last.
"Remain rational. No matter what happens—remain absolutely rational."
He stepped back, ushering the remaining two "white mice" onto a lift platform. With the grinding of gears, they ascended toward the designated safe zone.
Below, the workshop awakened once more.
The outer gates sealed. Power surged through the structure. Along the shaft walls, Geiger counters sprang to life one after another.
An ancient, forbidden ritual was about to begin.
Lloyd lifted his gaze toward the blazing artificial sun in the dome above—then stepped into the darkness.
He heard it clearly.
Steel shifting. Locking. Reassembling around him.
A warmth spread across his body. The sensation was soft—unnervingly so—as if living flesh were filling the spaces between him and the armor. Then, starting at the nape of his neck, slender probes pierced inward, threading into him, binding him to something… not entirely mechanical.
And then—
A heartbeat.
Not his own.
Stronger. Heavier. Like war drums echoing through a battlefield. It pounded against his chest again and again, forcing strength into the iron body that encased him.
"Mr. Holmes, how do you feel?"
Tesla's voice rang out beside his ear.
From the observation platform, Lloyd remained kneeling upon the steel altar, unmoving even after activation.
"Please try to move, Mr. Holmes. We won't get any data if you just stay there."
"…Mr. Holmes?"
His voice echoed within the narrow confines of the armor.
No response.
"Mr. Holmes, if you are still conscious, respond immediately."
This time, the tone hardened.
High above, Tesla stared down at the motionless construct—and understood that the worst had already begun.
Then—
The armor moved.
It rose slowly to its feet.
But not as expected.
Dark crimson flesh began to seep from beneath the plating. Muscles, grotesquely overgrown, twisted the armor's form, warping it into something monstrous. Steel and machinery were swallowed within it, consumed as the flesh spread—until even the helmet was engulfed.
At last, it split open—
revealing a gaping, blood-red maw.
The Geiger counters screamed.
Every indicator in the workshop turned red.
From above, Tesla watched in silence. The Old-Era Divine Armor did not rampage. It simply stood there, motionless—save for the occasional twitch of its living mass.
And yet—
Pressure.
Endless, suffocating pressure radiated from it.
Though it stood like a statue, the maddening corruption was spreading outward without restraint.
The readings hit their absolute limit.
From the dome above, rain began to fall—neutralizing fluid cascading down the shaft walls before washing over the grotesque figure below.
"He… he's lost control! Do something!"
Red Falcon shouted, unable to contain himself. Under normal conditions, the flesh of an Old-Era armor would never grow so violently. It twisted and expanded, as if devouring Lloyd entirely from within.
"No… not yet."
Tesla's jaw tightened.
His eyes remained fixed on the figure below—standing beneath the cleansing rain, utterly still, gazing upward toward the burning light of the dome.
"Stay rational… Mr. Holmes."
It was no longer an order.
It was a plea.
And within the armor—
Lloyd had already closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he found himself seated upon a long bench.
A howling wind tore across the world.
Endless gray-white stretched in all directions—
like an icefield at the very edge of existence.