Just as Merlin had said, within minutes, Lloyd found himself confined within a cage of steel.
Though to call it a cage would be imprecise—it was, rather, a heavily fortified interrogation chamber. Between Lloyd and Merlin stood iron bars humming with electric current, and the faint metallic scent of blood that lingered in the air made it clear—this was no place for mercy.
An uneasy silence stretched between them.
It remained unbroken… until Arthur arrived.
The three of them were reunited once more—only this time, Lloyd was bound to an iron bed. With the pull of a mechanism, the frame shifted and folded upward, forcing him into a seated position.
"So," Lloyd spoke at last, his voice slow, edged with irritation born of everything that had transpired, "what exactly has you so on edge, Merlin?"
"You'll find out soon enough, Mr. Holmes."
Merlin gave a slight nod to Arthur. The two of them sat across from Lloyd, their posture calm yet unmistakably oppressive—like judges awaiting a confession.
"Well then—"
"Mr. Holmes," Merlin cut in cleanly, "could you describe your experience inside the old-era god-armor? In detail."
The question came without hesitation, as though he already knew where to strike.
"My experience?" Lloyd replied flatly. "I entered… and then I lost consciousness."
He offered nothing more.
Watson—the false Grail—was tied to this. And whatever she was, no one could say how the Purge Agency would react if they learned the truth. Lloyd had no intention of becoming a specimen on their table.
"I'd appreciate it if you thought carefully," Merlin pressed on. "You are the only known case—someone who fell unconscious and yet did not lose control. That makes you… exceptionally valuable."
"… "
Lloyd said nothing.
His wariness toward Watson remained absolute. She was something that could not—must not—be trusted.
He hesitated, weighing whether to reveal the existence of the Interstice. For the first time, the decision felt… difficult.
"Then let's change the subject."
To Lloyd's surprise, Merlin did not press further. Instead, he shifted his angle entirely.
"Tell me—what do you know about alchemy?"
"Alchemy?"
Lloyd frowned slightly, unable to grasp the intent behind the question. If there was any craft in this world that stood at the pinnacle of obscurity, it was alchemy.
A power beyond the reach of ordinary men.
A discipline said to touch the realm of gods and demons alike.
Seeing Lloyd's hesitation, Merlin continued.
"Alchemy… in truth, it can be seen as the precursor to modern chemistry. In the era it was born, human industry was nowhere near what it is today. Even forging a simple iron sword was a daunting task. In that sense, early alchemy was little more than a form of metallurgy."
There was a faint, almost cryptic tone in his voice.
"To understand a substance. To deconstruct it. To reforge it. To elevate base metal into something precious… to ascend from the mundane into something greater."
"As time passed, this discipline evolved, giving rise to what we now call mysticism. Many strange and unexplainable phenomena can trace their roots back to it."
Then, his tone shifted.
"Tell me, do you know why alchemy has gradually vanished from this world?"
"Vanished?"
The word struck something within Lloyd.
He had noticed the signs before—but only now did they begin to take shape. A once-dominant art… quietly fading into obscurity.
"Yes," Merlin said evenly. "Even the Purge Agency is undergoing transformation. Technologies tied to alchemy are being phased out, replaced by emerging sciences. They may lack alchemy's efficiency, but within the framework of modern industry, they are more than sufficient to sustain the system."
As the last alchemist of Old Dunling, Merlin spoke with an almost unsettling calm—as though none of it truly mattered to him.
"Do you know how alchemy has been passed down?" he continued.
"Modern scholars share knowledge freely. They build institutions, collaborate, exchange ideas. But alchemists… are the opposite. Each one seeks the ultimate truth of alchemy—the deepest essence of it."
"The Philosopher's Stone. The Elixir. The Panacea… mere names, all of them. What they truly seek is a form of spiritual ascension."
"But within the world constructed by alchemy, everything rests upon a balance—a scale. To reach that ultimate state, one must pay an equivalent price. The ascent of the soul comes at a cost… bound by the law of conservation."
"So it's… limited," Lloyd murmured instinctively.
"Exactly." Merlin nodded. "Only a handful of alchemists ever reach that pinnacle. And because of that… every alchemist is, by nature, in competition with the others."
His voice grew heavier.
"It is forbidden knowledge. Like demonic corruption, it amplifies the deepest desires within you. It feeds your greed—your hunger—for understanding. It drives you mad. To pursue it… one must be willing to abandon everything."
"Every alchemist… is an enemy."
His words rose, sharper, more intense—tinged with something dangerously close to fury.
Lloyd watched him closely.
There was something in Merlin's eyes—something hollow, something disturbingly absent. A void that inspired a quiet, instinctive dread. As though what stood before him was no longer a man… but merely a shell.
"Calm yourself, Merlin," Arthur interjected quietly.
Merlin paused, as if only then realizing his lapse. He swallowed, and when he spoke again, his voice had regained its composure.
"My apologies. It has been a long time since I've spoken of this. I lost myself for a moment."
"Alchemy is like that. It offers immense power—but it also awakens humanity's most primitive desires. A greed for knowledge… a greed that refuses to be shared."
"Now, as for its transmission—alchemy follows a one-to-one apprenticeship. All knowledge is recorded in personal journals, passed down to a single successor. To prevent others from stealing their work, each alchemist encodes their notes with unique cipher systems. Even if the journal falls into another's hands, it is meaningless."
He paused, a trace of sorrow surfacing in his tone.
"But this also leads to a very serious problem."
"Alchemy… is extraordinarily prone to being lost."
In the long and solitary pursuit of knowledge, every alchemist stood alone.
Each possessed their own craft, their own methods—fragments of truth refined through years, sometimes lifetimes, of devotion. But should even one lineage be severed, that long labor would vanish into nothingness. At times, the loss of merely a page or two of notes was enough to bring an entire system of alchemy crashing down.
"Alchemy, as it stands today, is nothing more than a crumbling tower," Merlin said slowly. "Each lost lineage pulls away another brick. Meanwhile, modern science shares everything—scholars devote their entire lives to different fields, reinforcing that tower piece by piece."
He paused, then added with a faint sigh, "Even in death, they leave behind books. But alchemical notes… some of them carry traces of demonic knowledge. They bear corruption—varying in intensity. Study them carelessly, and you might very well become a demon yourself."
There was something in his tone—something earned. As though he had learned that lesson at a cost.
"Then why not expand?" Lloyd asked, frowning. "If things are this fragile, why not take in more apprentices? Isn't that the simplest way to prevent a break in inheritance?"
Merlin smiled faintly.
"I may have learned to restrain my greed for knowledge… but what of my apprentices?" he replied. "And besides, within the structure of alchemy, only a handful can ever reach its pinnacle."
Then, suddenly, his smile shifted—something sharper, more unsettling. As if everything he had said before had merely been a prelude.
Lloyd, seated behind the electrified bars, felt a quiet unease settle in.
"And there is another reason," Merlin continued softly, "why alchemy is destined to be abandoned by this age… one you, Mr. Holmes, should understand all too well."
"Understand?" Lloyd shook his head. "I know nothing about alchemy, Merlin."
After all, Old Dunling's universities did not teach such things. He couldn't have learned it even if he tried.
"A reminder," Merlin said with a knowing smile. "The Revelation of the Evangelical Church."
Lloyd's pupils contracted instantly, his gaze sharpening with instinctive caution.
"You mean… that it's actually an alchemical manuscript?"
"No," Merlin chuckled lightly. "Of course not. I've never even seen that book. But it shares something curious with alchemy—a core technology."
He spoke the truth as though unveiling a hidden mechanism beneath the world.
"Once the Evangelical Church lost the Revelation, it lost the technology of Secret Blood. Just as when an alchemist dies, the knowledge that upholds an entire system can vanish. To build a society capable of resisting demons… and to base its foundation on something so fragile—don't you think that risk is far too great?"
That was the Church's dilemma.
On the Night of Descent, the alchemists perished. The mysterious Revelation was stolen by Archbishop Lawrence. And in an instant, the once-mighty Secret Blood technology was severed.
"This is why the Purging Agency has been gradually reducing its reliance on alchemy," Merlin continued. "If I die—or if no apprentice inherits my work—this place will fall into the same predicament as the Church. But modern science is different."
He gestured outward, as though encompassing an unseen world.
"If I die, the universities of Old Dunling will continue to produce talent. Not just here—across Ingervig, across the entire Western world."
That was the strength of shared knowledge.
No matter how devastating the war, the world would not regress into ignorance. Even a common train conductor, after years of exposure, would grasp the fundamentals of mechanical repair.
"And that's not the only reason alchemy is destined to fade," Merlin went on. "In the old era, its productivity was… sufficient. But now? This is a new age—the age of steam, the age of industry."
His voice carried something solemn. Almost ceremonial.
"We possess the most powerful production lines the world has ever seen. Weapons are no longer blades forged by master craftsmen… but instruments flowing endlessly from the line."
He paused.
"Alchemy was always meant to be left behind. I've merely hastened its passing."
It sounded like a grand speech—
and yet, at its core, it was a eulogy.
A funeral for alchemy.
A funeral for an age long gone.
"Now," Merlin said, as if drawing a curtain aside, "let us return to your experience with the old-era god-armor."
There it was again.
As though he had been digging a pit all along—and now, at last, he intended to push Lloyd into it.
"Do you know," Merlin continued, "when we pulled you out of the armor… you were completely still. No response at all."
"Did I look like I'd just completed some glorious revolution?" Lloyd shot back dryly.
"I can't say what it was," Merlin replied calmly, ignoring the deflection. "But it felt… familiar."
"Familiar how?"
"You looked like your soul wasn't there," Merlin said quietly. "As if it had been transferred… or perhaps… sublimated."
Another corner of truth was brushed free of dust.
Lloyd remained outwardly calm—but beneath that stillness, his thoughts churned violently. If Merlin wasn't bluffing… then the Interstice was connected to the ultimate state in alchemy—
Sublimation.
"Of course," Merlin added, "it's unlikely you achieved true sublimation. Whether such a state even exists… is still a mystery."
At that moment, a knock sounded against the cell door.
Whoever it was had poor timing—or no fear at all.
As if expecting it, Arthur rose, opened the door, and accepted a black case.
"Well then, Mr. Holmes," he said evenly, "it seems our conversation can proceed to its second phase."
"…What?"
Lloyd blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Of course—this had all been arranged. His collapse inside the armor had merely accelerated their plans.
Arthur slipped on a pair of gloves, opened the case, and withdrew something Lloyd recognized instantly—
A segment of a silver-white spine.
"The Binding Silver Bolt," Arthur said. "Did you know it, too, contains alchemical craftsmanship?"
Lloyd nodded without hesitation. Not just the Bolt—every Hunter's power relied on the alchemical matrices etched within them.
"Then let's return to what I mentioned earlier—technological discontinuity," Arthur continued. "This artifact far surpasses any alchemical technique I know. It incorporates complex modern machinery… some components so precise that even we cannot reproduce them."
There was a trace of unease in his voice.
"Do you understand what this means? The Evangelical Church's fusion of modern technology and alchemy—at least in terms of fabrication—is far more advanced than it appears."
He paused, then leaned slightly forward.
"And yet, there's a contradiction. Their productive capacity shouldn't allow for this. Their foundational technology simply doesn't meet the requirements. It's like handing the blueprints of a steam engine to people centuries ago—they might understand the principle… but they couldn't even refine the most basic metals needed to build it."
Arthur met Lloyd's gaze, his tone slowing.
"Mr. Holmes… we've decided to reestablish contact with the Evangelical Church. After the Feast of Nativity."
"… "
Lloyd fell silent.
He stared at Arthur, momentarily unable to grasp why he would say such a thing—let alone to him.
"…Wait," Lloyd said slowly. "You're telling me this because you want me involved?"
By the end, a quiet, incredulous laughter had begun to escape him.
First Medanzo. Now Arthur.
It was as if some unseen hand was turning the gears of fate—dragging him toward the very center of the storm.
"I simply believe that, given our cooperation—and your connection to the Church—you have a right to know," Arthur replied evenly. "You are a Hunter. You understand the Seven Hills. That knowledge… may prove useful."
"No," Lloyd said immediately, shaking his head. "Not a chance. I'm not going back."
There was no hesitation. No deliberation.
He looked around the cell—and for a fleeting moment, it felt like the world itself was cracking apart.
"I won't force you," Arthur said calmly. "This is merely an exchange of information."
He stepped toward the door, then paused.
"For now, that will be all. You needn't worry—we won't take further measures. This cell is only active for twenty-four hours. Once we confirm your condition, you'll be free to leave."
At the threshold, he added, almost as an afterthought—
"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."