The chamber was the same—custom-built, sealed to perfection—yet something within it had soured. The air hung heavy, muted, as though even sound itself had grown reluctant to linger. The alarms had long since fallen silent, and the locked door had been unsealed… but the heart that had once been closed remained so still.
Ovis lay there, eyes fixed upon the ceiling, his gaze unfocused. His thoughts churned into a tangled storm—chaotic, shapeless, as if everything was there and yet nothing remained at all.
Then, suddenly, a fragile impulse stirred within him. He wanted to move. He could not bear this bed any longer.
With trembling effort, his slender arms pushed against the mattress, straining to lift himself. It was difficult—painfully so—but not impossible. Inch by inch, he forced his body upright, until at last his unsteady legs touched the cold floor beneath.
He drew a breath—deep, labored—as though even this simple act consumed the last of his strength. A faint, needling pain crept through his joints, sharp but tolerable.
He wanted to go outside.
It struck him then—how long had he been within the Perpetual Pump, and yet never truly seen it? Always confined to this room, waiting… waiting only for the next mission.
Ah, missions.
Those had been his only moments of joy.
Hidden within the divine armor, he had been free. In those fleeting hours, he was no longer this frail, trembling body—he was Lancelot, the one who could rend steel apart with his bare hands.
But now…
Now, he was no longer that man.
He clutched his head.
Pain—violent, invasive—tore through his mind, as if something were ripping his skull apart from within. It felt like a writhing parasite, burrowing, gnawing, twisting its way outward—seeking escape through bone and thought alike.
The demonic corruption had not ceased.
It devoured him still.
It was not merely the lingering aftermath of his unconsciousness within the armor. In those final moments, the overwhelming tide of corruption unleashed by Archbishop Lawrence had been something even demon hunters could scarcely withstand—let alone a mortal body such as his.
That intensity hastened his decay.
It was as though countless fiends howled within his ears, their razor claws raking endlessly across his flesh.
Ovis collapsed.
His body struck the ground with a dull thud as he writhed in agony. Yet when the pain reached its absolute peak, something strange occurred—
Silence.
A hollow, absolute stillness.
A sharp ringing filled his ears. Then—
Footsteps.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Measured. Clear.
Someone was coming.
His caretaker, perhaps. They must have heard the disturbance. And yet—
Something was wrong.
There was no sound of the door opening.
With great effort, Ovis lifted his head.
And what he saw…
…was a face he could never have imagined.
"You…!"
The nightmare had breached the confines of his mind.
It had stepped into reality.
The man made no attempt to conceal himself. His tattered crimson robes stirred though no wind blew, aged white hair cascading downward. At his side, the edge of a spiked blade caught the light—its cold surface reflecting Ovis's own face back at him.
"How… is this possible…?"
Ovis tried to rise, bracing himself against the ground—but his strength failed him. He collapsed again, just as the figure came to stand before him.
"Ovis…? Or should I call you Lancelot?"
Archbishop Lawrence smiled.
The wrinkles upon his aged face twisted together like the bark of a withered tree.
"No… this can't be…"
Ovis could not understand. How had he entered the Perpetual Pump? How had he come here at all?
"You're wondering how I arrived, aren't you?"
Ovis's eyes widened. His pupils trembled, breath quickening.
"You… know what I'm thinking?"
A cold dread coiled around his heart, like a venomous serpent tightening its grip.
Lawrence merely smiled—calm, gentle, almost kind.
He nodded.
One hand rose, gripping Ovis's throat with iron force, pinning him in place. The other lifted the spiked sword.
"Yes, child… of course I know."
His voice softened, almost tender.
"After all… I came from here."
The cold tip of the blade pressed against Ovis's forehead.
Then, slowly—
It pierced.
Sound and pain alike magnified a hundredfold. Ovis felt everything with terrible clarity—the splitting of skin, the warm surge of blood, the relentless intrusion of cold metal pushing deeper, deeper still…
Until it struck bone.
And pressed harder.
It was no longer mere pain.
It was something far older.
Something primal.
Fear.
The blade forced its way through, prying open his skull like the lid of a stubborn tin. Ovis tried to scream—but his throat was locked in an iron grip. What escaped instead was nothing more than a broken rasp… the meaningless whine of a dying beast.
Like an execution.
Blood flooded over the blade, dripping steadily onto the floor below.
There was nothing left now but terror—fermenting slowly within the depths of despair.
No one heard him.
No one came.
If another observer had stood within that room, they would have seen nothing of this horror—no Lawrence, no blade, no blood.
Only Ovis.
Collapsed upon the ground.
Trembling.
Alone.
…
The Perpetual Pump.
Containment Sector Four—Live Demonic Specimen Ward.
To facilitate experimentation, a number of demons were held within the facility—submerged in neutralizing solution, imprisoned in fluid cells that dulled their corrosive influence. Around them, countermeasures stood ready at all times.
It was, in a way, a grotesque zoo.
Only the exhibits came from hell.
Merlin and Arthur walked one before the other through the vast chamber. It resembled less a prison than a colossal industrial complex—interwoven with suspended corridors stretching in all directions. Below them, numbered specimens writhed within their assigned enclosures. Above, heavy artillery towers loomed—ever watchful. Should any anomaly arise, the solution would first be electrified… and then, the guns would speak.
"It's not just Mr. Holmes," Arthur said, his voice carrying both excitement and unease. "We've gained much more than that."
The emergence of Archbishop Lawrence had marked the first near-total war between the Cleansing Order and the demonic forces. And in that crucible, the Order—fully mobilized—had captured entities beyond prior imagination.
They came to a halt.
A valve turned.
Below them, a containment block began to rise slowly upward. The neutralizing fluid within sloshed gently, obscuring the grotesque shape contained inside.
"Its name is Honor," Arthur continued. "If our findings are correct, most of the murders in Old Dunling were its doing. It was once one of the Remnants… likely unable to endure the oppression imposed by the nobility. It allied itself with Archbishop Lawrence, consumed inferior secret blood—and became this."
He gestured toward the thing within.
Honor.
Or what had once been Honor.
Only fragments of humanity remained in that twisted form. Its body was bound tightly within a metallic restraint system, joints pierced through by lethal steel spikes—rendering even the simplest movement impossible. Most of its mass lay submerged within the solution.
As the containment block rose, a faint chill spilled outward. Studies had shown that demons retained biological properties—low temperatures suppressed their activity. Even at a distance, the cold was palpable. Much of its flesh had frozen together with the surrounding fluid.
Honor had been captured during Lawrence's appearance.
It had attempted to assassinate Duke Salicado—but Arthur had intervened, holding it off until reinforcements arrived and subdued it.
And so, it was brought here.
Numbered.
Contained.
Reduced to a specimen.
It was evident that the creature bore an extraordinarily complex connection to Father Lawrence. Yet by the time everything had come to an end, Hona had already descended into the third stage of erosion—communication was no longer possible, and what remained of him was violently hostile. Arthur had no choice but to seal him away here, postponing any further action… until now.
"Perhaps you can extract something from it—something about the inferior Secret Blood."
That was Arthur's intent. For the Purification Order, their foremost objective remained unchanged: Father Lawrence.
"I see… Then thaw it. Prepare a laboratory for me."
Merlin gave a slight nod. At his command, a thunderous hum of machinery rolled overhead. Only then did it become apparent that rails ran even through this chamber. A mechanical arm descended, lifting the containment cube whole. With it came a spreading veil of freezing vapor, seeping into the air like a creeping winter.
An armed security unit followed closely behind, their lethal weapons trained and ready, escorting the cube along its path. It was clear that within the Perpetual Pump, such procedures had long since become routine—refined, efficient, merciless.
As the temperature slowly rose, the dormant mass of flesh within began to stir once more.
And then, a voice—faint, distant, as if echoing through a dream.
"Hona…"
"Wake up, child…"
Someone was calling him.
He tried to reach out—but all he touched was a cold so absolute it pierced to the bone.
He clawed upward, again and again, panic rising with every motion. The voice grew louder, closer, until at last—a beam of light broke through the darkness and fell upon his face.
Hona crawled out from the frozen snowfield, naked, trembling, utterly lost. He did not understand what had happened. Instinctively, he tried to cover himself, to shield his body from the merciless wind.
But it was too cold. Far too cold.
So cold that sensation began to fade from his limbs, until even the thought of lying down—of surrendering to the endless snow—felt almost comforting.
Then, once more, that voice.
Familiar. Gentle.
Calling him.
In an instant, the storm vanished. The wind and snow were gone, as though erased. A figure approached from afar, dragging behind it a long crimson shadow.
"I… I never thought I would see you again…"
Recognizing the face before him, Hona dropped to his knees, his emotions tangled beyond words.
"You've done well, child. Truly."
Father Lawrence leaned forward, gently resting a hand upon his head. Before him, Hona looked no more than a malnourished boy—frail, gaunt, and fragile.
"…Is that so? Will you take me away from here? It's too cold…"
Hope flickered in Hona's eyes. He grasped the old man's hand, its calluses hard as iron.
But Father Lawrence only shook his head.
"No."
"W-Why…?"
"Because you must leave this place by your own strength."
"…I have no strength left. It's too cold…"
"Then I shall grant you strength."
"For the last time."
His voice was calm, almost gentle.
As if glimpsing a final sliver of hope, Hona froze for a moment—then lowered his head. Somewhere deep within, he sensed what was coming… and yet, he no longer seemed to care.
A nameless power surged.
The ice began to melt.
Beneath it, dry earth was revealed—cracking open, splitting apart—until from its depths, crimson magma surged forth. It was a force that rewrote the world itself. The freezing void of winter was, in an instant, consumed by a scorching, searing wind.
"I… am I standing… at the center of the stage?"
For reasons he could not explain, Hona asked this one final question.
And a voice answered him.
"Yes, Hona. You have done it."
Like a benevolent priest, it repeated softly—
"You have done it."
As the temperature within the containment cube continued to rise, the demon inside stirred toward wakefulness. It remained within controllable limits—for now. Suspended along the rails, it was transported forward, with the security unit pacing below along the corridor. Even the heavy turret emplacements tracked its movement, their barrels shifting in perfect synchronization.
Everything seemed normal.
Just like countless times before.
But unnoticed—within the creature's body—the temperature was rising.
Rising steadily.
It was like a nascent sun igniting within flesh, accelerating the melting of the ice. Drops of water formed, trickling down the surface. Cold gave way to neutrality… and then, still higher.
Merlin was the first to sense it.
As an alchemist, his instincts for anomaly were razor-sharp. He lifted his gaze toward the containment cube above—
And before he could fully process it, the liquid inside began to boil.
"Containment breach!"
His shout rang out.
The security team reacted instantly. Electricity surged into the cube, triggering a violent reaction within. Countless tiny bubbles erupted, rising through the liquid like water at a rolling boil.
For a moment—it worked.
The faintly swaying silhouette inside stilled.
Every weapon locked onto it.
And then—
A crisp, unnatural sound echoed through the chamber.
Like metal being torn apart by an immense force.
"The restraints…"
Arthur muttered.
Once a ranger, he trusted the instinct carved into him on the battlefield. He seized Merlin and dragged him toward the exit, slamming down the alarm as they fled.
The sirens wailed.
And in the next instant—
The containment cube exploded midair.
At the same time, the entire No.4 Living Demon Containment Chamber sealed shut. Other containment units disengaged, dropping away—beneath them, a vast transport shaft yawned open, leading down into the incineration core.
Heavy gates slammed into place.
Then came the gunfire.
Deafening. Relentless.
The heavy turrets unleashed everything they had, forming a continuous wall of fire in the air. The ground trembled under the barrage, as though the earth itself were shuddering.
Outside the chamber, Arthur and Merlin stood gasping for breath.
Neither spoke.
The crisis had come too fast.
Too suddenly.
And then—
The gunfire stopped.
Gone.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
They stared at the sealed gate.
Then—
A thunderous impact.
The metal bulged outward.
Something massive pressed against it from within.
Like a beast clawing its way out of a cage.
Father Lawrence slowly opened his eyes.
A faint headache lingered. He pressed his fingers against his temple, then turned to look out the window. Outside, the streets were alive with bustling crowds. The carriage he rode in crept forward through the congestion.
"I've found the location of the Perpetual Pump… deeper than expected."
He gazed toward the unseen depths beneath the horizon, a chilling smile forming on his lips.
"So… what now? An assault on the Perpetual Pump? That would be a formal declaration of war against the Purification Order."
The man across from him frowned. Lawrence was not one for recklessness.
"No. Just a friendly greeting."
"And… a small experiment with this new power."
Leaning back, he slowly opened his coat.
Beneath it—
His aged body was no longer whole.
Where his heart should have been, there writhed a grotesque mass of crimson flesh. It looked as though skin had never existed there at all—only a malformed tumor pulsing faintly. Upon its surface, twisted features could be vaguely discerned—
Like the face of a sleeping infant.
"The will of the Grail escaped long ago, on the Night of Descent. What remains within the Sacred Coffin is merely a shell. And yet… even such a remnant holds this kind of power."
His hand gently caressed the "infant."
The image was both absurd and horrifying.
Even the man across from him could barely endure it.
"Damn it—put your clothes back on. I'm going to be sick."
He spat the words out, visibly repulsed.
"I never should have come back. If I hadn't turned around, I'd already be in the Land of Abundance."
Regret weighed heavily in his voice.
"Oh, don't be like that, Plague Doctor."
Father Lawrence closed his coat, smiling faintly.
"You have to admit—our partnership works quite well. My execution… your exquisite surgical craft."
"What was that phrase again?"
"A match made in heaven."
The Plague Doctor shifted uneasily, trying to lean back—but the cursed carriage offered no space to escape.