The air itself seemed to vanish, as if the world had been hollowed out, leaving behind only a crushing weight that pressed upon every chest. Breath grew scarce. Words died before they were spoken. It was the stillness before ruin—the final hush before war unfurled its wings.
They exchanged glances in silence. Arthur's eyes lingered on Yavi, a trace of unease flickering beneath his composed exterior. His voice came low, edged with restraint.
"He shouldn't be here. The fewer who know, the better."
Lloyd shook his head slowly.
"I… at the very least, Celie needs him. As her steward, I believe he can be trusted."
Their exchange was brief, cautious, and unfinished. Though suspicion had not entirely faded, Arthur chose, in the end, to trust Lloyd. As the only one capable of standing against Archbishop Lawrence, Lloyd's judgment carried a weight none of them could ignore.
"We already have a preliminary plan," Lloyd said, stepping into the room alongside Arthur. The space grew crowded in an instant. "A way to oppose Lawrence."
"What plan?" Yavi asked immediately. As the steward of House Stuart, his foremost duty remained Celie.
"That cannot be disclosed," Arthur replied, his gaze cold and immovable.
"If our assumptions are correct, our enemy possesses the ability to traverse between minds—moving through consciousness itself."
He chose his words carefully, shaping them into something the two could grasp—though in truth, it was also a form of protection.
From the combined knowledge of the Purge Agency and the demon-hunting order buried within Lloyd's memory, one truth had become clear: demonic corruption spread memetically. Not only through the entities themselves, but through anything tied to them—words, objects, works of art, even heavily tainted individuals, and the invisible threads of bloodline that bound them. All of it could become a vector.
Against such an insidious force, the Agency had adopted a singular doctrine: erase the concept. Strip the world of the very idea of "demons," reassign every anomaly to something else, and erect an unbreakable barrier between madness and reason.
"In other words," Arthur continued, "until it reveals itself, it has no form. No trace."
"And because it can move between minds," he added, his voice lowering, "it may already be here. It could have infiltrated this place… perhaps even this very room."
This was the first time the Agency had encountered such an enemy. No degree of caution could be called excessive.
"That's… impossible," Yavi gasped.
The existence of demons alone had already shattered his understanding of the world. But this—this power to slip through unseen intervals of thought—was something else entirely. It defied even fear. It felt closer to… a ghost.
A wandering spirit, adrift among the living.
"Quiet," Arthur said sharply. He had always despised this part—the explanations, the disbelief, the inevitable shock. With the wrong audience, it often ended in accusations of heresy… or worse.
"Because of this," Lloyd continued, taking over, "it is nearly impossible to keep secrets from him."
Based on his own incursions into the "Interstice," Lloyd had reached a grim conclusion: once the host's consciousness was destroyed, fragments of memory could be obtained. That meant any plan against Lawrence had to remain confined to as few minds as possible. The soldiers themselves could not be allowed to know what they were truly fighting for. Ignorance was the only safeguard against exposure.
"After discussion, only Arthur and I know the full plan," Lloyd said, his voice slow and deliberate.
"So what is this, then?" Celie asked quietly. "A notification?"
There had been no room for her to negotiate.
"We need your cooperation."
"Because I'm the target, aren't I?"
"Yes."
"Then… why?" Her voice wavered, not with weakness, but with something deeper—confusion edged with dread. "Why am I his target?"
Even now, she could not understand it. That something so monstrous had fixed its gaze upon her—was it truly some unseen curse at work?
"We don't know," Lloyd answered.
Lawrence's motives remained obscured. To Lloyd, the man was nothing more than a lunatic—one who had orchestrated the horrors of the Holy Advent Night in pursuit of some unknowable end.
"…So I'm the bait," Celie said.
Lloyd nodded in silence.
"Absolutely not!" Yavi roared, stepping forward. The danger was obvious, unbearable. Celie was the last bloodline of the Stuarts—he could not allow this.
But Arthur cut him off without hesitation.
"I'm sorry. This is no longer something a noble lineage can influence."
If Lawrence were allowed to grow, he would become a calamity upon all of Invelvig. Now that he wielded the power of the Holy Grail, Arthur dared not grant him even a moment more. Such an enemy demanded swift eradication.
"But—"
"That's enough," Celie said, interrupting him.
"Celie—!"
"Don't you see it yet, Yavi?" she said softly, her gaze steady.
"Here… power, wealth, status—they mean nothing."
Arthur did not care. Lloyd did not care. They shared only one purpose: the eradication of demons.
"…But at least there's still Lloyd, isn't there?"
She turned to him, meeting those gray-blue eyes.
"You'll protect me, won't you?"
It felt like staring into a frozen sea—silent, boundless, and reflecting a blinding light across its surface. Lloyd instinctively looked away.
He knew the plan.
The train was coming again.
And this time, it was Celie who had been placed upon the tracks.
"Make preparations," he said flatly. "No one knows how Lawrence will appear."
The Purge Agency had already armed him. This was the Mechanical Institute—an arsenal beyond counting, filled with the finest instruments of war.
But Celie did not seem to hear him. Her gaze remained fixed on Lloyd.
There are things words cannot carry—truths that pass only through the eyes. In that silent exchange, she seemed to glimpse what lay ahead. A strange feeling stirred within her—not joy, not sorrow, but something suspended between the two.
Lloyd turned and left the room.
There was still a chance to save her—if he could kill Archbishop Lawrence within the Interstice.
No one could truly grasp the thoughts of a demon hunter.
Yet not far away, at the end of a dim corridor, a soldier stood guard beside a corner. A wave of nausea crept through him, followed by a dull mental fatigue. Still, he held his post. And yet, his gaze kept drifting—toward the direction Lloyd had gone.
"Who… are you?" he murmured.
He had been a moment too late to see Lloyd's face. The thought unsettled him—but then something colder seeped into his bones. A faint stabbing pain stirred in his mind, and with it came fear.
He did not know why he had spoken.
He did not know Lloyd.
And yet…
For a fleeting instant, it felt as though he had become someone else.
His breathing quickened. He turned to the soldier beside him.
The man looked back—yet something was wrong.
The familiarity was unraveling.
The face had not changed… and yet, it was no longer the same person.
An unseen specter slipped free from one body and stepped into another.
"Shh," it whispered.
A hand pressed gently against the soldier's forehead. At such close range, even a low-level incursion could evade the detection of a Geiger counter.
Watching the man collapse into unconsciousness, Archbishop Lawrence carefully eased him against the wall. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze—
toward the corner where Lloyd had disappeared.