A restlessness gnawed at him from within, and because of it, Lloyd failed to notice the gaze trailing him from behind. He strode through the iron-wrought corridors of the fortress, his pace hurried, his thoughts racing like storm winds across a shattered sea.
Within his mind, the scales of death rose slowly into balance. On one side stood Archpriest Lawrence. On the other—himself.
He weighed them in silence.
Lawrence held the Grail, the foresight granted by the authority of Shandafon, the power to traverse the Intervals, and the swarming abominations forged from impure secret blood. Lloyd, in turn, bore Watson—the false Grail—alongside the authority of Metatron, and the backing of the Purge Agency.
Though Old Dunling was his ground, they were anything but in control. Lawrence could emerge from the dark at any moment—perhaps, Lloyd thought grimly, he already had.
Head lowered, Lloyd sank deeper into thought than ever before. It burdened him so heavily that he failed to notice the figure approaching head-on.
"Lloyd!"
The call cut through his thoughts. It was Redhawk, who had already caught sight of something amiss.
"What is it?"
Lloyd looked up, his brow furrowing.
"I was just looking for you," Redhawk said, stepping closer as he handed over a metal case. "A custom weapon. Designed to minimize your consumption of sanctified silver."
It was something Lloyd himself had requested. His nail-sword had been wearing down far too quickly.
He took the case. It was heavier than expected.
A flicker of surprise crossed his face. The speed of production was impressive—though, considering the Institute of Mechanism's mature assembly lines and industrial precision, anything less would have been the real surprise.
Lloyd did not open it immediately. There were still matters at hand. He walked alongside Redhawk into another conference chamber, where only fragments of the operational plan would be discussed—never the whole. With Lawrence's ability to slip through the Intervals, even knowledge could become a liability. Only Lloyd and Arthur knew the full design.
They had arrived early. No one else was there yet.
So Lloyd set the case down and opened it.
Curiosity stirred. Judging by its size, it couldn't possibly contain a blade of any significant length.
"What is this?"
He lifted the weapon from within.
It was a slightly elongated hilt—yet there was no blade. Along its surface ran intricate grooves and seams, as though it could unfold. Stranger still, it was heavy—far heavier than it had any right to be. Forged, perhaps, from some specialized alloy. An ordinary man would struggle to even hold it. For a demon hunter, however, it felt… manageable.
"A folding blade," Redhawk said, taking it back with visible effort—the weight far less forgiving in his hands. "Standard issue in the Purge Agency. Though we've… refined it for you."
It was, in fact, Blue Emerald's preferred weapon—highly concealable, easily hidden beneath clothing, nearly impossible for the untrained eye to detect.
Redhawk triggered a mechanism.
With a sharp motion, the hilt split open. A second segment of metal snapped outward. Then, as the structure locked again, a third segment extended from within. In an instant, the weapon's length tripled.
A soft metallic click followed—the internal structure locking tight, teeth of steel biting into place.
"Given the intensity of demon hunter combat, we reinforced it with a denser alloy," Redhawk explained. "Of course, that increases the weight. To conserve sanctified silver, we've only plated the blade's edge."
He turned it slightly, letting the light catch its surface.
It was, undeniably, a work of art. The blade bore intricate engravings, the patterns of its three segments flowing seamlessly into one another like surging waves.
Lloyd had heard of this particular obsession.
Even weapons meant for killing had to possess elegance.
Nikola had once told him that.
He had asked Lloyd—what would happen when, centuries from now, all of them were gone, and someone uncovered what they had left behind?
At first, Lloyd hadn't understood.
But the scholar had explained, his pale, almost sickly face twisting into a smile that was anything but pleasant.
Perhaps by then, the demons would be gone. Perhaps the Purge Agency would no longer exist. Perhaps even Ingervig itself would have fallen.
And if, by chance, humanity endured—what would they think, uncovering this history?
Would they mistake them for gods of myth? Figures who wielded exquisite weapons and waged war against monsters?
Just as the ignorant once believed rain came from prayer… might there be those who would one day worship them?
Nikola had laughed—a hollow, unsettling sound—and said that if such a future were to come, then their creations ought to carry a touch of myth within them.
"Of course," Redhawk added, breaking Lloyd's thoughts, "concealment and portability are the priorities. And this."
He gestured toward the interior of the case.
Inside lay several spare blade heads, each plated with sanctified silver, each crafted with the same meticulous detail, etched with fine, delicate patterns.
"If it gets damaged in combat, and you have the time, you can replace the head yourself. Or—if you don't—throw it."
Lloyd picked one up, turning it between his fingers before giving the weapon a casual swing.
The heavy folding blade moved in his grasp like a feather. It cut through the air, leaving behind a pale arc, before settling steadily back into his hand.
Well-concealed. Heavier than the nail-sword.
"This… is the art of machinery?"
He folded it again, slipping it beneath his coat. It vanished completely—far easier to hide than a cane-sword.
"Just the art of killing," Redhawk replied, shaking his head as he dropped into a nearby chair.
"I envy you demon hunters," he added with a sigh. "Feels exhausting just swinging that thing."
He thought of End Town. Of how he had fallen once—and spent nearly half a month recovering in a hospital bed. And Lloyd? Wounded far worse, yet he would rise the next day as if nothing had happened.
Arthur had once mentioned that demon hunters lived unnaturally long lives—two centuries, if nothing went wrong.
How enviable.
"That's not something worth envying, Redhawk."
Lloyd spoke quietly, as if accustomed to such looks—those filled with longing and admiration.
Redhawk didn't understand the price.
Lloyd looked at him, and asked, with disarming seriousness:
"Do you think I'm still human?"
The question struck abruptly.
Redhawk froze. In those gray-blue eyes, he saw his own reflection—as if being confronted by himself.
"…Human?"
Lloyd nodded, calmly storing the spare blade heads into a pouch.
"Tell me," he continued, "if a wild dog could outrun a train, and crush steel with its jaws… would it still be a dog?"
Redhawk hesitated.
"That would be… a monster."
Something like that no longer belonged among ordinary creatures—it was a beast unchained.
A faint curve touched Lloyd's lips.
"Then what about a man who can tear demons apart with his bare hands, and outlive everyone here?"
Redhawk fell silent.
"I didn't mean—"
"It's fine," Lloyd interrupted gently. "The comparison is simple."
Within the Order, there had long been a saying:
Only a demon can kill a demon.
Mortals stole forbidden power. They drank of sinful blood. The heated surge of secret blood coursed through their veins, bound and restrained by cold silver shackles.
To destroy monsters… one must become one.
"If you can't beat them, join them," Lloyd added lightly, almost as a joke.
He finished equipping himself, his wide coat concealing every weapon.
"Everything has a price," he said after a pause, a faint smile lingering. "It's just that… you haven't been asked to pay yet."
He considered it, then added softly:
"Call it… a debt owed to fate."
Redhawk felt something strange stir within him.
For a fleeting moment—he pitied Lloyd.
Then came the instinctive recoil. What right did he have to pity someone like Lloyd? A man who could carve through hordes of demons like a storm made flesh—a pinnacle of human combat power. Even if Lloyd did nothing but eat and sleep, he would outlive them all.
And yet…
There was a quiet sorrow to him.
"When this is over," Redhawk said, forcing a change of subject, "you should visit the Perpetual Pump. They've always got experimental weapons lying around. Not fit for mass production—but enough to arm a few."
There were hundreds of ways to kill something there. Only a handful ever made it to the battlefield.
"I think I will."
Lloyd took a seat across from him.
Footsteps echoed outside the door. The others were arriving.
But just before those steps reached the threshold—
A sudden noise broke the rhythm.
A fall.
Redhawk barely reacted.
Lloyd did.
Something in him snapped taut. He surged from the room, crossing the threshold in an instant.
A soldier lay collapsed outside.
Lloyd dropped to one knee, already on edge, every nerve sharpened to its limit.
"What happened?"
Redhawk followed, watching as Lloyd tried to lift the man.
"Wake up!"
A sharp slap to the soldier's cheek.
No response. His eyes remained shut—unconscious.
Then—
A sensation beneath Lloyd's fingers. Hard. Metallic.
He reached behind the soldier's neck and pulled it free.
Blood stained its surface.
"This is… your 'failsafe,' isn't it?"
His voice carried a warning edge as he raised it for Redhawk to see.
A charred neural electrode.
The Purge Agency's standard safeguard. When corruption reached a certain threshold, it would trigger automatically—releasing a surge of current.
But now—
It had already been activated.
"He's been corrupted…"
"But this is the Institute of Mechanism!" Redhawk's disbelief broke through.
"Yes," Lloyd said quietly. "But against an enemy that moves like a ghost… what use is even the strongest fortress?"
An unseen foe.
Something that slipped through the fissures of consciousness itself.
Lloyd rose slowly, his gaze darkening.
"Notify Arthur," he said.
"Archpriest Lawrence is already here."
A pause.
"Advance the plan."