The sky had been scorched into a furious crimson, so vivid it seemed ready to bleed. Every inch of the world lay drowned beneath that searing red, and beneath the dying gaze of the sun, the hunters advanced—slowly, deliberately.
It was like the final chapter of an old tale: two sworn enemies meeting amid a scene of terrible beauty, where only one would walk away alive.
At first, there were cautious steps. Then a quickened pace. And at last, a full charge—blades drawn in a violent arc, like iron-feathered eagles spreading their wings. A piercing shriek tore through the air, followed by the violent clash of steel, scattering sparks and gusts of scorching wind.
Their swordplay surged like a storm. Even the simplest swing carried overwhelming force, tearing dry grass from the earth and hurling it into the air like shattered ash dancing wildly across the field of vision.
The Secret Blood roared awake within them—surging, writhing—unleashing a power that did not belong to mortals, a forbidden force long meant to be forgotten.
It began with the flesh. Muscle fibers thickened and multiplied, bones hardened like forged steel, and beneath it all, the heart pounded like a war drum, driving blood infused with that secret essence through every vein at a fevered pace.
Then came the cleaving force—strikes intertwining, leaving behind blurred afterimages in their wake.
Deep gashes appeared across the sturdy folding blade in mere moments, yet the craftsmanship of the Cleansing Mechanism held firm, allowing it to endure such brutal combat. Lloyd tightened his grip. In the next instant, he drew the Winchester from his waist—at such close range, the scattered pellets burst forth in a deadly cone.
Still, it was not enough.
As if he had foreseen it all, Father Lawrence raised his nail-sword and, with a force beyond mortal comprehension, cleaved several pellets from the air itself. The rest merely grazed him, tearing fresh rents into his crimson robes.
Lloyd did not grant him time to think. Ever since that night, he had pondered a single question: how to defeat a man who could see the future.
In the end, the answer had revealed itself in its simplicity.
Just be faster.
What did it matter if the future could be seen? By the moment Father Lawrence witnessed the swing, Lloyd's blade would have already fallen. He would compress the gap between "foreseen" and "realized" until there was no time left to react—no space left to think.
"So Medanzo truly is the finest Authority," Lloyd murmured.
Compared to other, more grotesque powers, Medanzo's gift seemed almost unremarkable. It granted nothing more than an unyielding armor—but that alone could block most harm, raising a hunter's tolerance for error in the deadliest of battles.
Or perhaps more truthfully—it allowed them to surrender fully to slaughter.
Flames seeped through the seams of the divine armor. Lloyd shifted his stance, his assault accelerating without warning. The folding blade became a blur as he pressed forward relentlessly, abandoning all defense, allowing Father Lawrence's nail-sword to crash against his armor without restraint.
He could endure countless blows.
But Father Lawrence could not.
One clean strike—that was all it would take.
The heavy nail-sword shattered sections of the hardened plating, yet new layers regenerated almost instantly to fill the gaps. The armor was already riddled with cracks, on the verge of collapse—but at that cost, Lloyd forced Father Lawrence onto the defensive. Under the relentless barrage, foresight itself became meaningless, realized the instant it appeared.
Cold light gleamed along the battered blade. Reflected upon its fractured surface was Father Lawrence's face—rapidly growing larger.
"Impressive," Father Lawrence praised.
But in the next heartbeat, his nail-sword lashed out, knocking the descending blade aside—only for a gunshot to follow.
"You're slower," Lloyd said coldly.
Still, the bullet failed to strike true. At the final instant, Father Lawrence twisted his body aside—yet in doing so, he stepped directly into Lloyd's trap.
Driven into a corner, he had yet to realize it.
His nail-sword held back the falling blade. The Winchester had already run dry—there had been no time to reload in such a furious exchange. But there was no need.
A pale light descended, howling with the wind.
Once more, Father Lawrence deflected the blade—but this time it slipped free, falling out of Lloyd's grasp. In the next instant, the hunter closed the distance, driving forward with a crushing punch.
At times, the body itself was the deadliest weapon.
Empowered by the Secret Blood, Lloyd had absolute confidence in his strike. The blow landed squarely in Father Lawrence's abdomen, carrying with it all his fury—so immense it seemed as though that rage would be driven entirely into the old man's frail frame.
A choked gasp escaped Father Lawrence. Another blow followed.
Through the pain, he steadied himself—and struck back with the nail-sword.
It was still a deadly blade. Even dulled by battle, it could sever flesh and bone with ease under a hunter's strength.
But this time, it met the divine armor.
A burst of sparks exploded on impact. The blade could not halt the descending fury, nor could the fist break the steel. In that violent crossing of force, the sharpened tip found a gap in the armor—driven forward with brutal power, it pierced straight through Lloyd's arm.
Blood burst forth in crimson arcs.
Yet Lloyd did not flinch.
As if pain no longer existed, his fist came crashing down once more—slamming into Father Lawrence's chest.
He pressed the attack, but Father Lawrence had recovered enough to evade the next strike. Twisting swiftly, he seized the sword embedded in the armor and wrenched it free, drawing a spray of blood.
"Not bad, child."
Rather than counterattacking, he retreated, widening the distance between them. Dry grass stretched across the ground, dotted with flickering flames.
Lloyd said nothing. He did not pursue recklessly. Instead, he spun the Winchester, reloading with practiced precision, firing again to keep up the pressure.
Foresight was not invincible.
Even one who could see the future would tire.
He would wear him down.
Blood dripped steadily from the gaps in the armor, though the wound itself was far from fatal. Lloyd retrieved his fallen blade, searching for the next opening.
"You learn quickly, child. A hunter as exceptional as you—I should remember."
Father Lawrence had regained his composure, his gentle smile returning. Had it not been for the brutal clash moments before, no one would have imagined the terror he embodied.
To uncover the flaw in foresight after only a second encounter…
In his eyes reflected the figure of the black knight. He wondered who Lloyd truly was.
The Medanzo lineage should have long since perished.
And yet—here stood a survivor.
"How curious…"
"When I kill you," Lloyd replied coldly, "you'll find I am your finest student."
"How arrogant."
There was no anger in the response—only admiration. Father Lawrence tightened his grip on the nail-sword.
Then he saw it.
A pale, inevitable future.
Blood flowed along the black armor, across the hand, down onto the shotgun—seeping into every mechanical crevice, drowning the line of poetry engraved upon it.
"Do not go gentle into that good night."
The words echoed like a prayer.
A thunderous gunshot shattered it.
Blinding white erupted from the Winchester's barrel—Dragon's Breath, prepared in advance. Yet under the blessing of Pure Flame, it became something else entirely.
A dragon's exhalation.
White fire surged forth, sweeping across the grasslands, igniting everything in its path. The rising wind fed the inferno, and in an instant, a blazing sea of fire roared toward Father Lawrence.
Reflected in his eyes was that pure white apocalypse.
He retreated at once—he did not possess the monstrous resilience of a Medanzo hunter.
But then—
Heavy footsteps pursued him.
Relentless.
It was a vision of heaven descending—a sacred death.
At the moment of his retreat, a blade tore through the white inferno. The black knight emerged, wreathed in holy flames, like an angel cast into the world.
Lloyd had plunged into the fire the moment it ignited.
Under its brilliant cover, he closed the distance once more.
Heat clung to his body. Ash filled his breath.
"I will kill you, Father Lawrence."
A curse-like whisper rose from beneath the armor.
"I swear it."
And the blade fell.
It pierced through him.
With a savage motion, Lloyd tore it free, ripping through flesh and bone alike, splitting open Father Lawrence's left shoulder—severing everything: hatred, fury, and all that bound them.
Blood erupted, staining the black armor red.
The blade fell again.
This time, the nail-sword rose weakly to meet it—but steel shattered with a ringing cry. The folding blade broke through and plunged once more into his body.
"Ah… pain. It's been a while."
Father Lawrence seemed almost dazed. He had not expected Lloyd to push him this far. His gaze lingered on that distorted helm, something unreadable within his eyes.
"Tell me, child… what do you think separates the Gap from reality?"
"A dying man's last words?" Lloyd twisted the blade slowly, widening the wound. "I expected something more useful."
A strange sensation crept over him—watching that twisted face contorted in agony brought him a joy he had never known, as though he, too, had stepped into madness.
"Oh, no… I've long prepared my final words."
Father Lawrence spoke lightly.
"But not today."
His aged hand suddenly seized Lloyd's wrist. From that frail body came a strength like iron. Slowly—inevitably—he forced the blade out, inch by inch.
"This is the world of the mind, child."
His voice sharpened.
And then—
Rain fell.
A sudden, torrential downpour extinguished the raging sea of fire, soaking the long-dead grass.
"You cannot kill will itself… not like this."
There was disdain in his gaze as he looked at the bloodied blade.
Then the world changed.
The color drained from the wasteland, replaced by countless gray squares stretching endlessly in all directions. Beneath Lloyd's feet, they began to collapse—one by one—falling into an unreachable abyss of darkness.
"This is your next lesson, child."
His voice echoed.
The world in Lloyd's eyes twisted, stretched—until everything became lines of pure color, intertwining, tangling—
And finally, converging into a vortex that swallowed all.