All that had once been accepted as common sense was wiped clean, and the world of reason collapsed in its entirety.
Lloyd felt himself trapped in an endless free fall, crashing through one shattered reality after another—plunging from the streets of Old Dunling, only to slam upward into the boundless sea—until at last, everything dissolved into a grotesque and suffocating darkness. This was a world of the mind, born from the clash between two wills.
Rage clouded his thoughts. How could a blade of metal possibly sever consciousness itself? Especially now, when everything that existed stood upon the fragile foundation of the psyche. Lloyd let out a guttural growl—he had been so close, so agonizingly close to killing Bishop Lawrence. All that hatred, all that fury, poured out in that final moment… and yet, he failed.
But then, he stilled.
He forced himself to observe the darkness before him.
Reason. Hold on to reason.
After the storm of fury came the chilling clarity of fear. His consciousness was now entangled with that of Bishop Lawrence—he was influencing the bishop, just as the bishop was, in turn, shaping him.
"Watson!"
Lloyd called out. He knew nothing of battle within the Gap; his only hope now lay in that strange, blasphemous pseudo-Holy Grail.
There was no reply.
Only his own voice echoed through the void, as though he stood at the bottom of a lightless well—unseen, unheard, abandoned.
"Watson!"
He roared again.
They had made a pact—she would aid him in killing Bishop Lawrence. And yet now, she offered no answer.
He stared into the dark, lost and uncertain, like a child crying into emptiness, ignored by all. After a long silence, Lloyd let out a cold, bitter laugh.
Of course. Such things were never to be trusted.
Regret flickered through him—yet that cursed metaphor rose again in his mind. Perhaps Watson was still honoring the agreement… only from a perspective utterly alien.
Yes. In her view, she was human—and he, nothing more than a pitiful ant. And what right did an ant have to behold the world of men?
A faint, incessant sound crept into his ears—like a hundred serpents slithering in the dark, their cold scales brushing against one another with a soft, chilling rasp. Without anything to measure against, Lloyd had no sense of time. Days may have passed—or perhaps only minutes. In absolute darkness, the human will proved terribly fragile.
Perhaps this was the world faced by those who had undergone a prefrontal lobotomy—nothing could leave, nothing could enter. Only despair, echoing endlessly.
No… that wasn't right.
Something stirred within him. He looked again into the darkness, his once-clouded gaze hardening into something unyielding, like stone.
"This… is a world of the mind."
His voice rang like thunder.
And the darkness cracked.
Light seeped through the fractures, spreading—until the black veil shattered entirely. Beyond it stood a familiar figure. Bishop Lawrence watched him, slowly applauding.
"You learn quickly, child."
The desolate battlefield returned, as though time itself had reversed. Every trace of their prior clash had vanished. Just like Lloyd's Gap—no matter how it was broken, upon his return there would always stand that damned bench upon the empty icefield.
This time, Lloyd felt no rage. Only calm. As Lawrence had said, this was a mental world—where the laws of reality held no dominion. Here, the only true authority was the strength of one's will.
That darkness before had been a trap. Had he failed to realize it, he would have sunk into it completely—like the creeping corruption within a dream, slowly reduced to a puppet of monstrous forces.
"So… these things are nothing more than ornaments?"
He glanced at the folding knife in his hand, still stained with blood. It seemed all his earlier struggle had been futile.
"No," Lawrence said evenly. "You did wound me. Here, we are the manifestation of will itself. To kill the other is to die in truth."
He spoke slowly, almost patiently.
"You learn quickly. When I first entered the Gap, I was far more pitiful than you."
Lloyd tightened his grip on the blade, uncertainty flickering within him. He could not trust the old man—there was something profoundly unnatural about him.
"We are the masters of this mental world," Lawrence continued. "Like clay, it may be shaped into whatever form we desire."
With a casual gesture, the burning clouds overhead vanished, leaving only a crimson sun hanging in an empty sky.
Lloyd remembered this. Medanzo had once explained it—once one possessed the power of the Gap, reality would bend to their will.
"If that's true… then this could be interesting."
Lloyd clenched his fist.
The ground collapsed.
Stone surged upward from beneath, jagged and towering, forming a forest of spears—interlocking, imprisoning.
"Yes. Exactly."
Lawrence smiled faintly, unconcerned as the stone cage closed around him.
Lloyd still didn't understand.
This was the world of the Gap… Lawrence's Gap.
This was his domain.
He had always held the advantage—and yet, he had feigned weakness all along. Just as Lloyd could locate him through the act of erosion, so too had Lawrence drawn ever closer—eroding Lloyd in turn, unnoticed.
The folding knife shot forward.
But before it could strike, Lawrence erupted into motion.
Stone shattered. Dust exploded into the air. A nailed sword descended, slipping past the falling blade and striking Lloyd square in the chest.
The divine armor held—for a moment.
Then the blade twisted, sliding along its seams, piercing through the gap.
It drove straight into him.
The erosion began.
Through that weapon, madness seeped into Lloyd's mind. Memories surged—overlapping, colliding—until the sheer weight of them threatened to tear his consciousness apart.
This—this was the true battle of wills.
Everything before had been mere probing.
Then came the pain.
Familiar. Horribly familiar.
Just like when he had killed Horner.
This was how a will died.
Only now, it was Lloyd's turn.
"There is so much you have yet to learn, child… but you will not have the chance."
Lawrence's voice echoed coldly. He had prepared for this moment for far too long. The power of the Gap—he had understood it ages ago. Only now had he chosen to wield it.
Lloyd felt himself reduced to driftwood in a raging current—torn apart, reformed, shattered again. The name Lloyd Holmes was being erased, consumed by the storm of erosion.
With the last fragments of his strength—clinging to a sliver of reason—he whispered:
"Watson…"
He spoke the demon's name.
And she answered.
The two wills were now completely entangled. Lawrence had seized Lloyd—but in turn, Lloyd had seized him.
And through Lloyd—
Watson seized him.
Lawrence's eyes widened in horror as he saw it: an arm emerging from Lloyd's wound.
Pale. Slender. Stained with blood.
It pulled, slowly, like a newborn tearing itself free from the womb.
She ripped open Lloyd's chest.
Blasphemy incarnate.
Like a parasitic aberration, the upper half of a woman's body extended from within him. One hand clamped tightly around the nailed sword. The other reached up—resting gently against Lawrence's cheek.
He had never imagined such a thing could exist within Lloyd's will.
She was a seasoned predator—waiting, patient, until the perfect moment to strike.
Her touch was tender.
Lawrence met her gaze—and within that delicate face, countless familiar visages flickered past. Every face he had ever known, every memory, surfaced and dissolved upon her features.
Strange.
He felt… calm.
As if he had seen her before.
As if, perhaps, dying here would not be so terrible.
In her eyes, he saw himself—aged, layered endlessly like reflections between mirrors. Her gaze pierced through him, tracing back along the Gap itself.
Her hand sank into him.
Into his will.
She found his heart.
And slowly—
she began to close her grip.
Far away, in the distant port of Rendona, the Plague Doctor stirred. He turned toward the far end of the cabin. Bishop Lawrence sat quietly in his chair, surrounded by half-melted red candles. Wax flowed along pre-carved grooves, forming something like an ancient ritual.
Another alchemical matrix.
Unlike "Winter," which suppressed and restrained, this one amplified the reach of the Gap—like extending the range of a signal, allowing Lawrence to touch Old Dunling even from here.
The old man's body began to twitch.
Curious, the Plague Doctor stepped closer. In all his memory, Lawrence had never reacted this way during a traversal of the Gap.
Then he stopped.
A sensation—indescribable.
Something had arrived.
Something monstrous.
It had come… through Lawrence.
A chill crawled up his spine.
Then he saw it—
Blood.
Seeping slowly from the bishop's tightly shut eyes.