The candlelight gathered into a sea of warmth, trembling as if brushed by some nameless wind—its surface rippling faintly, steeped in a sanctity that felt disturbingly wrong.
It was, perhaps, the most grotesque and twisted sight the Plague Doctor had ever witnessed. He had dissected countless aberrations, had himself crafted things warped and uncanny, yet all of it paled before what now unfolded in his gaze. It resembled an execution—no, a ritual of sacrifice. The encircling throne of molten wax became an altar, and Archbishop Lawrence its pitiful offering.
Lawrence's body convulsed in agony, as though something unseen were draining the very essence of his life. His already aged form withered at a terrifying pace—skin shriveling tight, veins surfacing in sickly blue threads, blood spilling unstoppably from his ears and nose. The Plague Doctor knew something had gone terribly wrong, yet the nature of the Gap remained beyond him. He did not even know how to begin saving the man.
Then came the pressure—immense, suffocating, yet strangely pure. It was not corruption, not erosion, but something simpler and far more unsettling: the sensation of being watched. And in that moment, he saw it—a faint, spectral glow rising from Lawrence's body. It was a light no ordinary eye could grasp, a dim network of luminous threads converging into a vague, distorted human shape… as though it were Lawrence's very soul being drawn out, strand by fragile strand.
"Plague Doctor!"
The voice rang out.
Lawrence's eyes snapped open—blood-red, as if they might burst apart. His face twisted into something monstrous, a ghastly parody of humanity.
"Plague Doctor!"
He roared again. Only then did the Plague Doctor realize: those eyes held no light. Lawrence could not see him. His consciousness was elsewhere, split by sheer, desperate instinct into a fleeting dual existence.
Cautiously, the Plague Doctor stepped forward, every nerve alight with vigilance. Ever since their acquaintance, this enigmatic hunter had shattered his understanding of the world time and again. His boots pressed into still-soft wax as he approached—until, just as his hand neared Lawrence, those vacant eyes flickered faintly, like embers rekindling in ash.
"Lawrence…"
The call came hesitant. And then—everything changed.
The agony, the distortion—gone, as though erased. Something had shifted, though the Plague Doctor could not yet grasp it. He held his guard, locking eyes with the man before him.
Lawrence looked back, calm—eerily so. A trace of confusion flickered across his gaze, only to clear in an instant.
Silence settled, heavy and fragile. The madness of moments ago vanished like an unpleasant dream, leaving behind a stillness so absolute it felt sacrilegious to break.
For a heartbeat, they stared—an unspoken accord passing between them.
Then the Plague Doctor struck.
From his arm, a blade of bone snapped forth with a shriek of air, cleaving downward in a savage arc. It was a strike like thunder—precise, lethal, honed beyond doubt. He had always worn the guise of a scholar, yet his mastery of killing was no less refined. This blow was meant to sever the head cleanly.
But death did not come.
Lawrence drew his nail-sword, intercepting the strike at the final instant. Too slow by a fraction—the bone blade drove the weapon down, its edge biting halfway into his shoulder as blood began to seep.
"So… it is here?"
The voice that spoke was familiar—and utterly alien.
"Who are you?!"
The Plague Doctor's shout came sharp with certainty. He had been right. Lawrence had been breached—invaded in reverse.
华生 offered no answer. Through Lawrence's body, she merely observed, her awareness sweeping across everything within sight. She could feel it—that presence. That nauseating, unforgettable stench.
The Plague Doctor attacked again without hesitation. He cared little for the damage done to Lawrence's body; with his skills, even a severed head might yet be salvaged—what it would become afterward, however, was another matter entirely.
A slender bone spike burst through his palm, driving down like a rapier to pin Lawrence's thigh to the ground. It snapped, only for another to surge forth instantly, plunging again like a sacred nail meant to bind evil.
"Get out of him!"
A new voice erupted—Lawrence's own. His will surged in defiance. The descending nail-sword faltered for a fraction of a second—just enough. Another spike pierced through his joints, locking his arm in place.
A bloodied hand clawed at his own head, half his face contorted in savage strain as he gasped for air.
He stood at the threshold of death.
"You took something you never should have, Lawrence. A price must be paid."
After the torment came calm words. It was like watching a mind split against itself—a grotesque, intimate war.
"What… are you…?"
Lawrence's voice trembled, barely more than a whisper.
—
At the heart of that battlefield, within the depths of the Gap, the struggle continued.
After an eternity of pain, Lawrence seized a fleeting breath of reprieve—but he remained firmly held. A woman's grip closed around his throat, her other hand clutching his heart. She burrowed deeper into his thoughts with relentless precision. Soon, he would cease to be himself.
洛伊德 lay as if lifeless, like an insect hollowed by a parasite. From the torn cavity of his chest, Watson's form emerged, using his body as a vessel to torment Lawrence.
This was the realm of the mind—where all things were but manifestations of the self. Lloyd's consciousness had been ripped apart, and from within, that abomination sought to crawl free.
"Where is it?"
Watson demanded again, gazing down at the twisted face before her. Lawrence could no longer answer.
Memories surged—faded, yellowed, ancient.
He was a child again, in a world before steam and iron, where knights still ruled the battlefield. He saw Florence at dusk—the cathedral rising like iron trees beneath a dimming sky, the Tiber shimmering with gentle light. Children ran across green fields, nuns passed with quiet smiles, and the sound of bells carried prayers like waves across the air.
Warm arms embraced him.
And then—cold.
A chill, unnatural and absolute.
"That is why… demons deserve to die…"
He awakened at the brink, fury blazing in his eyes. She was toying with his past—defiling what little warmth remained.
Watson continued her search through his memories. Lawrence had lived too long. All who once knew him were gone. Even the places he had called home had faded beyond recognition. These memories were all he had left—his final proof of being human.
And now they were being violated.
"Would it not be kinder," Watson murmured, puzzled, "to die within such memories?"
Moments ago, he had looked like a sleeping infant. It would have been a perfect death—one all weary travelers might embrace.
But he refused.
"It would be… a fine death. But not mine."
Rage twisted his face. Slowly, he raised his hand—and grasped the arm choking him.
A small motion. A powerless one.
And yet—it meant everything.
He had resisted.
Under the crushing will of Watson, he had carved out a fragment of defiance. A dying struggle, perhaps—but enough.
"My death lies in a future not yet distant… not here."
His voice rasped like a corpse's roar.
That was where his story would end. That was the death he would accept.
His fracturing consciousness hardened once more, standing against the storm. He tore at himself—like a fanatic in sacrificial frenzy, mutilating his own form. This was his offering—not to a god, but to himself. To the ending he had chosen.
For a fleeting instant, Watson faltered. She had never imagined human will could reach such extremity.
This was no longer human.
It was madness. It was fury. It was something eternal, burning beyond extinction.
Lawrence ripped flesh from bone, tore sinew apart, shattered his own frame. He cut into his own mind, severing the part Watson clung to—ripping it free like diseased flesh carved from the body.
Agony consumed him—like a thousand starving beasts tearing him apart, each second stretched into eternity.
And yet—it did not matter.
"Today is not my end. I can see it!"
He laughed, wild and defiant, kicking Watson away. The weight in her grasp vanished—the fragments she held torn clean from him.
His form began to blur, fading into the depths of the Gap.
"Do not run, Lawrence!"
Watson lunged, her hand outstretched—so close, so close to seizing him completely—
But from Lloyd's wound, chains erupted. Countless, writhing like thorned vines, they coiled around her, dragging her back into that cold abyss.
She struggled, fought—
But was pulled down, inexorably, until she was forced back into the torn cavity from which she had emerged.
At last, there remained only the faint echo of something falling into water.
And then—
Silence reclaimed all.