Lawrence the Archdeacon gasped in agony as his eyes snapped open. Before his mind could even begin to steady itself against the storm of pain within, the torment of the flesh surged forth, nearly tearing him apart.
"Plague Doctor…?"
With bloodshot eyes cast downward, he barely managed to recognize the figure before him.
The Plague Doctor said nothing. He idly toyed with a silver scalpel in his hand, while sharp bone blades stood fixed along both sides of his elbows. Lawrence attempted the slightest movement—only for a heart-rending pain to erupt from his joints. Forcing his gaze downward, he saw it clearly: jagged bone spikes had pierced straight through his joints, locking every inch of movement in place.
"Hm? Looks like you made it out."
The Plague Doctor studied him. That oppressive dread—like the gaze of a predator—had vanished. It seemed the battle within the Interstice had finally come to an end.
Yet he made no move to release Lawrence. Instead, he drew up a syringe and drove it into him without hesitation.
"This should ease it a little."
As the drug spread, the unbearable pain dulled into a distant blur. His mind wavered, drifting.
"A hallucinogen…?" Lawrence murmured.
"For now, it's the only thing that works."
Watching him gradually calm, the Plague Doctor let out a quiet breath.
"So… what was that?"
That grotesque, malevolent force—by Lawrence's own account, something capable of using the Interstice as a bridge to seize control of another's body, even their consciousness. And yet, Lawrence himself had been overpowered. This was the very man who had orchestrated the Night of Sacred Descent—who could possibly bring him to such a state?
"I'm not certain," Lawrence rasped. "But I have a guess."
A flicker of familiarity surfaced in his memory—a woman's presence, tied to a name he had nearly forgotten. But that was impossible. She should have died long ago, buried within the ruins of history.
"…Then it seems the plan must change."
He whispered it to himself, before forcing his body upright. Slowly, painstakingly, he began to pull the bone spikes from his joints. Blood burst forth like a breached flood, spilling freely and mingling with the melted crimson wax at his feet.
His steps faltered. He nearly collapsed, then dropped to one knee, a low, guttural roar of pain escaping him—like an aged lion at the twilight of its life.
The Plague Doctor watched coldly from the side. He made no move to help. At this level, death would not claim him so easily.
A regenerative force far beyond human limits stirred within that body. Wounds sealed at a terrifying pace, flesh writhing in unnatural motion. From somewhere within, the sound of an infant's cry echoed—yet it twisted into something sharper, something like laughter. It crawled beneath the skin and into the marrow, chilling the soul.
But healing was only the beginning.
Then came the decay.
Time itself seemed to accelerate. His already withered body shrank and dried, turning a corpse-like shade of darkened blue-green. Something unseen was draining his life, feeding upon him, hastening his descent into age and ruin.
"You're losing control of it."
After a long silence, the Plague Doctor spoke, his tone stripped of warmth.
It took a long while before Lawrence managed to stand again. The pain had numbed his nerves into dull emptiness. His expression hung slack, lifeless. Deep wrinkles layered upon one another like the cracked bark of a dead tree.
"I know… Perhaps it's fitting. Let me serve as the test subject."
His voice was bleak. Slowly, he pulled open his garments.
There it was.
A grotesque mass of overgrown flesh, swollen and twisted, like a second head emerging just below his own. It bore human features—eyes closed, as if in peaceful slumber. The malformed tissue was disturbingly tender, almost delicate… like a blossom blooming from a dying tree.
The flesh of the Holy Grail was slipping beyond his control. It clung to him like a parasite, growing, waiting—for the day it would fully mature.
Just as Watson had once lived within Lloyd.
He coughed violently, blood spilling from his mouth in thick waves. It was difficult to believe any blood remained within him at all. He resembled a man already standing at death's door.
"I cannot die… not yet."
He murmured it, barely audible.
It was a will so formidable that even Watson would have been shaken by it. To sever one's own consciousness, to discard the part that had been corrupted—just to escape that invasion… what kind of training, what kind of past could forge such resolve?
And yet now, that will was imprisoned within a dying shell.
Still, he could not stop.
Death was coming.
And Lawrence awaited that day with something almost like acceptance.
…
Lloyd forced his eyes open, dragging in ragged breaths.
The last thing he remembered was Watson bursting from his body. By the time his own will reclaimed control, he had already left the Interstice.
It had been a war that felt eternal—yet it had passed in but a single instant.
From behind a door, Seliu peered at him in fear. Lloyd hadn't yet understood what had happened—until the corpse beside him collapsed.
The soldier.
His consciousness had completely disintegrated, just like those invaders among the remnants before him. Brain death. Blood streamed from his ears and nose, as if some unknown force had crushed his mind from within.
What… happened?
A familiar, piercing pain struck his skull. Then came the memories.
Not his own.
Ancient fragments—Lawrence's memories—rose before his eyes. The severed consciousness was being absorbed, just as it had been when Horner died. From those shattered remnants, the past began to take form once more.
The dusk of Florence.
The slow, endless flow of the Tiber.
And the sound of prayer—rising like a swelling tide, threatening to drown the world.
"Lloyd!"
A sharp voice cut through the haze. Red Falcon rushed toward him with weapon in hand. Judging by the chaotic footsteps behind him, he was not alone.
Lloyd tried to speak—but suddenly, all strength drained from his body. He staggered, nearly collapsing.
Strange.
The battle had taken place within the Interstice, yet the exhaustion he felt now was unlike anything before—body and mind alike, utterly spent.
Then the scent hit him.
Blood.
Heavy. Suffocating.
He lifted his head sharply—and realized he stood upon a shoreline.
The sky was veiled in mist, glowing with a dim, ghostly blue. The air was cold, carrying an unearthly stillness.
Something cold brushed against his feet.
Liquid.
He lowered his gaze.
Seawater had crept up to him—
But it was crimson.
His eyes followed the horizon. The scarlet stretched endlessly, devouring the distance, reaching the very edge of sight.
A coldness rose from deep within him, primal and suffocating.
It was like gazing upon a vision of hell itself.
An ocean of blood.
Then—a voice.
It shattered the vision, dragging him back into reality. As though everything he had seen was nothing more than a lingering illusion left behind by the Interstice.
Yawei supported him, pressing a Florend serum into his veins. It cleared his mind—
But it also carved that crimson sea into it, like a curse that could never be erased.
There was something there.
Whether illusion or truth, in that fleeting instant—Lloyd believed it existed.
Somewhere in this world.
A buried story had reached out its hand.
And it was waiting for him.