Beyond the window, the landscape fled in a blur. Even the snow—once drifting down in slow, delicate spirals—had quickened, falling now like a relentless rain.
"You seem to have quite an appetite."
Lloyd rested his chin on his hand, watching Celieu as she stuffed bread into her mouth. The girl had long since cast aside any trace of noble decorum, utterly indifferent to how she appeared.
"It's just been a long time since I've had anything like this," she said, swallowing.
"Yavi never lets me eat food from outside. He says it's all garbage."
"That figures. You're the continuation of the Stuart line—of course he treasures you more than anything."
Lloyd picked up a piece of bread himself. A demon hunter might possess strength and endurance beyond ordinary men, but hunger, at its core, remained an unrefined discomfort.
"The more he forbade it, the more I wanted it," Celieu continued. "So sometimes… I'd sneak out."
"Like when you came to find me?"
Each time she sought him out, it ended the same way—Lloyd taking her to eat, and Yavi arriving to bring her back.
"…Something like that."
Lloyd drifted into memory before speaking again.
"It's not so hard to understand, really. Back in the Order, I saw it often—those holy, exalted priests. On the surface, they praised the gods… but behind the curtain, they drowned themselves in taverns and gambling dens."
"There was one I once thought devout beyond question. Yet in the casino, he gambled harder than anyone. I asked him why he did it. He told me he didn't understand it himself—only that the more something is forbidden, the more it feeds human desire."
"The doctrine called it the legacy of the Old Era. Before such dreadful temptation, even the firmest faith crumbles like dust."
But curiosity… the yearning to explore the unknown—was that too a relic of the Old Era?
Without realizing it, Lloyd's hand drifted to the cigarette case in his coat, the one filled with windshade tobacco.
"Then one day, it all became clear to me," he said quietly. "As if something… clicked."
"Sometimes, people simply need this kind of thing."
"What kind of thing?" Celieu asked, her curiosity piqued.
"Forbidden pleasure," Lloyd replied, a trace of mystery in his tone.
"The shackles placed upon the mind are only temporary. The more you warn people, the less fear they feel. Instead… they grow curious."
"Like fire," Celieu murmured.
"Exactly. I've heard countless discussions about how to raise children." Lloyd recalled Mrs. Vanlud, and the stories she once told him.
"No matter how much you warn a child not to approach the hearth, they'll still want to touch it. So rather than waiting for the inevitable, you let them feel the pain from the beginning. Only then do they learn to fear the flame."
His voice faltered.
Something stirred—an awareness without shape or name. Like sensing a presence you could neither see nor define.
How alike humans and demons were, when placed within the frame of such stories.
A thought pierced through Lloyd's mind, as though he had glimpsed the root of all things.
What if demons themselves were this "forbidden pleasure"?
No warning could stop humanity forever. Sooner or later, they would reach for that unknown power. And rather than being caught unprepared in that moment… perhaps it was better to release it from the beginning—to teach mankind to fear the unknown.
A shrill scream of pain tore through his mind, as if punishing him for brushing against the truth.
He frowned, instinctively reaching for a cigarette. But before he could take the case out, Celieu stopped him.
"Smoking is prohibited on the train."
Lloyd paused, then put the case away, his expression tightening faintly.
"I always thought someone like you wouldn't smoke," Celieu said.
"For an ascetic, isn't smoking no different from drinking?"
Lloyd shook his head.
"It's just something to ease the pressure… now and then."
"You could eat candy instead."
She extended her hand—wrapped candies in bright, colorful paper. Though no one could be certain whether one of them concealed that dreadful flavor.
"When I feel stressed, I eat sweets," she said casually.
But Lloyd caught something off in her tone.
"You feel stressed?"
The girl exaggeratedly widened her eyes, her expression instantly theatrical.
"Well, well, well—since when did Mr. Holmes become so perceptive?"
Her voice stretched deliberately, dripping with mockery.
"I thought someone like you would never understand a girl's mind. Yet here you are—so sharp. Is it detective training? Though, to be honest, you don't exactly qualify as a proper detective, do you?"
Lloyd covered half his face with his hand. Once she found the smallest opening, she would pursue it relentlessly.
"I'm not an idiot," he said dryly. "Isn't it only natural to pay attention to the mental state of a 'hostage'?"
"…Oh."
Celieu lowered her head and resumed eating her bread. Silence settled between them once more.
He wasn't wrong.
There was pressure.
The pressure of death.
If Lloyd was telling the truth, this madman intended to fulfill his grand ambition—using her to cut down that rat named Lawrence.
"So crowded! Finally made it!"
A bright, booming voice rang out. Its owner had to be young and robust—at least, that was the impression it gave. Lloyd found the voice strangely familiar and lifted his head.
A middle-aged man stood there, his hair streaked with gray, a pair of black sunglasses resting on his face. His age was difficult to judge—his features were undeniably weathered, yet the way he carried himself brimmed with vitality, absurdly so. At the carriage door, he greeted every passenger with a warm smile, offering cheerful words to the ladies.
The atmosphere of the entire carriage lifted, as if a lively ball had suddenly begun.
Lloyd lowered his gaze again, silently hoping the man wouldn't sit across from him. People who drew attention so easily were always trouble.
Then another familiar voice sounded.
For a moment, Lloyd wondered if he was imagining things.
But the next instant, a familiar middle-aged man took the seat opposite him.
They both froze.
The man stared at Lloyd, a flicker of recognition crossing his face.
"Um… excuse me, but—"
Before he could finish, the lively man dropped into the remaining seat.
Of course. What one feared most was bound to arrive.
As he sat down, Lloyd's gaze stiffened—and so did the man's.
Their eyes met.
Behind the lenses, their gazes burned with a fervor that resembled long-lost brothers reunited.
The older man lowered his sunglasses slightly, revealing eyes brimming with life.
"Lloyd Holmes… my student?"
Lloyd, in turn, lowered his amber-tinted lenses.
"Professor Oscar Wilde?"
Celieu looked between them, utterly at a loss, as if witnessing an impromptu family reunion.
Meanwhile, the middle-aged man beside them—Director Buscalo—stared at Lloyd's face, and terror began to take hold.
There were no firearms in sight.
But he knew.
That damned Winchester was somewhere nearby.
He wanted to call for the conductor—but his heart raced too violently. Clutching his chest, eyes bulging wide, he struggled for breath like a duck being strangled.