The blizzard swept across the railway like a devouring tide, a भारी gray veil draped over the frozen earth. Visibility shrank to almost nothing, and the air itself had hardened into a killing cold—each breath felt as though it might freeze the lungs and still the heart within the chest.
From the locomotive, torrents of steam roared forth, only to crystallize into drifting shards of ice before they could disperse. It was a model Lloyd had never seen before. Its combustion chamber stood half-open, and as it thundered forward, endless sparks scattered into the night—like the last defiant embers in a world swallowed by frost.
Only a few carriages offered shelter from the storm. Most were open freight wagons, shrouded beneath dark green waterproof tarps that concealed whatever lay beneath. The snow came hard and sharp, like blades of ice slicing through the air, hammering against the train in relentless waves—like iron rain falling from the heavens.
Lloyd's figure gradually emerged within the storm. The winds atop the train were so violent that his body swayed with each step, unsteady against the gale. Through the veil of snow, Lawrence could barely make out the silhouette—a faint, shifting shadow in gray.
A crimson robe clung to Lloyd's back, and behind him, a wooden case hung heavily, its weight unmistakable.
"You've done well, child. I find myself increasingly curious about who you really are. There is no hunter named Lloyd Holmes among our kind."
Over the course of their long clash, Lawrence had already learned Lloyd's name… yet hunters did not carry names. It reminded him of someone long buried in memory, though the age did not match the man before him. The contradiction intrigued him.
"So tell me… who are you?"
His voice was torn and scattered by the storm, yet to a hunter's ears, Lloyd heard every word with perfect clarity.
"Just someone barely clinging to life. The name was chosen at random… it carries no meaning, Archpriest."
In those gray-blue eyes, something distant stirred—thoughts perhaps, or memories long suppressed. Lloyd's voice came lazily, drifting with the wind until it reached Lawrence.
He cast a casual glance around them. At times, he almost admired himself. To choose this place as their battlefield—there could be nothing more fitting.
A black serpent of iron slithered across the pale earth, throwing up waves of snow several meters high, leaving behind a fading gray trail. Yet under such a monstrous storm, even these marks would vanish within minutes, buried as though no one had ever passed through.
It was as if all the world's snow had been poured into this moment, sealing Lloyd and the others away from everything beyond. The moon lay hidden behind thick clouds, and all things were reduced to the dull gray of death.
A train bound for the underworld—its passengers nothing but the lingering souls of the dead.
The two men stood atop the narrow roof. There was little space to maneuver—only forward, or back. No room for escape.
"Well then… shall we begin?" Lawrence asked.
There was no roar of vengeance, no curse born of hatred. His voice was calm—almost mundane, like a greeting exchanged between acquaintances.
"Of course," Lloyd replied, his voice carried by the wind.
At the far edge of rage lay an unsettling stillness. No battle cry could contain what burned within them now. At this point, only action could speak for the fury that words could no longer hold.
Like the final moment in some ancient tale—when demons meet upon a narrow path, and only one may pass.
Lawrence tightened his grip on the nail-sword, its tip angled slightly downward, his body coiled like a hunting tiger. As another wave of snowstorm swept between them, a thunderous roar tore through the blizzard.
The crimson figure surged forward like a striking leopard. The surge of secret blood swelled through his body, his withered muscles expanding once more, hardening, reviving—as though time itself had begun to flow backward within him.
The nail-sword gleamed with a lethal frost, tearing apart the falling snow in its path.
But beyond the thinning veil of white, a faint glimmer ignited—then several burning thermite rounds burst through the storm, screaming toward Lawrence.
"Not enough! Lloyd!"
The power of Shandafon surged. Fine crimson threads had already formed within Lawrence's vision. He swung the nail-sword without hesitation—steel clashed against burning projectiles, and with sheer force alone, he drove them off their destined paths. Fire vanished into the storm, but his charge never slowed.
The gray shadow drew near—too near.
Lawrence's blade carved out a devastating arc of cold light, cleaving it cleanly in two.
But when the snow parted, he realized the truth—what he had struck was nothing more than a thermite rifle. Lloyd had already moved.
Then, in an instant, a terrible future flashed through his mind.
Lawrence raised his weapon just in time. From the storm, a folding blade descended, cutting down from above. Steel met steel, sparks flaring and dying in a heartbeat.
Lloyd thrust his blade forward in a feint, seeking to deceive that uncanny foresight. Lawrence responded as expected, lifting his sword to parry—yet midway through the motion, Lloyd twisted his strike, slashing horizontally.
No hesitation. Realizing the trap, Lawrence chose not to retreat—but to commit. He turned the mistake into intent, striking back in a brutal exchange.
The weapons passed through one another.
Blood followed.
There was no pause. The air shattered again with the scream of steel as the hunters collided, again and again.
Lawrence pressed forward relentlessly, advancing with unyielding aggression. His blade swept overhead and came crashing down. Lloyd instinctively stepped back, angling his weapon. Their edges met with a shriek, the falling sword sliding along the slanted steel—yet in that instant, Lloyd used the force to reverse the motion, cutting upward in a diagonal arc. A sharp flash of cold steel—and a streak of blood.
Fluid. Precise. Graceful—and yet as heavy as a mountain.
A thin wound split across Lawrence's left cheek, extending toward the bridge of his nose. A fraction closer, and Lloyd would have taken his eye.
A strike so perilous—yet Lawrence did not retreat. He lifted a hand, lightly touching the edge of the wound, fingers brushing through the blood.
"You've learned well."
He gazed at the blurred figure before him. In the dim light and swirling snow, he could see Lloyd's movements—but not his face.
"You taught me well, Archpriest."
Lloyd answered—and the smile on Lawrence's face deepened.
He understood Lloyd's intent perfectly. This battlefield had been chosen to leave him nowhere to escape… yet the same was true for Lloyd. Only one of them would leave this place alive.
The Florend elixir burned within his body like the furnace of a steam engine, boiling his blood. Lloyd's senses sharpened to something almost inhuman—if he focused, he could even distinguish each falling snowflake.
The stillness did not last.
Lloyd's next move broke all pattern—he leapt forward, abandoning defense entirely, bringing his blade down in a reckless strike.
Their weapons locked, if only for a moment.
Then something black slipped from Lloyd's body.
In the same instant, he withdrew, vanishing backward into the storm.
A heartbeat later, the black object detonated—fire erupted violently, shrapnel scattering under the force of the blast. The shockwave twisted even the wind itself, if only for a moment, before the storm swallowed it once more.
Lawrence raised his nail-sword to shield his vital organs, yet the blast still hurled him backward. He crashed several meters away, driving his blade into the train to steady himself.
"You've grown clever, Lloyd!"
His flesh writhed as it healed, expelling embedded fragments with brutal force. Facing the gray storm, Lawrence roared into the void.
Snow, whipped into a frenzy, had already buried more than half of his body after so brief a clash. He narrowed his eyes, straining to keep his vision from being swallowed by the white storm.
"No helping it… in a direct fight, I'd lose sooner or later."
Lloyd's voice echoed through the blizzard. The storm devoured Lawrence's sight, leaving him blind to his opponent's position.
From their earlier exchange, Lloyd understood all too well the gulf between them. And that was without even considering the flesh of the Holy Grail coursing within Lawrence. The closer that body came to collapse, the stronger it became—terrifyingly so, a strength steeped in despair.
Lawrence tightened both hands around the nailed sword, his breathing steady as he tried to warm the freezing air in his lungs. Then, in an instant, he pivoted sharply. A monstrous arc of steel howled through the storm, cleaving the wind itself as he struck—guided by Shandafon's foresight—meeting Lloyd head-on as he burst from the veil of snow.
The folding blade clashed briefly against the nailed sword. Lloyd's strength faltered against Lawrence's overwhelming force, and he was thrown back. Yet his body twisted midair in an unnatural arc, spinning wide before descending once more, blade cutting down again.
As expected, the strike was perfectly parried.
In that fleeting moment, Lloyd lashed out with a kick, slamming hard against the nailed sword—forcing Lawrence back while using the recoil to widen the distance once more.
He landed.
A cold flash of steel rapidly filled his vision—Lawrence was faster than anticipated. His footwork was relentless, already upon Lloyd's landing point.
Lloyd swung his blade, aiming to sever Lawrence's head the instant he closed in. But the nailed sword came at an uncanny angle, striking first—colliding with the folding blade and knocking it off course with brutal force. From that aged body surged a terrifying strength, and Lawrence followed with even greater speed.
The folding blade had just been deflected. Lloyd had no time to recover.
Lawrence dropped low, bending his knees, attacking from below. With one hand, he swept the nailed sword in a wide arc—maximizing its reach. It flashed past, carving into Lloyd's calf, drawing blood.
No respite.
The nailed sword lunged again—this time a thrust.
Guided by years of instinct, Lloyd raised his blade to parry. But Lawrence was faster still. Even without Shandafon's foresight, he remained the High Priest of the Demon Hunting Order—a master swordsman at the pinnacle.
The rising nailed sword sealed the path of defense, forcing Lloyd's blade off trajectory.
A flicker of realization—danger.
Dense divine armor erupted across Lloyd's body just as the nailed sword pierced his right shoulder. Driven by the hunter's monstrous strength, Lawrence stepped forward, pressing in. A faint metallic crack echoed—the divine armor shattered with ease. The blade drove deeper, piercing even the silver binding beneath his flesh, impaling him clean through.
The freezing blade carried the chill of the storm itself.
Lloyd twisted his arm, attempting a counterattack—but Lawrence had already closed the distance. His elbow smashed into Lloyd's arm joint, cutting off the retaliation mid-motion.
Gritting his teeth, ignoring the agony of the wound, Lloyd forced his arm to move—raising the folding blade in defiance of what any normal body could endure.
Lawrence simply withdrew the nailed sword, then mirrored Lloyd's own brutality—his kick crashed into Lloyd's chest, sending him flying.
One hand caught the edge of the train roof at the last moment.
Only that desperate grip kept Lloyd from being hurled into the abyss below.
Lawrence advanced, nailed sword in hand, pressing the advantage.
Recognizing the hopeless disparity, Lloyd released his grip without hesitation, vanishing once more into the storm before Lawrence could reach him.
Standing at the edge of the carriage, endless winds tore past Lawrence's sides. He did not relax. He knew Lloyd would not yield so easily.
The next instant—
A blade pierced up through the steel beneath his feet.
It burst from the train roof, nearly skewering his ankle. In response, Lawrence flipped down into the carriage, continuing the pursuit.
The door was already open.
Before he could steady himself, flickering flames ignited within the darkness.
"That kind of weapon won't work on me."
Lawrence strode into the shadows. With Shandafon's foresight and a hunter's physique, cutting down incoming thermite rounds was no challenge.
Yet from within the dark came Lloyd's laughter.
"High Priest… you're too confident. And too much confidence… is a weakness."
From the shadows, several steel spikes shot forth—
No. Not spikes.
Conductive metal spears.
Lloyd had fired an electric spear launcher.
Lawrence had never seen such a weapon. His nailed sword cut them down with ease—but the moment steel met steel, a surge of electricity coursed through his body. His muscles convulsed by instinct, the strike faltering for a fraction of a second.
That instant was enough.
More conductive spears struck, embedding into his body, locking his movements.
"See? Just like that."
The mocking voice echoed.
Even through the paralysis, Lawrence roared in fury, unleashing his power. At such close range, the terrifying erosion struck Lloyd directly.
But this time—
Lloyd did not fall.
His eyes were bloodshot, blood trailing from his nose. An overdose of Florend reagents clung to his sanity, twisting his face into something monstrous.
"And now… how many thermite rounds can you cut down?"
He raised the ignited rifle.
Flaming meteors streaked through the dark.
The electric spears alone could not hold Lawrence—but even the slightest restraint was enough. Even if the future had been foreseen, it could not be altered.
This was Lloyd's design.
Shandafon's foresight had limits. There would always be fragments of time—moments where the future became a blank. So he would strike like a storm without end, probing, failing, correcting—until within that blind interval, an opening appeared.
Now.
Lawrence broke free from the paralysis, his strength surging back just in time to cleave the first incoming round.
But the rest had already arrived.
He was too slow.
Half-molten metal struck his body. Solid fragments pierced into flesh, while liquid fire clung to his skin. The heat—unimaginable—brought agony in an instant.
Pain tore through his nerves.
His sword arm hesitated—just slightly.
More rounds struck.
In mere moments, half his body was nearly cast into a grotesque sculpture of molten metal.
"LLOYD!"
His roar shook the carriage.
Shattering the molten mass clinging to him, Lawrence surged forward, nailed sword brimming with killing intent.
Lloyd did not evade.
Divine armor enveloped him fully—a black shell like an unbreakable shield.
It was not enough.
Against a body nurtured by the Holy Grail, such defenses were meaningless. The nailed sword pierced through his chest, driving him back, pinning him to the carriage door behind.
"High Priest… you taught me this."
Lloyd gripped the sword impaling him, staring at Lawrence's twisted expression. Beneath the mask, laughter began to rise.
"A demon hunter is a weapon. Nothing more. No unnecessary emotion. Abandon what it means to be human."
His grip tightened.
"Fear. Greed. Emotion… all weaknesses of man."
A pause.
"But do you remember… anger is one too?"
"Anger strips away reason."
The fury vanished from Lawrence's face.
His pupils burned with a searing white light.
He saw it—that loathsome future.
And in that moment—
Lloyd seized him.
Another way to defy Shandafon. Some futures, even when foreseen, cannot be escaped.
"Don't run, Lawrence!"
Lloyd roared, activating the weapon in his other hand.
A blinding light erupted.
This battlefield had been chosen with care. Every weapon within the carriage existed for one purpose—
To kill Lawrence.
The Forging Spear had been activated.
A weapon designed to counter relics of the old age—at its core, nothing more than a colossal thermite charge. Its searing, liquefying heat could melt through divine armor and destroy the machinery within.
Now, it was turned upon Lawrence.
No matter how the nailed sword twisted, no matter how the pain surged—
Lloyd did not let go.
Then the spear struck.
It pierced through him.
Molten iron burst forth, spilling in all directions—like light itself made flesh.
Lawrence staggered back with a howl, his voice torn raw by agony. The flesh of the Holy Grail would not grant him death, yet the pain was so absolute it drove him to madness. Slowly, he wrenched the spear from his body—molten gold dripped from the wound, spilling across the ground like a shimmering pool of liquid sunlight.
Lloyd, too, drew out the nail-sword that had pierced him through. His divine armor was fractured, veins of cracks spreading across its surface, his figure swaying as though he might collapse at any moment.
Clutching the searing metal, Lawrence did not hesitate. He hurled it. In the next instant, the burning spear descended before Lloyd's eyes. Lloyd raised his nail-sword, attempting to deflect it, but the force behind the strike was overwhelming—it hurled him backward, slamming him together with the carriage door into the far edge of the compartment. The impact tore the space open, and an endless gale of frozen wind came screaming in.
"What an unsightly mess, Lawrence."
Lloyd laughed, low and cold, as he forced himself upright, gazing at the figure standing amidst the flames.
"You still don't understand. You're still ruled by your anger."
The moment his words fell, Lawrence realized it—but too late. This was the "blank" that followed foresight, the fatal void between knowing and acting.
The heat ignited what remained within the carriage—countless incendiaries.
With every ounce of strength, Lloyd hauled himself onto the roof. Even so, he was a fraction too slow. The ammunition ignited, and in the confined space of the carriage, it triggered a catastrophic chain detonation.
Shrapnel shattered the air. Heat surged like a living tide. Flames roared, boiling and ravenous.
The reinforced carriage twisted in an instant, as if seized and crushed in the grip of a giant. Blackened by impossible heat, it warped into something resembling the skeletal remains of a fallen titan.
The blast cleared the heavy snow within dozens of meters, carving out a fleeting sanctuary in the storm. For several long seconds, nothing fell. Then, slowly, the snow returned, drifting down like ash.
Even the rails beneath fractured under the force, and the train lurched violently, teetering on the edge of derailment.
Lloyd stood atop the carriage, breath ragged. To ensure the plan's continuation, he had not packed it with excessive explosives—only high-temperature incendiaries.
This had always been his trap.
He might not have been a brilliant detective—but he was an exceptional liar, and a merciless hunter of demons.
To kill Lawrence, he had prepared for far too long. He would seize anything within reach—even a stone—and bring it down with all his strength, smashing open his enemy's skull.
The carriage had become a furnace. At its core, the temperature could surge past a thousand degrees in an instant—enough to melt steel, let alone flesh.
This was a crucible of death.
Yet Lloyd did not relax. He stared into the blinding inferno, unblinking, until the wind carried the bitter scent of ash.
Then it came.
A flaming nail-sword tore through the air.
The pressure alone made Lloyd's heart stutter. He raised both his nail-sword and folding blade in defense—but with a thunderous crack, both shattered. Broken shards tore into his body.
Too fast.
All he saw were burning eyes—
—and then another blade carved through his flesh.
He clenched the broken sword, trying to strike back. At last, his gaze caught up with the figure moving at impossible speed… and what he saw was something he had never witnessed before.
Something abhorrent.
"I told you," the demon said slowly, "I am your teacher. Everything you know—I taught you."
Blood had not yet fallen from the wounds before it congealed upon the nail-sword, gleaming with a sinister crimson light.
The red shadow surged again. Lloyd blocked the initial strike on instinct—but the returning slash struck his wrist. He could not follow Lawrence's movements at all. Another flash of cold steel descended.
Pain struck from two directions—
Two blades.
Lloyd knew he could not continue like this. He forced himself backward, drew the Winchester at his waist, and fired. Dragonbreath rounds erupted, a curtain of blazing fire that momentarily tore through the blizzard and hindered Lawrence's advance.
No—it didn't.
The nail-sword pierced through the flames, driving straight through Lloyd's arm that held the gun. The immense force slammed him down onto the roof. The freezing wind scattered the firestorm, and the demon advanced, treading upon the flames themselves.
"Courage. Skill. Strength. Cunning…"
Lloyd struggled to his feet, murmuring the teachings once drilled into him within the Hunter Order.
His twisted joints snapped back into place under the strain of muscle and will. With a low, pained growl, he yanked the blade from his arm.
Secret blood surged, knitting the grotesque wound. Such an injury would kill an ordinary man—but for a hunter, it was not enough.
"Give up, Lloyd. You have no chance of victory."
Lawrence's voice was calm.
He had absolute control of the battle. Lloyd had calculated everything—the blizzard, the desolation, the weapon-filled train, even the near-instantaneous annihilation of a chain detonation. His plan had been nearly flawless.
…But a wild dog seeking to kill a tiger has no choice but to resort to such measures.
And before absolute power, all of it was fragile.
Lawrence now stood bare-chested. Intricate inscriptions sprawled across his body like living tattoos. The wounds Lloyd had inflicted were already healing at a visible pace. From one side of his chest hung a grotesque mass of flesh, bearing a sleeping face—an image so uncanny it stirred instinctive dread.
The case that once rested behind him had shattered. The nail-swords within had spilled out, now tied at his waist with the tattered remains of his red robe.
He held one in each hand, standing before the sea of fire like a mythic angel wielding blades of flame.
"Terrifying… So this is the power of the Holy Grail? You still won't die."
Lloyd gave a bitter smile. He did not rush forward. Instead, he slipped a hand into his coat and pulled out a cigarette case.
It had been pierced through during the earlier strike. He managed to pick out half a usable cigarette, set it between his lips, and pressed it into a dying ember beside him, coaxing it to life against the biting wind.
"It's not time to concede… This is only the beginning."
The blizzard fell again, swallowing his figure. Beyond Lawrence's sight, Lloyd fixed his gaze on his pocket watch.
"You know, Instructor… I never believed in fate. Destiny. Predestination. All that nonsense… Of course, I never dared say it in the Order. You were a Shangda Hunter— even the Pope sought your visions of the unknown future."
He spoke slowly, buying time.
He needed it—to let his broken body recover.
Lawrence knew this. But he was in no hurry. He held absolute advantage, absolute confidence. Nothing, he believed, could alter the outcome.
He was not fated to die here.
"I always thought it was just charlatans talking. What 'destined future'? If fate says you'll drown, then stay away from the sea. If it says you'll become some great demon king, then go do good instead.
I don't believe in that kind of crap. No one gets to decide what I must become."
The hunter raised his nail-sword once more. Its polished surface reflected light, warped and distorted.
"I thought I'd always believe that… until the Night of Descent."
A strange laughter echoed through the wind, like the cackling of something inhuman.
"That's when I realized… damn it, this thing really is cursed. No matter how you run—you can't escape it."
"And what, then, is your ideal?"
Like a man indulging a dying confession, Lawrence allowed him the time.
The gray figure tilted his head. Behind the veil of snow, white-hot flames churned.
"To eradicate the demons."
"That is… unattainable. A foolish dream."
"But isn't that what makes it a dream?"
Lawrence froze for a moment—then laughed, unable to stop himself. There was even a trace of admiration in his gaze as he looked upon the burning figure.
"Not bad, Lloyd."
"Of course."
Lloyd replied, flicking the cigarette into the wind. Secret blood surged upward, and a new suit of divine armor formed over his body.
"I once thought I was the flame that burned away sin. But later I realized… I'm nothing more than ash. Embers that have already burned, still holding a trace of warmth.
But whether it's firewood… or ash… as long as it can burn a demon to death, isn't that enough?"
Within the blizzard, the black knight tightened his grip on the nail-sword. The silver-coated blade dipped slightly, and from the seams of his armor, fire began to seep.
[Secret Blood Awakening: 29%]