The raging fire roared without restraint, casting a layer of blood-red across the frigid, desolate night.
Clad in jet-black divine armor, he gripped the nail-sword and leaned close to the flames, letting the heat soften muscles long stiffened by the cold. Within him, the secret blood boiled ceaselessly—an inhuman force imposed upon his flesh. In this moment, Lloyd stood at the very brink of a forbidden threshold, advancing toward an unknown terror.
From beneath the armor came a hoarse, guttural growl—whether born of agony or exhilaration, none could tell.
And yet… it felt magnificent.
He could feel it clearly—the power coursing through his veins, the molten heat surging within.
The silver bindings were beginning to fail. As the secret blood awakened, they too melted away, thread by thread. When Lloyd's strength reached its zenith, he would meet the same fate as Ed—slain by the holy silver blade erupting from within his own body.
A judgment born from his very blood. A sword forever hanging above his head.
Lawrence stepped forward, slow and deliberate, exhaling waves of searing heat. His aged body pulsed with a vivid, unnatural crimson vitality. The grotesque tumor upon him swayed faintly, its shut eye trembling—as though it might open at any moment.
Twin swords burned in his grasp. Though old, his strength remained unyielding. A lion may age—but it remains a lion still.
For a fleeting instant, it felt as though they had returned to that wasteland within the Interval—when Lawrence too had stood with his back to a sea of fire, as if bearing the sun itself upon his shoulders.
Their blazing white eyes met, if only briefly. In that instant, both men became demons, and the howling wind rose to answer their fury.
Their blades clashed faster and faster, until all that remained visible were streaks of light weaving wildly through the air—like thunderheads churning within storm clouds. Each collision rang out with a shrill, thunderous roar, scattering sparks in every direction.
The pale nail-swords crossed and whirled in a relentless downpour of steel.
Lawrence laughed aloud, his strikes growing ever swifter, ever more ferocious.
It had been so long—so long since he had fought with such unrestrained exhilaration. The secret blood surged through his aging body, and with every swing, he felt youth return to him. As if, within this battle to the death, time itself was reversing.
Everything seemed to fall back a hundred years—into an age when a man could conquer the world with nothing but the blade in his hand.
Lloyd, meanwhile, remained silent.
The nail-sword in his grip shifted endlessly between forms of attack and defense. He blocked most of the strikes—but not all. A few slipped through, crashing against his divine armor. Though rare, each blow carried Lawrence's monstrous strength, and even the newly forged armor began to fracture, riddled with damage.
Lawrence was too powerful.
The longer Lloyd fought him, the more that suffocating sense of helplessness grew. If witch hunters were the pinnacle of humanity, then Lawrence stood above them all.
Peerless swordsmanship. Foresight that bordered on prophecy. Flesh infused with the near-immortality of the Holy Grail…
A perfect hunter. Flawless. Without weakness.
Just as he had said—Lloyd had no chance of victory.
But…
Was that truly so?
In an instant, Lloyd shifted his stance. With a thunderous step, he surged forward—throwing himself completely into Lawrence's range.
There is no such thing as an unbeatable enemy.
Just like the demons of old. Before the rise of the hunters, no one believed humanity could stand against such unknowable horrors. In ancient times, mankind could only kneel before descending thunder—never imagining that one day, they might grasp that very lightning in their own hands.
Yes.
Lawrence could be defeated.
The unknown could be slain.
With a roar that seemed to tear from the depths of his soul, Lloyd swung his blade. A sharp arc of light cleaved through the storm of strikes, piercing the iron defense and exploding into a crimson wound upon Lawrence's chest.
The blow nearly split him in half.
Blood and bone fragments burst outward, and within the twisted flesh, a metallic sheen glinted faintly.
Lawrence's body was hurled backward—but he did not fall. Slowly, he rose again, a savage grin stretching across his face.
From the wound, countless tiny tendrils sprouted. They writhed and pulled at one another like stitching threads, drawing the torn flesh together, sealing the gaping injury.
Lloyd did not relent.
As he knocked aside the opposing blade, he reversed his grip and struck again. Thunder surged, the air shrieking as Lawrence's other sword rose to intercept.
Steel met steel.
With a twist of his hips, Lawrence countered—his blade slashing across Lloyd's flank. Though the divine armor absorbed part of the force, the blow still struck deep. The armor shattered, fragments driving into flesh beneath.
Lloyd staggered back several steps. Cracks spread across the once-solid armor, and blood seeped through the fissures.
Lawrence did not pursue.
He stood where he was, one sword held level with his elbow, pointing straight at Lloyd, the other raised high—poised to strike.
This… was his true prime.
The flesh of the Holy Grail had amplified him beyond human limits, granting him a body that brushed against the realm of monsters while still wearing a human form.
Each arm carried devastating strength. Even a casual strike could cleave through steel.
"Still plotting something?" Lawrence asked, his tone edged with suspicion.
He remained deeply wary. This hunter was far more cunning than he had anticipated. Had it not been for his fusion with the Grail's flesh, Lloyd's earlier scheme might truly have killed him.
Though he appeared unharmed, in that explosion he had brushed the edge of death. The instantaneous heat had nearly carbonized his body—but with the Grail's flesh sustaining him, even a moment's reprieve allowed that monstrous vitality to restore him.
The grotesque face upon his chest had yet to open its eyes—but Lawrence understood.
The Grail's flesh had developed its own instinct.
It knew him as its host. Until it fully consumed him, their fates were bound—rise together, fall together.
"How could I?" Lloyd replied, his voice low, almost weary, as he reset his stance. "There's nothing left that could outmaneuver you. This is just the final thrashing of a dying man."
And yet—
Those eyes, burning with pale white flame, never left Lawrence.
A brief, intense explosion might wound him—but it could not kill him. Not while the Grail's flesh endured. Lloyd needed something greater. Continuous destruction—relentless, overwhelming—faster than the Grail could heal.
But it was too late.
Lawrence had grown cautious. He would not allow a second chance.
Lloyd let out a faint laugh.
The situation had become… almost clear.
He could no longer defeat Lawrence in direct combat.
And Lawrence—was now wary of what might yet come.
"You… are afraid, aren't you?" Lloyd said quietly.
Lawrence feared that trap—the one that had nearly killed him. He feared there might be more. Even a man as proud as he… had come to know fear.
In that sense—
Lloyd had already won.
He had planted the seed of fear—the fear of the unknown—deep within Lawrence's mind.
And yet…
"I still can't kill you," Lloyd admitted with a bitter smile.
He lowered his sword.
Then, in the next instant, he charged once more.
Their figures crossed in a blur—
But this time, Lloyd did not attack.
He allowed Lawrence's blade to crash against his armor and passed straight by him, sprinting toward the rear of the train.
For a moment, Lawrence froze—then gave chase. But a newly ignited burst of explosive fire cut him off. Flames surged skyward.
Lloyd had no more tricks left.
He was running.
Swift as a shadow, he leapt across several carriages, reached the rear, and slammed the door open before forcing it shut behind him. A nail-sword pierced through the metal an instant later.
And yet—
There was no fear in him.
Though fleeing, he seemed almost at ease, as if strolling through his own home.
"Little Nightingale… little nightingale…"
He called out, his voice carrying a strange, ghostly lilt.
Truly a model student of Oscar—still spouting those idiotic lines, even now, at the very end.
"What a pity," Lloyd muttered with a troubled sigh. "A grand old tree like me still can't take him down. He really is a monster."
At the far end of the carriage, he found the little nightingale.
Celiu had curled into herself, trembling, her body drawn tight in sheer terror. The creeping corruption had long since swallowed the surrounding space, and only the Florend injection Lloyd had forced into her veins was keeping her conscious.
But even that fragile clarity was a kind of hell.
An endless chorus of barking echoed inside her skull—those sounds clawing up from the deepest roots of her fear, repeating, gnawing, refusing to fade.
This was what demons were. This was what corruption did. It would find the weakest part of you, tear it out, and shred it before your eyes—again and again, until nothing remained.
"L-Lloyd…"
Celiu lifted her head slowly, her gaze landing on the blood-soaked hunter.
Lawrence lingered outside the carriage door, wary. He had no intention of stepping inside—not after what had happened before. It could very well be another trap.
Lloyd, however, paid that no mind. He dropped down beside Celiu without hesitation, exhaustion hanging heavily from his frame.
"Got any candy left?"
The question came suddenly. His mouth was filled with the taste of rust, and it made him grimace faintly.
But seeing Celiu trembling in fear, he shook his head and began rummaging through her things himself. In the end, all he found were a few leftover pieces of those strange-tasting sweets.
"You eat way too fast."
He tapped her lightly on the head as he spoke.
Then, after a brief pause, the divine armor encasing his body shattered completely—falling away to reveal the blood-drenched flesh beneath.
Heat rose from him in visible waves, turning to white mist in the freezing air, like an overheated machine venting steam into the void.
Celiu nearly stopped breathing.
The hunter's injuries were far worse than they appeared.
Unlike Lawrence, Lloyd bore no sacred flesh of the Grail. His regenerative ability was far inferior. Countless wounds marred his body, but the worst lay at his abdomen—where shards of shattered armor had bitten deep into him like jagged blades.
"You were right, Celiu," Lloyd said quietly. "I am someone who lives off anger… no helping it. Revenge has a way of getting under your skin."
He chewed the candy, the strange flavor spreading across his tongue.
"It's like a hallucinogen," he went on, staring at the black steel ahead as if speaking to no one at all. "When you're drowning in rage, that's when you feel most alive."
He didn't even look at her.
"His target is you… and actually, there is still one option left."
Celiu's voice came softly.
"Kill me. Right?"
Lloyd nodded, without hesitation.
"Lawrence doesn't have much time left. The more the Grail heals him, the deeper he fuses with it… he's close to being devoured entirely. If I can land one more heavy blow, it might just finish him."
It had always been one of Lloyd's plans—to kill Lawrence.
But now, with things as they stood, it was nearly impossible to carry out.
"He's on guard now. The operation's already failed. All I can do at this point… is cut our losses."
He lowered his gaze toward her. The remnants of his mask obscured his face, leaving only those emotionless flames visible within.
"You're the link of the memetic contamination. If you die, all his plans collapse. But if he captures you… the corruption will spread through you and devour countless others."
"So you came back… risking your life… just to kill me?"
Celiu let out a hollow, almost amused breath.
"Something like that. Or maybe I'll change my mind and we'll run away together?"
Lloyd chuckled at his own words, fully aware they were nothing but nonsense.
They were dozens of kilometers from the nearest settlement. Even if Lawrence failed to catch them, the blizzard would freeze them to death long before salvation arrived.
This battlefield had been chosen with care.
If he won, it would become Lawrence's grave.
If he lost, it would be his own.
Celiu… at best, would just be buried alongside him.
"Or hey, maybe we all die together. Soak in lava down in hell. Wonder if the baths there are mixed?"
There was a strange, almost wistful tone in his voice.
"I'll go to heaven," Celiu snapped. "You bastard."
Then came silence.
The wind howled. The engine roared. The nailed sword screeched faintly as it tore against the carriage frame.
And beneath it all—their heartbeats.
"Little nightingale… I need a red rose."
Lloyd's voice softened, echoing words from some distant tale.
Celiu was Lawrence's only target. She was Lloyd's bargaining chip—the only leverage he had left to turn the tables.
Slowly, Lloyd raised the nailed sword.
"Will you hate me, Celiu?"
"Let's call it repaying a debt," she replied. "Without you, I would've died in Gaulnaro. If anything, I should thank you… Mr. Holmes. Thanks to you, I got to live this long."
Her tone dripped with sarcasm.
"Oh? Then I'm deeply honored!"
Lloyd answered shamelessly.
His voice was lively—but his eyes were exhausted.
Lawrence was monstrously strong. The relentless clash of blades had long since numbed Lloyd's hands. He could barely feel his arms anymore. All he could do was keep the nailed sword within his line of sight, relying on vision alone to confirm he hadn't dropped it.
"How about we reminisce a little? Isn't that how stories go? People confess, share memories… then walk calmly to their deaths."
"Need a priest? That's actually one of my professional skills—last rites before death. Though, usually, demons don't bother with that sort of thing."
He kept talking—rambling nonsense—tracing a cross over his chest in mock solemnity, as if unwilling to let the girl die just yet.
As if every extra word could buy her another minute.
"I—"
Celiu tried to speak, but Lloyd cut her off immediately.
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I absolve you of your sins."
The "priest" even gave her a playful wink. After all these years, he hadn't forgotten what he learned in the Hunter Order.
"Well… connections matter, right? We'll skip the formalities. My sword is fast—you'll be in heaven after a nap."
That, somehow, made her laugh.
"So you're personally sending me to heaven?"
"Don't forget to leave a good review," Lloyd said. "If God really exists, maybe after all these years of working for Him—killing demons—He'll take me along too."
As if struck by some absurd thought, he clapped her on the shoulder like an old friend.
"Then we can all bathe together—uh, in holy water this time, not lava!"
The cheer in his voice slowly faded.
The jokes ended there.
Lloyd's expression turned solemn.
At last, he rose to his feet, the nailed sword suspended above Celiu's head.
"…There's no God, is there? No afterlife either."
Celiu's voice carried a fragile, almost childlike hope.
Lloyd nodded, expression blank, repeating words he had once spoken to Sabo.
"Death is just death. No heaven. No hell. Only eternal silence."
He looked at her one last time.
"Some choices… you can only make when the moment is right in front of you. Any last words?"
Celiu said nothing.
She searched herself—but found nothing to say.
No messages for friends. No unfinished dreams. No regrets left unspoken.
There was nothing.
No family. No companions.
The only person she could call a friend… was now standing before her, ready to send her to heaven with his own hand.
For the first time, she truly understood just how alone she was.
Death was supposed to be solemn. Heavy. Sacred.
Yet under Lloyd's presence, it had somehow become absurd.
She shook her head.
She didn't even manage a farewell.
The sword fell.
Celiu shut her eyes tight.
And in that instant—
All sound vanished.
The world fell into absolute silence.
Deafening.