"Lloyd Holmes… I find myself less and less certain of what you intend. And even if you do this—what of it? You left her in the blizzard. The moment I follow the tracks back, she won't escape me."
Lawrence cast a glance toward the figure collapsed nearby—something scarcely distinguishable from a corpse.
"And what if," Lloyd rasped, "what if I kill you right here? A man ought to have dreams, shouldn't he?"
He answered without even the strength to rise. The threat meant little to him now. There was a reckless clarity in his tone—the kind that comes when death is certain, and words become the last weapon left to wound an enemy's mind.
Lawrence laughed.
Then he lifted a nailed sword and began to walk toward him.
"Care to talk a bit longer? I'd quite like to know why you betrayed the Order."
Lloyd dragged himself backward, inch by inch, writhing across the ground like a lump of discarded flesh. It didn't take long before his back struck the edge. Lawrence did not slow—each step pressing closer, patient and inevitable.
"Come on… I'm as good as dead anyway. Let me have a cigarette, will you? We can chat about the assassination plan I made for you. Honestly, it was brilliant. I'd say I'm a once-in-a-generation genius."
He rambled on, almost cheerfully—nothing in him resembled a man on the brink of death.
"Are you afraid to die?" Lawrence asked suddenly, halting mid-step.
"Maybe," Lloyd replied, glancing sideways at him. "After all… the dead can't kill you."
With slow, trembling movements, he drew a crushed cigarette case from his coat. The pack had been pierced through; most of the cigarettes were broken into fragments. He spilled them onto the ground and, with surprising care, picked out one that could still be smoked.
"You know, Lawrence… humanity is truly remarkable."
He set the cigarette between his lips. A small flame flickered weakly against the raging snowstorm. As he spoke, he reached out and pulled a nailed sword free from the carriage wall. The metal groaned—this was no mere wall, but a fuel tank. Thick, black liquid began to seep through the opening.
"Do you know what this is?"
He dipped his fingers into the substance and held them up.
Lawrence had never seen anything like it. Instinct alone kept him wary.
He still could not tell whether Lloyd had reached his limit. That strange force lurking within his mind had yet to surface—and in their previous clashes, this cunning madman had already forced him to pay dearly.
So he kept his distance.
"They call it crude oil," Lloyd said softly. "Highly flammable. Hard to extinguish. Merlin once said it would become one of the new energies that reshape the world."
"And there are many tanks like this… all along the train."
His voice drifted like a ghost in the storm.
"You're thinking of taking me down with you?" Lawrence sneered. "That won't be enough to kill me."
He did not fully understand the power of this oil, but with what he possessed now, he could withdraw before the danger peaked. And even if caught within it—the Holy Grail would mend him.
"Is that why you let her go?" Lawrence pressed. "Otherwise she'd burn with you."
Lloyd shook his head faintly.
"Who knows… Some things—you only understand when they're right in front of you. Maybe I just acted on impulse."
He exhaled smoke into the freezing air.
"So tell me, Lawrence… do you understand how far modern technology has come?"
"For instance?"
"For instance—the range of artillery. The area a single shell can annihilate. The kind of steel torrent a mature industrial line can unleash. Or…"
His voice trailed off.
Slowly, he rose to his feet and lifted his gaze to the night sky.
"Lawrence… this is a new age. Guns and cannons now—not ancient swords and warhorses. We are relics of a bygone era, out of place in this world."
"…You won't escape this."
His tone shifted—quiet, certain.
"You've always relied on Shangda Feng's foresight, haven't you? But that ability… it has flaws. Plenty of them. I showed you some myself in our last fight."
Lawrence's cold gaze lowered.
That invincible foresight—so absolute in others' eyes—was riddled with cracks before Lloyd.
"Can you evade the rain?" Lloyd asked.
"…Rain?"
"A storm," Lloyd continued, almost gently. "You foresee its coming—but can you truly escape it?"
He did not wait for an answer.
"No. You can't."
"What use is foresight? You remain within its reach. There are things… you were never meant to escape."
By then, the night sky had begun to burn.
At last, Lloyd's endless rambling had bought him enough time. A blinding crimson glow swallowed the darkness, setting the heavens aflame. He watched as fear—subtle but undeniable—began to surface in Lawrence's eyes.
Tightening his grip on the nailed sword, Lloyd whispered:
"Submit to death, Lawrence."
...
"So… we're really doing this? There's nothing out there—just railway tracks."
The commander still struggled to believe the order he had just received. He asked again, seeking confirmation.
The blizzard had buried the world in white. Snow concealed nearly everything—but in the few exposed places, something feral and monstrous still revealed itself.
"Just carry out the order, soldier."
Shrike stood within the storm and answered coldly.
The commander hesitated. Yet beneath Shrike's icy gaze, he found no courage to question further. Perhaps he simply wasn't meant to know—just as he hadn't been when the unit was abruptly redeployed days ago.
No objective. No instructions.
They still did not know whether this was an exercise… or something far more real.
Fully armed—overwhelmingly so—countless heavy weapons advanced along the rails. This level of firepower could win a localized war. They had arrived filled with curiosity… and then waited.
Until now.
"So this… was all planned by Lloyd and Arthur?"
Robin approached slowly, his clothes heavy with snow.
"Yes," Shrike said. "Even I only learned the full picture just before execution. Lawrence's 'Gap' is insidious—he could slip into anyone's mind. That means no one can be trusted."
"Before the plan began, only Arthur and Lloyd knew everything."
Robin followed his gaze forward.
There, looming in the snow, stood dozens of colossal artillery cannons.
Most were buried beneath ice and frost—but their sheer, monstrous forms could not be hidden. Barrels stretching over twenty meters. Caliber: 180 millimeters. Elevation: fifty-five degrees. Weight: one hundred and fifty tons.
One of the Mechanical Institute's most unhinged creations.
Forged during the era of the Glorious War.
In its intended design, it would move along railway lines. After reclaiming the southern territories, these weapons would form a bombardment network—striking across the White Tide Strait, into the lands of Gaul Naro.
It sounded impossible.
And yet—it was not.
This monstrous engine could launch a 150-kilogram composite warhead forty kilometers into the sky. By entering the stratosphere, it extended its range—before descending, minutes later, upon a target one hundred and thirty kilometers away.
It was named Ascalon—those people always had a fondness for baptizing their weapons with the language of myth. In the Gospels, it was the weapon of Saint George, the blade that slew the red dragon who had stolen away a princess.
"So this is what we're going to do."
Robin watched the soldiers as they loaded the shells. This was the kind of weapon that should have existed only in legend, and yet now it rested in human hands.
A cannon barrel more than twenty meters long rose beneath the veil of snow, like a lance thrust skyward. If there truly existed a god of machinery, or some deity of cold, unfeeling progress, then the thunderous echo of artillery would be its most devout prayer.
Shrike gave a small nod.
"Yes. The heavy artillery array will bombard the target for twenty minutes. We've pre-calibrated the trajectory—it will strike with absolute precision. There's nearly a thousand tons of crude oil aboard that train. The moment it detonates, the shockwave will scour everything within kilometers, and then turn it into a burning hell."
Snow would vanish in an instant. Frozen earth would shatter and upheave. Forests would collapse in great swathes, and ash would fall like a blackened tide across the world.
"Is all this really necessary? Just to kill one man?"
"He's no ordinary man," Shrike replied. "He can glimpse fragments of the future. His vitality is monstrous. And worse—get too close, and you'll be corroded, broken down. Unless we stay beyond his reach and suppress him with weapons that outrange him… we have no other option."
"Then Lloyd will die too… right?"
Robin asked quietly, a tremor in his chest.
After a brief pause, Shrike nodded.
"That's right. That bastard's as good as dead. No one's saving him… But that's one of the reasons I like him. That witch hunter has no morals—he'll push anyone onto the rails if it gets the job done. But when the time comes, he'll walk onto them himself. No one but Lloyd can guarantee dragging Lawrence into the bombardment zone."
He fell silent for a moment, then added softly,
"Damn… that's cool."
"What?" Robin frowned, unsure he'd heard correctly.
"I said it's cool. Don't you think so?"
There was something like envy in Shrike's voice.
"All of us—the Dawn Chaser shadowing the train, the artillery crews here—we're just the backdrop to tonight's assassination. The one standing center stage… is that lunatic, Lloyd Holmes."
"He sings and dances, leading Lawrence toward ruin. It's the perfect curtain call."
Shrike seemed to see it play out before his eyes.
"A death like performance art."
Robin did not fully understand. He gazed toward the place doomed to annihilation, drew a cross upon his chest, and whispered a prayer.
"I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness…"
In the next instant, the sky-piercing lances erupted with light like miniature suns. They tore through wind and snow, their thunder shattering the storm itself—and Robin's prayer along with it.
Like meteors cast down from heaven, they raced toward the promised land.
And then Lawrence saw them.
The entire night sky ignited. Neither gale nor blizzard could halt their descent. They fell from the heavens, radiant with the glow of death.
Warheads split open midair, igniting into roaring infernos. Interwoven, they formed blazing trajectories of annihilation—like falling stars. Snow clouds were dyed a molten gold, as though they might drip burning iron at any moment. It was as if some kingdom in the firmament had collapsed, descending in both glory and apocalypse.
Heaven was falling.
"You lunatic—you're insane!"
Lawrence roared in terror, turning to flee—but it was futile. The bombardment had sealed every path of escape.
Fire rained down. The locomotive was struck first; half-molten metal pierced its furnace and detonated it from within. The train lost control, rolling and twisting like a serpent pinned through the head. Carriages piled upon one another, and then the oil tanks began to explode.
Blinding pillars of flame surged skyward. Spilled crude ignited, engulfing everything around. Under successive shockwaves, even the wind was forced to reverse. Air leapt across hundreds of degrees in an instant, and searing firestorms swept the land. The world plunged into a molten inferno.
"Yes… I am insane."
Within the raging flames, Lloyd staggered forward. Firelight illuminated his face—twisted, profane, like a blasphemous demon.
He gripped his nailed sword and advanced through the world-ending blaze, step by step, toward Lawrence—like death itself drawing near.
The end had come. There was nowhere left to run.
"You'll die too!" Lawrence shouted.
"I don't care!"
There was nothing left to care about. From the moment Lloyd set foot on that train, he had already accepted everything. Sinners must pay their due.
Steel flashed.
For the first time, Lawrence felt true fear of the witch hunter before him. That single strike seemed to drain the last of Lloyd's life. It shattered Lawrence's guard, cleaving through blade and bone alike, biting deep into his shoulder—nearly severing it entirely under the force.
"I am wrath! I am dominion!"
The hunter roared, striking again. Broken steel, trailing fire, pierced through both of them—but it could not stop him. His blade surged once more, nearly cutting Lawrence in half.
"I am the iron law! I am divine judgment!"
The sword shattered in his grasp. Lloyd lunged forward, grappling with Lawrence barehanded.
Clamping down on that loathsome head, he forced him into the burning sea of fire, enduring the agony of scorching flesh just to watch Lawrence burn to ash before his eyes.
"I am your judgment, Lawrence!"
Bone cracked audibly. Lloyd crushed his brow, his fingers driving through to shatter the eyes within. Blood poured from the sockets. Lawrence screamed, slashing wildly—his blade pierced Lloyd's arm, leaving it hanging limp and broken.
Lawrence crawled, driven by unbearable pain and the instinct to survive—but soon, that ruined figure rose again from the flames. With his remaining strength, Lloyd seized Lawrence from behind, pinning him down.
"Judgment has come, Lawrence! A man at the end of his road has nowhere left to go!"
Like a demon.
Lloyd tore into him with his teeth, biting deep into the back of his neck, ripping flesh apart.
Every sound grew sharp and immense. Lawrence could hear it—the wet, monstrous sound of something drinking his blood, chewing his flesh, cracking his bones—until his vision began to lift away.
His head tore free along shredded sinew. A crimson spine was wrenched out, sending a geyser of blood skyward.
Lloyd had ripped his head off with his teeth.
And yet—even that was not enough. Countless threads still bound the severed head. Given time, Lawrence might have lived again.
But time was something he no longer had.
Lloyd collapsed into the fire, strength utterly spent. Moments ago he had seemed like a descending war-god—now he was nothing more than a dying man.
"Why…?"
Somewhere, faintly, it felt as if someone had asked him that.
She did not understand what he had done. Nor why any of it mattered.
"I am… Lloyd."
He stared stubbornly into the burning sky. His voice was weak, yet the fury within it refused to die.
"I am… Lloyd Holmes."
As though answering.
"I… will never yield!"
The burning heaven finally fell. Scattered firestorms ignited every last oil tank. Rage boiled and roared, shockwaves twisting into fleeting tornadoes. Tons of shells hammered the earth again and again, and the expanding inferno melted everything in its path.
Flames devoured all sin, all evil.
Minutes later, the surging shockwave swept across the artillery positions. The blizzard that had shrouded the land began to fade.
And at the edge of the sky, the Dawn Chaser began its descent.