When the blizzard at last relented, the furious burning—after raving on for hours—began, little by little, to subside. It was like the revel that follows a ritual sacrifice: the remaining ash broke loose and whirled across the sky like a storm of blackened snow.
It seemed as though everything had ended. Old grudges and new hatreds, glory and disgrace alike—cast together into the searing blaze—had been reduced to nothing.
The night grew deeper still, as if some vast, unseen mass of darkness were slowly descending beneath its surface.
Within the clouds, a colossal whale of iron and machinery drifted in slow procession. Its sails cleaved through piled thunderheads; thick vapor spilled from it like breath; and its engines roared like distant thunder, as though it had come riding upon wind and storm.
"How's the Geiger index reading?"
"Stable—within acceptable range. It looks like Lawrence is dead."
The brief exchange unfolded inside the command chamber. This time, Arthur led the operation himself. In the dim enclosure, a scatter of indicator lights illuminated the worn lines of his aging face.
He stood at the very front. Beneath his feet and stretching ahead lay transparent composite glass; through it, the naked eye could just barely pierce the gloom to glimpse the ground below—an inferno still raging, its end nowhere in sight.
"Do we continue observation?"
Red Falcon asked from the side.
Burdened as it was, the Dawnbound carried only limited ammunition; its present strategic role leaned more toward covert transport than direct engagement.
"We continue. We wait a little longer," Arthur replied, his voice edged with caution.
The terror of Lawrence had already carved itself into the marrow of every soul aboard. Arthur could not risk the possibility—however slight—that the man still lived. To descend rashly would be to step into the range of that corrosive force. There was nothing to do but wait, and ensure no anomaly stirred.
"Shall we deploy an Old-Era Divine Armor for reconnaissance? The remaining first-generation units are in the hold. They can descend at any moment."
Red Falcon pressed again.
"First-generation armor…"
Arthur frowned.
"It was Merlin's proposal. The second-generation suits are controllable, yes—but against Lawrence… even a dying Lawrence, they fall short. So the sealed first-generation units have been brought out. Galahad is standing by in the rear. He can pilot it once more."
The cold words lingered in the air. Red Falcon understood all too well what "once more" meant. Ever since that last loss of control, Galahad had already been deeply corroded. This deployment would be his end. And yet, aboard the Dawnbound, he alone possessed the experience to command such a relic.
"And Lancelot?"
"Also expendable. Merlin says he should be reserved for something… more important."
Silence fell abruptly. For a time, there was only the hum of machinery and the monotonous pulse of signal tones.
"There have been enough sacrifices tonight," Arthur exhaled, weary to the bone. "Let it be."
"…Then what of Lloyd? What shall we grant him?"
"Grant him?" Arthur turned, puzzled.
"Some form of recognition… an acknowledgment of who he was. A knightly rank, perhaps. It means little to the dead—but at least it proves something."
Red Falcon hesitated, searching for the right words.
"Not the part of him that was a hunter of demons. But the part that was Lloyd—human, real, and once alive."
"I didn't expect that from you," Arthur admitted, surprised.
"It's nothing. Just something I realized," Red Falcon said quietly. "Recognition matters, sometimes. Like how I'm no longer some gutter rat, but a wall that guards the sanity of mankind. Still dancing on the edge of a blade—but with that… even death feels like something you can meet without regret."
He gave a faint, almost self-mocking breath.
"Humans are like that. Moved by the strangest things."
"…I see. It's not a bad idea," Arthur replied. "I'll consider it."
...
At the edge of the burning wasteland, a frail figure staggered into view.
Selu did not know how long she had walked. In the end, she had followed the railroad ties and arrived here. Her expression was hollow.
There was no need for explanation. She knew what had happened. And yet—like someone lying to themselves—she could not bring herself to believe it. She walked across a battlefield steeped in smoke and ruin. The scorched earth still radiated searing heat; molten metal, not yet cooled or hardened, crept across the ground like the breath of hell made manifest.
Like a child scavenging through refuse, Selu wandered the metallic graveyard, back and forth, until at last she found what she had been searching for.
The detective she remembered—the man who could fell a cartload of enemies with a Winchester slung over his shoulder—was gone. Half his body lay pinned beneath a twisted carriage frame. His eyes were closed. He was filthy, unrecognizable.
She could barely bear to look.
It was like gazing upon a corpse long consumed by fire. Most of his body had been charred black by unbearable heat. The vitality hunters prided themselves on could no longer save him. He lay broken and ruined—like a rag doll torn apart by beasts.
In truth, unlike the swelling, overwrought passages of stories, when emotion surges to its very peak, there is often nothing left that can truly move the heart. Selu could not summon a single word. Nor could she feel anything at all.
There was only emptiness.
Everything was empty.
A nightmare from which one could not awaken.
Lloyd had always been like this—restrained to a fault. He suppressed the part of himself that was human. A living man, yet he chose to bury all feeling for the sake of that absurd, relentless vow.
And just as he had said—those who drew too close to demon hunters seldom met a good end. Yet in the final moment, Lloyd had ensured Selu's escape. No one could fathom what thoughts had occupied his mind at the very end.
She sank slowly to the ground. Even the world around her seemed to fade from perception. The writhing flesh struggling within the sea of flames failed to draw even a flicker of her attention.
Lawrence was dead.
But the flesh of the Holy Grail was not.
It had claimed the entire body at last—and now it writhed, striving to crawl free from the blazing inferno.
Time passed—how much, she did not know.
At last, she rose again. And this time, her face was twisted with something fierce, something sharp.
"Lloyd Holmes."
Perhaps because she resembled him so closely, even her anger bore his shadow.
"Lloyd Holmes, you bastard—you don't get to die like this!"
She stared at that filthy face. Even in death, the hunter carried that infuriating air of a wretch—his dried lips curled faintly upward, as though slaying Lawrence had fulfilled some damned revolutionary vow.
"Yes… you don't get to die."
The girl muttered again and again, her voice trembling with a fury that bordered on reverence.
As in so many of their past conversations, the meaning of this hunter's life had always been fragile. In the mind of that madman, there had only ever been two things: killing monsters—or walking the road toward killing them.
His life was tragedy, pure and absolute.
And now, with his revenge complete, whether he rose to heaven or fell into hell—none of it mattered anymore.
But it wasn't enough.
It was nowhere near enough.
...
"I… am I dead?"
Lloyd slowly lifted his head. The frozen expanse stretched before him, unchanged and achingly familiar. He sat upon a lonely bench, as though he had never left.
"Close enough."
Watson sat beside him, her voice calm, almost indifferent.
At first, Lloyd showed a flicker of surprise—but it faded quickly, replaced by a quiet acceptance.
"Maybe that's what happens when you're about to die. Nothing really matters anymore."
"Even your guard against me?" she asked.
"Of course."
Lloyd let out a faint breath. "I'm dead, you're dead. I even took Lawrence with me. And if I get to drag you along too… not a bad deal."
Watson only smiled, shaking her head slightly, murmuring things Lloyd could not quite understand.
"You really have forgotten quite a lot… still not coming back?"
"Forgotten what? Doesn't matter." Lloyd waved it off. "Watson, I'm dying. All the memories in the world aren't worth as much as a cigarette right now… Hell, if I could, I'd settle for a proper meal."
Even at death's door, he was still talking nonsense.
"So what now?" he continued, glancing toward the distant horizon of ice. "Some bizarre train tearing through the void to take me to hell?"
The place gave him an odd sense of déjà vu. Like a bus stop abandoned by the world—though who in their right mind would put one here?
"You know very well what comes after death, Lloyd," Watson said.
The faint humor drained from his expression.
"…Nothing," he replied. "Like falling asleep. Just… never waking up again."
"Then why not try to live?"
"Maybe I just want to run from it all."
They spoke idly, almost casually. It was a rare sight—a hunter of demons sharing quiet conversation with something far more terrifying. Like a confession offered in the final moments before the end.
"Run?" Watson echoed, a trace of surprise crossing her face.
Lloyd nodded, uncharacteristically serious.
"Yeah. At the end of the day, hunters like me… we're still part human. Not fully human, not fully monster. We exist in between—caught in the gray between black and white."
"I still have human weaknesses… fear, compassion, empathy…"
He paused, then looked at her.
"Do you really think killing monsters every day is fun?"
"You look like you enjoy it," Watson replied without mercy.
Lloyd fell silent for a moment, then exhaled.
"…Alright. I'll admit, cutting them down does feel good." A bitter smile touched his lips. "But it's exhausting. Truly exhausting."
His voice carried a quiet desolation.
"Everyone else is gone. I'm the only one left. All I can do is burn everything in anger as a way to mourn them. Even when I don't want to go on, that fire keeps pushing me forward."
"But I'm not perfect. Not human, not monster. I'm something broken… power of a beast, weaknesses of a man. Sooner or later, I get tired. I keep walking… until I can't anymore."
He lowered his gaze.
"You know that feeling? Like you're bound to some damned mission—you know you can't abandon it, you absolutely can't… But then one day, you're about to die… and suddenly, you just want to let go. To surrender to death. To be free. To finally say goodbye to it all."
"So this is your escape?" Watson asked.
Lloyd nodded.
"Yeah… This fire's been burning for too long. There's nothing left of me. I've gone from fuel… to ash. And I've just spent the last bit of warmth I had."
A faint, almost relieved smile flickered across his face.
"I really can't burn anymore. If I die like this… no one would blame me, right?"
It felt good—this release, after so long beneath crushing weight. For a fleeting moment, he imagined living a single ordinary day as a normal man. No monsters. No revenge.
But that chance was long gone.
A cold wind swept across the frozen plains, carrying snow like drifting veils. It brushed against his face—piercingly cold.
"No, Lloyd."
"…What?"
He turned toward Watson, unable to catch her words clearly.
"I said—you cannot die yet, Lloyd."
She rose to her feet, her expression shifting, as if she had sensed something unseen.
"You will die, as all things do. But… not today."
She looked down at him, her gaze sharp and unyielding.
A tremor passed through Lloyd's mind. For the first time, he felt truly shaken by this incomprehensible being. He had never understood what she wanted—nor what she would do.
Then, a steady roar echoed beside his ears.
"Your anger hasn't gone out, has it? The only reason you seek escape… is because you've lost all hope. Isn't that right?"
Lloyd stared at her, stunned.
Her hand pierced through his body—grasping his heart, which had nearly fallen still.
She was right.
There was no hope left for him. After the bombardment, even with the secret blood in his veins, he had been as fragile as any ordinary man.
So he chose to die.
This wasn't escape.
It was surrender to despair.
"I understand you far too well, Lloyd."
Her voice curled softly against his ear.
"That ancient pain still gnaws at you. That furious flame still burns. You've already descended into the depths of hell—becoming one with the very monsters you hunt."
"Everything taken… demands a price."
Agony erupted from his heart.
The fading pulse roared back to life—violent, thunderous—like war drums shaking the heavens.
"What… did you do…?"
Lloyd doubled over, consumed by a pain beyond description—something that seemed to tear at his very soul.
"This… is the price."
Watson gripped his head, forcing him to meet her gaze.
"If the fuel is spent… then we simply add more."
"You are destined to die within raging flames—not to fade quietly into nothingness."
"This is part of the curse."
—
Upon the burning battlefield, Célieu's voice rang out with fury.
She was no longer the helpless beggar girl.
She was Célieu—Célieu Stuart, a young duke crowned with honor.
"If your existence is so fragile…"
She muttered to herself, gripping the broken sword still warm upon the ground. Ignoring the searing heat, she raised it with fierce determination.
"Then I will make it stronger."
Her voice dropped into a low, trembling growl—like a young lion finding its roar.
"Lloyd Holmes… I acknowledge your existence."
"As a human being."
"In the name of Stuart—"
The shattered blade came to rest upon his broken shoulder.
"I grant it to you!"
A chorus of wailing spirits rose, countless phantoms crying out as they raised swords and shields—singing praises to something that seemed to echo a century past.
War bestows! War bestows! War bestows!
Their voices surged like a tide.
The clang of metal rang through the depths of history.
A tidal wave of corruption burst forth from the dying remains, spreading across the battlefield in an instant.
On the Voyager of Dawn, the Geiger counter spiked to its limit. The secret blood surged, as an ancient curse dragged a fallen soul back into the world of the living.
[Secret Blood Awakening: 31%]
The heart of war thundered—resounding like an endless drum.