It was a power that surpassed imagination—an aberrant transcendence that slipped through the hollow veil of illusion and arrived upon reality itself, bearing with it a salvation steeped in sin.
The surging corrosion pressed down upon every living thing within its reach, its domain expanding without end, claiming all it could touch as its own.
Celiu collapsed backward in terror, her body striking the ground as the weight of it all crushed her senses—then she heard it: from atop the heap of corpses, the distant, rhythmic thunder of war drums.
"Yes… Lloyd is not meant to die just yet."
A voice murmured from within the void, and at once, all eyes were drawn to her presence.
Within the sea of fire, the twisted mass of flesh raised its head. Lawrence's skull tore free, severed at last, yet the grotesque tumor of writhing meat surged upward, replacing what had once been his head. Like a newborn body awakening to its first breath, it turned—wary, watchful—toward Lloyd.
It possessed no mind to speak of, yet instinct, primal and absolute, warned it of a single truth: Lloyd's existence threatened its continuation. And so it moved. Its contorted limbs dragged forward, grasping shattered metal from the ground as it advanced toward the source of corruption. At the same time, another wave of erosion bled from its body, steeped in a madness so pure it bordered on divinity.
Forbidden forces intertwined, spiraling together into a vortex of annihilation that devoured all things.
"Damn it—what is happening?!"
Arthur roared, the Geiger counter screaming in relentless alarm. Its sharp, buzzing cry filled the air like the hum of an enraged swarm. The indicator light leapt from steady green to a violent crimson, skipping entirely the space between—as though reason itself had fallen, in a single instant, into the abyss.
"Two… two sources of contamination!"
The shout came from within the command room.
No one had died. Not under that monstrous assault. Neither Lawrence nor Lloyd had perished—and worse still, both had stepped further into the forbidden.
Arthur drew a deep breath, as though forcing himself into a brutal, immediate decision.
"Notify Shrike. Prepare for a second bombardment."
"But we're still within the blast radius!"
Redfalcon shouted in alarm.
"Forget it! If this doesn't end here, it'll only grow into something far worse!"
Arthur dismissed the concern without hesitation—but another voice cut in, trembling with panic.
"Communications… communications are down!"
The corruption of the fiends brought with it overwhelming interference—and now, that interference had sealed this battlefield into a dead zone.
Arthur froze for a fleeting second, then forced himself into clarity.
"Check ammunition reserves. We have to end this here."
"But… maybe we can trust Lloyd."
The corrosion had already reached them; Redfalcon's voice wavered, strained and breaking.
"Lloyd?"
Arthur couldn't comprehend it.
"Two contamination sources, right? Then the other one must be Lloyd."
"But demon hunters have never—he wouldn't release corruption…" Arthur's voice faltered as realization struck. He stopped, then spoke again, slow and grim.
"He's crossed the threshold… damn it, that cursed hunter is becoming a fiend."
They had spoken of this before—when Lloyd had laid everything bare. The controllable limit of a hunter's secret blood lay below thirty percent. Beyond that, the transformation would begin. And once it surpassed sixty, there would be no turning back.
The waves of corrosion crashed outward like a rising tide, battering the minds of every rational being within its reach.
This was what Lloyd had always feared. Once he crossed that threshold, Watson would use his outward corruption as a bridge to escape. And yet now—she showed no intention of fleeing through another's "interval." Instead, she searched… patiently, deliberately—until, beyond layers of steel, she found what she desired.
"Ascend first—we need to get out of the contamination zone!"
After a brief struggle, Arthur made his choice.
This place had already become an island of hell. With what little strength remained, he would ensure these uncontrollable fiends were buried here forever.
The engines roared to life. Massive sails on either side shifted their angles, and the entire vessel—the Dawn—began its slow ascent.
"Wait… the hatch is opening."
A voice trembled—then twisted into terror, into madness.
"The hatch is open!"
"What now?!"
Arthur was unraveling under the weight of it all. Every careful plan had spiraled into chaos.
"I… I don't know."
The operator released his grip. No one stood at the controls—yet the buttons and levers moved as though guided by an unseen will.
They shifted continuously, issuing commands of their own accord. The machinery roared into motion, efficient, precise—alive.
From the flickering indicators and racing dials, instructions emerged one after another:
Authorization key accepted.
Cables severed.
Fuel injection complete.
Safety locks disengaged.
Hatch opened.
A chill settled into every heart. It was as though the warship itself had awakened.
As though a divine hand had taken hold, guiding all things—deciding their fate.
And then, a cold female voice echoed through the silent chamber.
"Black Angel entering combat sequence."
"Black Angel entering combat sequence."
"Black Angel entering combat sequence."
"…."
Like a warning rising from the depths of hell, the voice repeated itself endlessly. No adjustment, no command could silence it.
At last, Arthur's hands began to tremble uncontrollably, as though he had been pulled into some vast and devouring vortex, where forbidden power consumed all who drew near.
"Is it… Galahad?"
Redfalcon forced a hollow laugh. He knew well that without command authorization, even activating the old-era divine armor was impossible.
But that is the nature of man—to deceive oneself, if only to delay the terror of truth.
"No. It's not me."
At some point, the command room doors had opened. Galahad stood there, breath ragged, chest heaving as though he had run without pause to reach them. His expression was grave beyond words.
"Not you?"
Arthur stared, disbelief etched across his face.
"How is that possible?!"
If not Galahad, then who could wield such monstrous power, even for a moment?
"Then who's inside the armor?!"
Redfalcon shouted, snapping back to himself.
Deep down, he knew—current technology could not verify the identity of a pilot within the old-era armor. Yet something darker, something unspeakable, urged the question forward.
Perhaps… the one controlling it was not human at all.
The operator stepped aside. The display was laid bare before them.
Heart rate: zero.
Blood pressure: zero.
Brain activity: zero.
Zero.
Zero.
Every reading—nothing but zero. Every test—declaring the same impossible truth.
There was no one inside.
No one controlled it. Nor could it control itself—for the very first principle of its creation had been the severing of a fiend's brain. And yet now… it was as though some ancient specter had arrived, donning the armor of a monster, granting its formless will a body at last.
Fear—born of the unknown—seized them all.
Like a ritual of sacrifice, Lloyd had slain himself… in exchange for an angel descending from the heavens.
And so, wings of blackened steel unfurled in full—spreading wide, like the cross of divine judgment.