"This time… a complete failure."
Within the dim hold of the ship, the Plague Doctor spoke to no one but himself.
The cabin had become something entirely different from when he first arrived. A pallid sea of low-temperature vapor spread across the floor, drifting in slow tides; every careless step stirred ripples, as though one walked upon a ghostly ocean. It resembled the site of some grotesque ritual—corners crowded with burning candles, their crimson wax flowing like blood across the ground, mingling with the cold mist, glowing faintly like sunlight diffused through clouded skies.
Turning idly, the Plague Doctor reached for another vial, casting a casual glance over his "laboratory." He adored this place. Massive containers lined both sides of the hull, their inner contents obscured by dim light—only fragments of something grotesque could be glimpsed, bound by freezing temperatures, sunk into an ancient slumber.
Near the operating table hung several barbed hooks. From one dangled a dying demon, its body cruelly dissected, claws and fangs torn away one by one. Yet such torment was not enough to kill it—its heart still quivered faintly, like livestock awaiting slaughter. Even so, the savage instinct of such a creature would not fade… had it not been for the Plague Doctor's skill. Slender silver nails pierced its major joints; tubes were embedded within its primary blood vessels, pumping vast amounts of sedatives through its circulation.
Thus, the dreadful monster lay as docile as a kitten, submitting to the fall of the scalpel, capable only of meaningless groans.
"Not only did you fail to seize that hunter's body… you didn't even manage to corrupt the Stuart faction. And in the end, you died yourself."
The Plague Doctor shook his head as he spoke.
"A total loss."
His gaze fell upon the demon, laced with mockery.
"That's not like you, Lawrence. I always thought that whatever you set out to do… you would succeed."
"Silence."
A weak voice emerged—from within the demon's body.
"Very well, very well, I'll stop."
The Plague Doctor grinned, then hooked apart the demon's flesh, exposing its twisted organs. What lay within was a scene of unspeakable blasphemy—deformed viscera compressed together, writhing slowly with each pulse of a fading heart. Amid the blood and ruin, there nestled a charred mass of flesh. Its eyes had long since been crushed by Lloyd in the final battle; only through its grotesque contours could one barely discern it as a human head.
"Ah… I didn't expect this technique to actually work. Still, it won't save you, Lawrence. Your remaining life can now be measured in hours."
The Plague Doctor regarded the nauseating sight without the slightest discomfort. On the contrary, he nodded in satisfaction. To him, this was perfection—his finest work.
After the explosion, while no one was watching, he had slipped quietly onto the battlefield and found Lawrence amidst the wreckage of the train—barely alive. Just as Lloyd had clawed back a sliver of survival through demonization, so too had Lawrence. And to kill a demon, destroying the heart was far from sufficient.
The Plague Doctor had retrieved that scorched head and, like grafting a plant, transplanted it onto a demon's body. Through the unnatural vitality of demonization, the host's organs and blood circulation sustained the head's fragile existence.
This method had existed only as a theoretical concept in medicine—an extreme measure meant to preserve severed limbs by implanting them temporarily within the body, maintaining circulation until reattachment became possible. Whether such a method could sustain a severed head was unknown. Yet driven by a reckless pursuit of medical and biological frontiers, the Plague Doctor had attempted it—and somehow, impossibly, Lawrence had been kept alive… or rather, suspended at the edge of death.
But it was not enough. A mere stopgap. Lawrence did not possess the mysterious power that aided Watson; the flesh of the Holy Grail would not yield so easily to him. Everything now was nothing more than the Plague Doctor prolonging the inevitable.
"Enough talk… do what you must. I don't have much time."
Lawrence's voice was frail beyond measure. Maintaining demonization grew harder by the moment; he teetered on the brink of losing himself entirely, becoming that loathsome thing.
"Yes, yes. I know."
The Plague Doctor answered lazily, utterly unhurried.
He moved to another side. Machines roared to life; gears turned as accumulated water was drained from a container, and warmth gradually returned. When it opened, a pale body collapsed outward—but before it struck the ground, the Plague Doctor caught it in his arms.
He studied the face. There was nothing remarkable about it—so ordinary that one could scarcely recall it after looking away.
He laid the corpse-like figure upon the operating table.
"Well then… life or death rests on this."
With that, he drove his scalpel into the demon's abdomen. Wet, fibrous sounds filled the air, mingling with low breathing and the demon's distant wails, as he slowly extracted Lawrence's head. The severed edge was clean, trailing countless strands of blood.
"How does it feel… to be decapitated twice in such a short time?"
Lawrence did not respond. He had no interest in the Plague Doctor's humor. Every fragment of his will was spent restraining the power of demonization. He stood at the precipice of annihilation; all that had been done here merely delayed its arrival.
And yet, he felt no fear.
He had foreseen his death long ago. He was destined to die—but not now.
The Plague Doctor set the head beside the pale body, aligning the two faces as if indulging some morbid whim. Blind, Lawrence could not see the vessel before him. The body, eyes closed, lay like a sleeping child. As warmth returned, faint color crept back into its skin.
"Then let us begin, Lawrence."
Stepping back, the Plague Doctor gave the space a wide berth, watching from afar. Within his gaze lingered both reverence and a rising sense of something invasive.
An unseen wind stirred within the sealed chamber, disrupting the currents, lifting the pale mist. In the candlelight, it shimmered like sunlight cast upon the sea. What followed resembled some forbidden rite—after a fleeting stillness came violent upheaval. An unknown power surged forth, radiant and trembling, as though a woman's voice were singing softly within the light, pure as an angel's hymn.
The Plague Doctor watched intently. Opportunities to witness such phenomena were rare—perhaps this would be the last time he beheld a force so close to what could be called a miracle.
Within that sacred warmth crept a cold that climbed his spine, shattering the boundaries of everything he knew. Then he felt it—something had emerged. His pupils contracted sharply as he tried to grasp it with his gaze, unblinking, until at last a vague, wavering silhouette rose into view.
His breath nearly stopped.
He had never believed in gods. The doctrines of the Evangelical Church meant nothing to him.
But this… this was different.
This thing existed. It could be seen—truly observed.
It was not the first time he had witnessed such a phantom. When Lawrence had been defeated by Watson within the Interval, he had seen it once before—a formless force dragging at him, as though trying to tear that shadow free from his body.
What was it?
Deep down, the Plague Doctor already had an answer. Yet he dared not accept it. To do so would mean that everything he believed about the world was wrong.
And still, he could not stop himself from thinking—like the very notion of "fall" spoken of in scripture. For within all his knowledge, within all he understood, there was only one word that could explain it.
"Soul…"
The word slipped from his lips in a low murmur. Almost unconsciously, he stepped forward, reaching out to touch the elusive shadow. But it vanished like a fleeting illusion before his hand could rise. At once, the pale body upon the table convulsed violently—joints twisting at unnatural angles, muscles contracting, dull sounds echoing from within its silent frame, growing faster, louder.
Like a machine accelerating beyond its limits.
Until at last, the body collapsed from the table onto the cold floor, swallowed by the drifting mist. Meanwhile, Lawrence's severed head lost all control—blood poured endlessly from the wound, flesh shriveling, sinking along the fractured skull until, in mere moments, it became gaunt and skeletal.
The Plague Doctor stood frozen for a long while.
Only then did he tentatively call out—
"Lawrence?"
No one answered him. Wary, he edged forward—when suddenly the corpse moved… or rather, it could no longer be called a corpse.
The man lay naked, curled upon the floor, retching in agony. Fluids and other nameless, viscous substances poured from him until nothing remained, and then he dragged in great, desperate breaths—the first inhalation of a newborn body. The frigid air flooded his lungs, and the pain was so violent it tore a howl from his throat. Then came the slow awakening of flesh: the stilled heart lurched back into motion, blood surged through its channels, skin sharpened into sensation, and the chill within the vessel wrapped him like a fall into an icy sea.
He seemed unfamiliar with the body he wore. Staggering upright, he forced his eyes open, as though they had not known light for ages. Even the dim gloom burned against them like a merciless sun. Tears streamed down his face as the agony overwhelmed him, and he collapsed once more, unable to keep his footing.
The Plague Doctor merely watched, cold and silent, offering no aid.
He lay there for a long time. At last, gathering what little strength he could, he pushed himself up, knelt, and began striking the ground with both hands.
Then Lawrence laughed.
It burst from him like something that had to be torn free, as if he meant to empty his entire being into that cry. The young body roared with fury. He had done it—just as he had foreseen. This was not his appointed end. His fragile eyes forced themselves wide, meeting the world's light without a trace of fear. Even as tears fell, he did not close them.
The laughter turned strange, relentless, until his voice broke and no strength remained. Only then did it fade.
"You demon hunters are truly… unsettling creatures."
The Plague Doctor spoke with a note of admiration, lifting a robe and draping it over Lawrence's shoulders.
"As you requested, this body was cultivated from the flesh and blood of the Holy Grail. For the sake of stability, only a fraction was used. The cost, however, is clear—you are far weaker than before."
"That matters little," Lawrence rasped. His voice was still raw, his new body not yet his own. "Power can be reclaimed, so long as I live."
Though the flesh was new, the terrible experience of battle had long since carved itself into his will. After a brief loss of control, he steadied himself, standing firm upon the ground.
"No… this is not failure. I know now who that demon hunter is. And my feigned death has deceived the Purging Mechanism."
He recalled the final moment: the explosion, the shattered mask, the face revealed—Lloyd. At last, he understood. Though he had never expected it, for in Lawrence's memory, Lloyd should have perished on the Night of Sacred Descent.
"But it no longer matters. We are ghosts now. The Evangelical Church, the Purging Mechanism—both will regard me as dead. Only now have we truly merged with the shadows."
The cost had been grievous, but acceptable. He tested his steps—unsteady at first, but quickly regaining balance, his stride becoming firm, almost unrecognizable from moments before.
"I can scarcely believe it… that such a miracle is wrought by so-called Authority?"
The Plague Doctor circled him slowly. What Lawrence intended in the shadows no longer concerned him. He observed with meticulous focus, as though examining a flawless specimen—already contemplating where to begin the dissection.
This was no miracle of medicine. This was the work of a god.
"It is the power of the Interval," Lawrence said quietly. "This is what it means… to usurp."
Yet as he spoke, strength seemed to leave him. He leaned against the wall, then slid downward, clutching his head, his face twisting with pain.
"You seem to be suffering a headache," the Plague Doctor remarked, almost like a proper physician. "Would you like something for the pain?"
"No… it is unnecessary. Merely an aftereffect of the usurpation. I have taken this body through the imposition of my will."
Sweat fell in heavy drops. The pain was clearly far worse than he admitted.
"Of course, this body holds no will of its own. But when I leap between vessels, my consciousness is… torn, to some extent. If the body possessed a will, the consequences would be far more severe."
"Such as?"
"Memory loss. Fragmentation. Confusion."
Lawrence explained, his voice steadying.
"You kill the original will and take its place. Its fragments merge with yours… like impurities in clear water. The more times you usurp, the more clouded the water becomes. Your will is polluted by fragments that are not your own—until, within that chaos of memory, you lose yourself entirely."
"Dangerous," the Plague Doctor replied.
A slow death. No blood, no wound—yet the name "Lawrence" would gradually vanish with time.
"So we leave ourselves markers," Lawrence said calmly. "Like a morning star in the darkness."
But the Plague Doctor seemed to realize something at once. His gaze sharpened, his voice edged with caution.
"If this Authority is truly so strange and powerful… the Western world would already belong to the Evangelical Church."
This was not merely the seizure of a body—it was the seizure of an identity.
He stepped back, his eyes drifting to the withered head upon the operating table.
"Then tell me, 'Lawrence'… how many bodies have you worn?"
Moments ago, he had pulled Lawrence back from the brink of death. Now the air tightened with hostility. The sleeves of his robe writhed, as though something beneath them strained to break free.
Yet Lawrence seemed to have expected this. He smiled, faintly disdainful.
"If I told you… that was indeed my first body—would you believe me?"
He continued before the silence could harden.
"Do not be so tense, Plague Doctor. I am no immortal aberration. In truth, I myself am filled with curiosity about this Authority."
He raised his hand slowly. Young, supple flesh—once no more than a fantasy dreamt in sleep, now made real.
"I was once the High Priest of the Demon Hunting Order. Yet even during my tenure, I knew nothing of this power. I discovered it within the Apocalypse—strange, formidable… and deliberately concealed. The Church hid it. Had I not betrayed them, I might have lived my entire life ignorant of its existence."
And that, perhaps, was why he feared it.
He did not know why the Evangelical Church had sealed it away—but any power capable of restraining even their greed must bear a reason beyond comprehension.
He whispered the sacred name.
"Gabriel."
As though answering a long-forgotten call, within the abyssal dark, countless phantoms slowly lifted their heads—gazing toward the holy radiance that crowned the vault above.