In the year 922 of the Ingervig Calendar—
Firenze.
A heavy bell tolled.
Its resonance was long and solemn, like an echo drifting out of some ancient chronicle; one needed only to listen to feel the weight of history pressing quietly upon the soul.
The dying sun slipped behind layers of cloud, staining most of the sky into a vast crimson veil. Along the banks of the Tiber, boys sat in stillness, and upon the tranquil surface of the river, that same sky was reflected—so that for a fleeting moment, it seemed as though they were seated within the heavens themselves.
Perhaps this was the city's most devout hour.
The world lay draped in red. Everything was hushed, austere. Murmured prayers drifted through the grand city, rising and falling with the tolling bells, as if all creation were offering a requiem for the passing of the day.
Two solitary figures sat by the water's edge.
This was one of the few moments they were permitted outside—though even this "freedom" existed within the confines of watchful control.
The priests in white robes stood at a distance, yet their positioning was precise. They formed a circle—subtle, measured—enclosing the boys within it, never too close, never too far, ensuring that none could escape their gaze.
A blond-haired boy lifted his head, his eyes clouded with irritation as he glanced toward them.
"They've been staring at me the whole time."
"At us, more accurately."
The boy beside him answered calmly, his gaze sweeping across the riverside. There were many others like them—boys clad in identical robes, scattered in quiet clusters. Their garments gleamed pale beneath the fading light.
Holy—yet not unlike prisoners.
Only the force that bound them was not law, but divinity.
"I hate them…" the blond boy muttered, shaking his head, before asking, "What was your number again?"
"042."
The answer came without hesitation.
"You really accepted the rules they gave us?" The blond boy looked at him, surprise flickering across his face.
"What else is there?" 042 replied evenly. "They give us food. A place to stay… I don't see the problem." He paused, then added with a faint edge, "Besides, you're just showing off. You already know my number."
Indeed, each boy bore his number upon his robe.
From the moment they were taken in by the Evangelical Church, their names had been stripped away—replaced by cold, unfeeling numerals.
"You're an unruly lamb," 042 warned quietly. "If the priests find out you've been using a 'name' again, they'll lock you up."
That was how the priests described them.
Lambs of God.
And they—the priests—were the shepherds.
Lambs did not require names. Only obedience. Only faith.
And yet, among any flock, there were always those who strained against the fence—restless, defiant, yearning to leap beyond its confines.
The boy before him was one such lamb.
Ever since the "baptism," he had grown increasingly difficult to contain. Every child had witnessed something strange within that ritual—visions too fractured, too surreal to fully describe.
Yet all of them had received something from it.
Some gained knowledge.
Some, fragmented dreams.
And some—
Like him—
Gained a name.
"You need to behave, 047," 042 said, his brow furrowed. "I don't want anything to happen to you."
They had once been close—before the Church took them in. Back then, they roamed the streets of Firenze together, bruised and hungry, yet free in a way they had never been since.
Now everything had reversed.
They were fed. Sheltered. Trained. Taught.
And yet, freedom had quietly vanished—even the act of looking at the sun required permission, and supervision.
"No," 047 said softly. "People need something."
"Like what?"
"A name." He slung an arm over 042's shoulders, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "You've always been like this—too timid."
"Sometimes," he went on, "people need to make mistakes. To do things that are forbidden. Small evils… God won't care."
"So that's why you're so obsessed with it?" 042 asked, unable to understand. "Why not just follow the rules?"
"Because without a name, you're just a beast," 047 said.
He paused, then smiled faintly.
"But I'm different. I have a name now. I'm not a beast anymore… and I want you to be the same."
042 merely shrugged, indifferent.
"Maybe one day," he said lightly, "I'll change because of you."
They looked at one another—then both laughed.
There was something in that laughter—something reluctant, something quietly sorrowful.
"This might be the last time we see each other," 047 said at last. "The priests said the ritual is coming. Only a few of us will survive."
042 mirrored his posture, looping an arm around his shoulder. Their shadows stretched long beneath the fading light.
"Yeah… let's hope we both make it," 047 replied. "Archdeacon Lawrence says he thinks highly of me. Says I might become one of the best."
He spoke with genuine respect. That old man—clad in sacred crimson—was the mentor to all the children, and the one who would guide them toward becoming those so-called demon hunters.
"Good for you," 042 said sincerely.
"042!"
A priest's voice rang out.
At some point, a group had gathered within the shadows of a nearby structure. At their center stood an elderly man, robed in red much like Lawrence—yet his garments burned brighter, like cloth steeped in blood. His expression carried an unspoken authority, cold and absolute.
Even from a distance, 047 felt an invisible pressure bearing down upon him.
"Who is that?" he asked under his breath.
"That's… what I wanted to tell you," 042 replied, hesitation flickering across his face.
"I've been… chosen."
"Chosen?"
"They said I'm some kind of 'qualified subject.' I'll be transferred somewhere else."
"There?" 047 gestured toward the old man—but 042 quickly seized his arm, forcing it down.
That was a cardinal—a prince of the Church.
A man whose authority could condemn even the smallest slight as blasphemy… and sentence the offender to the gallows.
042 had seen it happen too many times.
"Who is he?" 047 pressed.
"Lloyd… Lloyd de' Medici."
The name was spoken in a whisper.
047 froze.
He had never seen the man before—but he knew the name all too well.
The House of Medici.
A lineage from which several popes had risen—a family that now stood as the greatest financial power within the Holy Evangelical Papal State. Their influence stretched far beyond banking, threading through countless industries. They controlled the flow of wealth within the Church itself—serving each successive pope while quietly expanding their dominion.
Under their design, wealth grew like a relentless avalanche.
Loans were granted to lesser nations.
Debts were erased—
In exchange for land.
And the old man before them…
He was the most formidable of them all.
Lloyd de' Medici.
In his youth, under his command, the power of the Medici family had reached its zenith. For a time, his authority eclipsed even that of the Pope.
He was, in truth—
the ruler of Firenze.
Even a man like that would one day grow old. He stood not far away—save for the robe of vivid crimson draped over him, he was no different from any ordinary elder.
"042!"
The clerics called out with growing impatience, their steps already closing in.
"Looks like it's time for me to go, 047," 042 said, reluctance flickering in his voice as he looked at his old friend.
"As long as we're alive, we'll meet again, 042." 047 did not seem saddened; he understood all too well that going with that old man was far better than remaining here. "Still, you know I hate that number."
042's departing steps faltered. He turned back. Even the devout lamb, so meek before, could no longer keep still. In a hushed voice, he offered his farewell.
"Then… goodbye, Mr. Holmes. We will meet again."
…
When his eyes opened, they did not meet some bizarre ceiling, but a flood of sunlight—broad, golden strokes pouring through the towering windows, spilling across the man's face.
"Ah…"
Lloyd let out a strange murmur. He shifted on the sofa, seeking a more comfortable angle, and curled back into himself. Clutching the blanket tightly, everything felt warm—perfectly, indulgently warm.
Yet someone clearly had no intention of letting him enjoy it. A deliberate clamor rang out, loud and jarring. When even that failed to rouse him, the culprit finally stormed over, yanked the blanket away, and bellowed—
"Stop lying there, Lloyd! Stay like this any longer and you'll rot!"
Red Falcon shrieked, and Lloyd—dragged upright by sheer force—shrieked right back. The two of them sounded like dueling roosters at dawn, howling into the air.
In the next moment, Lloyd was flung onto the carpet, sprawled flat, his drowsiness still clinging stubbornly to him. His eyes remained half-lidded, unfocused.
Red Falcon, however, had long lost his patience. He grabbed Lloyd and hauled him up with all his strength—but no matter how hard he tried, the great detective's infuriating, unyielding limpness refused to budge. It was as though blows, blades, or brute force alike meant nothing to him.
In the end, Red Falcon only managed to exhaust himself. Sweating and panting, he collapsed onto the sofa Lloyd had just vacated, glaring bitterly at the man on the floor—who wriggled lazily like an overfed caterpillar.
It felt like torture—pure, relentless torture. Red Falcon's face twisted into something feral.
How many days had it been? Even he had lost count. All he knew was that, day after day, he had watched Lloyd fall—from a fearsome and formidable demon hunter into a complete waste of space. He wanted to make this half-rotten man move, to drag him back into motion—but… he couldn't even beat this so-called piece of human refuse.
Soft footsteps echoed. A devout murmur of prayer followed, faint yet buzzing insistently in Red Falcon's ears.
"Robin, stop chanting and get him moving already!"
Red Falcon snapped, teetering on the edge of madness.
But Robin had no interest in indulging him. He glanced once at Red Falcon, once at Lloyd sprawled on the floor, then continued his strange litany as he disappeared down the stairwell.
"Then you, Joey! Do something! If he keeps this up, Lloyd's going to turn into scrap metal!"
Red Falcon howled again. But like Robin, Joey clearly wanted nothing to do with it. He cast a look of distaste at the drool smeared across Lloyd's face and shook his head with quiet firmness.
"You know I have standards. Cleanliness matters."
"Oh, now it matters? You didn't seem bothered when we were killing demons! What—are you saying Lloyd's worse than them?!"
Red Falcon was on the brink.
It was as if some peculiar corruption had taken root. Under Lloyd's influence, Red Falcon himself seemed to be slipping into a strange, unhinged state. Lloyd, meanwhile, could not have cared less. Like some detached observer of human behavior, he had found great amusement in tormenting Red Falcon these past few days.
But now, even that amusement had run dry. Like a child who had lost his favorite toy, the great detective felt a faint, inexplicable emptiness.
Perhaps he had slept enough. Propping himself up on one arm, Lloyd gazed out at the snowy world beyond the glass, his other hand groping idly until it found a plate of pastries on the low table. He pulled it down and began eating at random.
Ignoring Red Falcon's wails behind him, he sighed softly, as though he had seen through the illusions of the world.
"Life is good…"
Lloyd Holmes—who had lived for so many years, who had slain countless demons—now spoke as though he had surrendered to his own purpose, quietly praising the simple beauty of living.
It felt as though he had wandered into some peculiar parallel world—one without demons, without that cursed Church. Just a group of unfortunate souls sharing a roof, keeping warm through the winter, trading foolish banter.
It was absurd. Utterly absurd.
Even Lloyd himself found it hard to believe such a life could exist—harder still to believe it had somehow fallen into his hands. Though, if there was one regret, it was that his housemates were all coarse men. Given the choice, he would have preferred a few women among them.
But as the thought drifted through his mind, a sudden, stabbing pain pierced his skull, jolting him awake. Sleep would not return now. This afternoon's rest had come to an end.
Unsteadily, he rose to his feet and walked toward the vast window.
Outside, the dying light of sunset draped the world in a crimson veil. It felt strangely familiar—as though he had witnessed this scene before, in some distant, unreachable moment.
Then came the flicker of something else—fragmented, uncanny images stirring within his mind. It felt like a farewell. A long-forgotten farewell. From the depths of memory, a voice whispered:
"Goodbye… Mr. Holmes. We will meet again."
A sharp, unnatural pain surged through him. Lloyd pressed a hand to his forehead.
These strange occurrences were becoming more frequent. Ever since he had killed Archbishop Lawrence, this recurring vision had haunted him—a boy bidding him farewell, promising that they would meet again.
He could no longer tell whether it was a dream or a broken shard of memory. When he tried to piece together his past, it felt like shattered glass—impossible to reassemble.
Ordinarily, he would not care. Lloyd was a creature forged in battle against demons, perpetually eroded by corruption. A fractured mind was hardly surprising.
But this… this was different.
A peculiar premonition gripped him—as though some prophecy was drawing near its fulfillment. He could no longer recall the boy's name beneath that crimson veil, nor the reason for their promised reunion.
Yet the feeling only grew stronger with time. Something was coming. Someone was coming—to meet him again… from the deepest recesses of memory.
As though something terrible was about to be made real.
"We will meet again…"
Lloyd murmured under his breath, his voice drifting like the echo of a dream.