"Your words just now… sound a great deal like idealism."
Robin spoke slowly, each syllable measured.
"'-Isms' are nothing more than labels."
Lloyd cut him off without hesitation. His gaze rested on the man before him as he continued,
"Rigorous. Silent. Devout… all of it is merely the first impression we choose to present. Some trade it for trust. Others wield it for deception."
The faint smile faded from Lloyd's face. His eyes began to drift, never settling, while his hands shifted restlessly, betraying a fleeting unease.
For a brief instant, he seemed to shrink into himself—a timid, almost cowardly figure. Yet the moment passed as quickly as it came. In the next breath, he returned to that indifferent composure, as though nothing had stirred within him at all.
"But this place… it's still incomplete."
His thoughts leapt, dragging the conversation back without warning.
There was something strange about it—this sensation gnawing at the edge of his mind. In his scattered reflections, Lloyd felt as though he had brushed against something… perhaps even the truth of this grotesque world.
But not yet.
The gates of truth remained sealed, unmoving. It was not yet the hour for them to open.
"This place is missing something."
His gaze swept across the room. Objects of every kind lay piled together, their meanings layered upon the known world, intertwining, stretching across the long continuum of human history—
From past… to present.
And yet, one thing alone was absent.
Lloyd found the void meant for it: behind the steam engine, within a mound of clutter, there lay a hollow—an empty space, as though reserved for something not yet arrived.
That was its place.
Beyond past and present—belonging to that hollow, intangible future. A force yet to come, one destined to reshape what is.
"Past, present… and future. Perhaps this is what Merlin intended when he built this place."
Lloyd spoke softly. "Go on—pay your respects. You are standing within a miracle of mankind."
Robin drew in a deep breath. A devout believer, through and through—though Lloyd could never quite understand what was worth believing in within the absurd doctrines of the Evangelical Church. Yet, from Robin's conduct, the devotion was undeniable.
"A miracle… is it? Perhaps we often overlook such things in the details of daily life," he said, with a trace of self-mockery.
People always neglect what lies within easy reach—just like the residents wandering the streets of Old Dunling. Few of them had ever considered the magnitude of the miracle surrounding them. Robin, it seemed, was no different.
And yet, this place had broadened his vision. Seen from another angle, even a single coin could carry profound meaning.
Compared to the abstractions of doctrine, everything here could be touched—manifested miracles, given form.
"You're here?"
A weary, puzzled voice cut through the air. Redfalcon stood at the doorway, breath uneven.
The three turned toward him. It seemed the unfortunate man had finally finished writing his report.
Redfalcon cast a glance over the bizarre warehouse. Like a passerby with no taste for such things, he did not bother asking what they were doing here.
"We're running out of firewood. Unless you want to freeze to death, get over here and help."
All notions of grandeur and miracle shattered instantly before the simple demands of warmth and survival.
This place lay in the remote outskirts of Old Dunling. Steam pipelines did not reach this far. Life here resembled that of a century ago—call it "vintage" if one wished to be kind; call it backward if not. During the first few days, Lloyd found it unbearable, as though he had been dragged into some cursed countryside retreat.
The solemn atmosphere dissolved at once. The four of them trudged off together, weary and unenthusiastic.
Merlin had turned this castle into nothing more than a warehouse. No servants, no maintenance—only the bare minimum of manpower. And so, when four additional souls appeared out of nowhere, the system faltered. Many things now had to be handled by their own hands.
It was a place suited for short-term isolation—or perhaps a retreat. No signs of habitation surrounded it. The only link to the outside world came from passing trains that never stopped here, for this place did not even exist on the map.
As a hunter of demons, Lloyd possessed immense strength. Naturally, the burden of chopping firewood fell upon him. At first, he resisted, but in the end, the promise of a roaring fireplace forced him into reluctant compliance.
By the time the sun sank below the horizon, a new round of survival supplies had been prepared. The four of them gathered by the fireplace, each finding a comfortable spot among the cluttered goods, slowly chewing through the modest dinner prepared by the few remaining servants.
Yet in these past days, Lloyd's state of mind had been… unstable.
More precisely, it had been strange ever since he died—and returned.
When he first heard Arthur's description of that moment, even Lloyd himself had been shocked, unable to believe it.
He remembered crossing the threshold, succumbing to demonic transformation. And yet he knew—given his condition at the time, with the Silver Bind continually collapsing—he had merely been clinging to the last threads of life. Survival should have been impossible.
And yet… he lived.
The Black Angel, activated without command. The final struggle with the flesh of the Holy Grail…
Lloyd lowered his gaze to his hand, illuminated by firelight. It was familiar—yet utterly foreign.
He already knew the answer.
Watson.
At the very end, it had been Watson who saved him—using the flesh of the Grail to bring him back.
Not truly resurrection, of course. The dead do not return. Death is final, with no road back. For Lloyd, it had been a moment on the brink—a body dragged back from oblivion by the Grail's overwhelming regenerative power.
The others ate in silence, heads lowered. Only Lloyd sat staring into the flames, his expression clouded.
"…Hah."
A long sigh escaped him. It seemed the number of strange things within his body had only increased.
But what could he do?
In his own eyes, he had always lived under Death's reluctant mercy. By all rights, he should have perished that night in flames. Yet not only had he survived, he had made it all the way to Old Dunling. And this time—he should have died alongside Lawrence.
Yet again, he lived.
Again and again, stealing time from Death itself.
It reminded him of a mad gambler.
This was the gambler's most cherished moment—you snatch every coin from the table before Death's scythe falls, and as you leave, you brush lightly against that dark robe, carrying away a trace of its chill.
Perhaps only those whose lives hold no meaning would crave such a moment. Only in that fleeting intersection with death could they feel truly alive.
The atmosphere settled into something like a warm afternoon—though beyond the windows lay only endless darkness.
Lloyd set aside his plate and, as he had done many times before, curled lazily into the soft embrace of the sofa.
Though dull, the others—Joy in particular—seemed to relish this rare peace, as though demons themselves had been temporarily erased from their world.
Lloyd, however, found it difficult to adapt. A life spent in constant motion had suddenly fallen still, leaving him at a loss.
Still… people endure. And perhaps, idleness was not so terrible.
"…Is this it?"
Lloyd spoke suddenly.
The others cast wary glances his way. After these past few days, they had come to understand all too well the peculiar danger of Lloyd's rambling.
If he ever chose to start a cult, his absurd, maddening charisma would surely drive a crowd insane.
Robin, in particular, remained cautious. To him, Lloyd resembled a demon—possessing some infectious influence that seeped into those around him. Redfalcon had already been deeply affected, though he no longer noticed it. Robin, however, kept a careful distance.
"What do you mean, 'this'?" Joy asked.
"I mean—doesn't this kind of life bore you? It's basically paid leave, yet you live like ascetics."
"This is far better than true asceticism," Robin replied.
"Then what would you rather do?" Redfalcon asked—unaware that he was already beginning to sound just as unhinged as Lloyd.
Lloyd gave him a thumbs-up, pleased someone had taken the bait.
"The night is long," he said, a spark lighting his eyes. "Why not tell some stories? I'm rather curious how each of you ended up in the Purge Agency."
He looked around eagerly. Ever since his return from death, something in his mind had shifted—subtly, strangely.
He did not notice it himself.
His gaze settled first on Redfalcon. Clearly, he was different from the others… though in truth, all of them were.
Redfalcon had said he was once a street thug, brought into the Agency through Bole's favor. As for Robin, Lloyd had no idea—but judging by his devout demeanor, his origins were likely no less peculiar.
Then there was Joy, code-named Black Phoenix. Unlike the others, he seemed indifferent to whether he was called by codename or real name. His bearing suggested noble upbringing—yet somehow, he too had come here.
Just as Arthur had said—they were bound not by origin, but by will. Unconcerned with identity, class, or past, gathered within the war machine known as the Purge Agency.
Like some absurd, indiscriminate container—accepting everything thrown into it.
"What's there to tell?" Redfalcon shrugged. "I needed a job so I wouldn't starve. Bole gave me one."
Joy nodded. "Family business. I was assigned here."
"My reason?" Robin spoke calmly. "I seek the essence of faith among demons."
Compared to the others, his answer carried a certain gravitas.
Lloyd stared at them, utterly bewildered.
He had imagined hardened men, gathered by the fire, recounting blood-soaked pasts in solemn tones—old wounds reopened in silence.
Instead, it felt more like a gatekeeper casually asking for identification.
"No… wait."
Lloyd tried to organize his thoughts, turning first to Redfalcon.
"You chose this job… just to avoid starving?"
This was no ordinary work—it meant fighting demons. It was like handing a starving man a knife and asking him to wrestle a lion for meat. Surely robbery would have been safer!
Then he turned to Joy.
"Family business?"
Joy nodded seriously. "We are no great house, but the Joshua family has been closely tied to the Agency since its founding."
So not only did one person march to death—but entire generations followed? Lloyd screamed silently in his mind.
In the end, only Robin's reason seemed remotely reasonable—yet he offered no further explanation. Instead, he looked toward Lloyd with curiosity.
"There is something I would ask you, Mr. Holmes."
"What is it?"
"Would you care to tell us about your time in the Demon Hunter Order? Of all things… that is what intrigues me most."
Robin's voice was calm, but his interest was unmistakable.