After parting ways with Preiss, Lloyd remained aboard the Iron Serpent for a while longer. Following another stretch on foot, the Lower District gradually emerged at the far edge of his vision.
The sky hung low beneath a blanket of grim clouds. Dilapidated houses appeared as though they had been hastily piled together from mud and rotten timber. Countless structures of the same kind sprawled endlessly before him, forming a grotesque forest of twisted growths. Through the cracks between those warped wooden bodies, Lloyd could glimpse lifeless faces gathered around stoves. Flickering warmth danced in the darkness as they clung desperately to the last traces of heat, enduring the final agonizing days of winter.
This was the fate of most who lived in the Lower District.
They lacked the means to survive in this frozen city, yet possessed no strength to leave it behind. Like trapped beasts, they slowly decayed beneath the city's shadow.
The young and able-bodied usually found their way into factories. The work was exhausting, but the wages were considerably better. At the very least, they offered more hope than what could be found on these streets. Others chose the gangs. Dangerous as that path was, it guaranteed food and shelter within this malformed forest.
Lloyd lit a cigarette.
A thin stream of smoke drifted upward, rising lazily until it merged with the countless storm clouds overhead.
The muddy roads had frozen solid beneath the cold, making every step uncomfortable.
Ordinarily, Lloyd might have paid attention to such things. Today, however, his thoughts lay elsewhere. The people around him still wore their usual hostile expressions, but he had neither the time nor the patience to concern himself with them.
The Lower District was chaos distilled into a single place.
Most of Old Dunling's gray-market trade flowed through these streets. Beneath the filth and decay lay veins of blood-stained gold.
This visit had been entirely impulsive.
No carriage driver awaited him. No one knew he had come.
He was alone.
Like a hunter moving through a dark forest, he followed faint traces left by unseen prey.
"Firenze..."
The detective murmured the name under his breath.
The city that lingered in his memories had grown blurred over the years. Only the events he had lived through there remained sharp and vivid.
Life in Firenze had not been bad.
Had it not been for the Night of Divine Descent, which destroyed everything.
Though Lawrence—the architect of that catastrophe—was dead, countless mysteries remained unresolved.
For example, why had Lawrence betrayed them?
Among all Demon Hunters, he had been unique. One of the oldest. One of the highest-ranking. A man who possessed everything one could desire.
And yet, in the end, he had willingly cast it all into the flames.
Perhaps that question would never be answered.
Lawrence was dead.
What little flesh remained of him had been absorbed by the Black Angel. The man could not possibly be any deader than he already was.
Sometimes that was the cruelest thing about life.
Many questions simply never receive answers.
Setting those thoughts aside, Lloyd found himself arriving at a tentative conclusion regarding the current situation. He suspected the stowaways were connected to a new sect from Firenze.
Their objective was likely the Apocalypse.
But where exactly was the Apocalypse?
Despite days of searches and heightened vigilance, the Purging Agency had found nothing.
Judging from the sheer number of demons Lawrence had cultivated, a sizable organization must once have stood behind him. Yet after his death, that organization had vanished as though it had never existed.
It was as if Lawrence's death had erased every trace connected to him.
Then again, nobody had ever seen anyone working alongside Lawrence.
Throughout all those years, he had always appeared alone.
Perhaps he had never possessed any accomplices at all.
The thought gave Lloyd a headache.
He was certain that although Lawrence was dead, something he had set in motion continued to advance in the darkness. The disappearance of the Apocalypse was proof enough.
Somewhere in the shadows, sinful blood was still being shaped and nurtured.
Lloyd suddenly stopped walking.
His gaze shifted toward a beggar huddled against a nearby wall.
The man had been watching him.
Realizing Lloyd had noticed, the beggar immediately lowered his eyes and ceased his covert observation.
The movement had been subtle.
Anyone lacking a Demon Hunter's sharpened senses would have missed it entirely.
A grin tugged at Lloyd's lips.
The tangled mess of thoughts occupying his mind suddenly became clear.
"You've been watching me this whole time, haven't you?"
The detective crouched beside him without warning.
The beggar looked visibly unsettled by Lloyd's sudden friendliness.
The Lower District was not a place where strangers approached one another lightly. People survived here by remaining cautious, forever wary of those around them.
The man instinctively shrank backward.
His face was filthy and unkempt, yet his eyes remained startlingly clear.
"What... what do you want?"
Though his voice carried caution, one hand had already slipped beneath his ragged coat, fingers brushing against cold steel.
Everyone in the Lower District carried something for survival.
"Relax. I just have a few questions."
Lloyd paid little attention to the growing murderous intent radiating from the man.
Compared to demons, these people resembled harmless rabbits.
"Which gang do you work for?" he asked.
The beggar's eyes instantly turned cold.
He struck without hesitation.
A short dagger flashed from his coat.
But Lloyd moved faster.
He rose smoothly and drove his foot down, crushing the man's wrist before the blade could fully clear its sheath.
"Calm down. No hostility. Just questions."
He twisted his foot slightly.
Pain shot through the beggar's arm, forcing him to release the weapon. The dagger clattered to the ground, only for Lloyd to kick it several feet away.
"Drop the act. I'm not some outsider. I spent enough time in the Lower District to know exactly what you are."
As he spoke, Lloyd reached into his coat and tossed a worn coin onto the ground.
The beggar froze.
Disbelief flickered across his face.
Then he lunged for the coin, scattering mud as he snatched it up.
A shrike was engraved upon its surface.
Anyone truly familiar with the Lower District understood what that meant.
This was real currency.
The beggar's attitude changed immediately.
For someone of his station, a single coin like this could provide comfortable living for many days.
"Ratling."
The beggar tucked the coin into the deepest fold of his clothing before nervously scanning the surrounding streets to ensure no one had witnessed the exchange.
"As expected."
Lloyd spoke softly.
He had already guessed as much.
"Seen any new faces lately?"
"No. At least not in my territory."
Now that payment had been made, the beggar answered readily.
The response was hardly surprising.
Lloyd had never expected a random inquiry to reveal the whereabouts of the stowaways.
There was no such thing as absolute chaos.
Every disorder concealed a hidden structure beneath it.
Shrike controlled much of the Lower District's economy, acting as a mediator among competing factions. Yet in truth, he served the Purging Agency.
The apparent chaos of the district existed within a larger framework of control.
The beggar was part of that system.
A very small part.
He was a Ratling.
A lowly rat.
Yet when enough rats gathered together, they became a formidable force.
The Ratlings were one of the Lower District's gangs, though unlike others, they held no fixed territory. Instead, they spread throughout the district, selling information for a living.
The beggars scattered across the streets served as their eyes.
News beyond the reach of mounted police often found its way into Ratling hands.
And if the stowaways truly remained hidden somewhere, they could only be hiding within this twisted forest.
"Take me to the Rat King," Lloyd said. "I want to buy information."
The beggar shook his head.
"Impossible. The Rat King doesn't meet anyone."
"Still that cautious?"
Lloyd's understanding of the Ratlings came largely from Shrike.
According to him, those damned rats were the most troublesome people in the Lower District.
They neither stole nor robbed, yet their omnipresence was unsettling enough to make anyone uneasy.
For that reason, Shrike rarely cooperated with them. The Ratlings infiltrated everything. He feared they might uncover his true identity.
Historically, every Shrike eventually faced such risks. If exposure became unavoidable, the Purging Agency would simply intervene and erase the problem.
The Ratlings were different.
Every piece of information eventually flowed to the Rat King.
Rumors, gossip, casual conversations—anything deemed interesting or valuable could be reported.
Legend claimed that somewhere within the sewers of the Lower District lay a vast archive maintained by the Ratlings.
If they overheard something and considered it worthwhile, even a random sentence spoken years ago might be preserved within its records.
To this day, Shrike did not know whether that archive truly existed.
Nor whether the mysterious Rat King was real.
Still, urban legends seldom emerged from nothing.
And Old Dunling extended far beyond what could be seen on the surface. Beneath it stretched the immense network of Furnace Pillars and subterranean passages.
If Lawrence could construct breeding facilities within those labyrinthine tunnels, then a colony of rats could certainly hide there as well.
"It isn't about caution," the beggar replied seriously. "It's about rules."
"What if I want information? A lot of information."
"I can take you to someone who knows."
Lloyd nodded.
He had conducted business with the Ratlings before. The process was usually the same.
Grab a random beggar from the street.
Lloyd had always been fortunate. Nine out of ten times, the beggar turned out to be a Ratling.
They would never take you to the Rat King.
But they would take you to someone who knew.
That person was known as an Information Broker, a middleman who connected buyers with the Ratlings.
Yet this was also what made the organization so strange.
The moment anyone requested a meeting with the Rat King, they were refused.
It was as if the Rat King undeniably existed, while simultaneously occupying no position whatsoever within the structure of the Ratlings.
The beggar stood and retrieved his dagger before slipping it back beneath his coat.
He motioned for Lloyd to follow.
Together they navigated the district's winding streets.
Though humble, the Ratlings were experts at survival. When it came to locating someone within the Lower District, they were often more efficient than Shrike himself.
Before long, they arrived at a squat building.
Like many structures in the district, it was warped and misshapen. Under the cover of night, it resembled some crouching monster.
Several beggars lounged outside the entrance. More hid within.
Lowly rats huddling together for warmth.
Lloyd could feel countless eyes tracking his every movement.
None of it bothered him.
Without a hint of hesitation, he lowered his head and followed the beggar inside.
The interior stank.
Yet it was far larger than the exterior suggested.
The beggar kicked aside a sleeping vagrant, revealing a concealed hatch beneath him.
When he pulled it open, darkness yawned below.
"Come on. Hopefully you can tolerate this."
A nauseating stench rose from the opening.
Even the beggar seemed reluctant to endure it.
Lloyd glanced into the darkness.
Without a second thought, he crouched and prepared to climb down.
The action visibly surprised the beggar.
He instinctively reached out and stopped him.
"Aren't you afraid?"
There was something unusual about Lloyd.
The beggar had met countless men who pretended to be fearless. The Lower District was filled with thugs and killers. Showing fear often meant death.
Most people simply wore masks of confidence.
Lloyd felt different.
He genuinely seemed unafraid.
Below them lay a narrow, lightless tunnel.
In truth, nobody knew what awaited there.
What if it concealed a trap lined with blades?
Yet Lloyd had nearly stepped inside without hesitation.
That was beyond courage.
It was almost the behavior of a fool who had forgotten the meaning of death.
"What? Planning to kill me?"
Lloyd glanced at the hole.
It certainly looked like an ideal place for murder.
To his surprise, the beggar nodded.
"Actually, yes. Sometimes."
He shrugged.
"When customers become troublesome, we guide them into a different tunnel. One filled with blades."
"Are there blades in this one?" Lloyd asked with almost childlike curiosity.
"No."
The beggar smirked.
"You're a wealthy customer. We'd rather acquire your money without spilling blood."
From the darkness nearby, he retrieved a kerosene lamp and lit it.
The warm glow pushed back the shadows.
Then he descended first.
It was a gesture of trust.
Though trust hardly mattered to Lloyd.
Darkness held little power over him.
And ordinary blades, lacking holy silver, posed even less.
Still, caution was necessary.
Rats lived in sewers.
And sewers never lacked disease.
The filth might not kill him, but it could certainly make life unpleasant.
Lloyd climbed down after him.
Once both men disappeared below, the beggar who had been pretending to sleep opened his eyes.
He rose, replaced the hatch, and replayed Lloyd's face in his mind.
Then he turned toward a dark corner and emitted a series of strange clicking sounds.
Moments later, an identical sound answered from the shadows.
A black rat emerged, dragging a long tail behind it.
The beggar scooped up the familiar creature and gently stroked its fur. After fastening a small iron chain to its tail, he released it.
Without hesitation, the rat vanished back into the darkness.