"The Rat King?"
Shrike clearly had not expected Lloyd to bring that name up. After a brief moment of surprise, he replied,
"Why are you asking about him?"
Both of them had spent enough years scraping by in the Lower District. This cursed place held more secrets than anyone cared to count, and the Rat King was one of them.
He was the information broker of the Lower District, his network of informants spread far and wide. Officially, his business was confined to the slums, yet somehow he always seemed to know what happened beyond them as well.
"Because of those smugglers. Your Purification Bureau doesn't have the spare manpower to deal with them, so I figured I'd do it myself." Lloyd's voice carried a trace of mockery. "They went looking for one of the Ratfolk information dealers. I don't know what they were asking about, but afterward they tried to eliminate the witness. Unfortunately for them, I happened to be there. Several of them ended up dead instead."
Shrike looked mildly astonished at how quickly this story had escalated, though on second thought it sounded exactly like Lloyd.
Whenever Lloyd asked whether someone deserved to die, there was a good chance the man was already dead, buried, and halfway forgotten.
"You've gone well beyond investigation at this point."
Even for Shrike, the speed of Lloyd's progress was absurd.
"I come from Florence. It's only right that I look after my fellow countrymen."
There was not a trace of warmth in the way Lloyd said it.
"So what did you find?"
"They weren't ordinary smugglers. They were planning something." Lloyd leaned back slightly. "One of them escaped during the pursuit... or rather, I almost caught him. Then a carriage appeared out of nowhere and sent me flying."
His hand sliced through the air, illustrating his brief and involuntary experience with gravity.
"The carriage picked him up and vanished at incredible speed. I couldn't catch them. Then the mounted police arrested me for disturbing public order."
That finally earned a laugh from Shrike. He had never imagined Lloyd could be the one ending up on the losing side.
"I thought you'd kill the officers and keep chasing him."
A pause.
"Though by then you'd already lost him."
Lloyd sighed helplessly.
"Shrike, as you've said before, if you live among people, you have to follow some rules. Besides, I'm not a lunatic. Fighting the mounted police would've only made everything worse."
His thoughts drifted briefly to Press.
"We're all just trying to earn a living. Losing your life or getting beaten half to death for no reason feels rather unfair, doesn't it?"
He shrugged.
"People have two sides. If everyone behaved exactly as they truly were, the world would probably be a much more peaceful place."
The remark carried a note of dry amusement.
Shrike stared at him.
"That doesn't sound like something you'd say. You actually have... empathy?"
In Shrike's eyes, Lloyd was a monster wrapped in human skin.
A remarkably convincing disguise, certainly, but everyone knew what truly animated him. His greatest joy was cutting down demons. Only when consumed by the fires of vengeance did he seem genuinely alive.
Lloyd shook his head with a faint look of disdain.
"That's the complexity of human nature, isn't it? I may be a murderous psychopath, but what does that have to do with being a philanthropist who sponsors orphanages?"
Arthur was the head of that violent institution—a cold-blooded devil by any measure. Yet when his daughter's life hung in the balance, even that devil became fragile, no different from any ordinary father.
Did that make him any less cruel?
Shrike fell silent, caught by the thought.
"Looks like coming back from the dead changed you."
"People are always changing," Lloyd replied.
"What about you? When you were a kid, did that naïve little brat ever imagine he'd grow up to become a gang boss? And not just any gang boss—a Lower District gang boss. By your logic, doesn't that mean you've changed too? Has your entire character collapsed?"
The contempt in Lloyd's tone was unmistakable.
"But let's return to the case. Those smugglers are definitely involved in something. Smugglers don't go around asking Ratfolk information dealers for intelligence. They don't carry weapons for silencing witnesses. And they certainly don't have mysterious carriages waiting to extract them."
The memory of that carriage still infuriated him.
"So tell me, Shrike—have you considered that those smugglers might be the infiltrators we've been looking for?"
Lloyd's eyes narrowed.
"You've had the same suspicion, haven't you? Maybe they're connected to the splinter faction within the Church. Followers of the new Pope, perhaps. Whatever they are, I think their objective is the Book of Revelation."
Shrike's expression darkened.
"Are you certain?"
"It's only a suspicion. I failed to catch the survivor."
Lloyd folded his arms.
"But perhaps the Rat King knows something."
Shrike remained quiet.
The possibility deserved serious consideration, though judging by Lloyd's expression, he had already decided to pursue it himself.
"I'll report this to Arthur. As for the Rat King..." Shrike hesitated. "The Rat King is... strange."
No one had ever truly seen him.
His existence survived only through rumors and whispered stories, more legend than man. Yet despite that, information brokers throughout the Lower District spoke of him with unmistakable reverence, as though he were undeniably real.
"I've spent years in the Lower District," Shrike continued. "I've heard countless stories about him, but I've never met him. I assume it's the same for you."
"True enough," Lloyd replied. "Though that's exactly what makes him suspicious. You've been down here this long and never investigated him?"
"What's there to investigate?"
Shrike sighed.
"Do you know how many urban legends exist in this city?"
"The Lower District is a giant cauldron of chaos. People from every corner of the world get tossed into it and boiled together."
Perhaps years of associating with Lloyd had damaged his sense of metaphor.
"To carve out a place for themselves, gangs invent frightening stories and mysterious figures. They want people to think they're dangerous. But from our perspective, it's usually just trash talking, isn't it?"
"The Rat King is no different. To us, he's simply another charlatan hiding behind smoke and mirrors. And there are too many figures like that to verify one by one. We only concern ourselves with those who might actually threaten order."
Lloyd nodded.
Shrike was right.
No one cared how many insects hid in the shadows of their home. What mattered were the ones bold enough to crawl into view.
The Rat King was one such insect.
He had remained hidden for so long that people had almost forgotten him—until this affair dragged him into the center of the storm.
"Well, looks like I'll have to handle it myself."
Lloyd sounded mildly disappointed, though the feeling vanished almost immediately.
"Now, onto the next matter."
"There's more?"
Shrike was beginning to lose patience.
Why did Lloyd always have so many problems?
"I need weapons. My beloved Winchester has departed this world, and I require something capable of breaking a few bastards' legs."
The bitterness in his voice was palpable.
Had he possessed a firearm during that chase, the outcome would have been very different.
"That small wish, at least, I can grant."
Shrike casually tossed Doom Bell onto the table.
"You've spent enough time staring down its barrel. I'd say the two of you are old friends by now."
"You can't be serious."
"Of course I'm joking."
Shrike immediately holstered the revolver again.
He liked that gun far too much to entrust it to Lloyd.
"I'll have the Eternal Pump prepare something new for you. Just stay home and wait for delivery."
Jakob lay pale and exhausted upon the bed.
Though he had escaped Lloyd's grasp, the wounds he carried had exacted a terrible price.
"Are you certain, Priest?"
The voice came from beside the bed.
An old man.
"I am."
Jakob spoke through clenched teeth.
"The information came from the Ratfolk. We can confirm a battle occurred in the north earlier. It matches the reports we've already received. Lawrence was almost certainly involved."
The old man's face darkened.
As exiles, nearly all of their influence back in Florence had been uprooted. This was among the last reliable pieces of intelligence they possessed.
Lawrence—the man carrying the Book of Revelation—had appeared somewhere in northern Inlvig.
Yet they still knew nothing about what had happened there.
Piecing together fragments of information from multiple sources, they had concluded that Lawrence had likely clashed with the Purification Bureau.
But what had happened afterward?
No one knew.
Though they now resided in Old Dunling, the city remained shrouded in fog. They lived alongside the enormous machine known as the Purification Bureau, constantly avoiding its gaze while desperately searching for the Book of Revelation.
The old man did not know whether Lawrence was alive or dead.
He did not know how much the Purification Bureau had learned.
And if this were a game, they were already standing at the edge of elimination.
After a long sigh, he spoke.
"Focus on recovering."
Then he left.
At the very least, they still possessed a place to hide within the city.
Passing through a succession of heavy doors, the old man eventually arrived at another chamber.
The man funding their operations in Old Dunling was waiting there.
Their faction had fallen into undeniable decline, yet even in their desperate circumstances someone had extended a hand, allowing them to continue their work.
"Just as Jakob reported, Duke Salicado, we still do not know Lawrence's whereabouts."
The man behind the desk looked up calmly.
"That is fine. As long as progress is being made."
Duke Salicado.
A man whose hands gripped unimaginable wealth.
Standing near the pinnacle of society, he was an economic titan. His family had risen during the Glorious War, and their industries stretched across nearly every sector imaginable. Their factories covered vast swaths of Inlvig.
No one would have expected Duke Salicado to be financing a group of fugitives.
Nor did anyone understand how such an alliance had been forged.
At first, Shellmans had regarded him with profound suspicion. Their organization was weak, vulnerable. If they were captured in Old Dunling, they would become a magnificent gift for Queen Victoria.
Yet the arrangement had been orchestrated by Miguel himself.
Shellmans could only comply.
Fortunately, Salicado had thus far proven trustworthy, and the two sides maintained a cautious partnership.
"This is what investment is," Salicado said casually. "I invest in you. I place my chips on your success. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. As long as we're the winners in the end, that's all that matters."
He gestured for Shellmans to sit.
"You have our gratitude."
"Think nothing of it."
Salicado smiled.
"Now then, shall we continue?"
"Of course. Though I admit I'm surprised by your fascination. Most people fear these things."
Shellmans shook his head.
"You see, that's precisely why I'm not 'most people.' I'm one of the few. Otherwise, my business empire would never have reached its current size."
Salicado's smile widened with unmistakable pride.
"A person should remain curious about new things—even if those things happen to be monsters that devour mankind."
His thoughts drifted back to that dreadful night.
Countless creatures had descended upon his estate.
Steel-clad divine armor had marched through seas of flame and blood.
Amid the chaos he had even seen Duke Phoenix himself.
The madman had stood against those horrors with nothing but flesh and bone.
The Cleaners had altered Salicado's memories afterward.
Yet strangely, the memories returned.
At first he mistook them for nightmares. But as fragments resurfaced and connected, he gradually realized the truth.
He told no one.
A man who had climbed to his position possessed far sharper instincts than most imagined.
The Cleaners could erase his memories once.
They could do it a second time.
"To be honest," Salicado said with a smile, "the first time I learned demons truly existed, it completely transformed my view of the world."
He leaned forward.
"Shellmans, you're one of the Cardinals of the Gospel Church. Surely you've felt the same thing before. You think you've reached the top of society, only to discover that beneath the glittering surface lies an even deeper world."
He had once believed himself among the highest powers in Inlvig.
He controlled wealth.
He could meet the Queen whenever necessary.
Yet that night had revealed a humbling truth.
He was still merely human.
Still separated from the supernatural world by an unbridgeable gulf.
"Most people prefer to stay far away from that deeper world," Shellmans replied.
"That depends on the person."
Salicado's eyes gleamed.
"I find demons fascinating."
"Look at the steam engine. It began as a machine of war, yet now society couldn't function without it."
He paused.
"Perhaps demons are the same."
Shellmans said nothing.
After weeks of interaction, he had come to understand Salicado's nature.
The man believed neither in gods nor devils.
He was simply a merchant.
A merchant so utterly devoted to opportunity that he was willing to invest even in horrors beyond human comprehension.
The old man could never determine what Salicado truly desired.
Perhaps years spent in Florence, worn down by faith and age, had made him rigid and old-fashioned.
A relic unsuited for this new era.
"Where were we?" Shellmans finally asked.
Their storytelling sessions had become part of the arrangement. The merchant loved hearing tales connected to demons and forbidden mysteries, each story granting him another glimpse into the hidden world.
"The founding of the Church," Salicado answered eagerly. "The part where the monks returned from the north carrying forbidden knowledge."
Like a child waiting for a bedtime story, he could barely contain his anticipation.
Shellmans remembered.
Age was catching up with him. Even his memory had begun to fail.
"Yes... that's right."
His gaze drifted into the distance.
"They returned from the north carrying two books..."