Anthony stood upon the docks, his breath vanishing into the cold. They had arrived well ahead of schedule, leaving the harbor eerily quiet. Only a handful of figures lingered beneath the dim lights. A few had come to await their arrival, though Arthur himself had yet to appear.
"Is Old Dunling always this cold?"
"It is," someone answered as they stepped forward. "The Pillar of the Furnace exhales great clouds of steam day and night. Mist mingles with burning ash until the entire city lies buried beneath a veil of gray. Winter may pass, but the damp chill never truly leaves."
The man had clearly been waiting there for some time.
"Welcome, guests from Florence."
Burrow extended a hand in greeting.
Anthony's expression barely shifted. His eyes lingered on the man before him before he accepted the handshake.
"Anthony Russo."
"You may call me Burrow."
His reply was equally courteous, though there was an unmistakable stiffness beneath it. He disliked this assignment.
Truthfully, it had never been meant for him. Yet because this marked the first official meeting between the two organizations, Arthur had insisted on sending him. According to Arthur, after surviving the Lower District for so many years, Burrow had become the most socially adaptable man among them all. With his uncanny gift for saying exactly what anyone wished to hear—whether man or monster—there was no one better suited to smooth over an awkward first encounter.
"You've arrived earlier than expected," Burrow explained. "Arthur is still on his way."
"Arthur... Burrow..."
Anthony repeated their names thoughtfully, as though tasting them. The scar that crawled across his cheek like a centipede seemed almost to writhe with each quiet syllable.
"Those are your codenames, aren't they?"
Burrow nodded without hesitation. There was little point denying something so obvious. Besides, conversation was welcome. Surely they weren't going to stand in the freezing wind after exchanging greetings, waiting in silence until Arthur finally arrived. That would have been unbearable.
"They come from the old knightly legends of Inlvig," Burrow replied.
"I know."
Anthony spoke with surprising familiarity.
"I've learned quite a bit about your hierarchy. Arthur governs Old Dunling, while the other Knight Commanders oversee the remaining regional branches."
He paused, his voice steady, devoid of hostility, yet heavy with undeniable conviction.
"This may be our first meeting, but in truth we've known each other for a long time."
"The relationship is much like that of an unseen enemy. He cannot threaten you today, yet you still study him, preparing for the day he can."
"A pity we began studying you too late."
"By the time we discovered your existence..."
"...we were no longer capable of calling ourselves your equals."
His words were spoken without a trace of emotion, plain and direct, and yet every sentence carried astonishing weight. For a fleeting moment Burrow found himself wondering whether the visitors might draw their weapons at any second.
Instead, it was he who felt awkward.
None of this followed the script he had prepared.
He had intended to exchange pleasantries, ask about the journey, perhaps even discuss tomorrow's sightseeing. Instead, Anthony had cut straight through every layer of polite conversation, leaving Burrow momentarily speechless.
He had met countless influential figures and lied to just as many of them.
Anthony was different.
Burrow could feel it instinctively.
The man before him was an enemy.
Only necessity—and the mutual benefits of the moment—kept that hostility buried beneath the surface.
"Steel and steam."
"Technology and progress."
"A city built upon miracles... and gold."
Anthony turned his gaze toward Old Dunling beneath the night sky.
Gigantic whales drifted silently through the heavens between towers of smoke, their radiant glow spilling across the darkness like newborn suns as they glided toward the harbor, illuminating the docks and guiding arriving vessels safely home.
"This is my first visit to Old Dunling," Anthony murmured.
"They always speak of this city with admiration."
"They say that if you truly desire something..."
"...you can find it here."
Burrow's smile finally disappeared.
"Provided you're strong enough to claim it," he answered coldly.
"Otherwise..."
"...you end up like the people living in the Lower District."
Anthony said nothing.
He simply stood there, staring into the fog-covered city, as though searching for something hidden beneath its endless sea of lights.
121A Cork Street.
After finishing his conversation with the Rat King, Lloyd returned home.
Everything looked exactly as it always had.
Mrs. Vanrud still possessed the fiery temper that could shake the entire house, while Sieg quietly helped her organize the kitchen. Since giving up hallucinogens, little by little, Sieg's life had begun returning to something resembling normality.
Sometimes Lloyd found the irony almost amusing.
Only when he came back here to sleep did he feel like an ordinary man.
Only here was normal life allowed to exist—even if only for a few fleeting hours.
He sat beside the bathtub with a pair of tweezers and fresh bandages, shirtless, methodically tending the wounds scattered across his body. Warm water flowed over bruised flesh, carrying thin crimson streams into the drain below.
For a Demon Hunter, most nonfatal injuries healed with astonishing speed.
The true danger lay elsewhere.
Fragments.
Metal.
Broken bone.
Anything left inside the body would soon become entangled with regenerating flesh, forever imprisoned beneath new tissue.
Without hesitation, Lloyd tore open a wound that had nearly finished healing.
Pain flared.
A jagged shard of iron emerged from beneath the flesh, dripping scarlet before he casually tossed it into a nearby jar.
Humming a hopelessly off-key melody, he replayed the day's events.
Herkri had delivered exactly the surprise Lloyd had hoped for.
His appearance might finally open a new path toward locating the Apocalypse.
Yet just as Herkri himself had observed...
Lloyd had his own agenda.
Trading forbidden knowledge in exchange for Herkri's cooperation had been an excellent bargain.
Herkri undoubtedly knew that as well.
Now the only question remaining was when Lloyd should choose to make use of him.
After cleaning the instruments and putting them away, Lloyd let out a weary sigh.
His eyes drifted toward the mirror.
A thin layer of steam clouded the glass, concealing a vague silhouette within the mist.
Someone...
...was looking back at him.
An indescribable sensation crept over him.
As Lloyd slowly moved, the figure behind the fog mirrored every motion.
Unable to explain the unsettling feeling, he found himself raising a hand almost unconsciously.
The figure in the mirror did the same.
Two hands slowly reached toward one another...
...until they stopped abruptly at the cold surface of the glass.
It felt like some flaw in perception.
The mirror was painfully cold.
As Lloyd's fingertips touched it, tiny droplets merged together before cascading downward, washing away the fog like a curtain of rain.
The face revealed beneath was achingly familiar.
Pale.
Exhausted.
Its complexion possessed the deathly whiteness of someone who had drifted too long within an icy sea.
Without thinking, Lloyd whispered the name.
"...Me... Danzo?"
The instant the words left his lips, the strange sensation vanished.
Like a dream shattered upon waking.
He focused again.
The face staring back belonged to no one else.
It was his own.
A dry laugh escaped him.
Perhaps exhaustion had finally begun clouding his mind.
After all, he and Medanzo had always resembled each other.
Yet just moments ago...
...he had mistaken himself for the other man.
Standing before the mirror, Lloyd slowly examined his body.
Once, his torso had been a map of violence.
Even Secret Blood could not erase every wound. Some injuries had carved permanent scars across his flesh, overlapping one another until hardly an inch of skin remained untouched.
Now...
They were gone.
His skin had become unnaturally flawless.
Only the black markings spreading across his back remained.
Nothing else.
Back at the farmhouse, Lloyd had refused to believe what Red Falcon and the others had told him.
Blown apart.
Half his body destroyed.
No amount of Secret Blood should have been capable of saving him.
Unlike Yanar, Lloyd possessed no near-immortal regenerative authority.
Those wounds should have meant certain death.
Yet the flesh of the Holy Grail had resurrected him.
Whether he believed it or not hardly mattered.
The proof stood before the mirror.
His reborn body had become entirely new.
Every scar had vanished.
Most of the Silver Shackles had melted away, though judging by his weight, fragments still remained buried somewhere inside him.
But none of those changes troubled Lloyd as much as Watson.
Ever since his rebirth...
She had disappeared.
The nightmare that had delighted in reminding Lloyd of her existence had fallen completely silent.
Gone.
Along with her...
Medanzo had vanished as well.
Even the mysterious Gap had refused to appear for a very long time.
The more Lloyd thought about it, the more fear tightened around his heart.
Both beings that had occupied his consciousness had vanished simultaneously.
Or perhaps...
They simply refused to answer him.
Watson's silence could almost be understood.
He had never truly known whose side that monster stood upon.
But Medanzo was different.
They had fought together.
Now he too had disappeared.
Sometimes Lloyd wondered whether he had simply lost his mind.
Perhaps Watson and Medanzo had never existed.
Perhaps they were nothing more than hallucinations born from a shattered psyche.
When his body returned to life...
Perhaps his nearly broken mind had been rebuilt alongside it.
Lost in thought, Lloyd wandered back toward the window and curled into the familiar sofa, quietly watching the fog swallow the city beyond the glass.
There was another possibility.
One so terrifying he had never spoken it aloud.
Not to anyone.
Not even to himself.
Whenever the thought surfaced, he forced it back into darkness.
Perhaps...
Watson had escaped.
Escaped during the destruction.
Escaped the prison called Lloyd.
His strength had always remained deliberately below the critical threshold.
Once crossed, Demon Hunters began transforming into monsters themselves, capable of projecting corruption through fear.
That corruption would become a crack in the prison walls.
A doorway through which Watson could flee.
Which was why, during his final battle against Lawrence, Lloyd had refused to cross that boundary.
He could accept death.
He could not allow Watson freedom.
But...
He had no idea what had happened after losing consciousness.
If Red Falcon's account was true...
Then after Lloyd's death, an Old Century Divine Armor known as the Black Angel had gone berserk.
It had destroyed the rampaging flesh of the Holy Grail.
Then used that very flesh to resurrect him.
Remembering Watson's final words within that endless hallucinated ocean...
One possibility became impossible to ignore.
Watson had brought him back.
Perhaps she had controlled his body in that final moment.
Perhaps...
She had escaped.
Then what about Medanzo?
If Lloyd had been the prison...
Then Medanzo had been the warden hidden within the Gap.
Why hadn't he stopped her?
Had he failed?
Or had he perished trying?
Erased completely from Lloyd's consciousness without leaving even a whisper behind.
The more he chased the answers, the more tangled everything became.
His skull throbbed as though ready to split apart.
The air itself seemed to solidify.
Each breath became heavier.
His lungs tightened beneath invisible pressure.
Outside, lights blurred softly through the fog.
He had killed Lawrence.
Yet victory had delivered only deeper uncertainty.
And there was no time left to seek the truth.
The missing Apocalypse.
The delegation arriving from Florence.
Everything was already moving.
Or perhaps...
Watson had never escaped at all.
Perhaps she merely hid somewhere inside him, patiently waiting for doubt to consume him from within.
Those questions would have to wait.
There was something else demanding his attention.
Lloyd pulled a heavy case from beneath the bed.
Inside lay the weapons he had painstakingly forged himself.
Dragon's Breath rounds infused with Holy Silver.
The last two unused Nail Swords.
Boxes upon boxes of heavy-caliber ammunition.
Contrary to what he had told Joey...
His arsenal was anything but lacking.
Yet he continued stockpiling weapons as though preparing for a war no one else could see.
The world of adults revolved around interests.
There were no eternal allies.
Only eternal benefits.
Perhaps these recent days had been too peaceful.
Living an ordinary life had slowly dulled Lloyd's once absolute rationality.
His relationship with the Purging Agency was nothing more than an alliance.
For now, they fought together because they shared a common enemy.
But at its core, the Purging Agency served Queen Victoria and the nation of Inlvig.
Lloyd served no crown.
No nation.
Only himself.
Only the blood-soaked ideal he had chosen long ago.
Today they marched together against the demons.
But what happened when that threat disappeared?
What if someone offered the Agency a greater reward?
Once Lloyd had hidden perfectly, living quietly as nothing more than an ordinary detective in Old Dunling.
Those days were gone.
He had stepped out from the shadows.
Even the long-silent Sanctuary of Stasis had reconnected with him.
The Gospel Church would never stop searching.
Perhaps they already knew he existed.
If so...
Would this visit place him among their targets?
The game had already begun before either side had even met.
Lloyd had no idea how much Florence knew about him.
Or how much they understood.
And above all...
There remained one fatal question.
Watson.
The False Holy Grail.
A secret capable of destroying everything.
Caught between two immense powers, Lloyd was nothing more than a leaf drifting between opposing whirlpools.
Once interests came into play, he could no longer be certain the Purging Agency would remain his ally.
And more than anything...
He feared the day the Apocalypse was finally found.
Whether it fell into the hands of the Purging Agency...
Or the Gospel Church...
It would be a catastrophe.
That knowledge was never meant for mortals.
Even the holy Church had rotted beneath its influence, attempting to seize the throne of the world through its power.
When anyone finally grasped that forbidden truth...
Could they truly remain sane?
Or would they simply become the next Gospel Church—
another civilization consumed by corruption,
another turn of an endless cursed cycle,
repeating forever without end?
Lloyd drew a slow breath.
Questions weighed upon him from every direction, crushing his thoughts.
He could no longer see where fate intended to lead him.
That uncertainty was precisely why he had chosen to conceal Herkri.
Because perhaps...
One day...
Lloyd would become the enemy of everyone.
Or perhaps...
Everyone else would become his.