Lloyd was never a man who lingered in the past. To him, the first half of his life had been nothing worth cherishing. It was a wasteland drowned in ash and blood, where every memory had been stained by darkness. The few lights that had once offered him warmth had long since faded into silence. There was no point in remembering, so he had taught himself to forget.
Yet now he wandered through the endless corridors of memory. At times, a smile found his face; at others, sorrow settled over him like winter frost. Dust drifted through pale shafts of light, glittering like countless stars suspended in the air. There had been years when he had devoted himself so completely to hunting demons that the rest of the world simply ceased to exist. He had buried himself so deeply in endless slaughter that even the fleeting fragments of happiness he had once possessed slipped away unnoticed. Seeing them again now stirred emotions he could scarcely name.
"It's... longer than I expected." He came to a halt, staring at the corridor stretching far beyond the limits of his sight. "Did I really accumulate this many memories?"
Herkri had once explained that memory was an abstract thing without shape or boundary, and so too was the Memory Palace born from it. Neither was constrained by common sense. Both obeyed only the laws of the mind, shifting like impossible dreams.
The corridor suddenly twisted.
Lloyd's instincts sharpened, though he refused to move. Then the floor beneath him gave way—not with chaotic collapse, but with uncanny precision, as though an invisible blade sharper than any forged by mortal hands had sliced through stone itself. The ground split into perfectly carved slabs of ancient rock, every surface engraved with weathered patterns older than history.
Upon each enormous stone stood a solitary door.
One after another, the slabs began to descend, spiraling downward into an immense staircase that wound endlessly toward an abyss where even darkness seemed to perish.
Lloyd stood upon the edge of the highest stone and looked below. There was nothing. No light. No end. Raising his eyes again, he saw the route he had taken into the palace. The great entrance remained open above him, golden firelight spilling from within like a distant sanctuary.
This was no structure carved by mortal hands. It was a palace forged entirely from consciousness itself—a dream given form. Countless floating monoliths drifted within the endless void, each supporting another forgotten doorway.
After only a brief hesitation, Lloyd continued downward.
Perhaps this was the will of his own subconscious. Everything he had chosen to forget had simply been discarded, left to sink into the deepest reaches of this endless abyss.
As he passed each stone, another door swung open.
The memories poured over him like an unstoppable tide.
"We're going to receive the Secret Blood soon... 047."
042 lay upon a bed of soft grass, his eyes narrowed against the brilliant blue sky. A gentle breeze brushed across his skin like invisible hands embracing him.
"What is it?"
047 sat beneath the shade of a towering tree, quietly reading. Books always seemed to find their way into his hands, no matter where he was.
"Aren't you afraid?"
042 asked the question almost casually, though the tension beneath his voice was impossible to hide.
"They said people die during the implantation. That most of us won't survive."
He slowly sat upright, watching groups of children race across the field.
Normally, freedom was something none of them possessed. But as the day of the Secret Blood ritual approached, even the stern priests had relaxed their watch. Many of the children believed the old men had finally softened.
042 thought otherwise.
It felt less like kindness...
...and more like mercy granted to those awaiting execution.
"No one knows who'll survive," he murmured. "Maybe you'll die and I'll live. Maybe it'll be the other way around. It's just... some strange wager. You close your eyes... and gamble whether you'll ever open them again."
He walked over and settled beside 047 beneath the tree.
"Are you afraid of dying?"
047 closed his book and looked at him quietly.
"Everyone is."
042 frowned. "Don't tell me you're not."
For a moment he doubted his own words.
Then he remembered who 047 was.
Perhaps... this strange boy truly wasn't afraid.
047 opened his mouth, intending to comfort him—
Only for another voice to interrupt.
"Don't be so gloomy. Maybe you'll be one of the lucky ones. Besides, none of us even knows what the ritual really involves. Maybe the priests are just trying to scare us."
016 emerged from behind the tree, smiling.
She wasn't alone.
Another familiar face followed close behind.
"If you're really treating this like a gamble," 011 grinned, "I'd suggest avoiding anything that wastes your luck."
042 blinked.
"Wastes... my luck?"
"Of course. Luck isn't infinite. Every time you use it, there's less left. One day it'll run dry."
"What kind of ridiculous theory is that?"
"Believe it or not," 011 laughed, "it's kept me alive this long."
042 rolled his eyes.
"Then you're definitely doomed. You've gambled more than anyone."
011 was the group's self-proclaimed gambler.
Not with money, of course.
He wagered dinners, rewards from the priests, little treasures that meant nothing to outsiders yet were priceless to children who owned almost nothing.
The strangest part?
He never lost.
Not once.
011 waved dismissively.
"Those weren't real gambles. I was just cheating all of you. Luck had nothing to do with it."
Then he flashed an infuriating grin.
"You're all just too easy to fool."
042 lunged toward him without thinking.
But 011 was impossibly quick, slipping away before a single punch could land.
The laughter dissolved.
Flames rolled across the grass.
Mountains of corpses rose beneath a blood-red sky.
"Looks like you finally lost that wager... 011."
Lloyd whispered to himself.
He stepped across another floating stone and continued descending.
His pace remained calm.
Neither hurried.
Nor slow.
Truthfully, most of those memories had become little more than faded fragments. Without the Memory Palace, he doubted he could have recalled any of them with such painful clarity—the faces of those long dead, the moments long forgotten.
Then one door caught his attention.
Unlike all the others, it remained shut.
Its wooden surface was charred black, split by countless cracks as though it had once stood inside an inferno.
Lloyd stopped before it.
He hesitated.
Then pushed.
The door refused to move.
It felt less like wood than an entire mountain pressing back against him.
Only after pouring every ounce of strength into the effort did a narrow crack finally appear.
From that tiny opening seeped an overwhelming aura of death.
Gray-white ash drifted outward, like the final remains of bodies burned to nothing.
In that instant, Lloyd understood.
Every soul possessed memories too painful to endure. The subconscious buried them, judging them too dangerous to remember. They were sealed away... abandoned... until time buried them beneath endless dust.
This...
...was one of those memories.
And the moment he realized it—
The door opened.
There was no chance to prepare.
Agony exploded through every nerve in his body.
Countless pale arms burst from the darkness beyond the doorway. Their flesh was ghostly white, streaked with dried blood, while endless whispers of suffering echoed between them.
They seized him.
Dragged him inside.
Pain tore through him as icy liquid flooded into his mouth and nose. Lloyd coughed violently, struggling with everything he had, but the countless arms locked around him like chains forged from flesh itself.
Cold seeped through invisible wounds.
Somewhere in the distance...
A whale sang.
"W-What's happening?"
Herkri's face turned white.
Everything had gone exactly as planned.
The smoke from the Windshade herb had lulled Lloyd into a trance, leaving him suspended between consciousness and sleep as he entered the Memory Palace.
It wasn't unlike hypnosis.
With his eyes closed, Lloyd had smiled from time to time. Sometimes warmth softened his expression. Sometimes grief shadowed it. Even beneath the dim light, Herkri had seen every subtle change.
He had been carefully counting the minutes.
A first exploration should never last too long.
Just as he reached out to wake Lloyd—
Everything changed.
Lloyd's body trembled.
Low cries escaped his lips.
It sounded as though he were enduring torture beyond human imagination.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Nothing like this had ever happened inside a Memory Palace.
Herkri's thoughts froze.
Lloyd collapsed onto the floor.
His body curled into itself, convulsing violently. Veins bulged beneath his skin, blue and swollen. His fists slammed repeatedly against the stone floor while his sharpened nails scraped long white marks across it.
"L-Lloyd!"
Herkri shouted desperately.
There was no response.
Lloyd no longer resembled a man.
He was a beast stripped of reason.
He clawed frantically at his own flesh, tearing bloody gashes across his chest as though something inside him desperately needed to be ripped out.
"Damn it... damn it!"
Herkri cursed under his breath.
He couldn't wake him.
Couldn't restrain him.
Couldn't even approach him.
This was the same Lloyd who had slaughtered countless enemies armed with nothing but a soup spoon.
And now...
He was trapped inside a room with an insane version of that monster.
Judging from Lloyd's self-inflicted wounds, every trace of sanity had vanished.
Herkri's mind emptied.
There was only one thing left to say.
"...Sorry!"
He turned and fled.
There wasn't a chance he would remain in that chamber another second.
The instant he escaped, he slammed the secret door shut, dragged a heavy wardrobe against it, then hurried to another room and returned with a hunting shotgun clutched tightly in trembling hands.
He wasn't one of the veteran Purification Knights.
He had no idea what he was doing.
Everything he had just done was little more than a desperate attempt to comfort himself.
He knew full well that none of it would stop Lloyd if he truly lost control.
Still...
He prayed.
"Please... don't go mad."
Inside the sealed chamber, Lloyd whimpered softly.
His eyes opened.
They were bloodshot.
Empty.
His consciousness remained trapped within the nightmare.
He lay upon something cold.
Above him, brilliant white lights blurred into halos through the tears filling his eyes.
Pain radiated from every inch of his body.
He struggled.
The only movement he managed was a slight lift of his head.
Then he saw himself.
His body had been nailed in place.
Pure white spikes pierced through flesh and bone alike, fixing him to the operating table. Countless tubes entered his body as blood circulated through machines beyond his sight. His chest had been completely opened, shattered ribs spread apart to expose the heart still beating within.
It resembled a funeral.
No.
It was an execution.
Shadows surrounded him on every side.
Hands moved methodically across his body, cutting, stitching, dissecting.
Whispers drifted through the sterile light.
"Increase the anesthetic. He must not wake."
"Begin the Secret Blood infusion."
"Prepare the Silver Binding Anchors. Start with the chest."
Steel rang against steel.
Then came pain so overwhelming it erased thought itself.
Eventually...
Even agony became numbness.
Lloyd had always believed he remembered nothing of the Secret Blood implantation.
He had been wrong.
He had awakened briefly during the operation.
Those fragmented memories had merely been buried deeper than anything else within his mind.
Then another voice emerged from the darkness.
Ancient.
Withered.
Like a corpse that had somehow continued speaking long after death.
"Inject that as well."
The old man stepped into the light.
Even beneath the brilliant white glow, he remained little more than another shadow.
"He... he may die," someone protested. "The Secret Blood alone is already pushing him beyond his limits."
The old man ignored the warning.
His clouded eyes studied the boy's opened body without emotion.
Every organ lay exposed.
Bone gleamed pale beneath the surgical lights.
"This... is the key."
"The key to Ascension."
His voice carried the weight of forgotten scripture.
Without another word, he drove a syringe into the infusion line.
Its mysterious contents merged with the crimson current already flowing into the child's veins.
"No! He'll die!" another voice cried desperately. "We don't have the materials for another ritual! We've already lost control of the Church! This is the last Holy Grail Blood we can ever obtain!"
The old man answered quietly.
"And if he cannot endure this... do we have time to wait for another ritual?"
Silence followed.
He had lived too long.
Long enough for Death itself to linger constantly at his shoulder, its scythe poised to harvest what little remained of his life.
"Endure, child."
"You shall become my continuation."
A rough, weathered hand rested gently upon the boy's face.
The scene was unimaginably cruel.
Yet the sleeping child wore no trace of suffering.
Only the peaceful innocence of someone dreaming.
"Continue. The blood we refined from demons possesses tremendous power. Yet to make it survivable, we weakened it again and again. In the end... Secret Blood is nothing more than an imperfect imitation of true divinity."
"He'll die..."
The speaker's voice broke.
Around them, others quietly prepared themselves.
Several had already drawn their Nail Blades.
Perhaps the boy would never awaken again.
Perhaps what would rise instead...
...would be another maddened demon.
The old man paid them no attention.
He lowered his head until Lloyd could barely make out the lines of his face through blurred vision.
Then he began to sing.
An ancient hymn.
His aged voice drifted softly through the chamber, gentle as a lullaby, soothing souls writhing in endless torment.
"You..."
Recognition struck Lloyd like lightning.
"It was... you."
As the Secret Blood coursed through his veins, the dying body performed a miracle.
Flesh regenerated with horrifying speed.
The opened chest sealed itself.
Muscle coiled and knitted together, wrapping once more around gleaming silver-white bones.
Life itself overwhelmed death.
The old man smiled.
"Yes..."
"That's it, child."
Many years ago, deep within a forgotten corner of the world, Lloyd Medici gently stroked a young boy's cheek while humming that ancient, solemn melody—a song old enough to have been born before memory itself.