The soft rhythm of snoring gradually filled the room.
Arthur cast a look of utter disgust at Maxwell, who had collapsed face-first across the Round Table. The old man must have been exhausted beyond measure. Wrapped in the comfort of warmth and shelter, he had fallen asleep almost the instant he sat down. His clothes were still soaked through, and a spreading puddle—whether rainwater or drool, Arthur honestly preferred not to know—had begun to stain the ancient wood beneath him.
The Round Table had endured centuries of history. It had borne the weight of kings, been splashed with blood, and scarred by countless blades. Yet this was, perhaps, the first time in all its existence that it had been soaked in an old man's saliva.
Arthur could bear the sight no longer. With a silent gesture, he summoned several attendants to carry Maxwell away and let him rest properly.
The old fellow hung limply in their arms like a corpse, occasionally mumbling incoherent fragments from whatever dream had claimed him.
"He truly loves this."
Nikola watched as Maxwell was carried from the chamber. The man's hair had long since turned white, and the wrinkles on his face spread like the cracked bark of an ancient tree. He was old enough to have been Nikola's grandfather, and yet he still chose to stand shoulder to shoulder with young men beneath thunder and rain.
Humans were creatures that aged far too easily. No amount of talk about "growing stronger with age" could deny that. But Maxwell loved this work so deeply that, for a fleeting moment, he seemed capable of becoming young again.
"He does," Arthur murmured, his thoughts drifting into the past. "He was there when the Dunling Project began. Back then, he believed he could help reshape the world. Instead, he watched it collapse into failure. He assumed that chapter of his life had ended forever... until, in the twilight of his years, he suddenly discovered another chance."
Arthur paused before continuing.
"Maxwell had already been retired for years. He'd secluded himself in the countryside beyond Old Dunling. The skies there were clear, the air impossibly fresh—a paradise compared to this city. Around that time, after much discussion, we decided to build a new generation of electrical experiments upon the ruins of the original Dunling Project. After considering every candidate, we sought him out.
"He was living remarkably well. Kept a little vegetable garden. Spent his days drinking, tending plants, enjoying life. To be honest, I envied him. So I went myself and asked if he'd consider returning. I wasn't even sure he'd say yes. Retirement suited him perfectly, and he was already so old. He deserved a peaceful ending."
"But he came back."
Nikola smiled faintly.
When he had first joined the Office of Purification, Maxwell had already been working there, even serving as one of Nikola's earliest mentors.
"He did," Arthur chuckled. "Though that's not quite how it happened."
"I explained everything to him, and he simply stood there in silence. Didn't answer a single word. I assumed he'd refused, so I left.
"I boarded my train...
"...and just as it began to pull away, someone started pounding on the carriage window."
An attendant placed a cup of hot water beside Arthur. He took a slow sip, letting the warmth spread through his chilled body.
"It was Maxwell.
"The old fool was hammering on the glass with both fists, shouting at the top of his lungs.
"'You said electricity, didn't you? You did! Right? Right?!'
"He looked absolutely ecstatic.
"He was charging after the train on horseback, riding straight into the wind like a man forty years younger. Unfortunately for him, this wasn't some romantic tale with a bride waiting aboard—it was a train full of armed soldiers. If I hadn't stopped my guards in time, they'd have shot him dead before he got anywhere near us.
"Only then did I realize he'd never rejected my offer. His mind had simply become rusty after years of peaceful living. It had taken him that long to catch up.
"He moved with a vigor no old man should possess. He leapt from the saddle, grabbed hold of the train, hauled himself aboard, then staggered toward me.
"His entire face seemed to glow.
"He spread his arms, as though he meant to embrace me...
"...but before he could say a single word, he collapsed.
"He was simply too old. That burst of effort had nearly killed him."
Nikola's expression turned strangely complicated. It was not the ending he had expected.
"What?" Arthur laughed. "Did you imagine Maxwell would climb aboard, give me a great big hug without even catching his breath, then calmly sit down to discuss engineering details?"
He shook his head.
"Impossible. He was already an old man. Had I never gone looking for him, he would've spent the rest of his life tending flowers and vegetables like some absent-minded grandfather."
Arthur wrapped both hands around the warm cup.
His gaze drifted toward the documents spread across the Round Table, where countless blueprints outlined one deadly weapon after another.
"For one brief moment, he'd become young again.
"And then...
"...the old man returned.
"The same body ravaged by cursed chronic illness, lying on the floor gasping for breath."
Arthur fell silent before speaking again.
"Nikola... I've often wondered what gave him that strength. What could make an old man suddenly become young enough to chase after a moving train without a second thought?
"He was still wearing his blacksmith's apron. There was a hammer and a pair of shears tucked into his pockets. Truth be told, I doubt he even remembered to lock the front door before racing after me."
Arthur smiled faintly.
"I thought about it for years.
"It goes by many names.
"Obsession.
"Dream.
"Faith.
"Conviction.
"Whatever you choose to call it... it's the thing that keeps us moving forward. One generation after another."
He turned toward Nikola.
Beneath the dark circles around his eyes, Nikola's gaze burned brighter than ever.
"Maxwell. Merlin. Me.
"We're all sustained by the same thing.
"Our bodies grow old.
"Our wills do not.
"They're simply imprisoned inside flesh that's doomed to decay, like spirits trapped inside a cage."
"You make it sound like you're all about to die," Nikola said dryly. "As if this is some last request before the end."
Arthur laughed.
"Not quite.
"But it is a passing of responsibility."
"You'll become the next generation of researchers for the Perpetual Pump. Maxwell's successor. Merlin's successor. In another few years... perhaps a few decades... this world will belong to people like you."
He sighed quietly before taking another drink from the water, now pleasantly warm.
"It's never an easy road.
"Perhaps that's simply every pioneer's fate."
He looked toward the rain beyond the glass dome.
"The Dunling Project failed for many reasons.
"It wasn't merely a technical failure.
"The world itself opposed it.
"When the project began, steam engines had existed for barely a few decades. Nobles and industrial magnates had poured unimaginable fortunes into steam technology. Thanks to their enthusiasm, Inglvig's industry surged forward at breathtaking speed.
"But such rapid progress inevitably invited its own backlash."
"They rejected anything new?" Nikola asked.
Arthur nodded.
"Exactly.
"The entire nation embraced mechanization. Steam boilers roared in every city, and the technology spread across neighboring kingdoms. Yet even now, the western world hasn't been fully mechanized. The Vikings still sail beneath canvas instead of steel."
He continued calmly.
"Developing a new source of energy meant rebuilding everything from the ground up.
"In many ways, it meant destroying the foundation people had already invested their fortunes in.
"Some were willing to change.
"Others refused.
"They believed ideas without proof were worthless.
"And honestly...
"...who could blame them?
"When forced to choose between a dream that existed only inside someone's imagination and machines already working before their eyes, most people will always choose certainty."
Arthur laughed softly.
"It's a difficult road.
"Fortunately...
"...by then, I'll probably be retired.
"It won't be my headache anymore."
Nikola did not smile.
There was a question that had lingered in his heart for years.
Perhaps today was finally the day to ask it.
"...Who first proposed the Dunling Project?"
It had been an impossibly ambitious dream.
At the height of the steam revolution, while the entire world raced in one direction, someone had possessed the courage to turn around, declare that humanity had chosen the wrong path, and devote everything to forging another.
Nikola wanted to know who that person had been.
Whose vision had reached so far into the future that, though the project itself had failed, its influence still shaped the present decades later.
Arthur searched his memory.
Back then, he had yet to rise to his current position.
After a long silence, the forgotten name finally resurfaced.
"The Technical Director of the Perpetual Pump several generations before me...
"Michael Faraday."
Arthur suddenly recalled that bizarre Stuart family and couldn't help laughing.
"It's almost like an inheritance, isn't it?
"He failed.
"Then Maxwell took up the burden.
"And now...
"...it's your turn."
Nikola said nothing.
He simply leaned back and looked upward.
Above him stretched the great glass dome. Endless rain coursed across its surface while flashes of lightning illuminated the heavens, transforming the storm into something almost breathtakingly beautiful.
Lloyd dragged himself out of bed with considerable effort.
This cursed rainy season had stolen what little daylight Old Dunling possessed. According to the clock it was already morning, yet outside looked closer to dusk. The streetlamps still burned along the empty roads, resembling fallen stars abandoned upon the earth.
He had stayed up late comforting Sig the previous night.
To cheer him up, Lloyd had even cooked a simple meal with his own hands, sharing it quietly in the kitchen. They had nearly awakened Mrs. Vanrud in the process. Had she caught two grown men cooking in the middle of the night, there would have been no end to her furious scolding.
He wandered toward the table, his head heavy, feeling as though sleep still clung stubbornly behind his eyes.
Sig had spoken more openly than ever before.
For the first time, Lloyd truly understood his roommate.
In certain ways...
...Sig's life had been even crueler than his own.
Lloyd could never return to those beautiful days of the past.
But Florence still existed.
The Cathedral of Saint Nalo still stood.
Even the Sanctuary of Stasis remained, despite now serving as the stronghold of what could only be called a future enemy.
If longing ever became unbearable, he could still go back.
The people would be gone.
Everything would have changed.
Yet echoes of what had once been would still remain.
Sig had no such comfort.
He could never return home.
He could scarcely even remember what home had looked like.
All he had left was this fog-drenched city of Old Dunling.
Lost.
Forever wandering.
Lloyd reached into a small metal cigarette case, drawing out a single cigarette as he contemplated whether he should enter the Memory Palace again.
The room remained unlit, bathed in cold shades of gray and blue.
The rain had mostly stopped, though fine strands still drifted from the sky now and then. Thick black clouds continued to gather overhead like vast flocks of ravens circling patiently before the next storm.
His hesitation did not last long.
He returned the cigarette to its case and tucked it back inside his coat.
He had no idea what might happen once he entered the Memory Palace again.
The last time, he'd nearly frightened Hercules half to death. Thankfully, the man had seen enough horrors in his life not to shoot Lloyd on sight.
But now he was at 121A Cork Street.
He doubted either Mrs. Vanrud or Sig possessed nerves strong enough to witness whatever might unfold.
No.
He needed somewhere secluded.
Somewhere safe.
So where?
Hercules?
Or perhaps one of Old Dunling's countless sewers...
Though considering the recent rain, they had probably become raging underground rivers by now.
After dressing himself, Lloyd hesitated before strapping on several more weapons.
A folding knife and a sawed-off shotgun rested at his waist.
His cane concealed a slender sword within.
Finally, he placed a gray felt hat upon his head.
He slipped quietly downstairs.
Careful not to wake anyone, he detoured through the kitchen and ate whatever he could find to fill his empty stomach.
He still had no destination in mind.
Only one certainty remained.
He needed to leave the house.
The problem was...
...how.
The Shrike had warned him before.
The Office of Purification was watching him.
The New Order would hardly remain idle either.
Somewhere out there, hidden among Old Dunling's streets, Demon Hunters were almost certainly waiting.
The moment Lloyd stepped outside, someone would begin following him.
Normally that wouldn't concern him.
But the endless rain had emptied the streets.
Pedestrians were scarce.
He would stand out immediately.
Standing by the front door, Lloyd picked up an umbrella, still weighing his options.
Then came the sound of approaching hooves.
Water splashed beneath iron horseshoes.
It was still early.
The city itself had barely awakened.
Yet Lloyd felt an odd certainty settle over him.
They're here for me.
A black carriage rolled to a stop outside 121A Cork Street.
His expression grew strangely complicated.
Oscar Wilde hurried down from the carriage.
He vaguely remembered this address, though arriving so early to disturb someone left him feeling distinctly uneasy.
Especially when the person in question was Lloyd.
Seriu followed behind him, still looking half asleep. She swayed slightly with every step, clutching a black envelope in one hand.
Oscar hesitated.
He raised his hand toward the door...
...then slowly lowered it again.
Turning toward Seriu, he asked in a low voice,
"He... doesn't have some bloody terrifying morning temper, does he?"
Oscar knew far more than he usually admitted.
Including precisely what sort of monster Lloyd really was.
Before dawn, he'd had no hesitation kicking open the Stuarts' front door, because he knew ordinary people lived there.
Behind this door...
...there was nothing ordinary.
Seriu sighed helplessly.
Sometimes she genuinely couldn't tell whether Oscar was pretending.
Whenever serious matters arose, he became frighteningly composed, calculating several moves ahead like a master strategist.
Speaking with him demanded absolute caution.
Yet the instant business ended...
...he transformed into an utterly unreliable fool.
It was almost as though two different men inhabited the same body.
She pushed him aside without ceremony and strode straight toward the door, looking every bit like she intended to kick it open.
Just as her hand reached for the knob—
The door opened on its own.
Caught completely off guard, Seriu stumbled forward with it.
Before she could fall, Lloyd caught her effortlessly.
In the same smooth motion, he drew the shotgun from beneath his coat and leveled the barrel squarely at Oscar's forehead.
"So."
Lloyd looked between the two suspicious visitors with obvious confusion.
"You've come all the way here this early."
"I assume you're not inviting me out for breakfast?"
The standoff lasted only a moment.
Mindful of the countless unseen eyes watching from somewhere beyond the rain, Lloyd finally stepped aside and silently gestured for them both to come inside.