How could Shermans ever forget those eyes? Eyes that churned with storms of blazing white, eyes that resembled an eternal daybreak.
"Witch Hunter…"
For an instant, it felt as though he had returned once more to that seemingly endless night—the burning rage, the uncontrollable despair. Shermans pulled the trigger without hesitation. Thick gun smoke erupted, accompanied by a brief flash of fire, and the lead bullet shot out from the barrel.
The acrid smoke made him wince, obscuring his vision.
He was never a warrior. At the end of the day, he was merely an ordinary man consumed by a fervent faith. He was old now, with no guards by his side, and the only weapon he carried was an outdated flintlock pistol. What was worse, Shermans had already fired once. Reloading this cursed weapon was an agonizingly troublesome process. At such a close distance, standing against a Witch Hunter, he would never have the chance to fire a second shot.
A trace of frustration and regret suddenly surfaced within Shermans. Yager had advised him before that he should replace it with a more advanced pistol. Although Yager was his protector and would do everything in his power to ensure his safety, unexpected situations could always occur.
But Shermans had refused every time.
He could not explain why. He simply could not bring himself to abandon this weapon. Yes, it had countless flaws, but sometimes he felt that this old gun was just like him—an outdated relic that no longer belonged in this new era.
The next moment, a sharp stake sword pierced through the rising smoke.
The Witch Hunter arrived with his blade in hand.
He was impossibly swift and graceful, while Shermans' old eyes had long since grown dim. That shot just now had not even come close to hitting him.
Looking at the valiant Witch Hunter before him, Shermans had a brief illusion that he had returned to the Grand Cathedral of San Naro, standing beneath the protection of the Witch Hunters, reciting those sacred prayers.
Then the violent pain dragged him back to reality.
The stake sword sliced across his arm, forcing him to release the flintlock from his hand. It seemed that the Witch Hunter had no intention of killing him. Otherwise, that strike would have pierced straight through his chest.
"Witch Hunter… why are you here?"
Shermans took a deep breath.
As a noble Cardinal, a believer who had always been surrounded and protected by others, he had not felt what true pain was for far too long. The agony was intense, yet strangely enough, it reminded him that he was alive—truly alive.
The Witch Hunter clearly had no intention of answering him. He did not continue his attack, merely staring at him coldly.
"Is it the Purification Bureau…?"
Shermans muttered quietly.
There was only one explanation for a Witch Hunter appearing here. The Purification Bureau had abandoned its cooperation with the exiles and chosen instead to stand with the Gospel Church. And Shermans was undoubtedly the most valuable bargaining chip they could offer in exchange for whatever they wanted.
"No… I will not accept this."
As he spoke, Shermans reached toward the steel fountain pen lying on the desk.
Every person was bound by their own will. They followed the iron laws they had established for themselves, and they were even willing to sacrifice their lives for them.
Shermans was no exception.
He could endure exile. He could endure Miguel's insane plans. But the one thing he could never tolerate was the man beneath the crown.
He would never allow someone like Saini Lothair to become the Pope.
And he would never allow himself to fall into that man's hands.
His will was unbreakable, but his body had already decayed with age.
Before Shermans could drive the fountain pen into his own throat, the Witch Hunter stopped him with a single punch. Pain overwhelmed him as he collapsed onto the floor, twisting helplessly in agony.
Clutching his notebook, he trembled beneath the candlelight. The once untouchable Cardinal now appeared utterly miserable and defeated. A faint laughter echoed through the room, as though the Witch Hunter was mocking him.
A deep sense of sorrow and humiliation filled him.
The Witch Hunter lifted Shermans up, preparing to take him away.
But at that very moment, another pair of blazing white eyes illuminated the darkness.
Shermans saw them.
Then a pale flash of sword light swallowed his vision.
There was more than one Witch Hunter hidden in the darkness.
The attacker struck like thunder—swift, precise, and deadly.
A slender blade of steel pierced through the Witch Hunter's heart.
Before the sword reached him, the Witch Hunter had already sensed the overwhelming killing intent surging toward him. The attacker had not concealed his intentions at all. He was completely confident, believing that this single strike would perfectly end his life.
The Witch Hunter did not care.
He was a Witch Hunter.
Within his body flowed powerful secret blood. He had already surpassed the limits of ordinary humans and become a supernatural existence.
How could the strength of a mere mortal possibly shake him?
After the establishment of the New Church, many Witch Hunters developed this very sentiment. Possessing extraordinary power, they became arrogant, believing that they were no longer human beings, but beings of a higher order.
But what happened next completely exceeded the Witch Hunter's expectations.
The opponent's speed was far beyond his prediction.
The Witch Hunter had intended to twist his body and shift away from the fatal point of impact, but such a trick could not escape the attacker's eyes. The strike was precise. The blade emerged from the Witch Hunter's chest, dripping with crimson blood.
The Witch Hunter released Shermans.
He attempted to counterattack, but another tremendous force erupted from behind his chest.
Then came the dull roar of a gunshot.
Shattered fragments of bullets carrying poisonous mercury tore into his flesh, creating a violent spray of blood before his chest.
"No Silver Binding Lock?"
A voice filled with doubt echoed.
Lloyd gave the Witch Hunter no opportunity to resist.
His sword-cane remained buried inside the enemy's body. Lloyd forcefully twisted his arm, and in the next instant, a flash of cold steel appeared as the folding blade extended outward. The Saint Silver-coated blade descended with brutal force.
It cut through flesh and sank into bone.
Perhaps due to the reinforcement of secret blood, Lloyd was unable to sever the arm completely in one strike. However, he clearly felt something unusual.
His folding blade had encountered no resistance.
It had not touched any metal.
The Silver Binding Lock was a restriction placed upon Witch Hunters, but to a certain extent, it was also their protection. The sturdy Saint Silver armor effectively safeguarded their vital organs.
Yet this Witch Hunter had none.
Several thoughts raced through Lloyd's mind.
He swung the folding blade again, continuing to inflict severe injuries upon his opponent.
At that moment, the Witch Hunter finally began to struggle desperately.
His back was facing Lloyd.
Then, from within the wound, blazing flames erupted.
This was no ordinary Purifying Flame.
Lloyd did not believe that his own flames could burn with such terrifying intensity within mere seconds. The fire surged several meters into the air, instantly igniting everything flammable around them. Then the flames engulfed the Witch Hunter's entire body, and under the extreme heat, Lloyd's sword-cane began to glow red.
Authority: Michael.
Lloyd had no time to think.
He kicked Shermans away.
There were still many things he wanted to ask this old man. He absolutely did not want him to die here for some inexplicable reason.
Shermans was equally stunned.
He did not even have time to feel the pain. All he could do was desperately hold onto his notebook.
If he was destined to die, then at the very least, this notebook had to survive.
No matter who inherited it, one day, someone would eventually tear away the mist covering this world and reveal the truth hidden beneath.
But aside from that, there was something strangely fascinating about this moment.
He could not quite describe it.
The god of death had come knocking on his door.
But damn it, someone had suddenly jumped through the window and fired a shot at death itself.
Shermans did not understand his purpose, but the sensation was strangely similar to asking the god of death to wait just a little longer until Lloyd finished dealing with everything.
Of course, Lloyd had no idea about the absurd thoughts running through Shermans' mind.
All he knew was that he had somehow fallen into an even greater mess.
Shortly after Lloyd infiltrated the place, he caught sight of the demon hunters. They made no attempt to conceal themselves, boldly storming in through the front entrance. Empowered by their secret blood, they tore through Shielmans' guards with ease. The defenders had no chance of resistance, falling one after another like crops before a reaping blade.
The old Church Order had been utterly destroyed after the Night of the Advent. Even demon hunters like Lloyd who had survived were most likely hiding in forgotten corners of the world, savoring the hard-earned peace they had obtained. Therefore, the identities of these demon hunters before him were not difficult to determine.
They belonged to the new Church Order.
Their unfamiliar combat methods, completely different from what Lloyd knew of demon hunters, and the absence of silver shackles embedded within their bodies, were enough to reveal the truth.
As expected, the damage inflicted upon the Gospel Church during the Night of the Advent had yet to fully recover. These demon hunters appeared formidable, but compared with Lloyd, a hunter born from the old order, they were still far inferior.
Lloyd knew exactly what the absence of silver shackles meant. A demon hunter without those restraints could undergo demonization without limitation whenever they wished. Such a creature would become something even more terrifying than ordinary demons. The only proper way to deal with such an existence was to render them powerless instantly, before they had the chance to awaken their secret blood…
In other words, death.
Amid the scorching flames, Lloyd did not retreat. Instead, he pressed forward, driving the staff-blade deeper into the demon hunter's body. At the same time, the shotgun mounted against his back fired once more. Countless pellets tore into flesh and blood, and under the sudden, devastating injury, the demon hunter was clearly unable to withstand it for the moment.
He attempted to turn around. The staff-blade, heated until it glowed red, was bent by the force of his body twisting against it. Meanwhile, the secret blood within him continued to rise. The entire room had already been swallowed by raging flames, and within Lloyd's vision there was nothing left but burning fire. The suffocating heat followed immediately after.
"Stay down!"
Lloyd cursed, gripping the blade and wrenching the folding knife free from where it had been embedded in flesh.
Although the enhancement of secret blood granted demon hunters strength far beyond ordinary humans, they still possessed weaknesses. Just like demons, they would die once their hearts were pierced or their heads severed.
The strike Lloyd had delivered from the shadows had accurately pierced the demon hunter's heart. The fact that he could still move now was entirely due to the terrifying power of secret blood, forcing his body into a state beyond humanity. At the same time, his overwhelming vitality had already begun repairing his damaged heart. Given enough time, he would recover completely.
This was precisely what made demon hunters—and demons alike—so troublesome. Even after losing their heads, they could continue fighting through instinct alone. And even with their hearts pierced, they could gradually recover as long as their will to fight remained.
Lloyd twisted the burning staff-blade with all his strength, widening the wound that had not yet healed, grinding the fragile flesh within into ruin. Then, without hesitation, the folding knife descended viciously, striking down upon the demon hunter's neck with brutal force.
The demon hunter had no chance to respond.
Lloyd's ruthless chain of attacks overwhelmed him completely. Under the threat of death, he could only unleash his authority to its absolute limit.
In an instant, Lloyd's vision turned pure white.
The blinding radiance stabbed into his eyes, forcing him to shut them. The folding knife in his hand began to glow red and melt, while his clothes spontaneously burst into flames.
In the blink of an eye, this place had transformed into a burning hell.
A heavy, muffled sound echoed.
Immediately afterward, scattered pellets struck Lloyd's own body. At such close range, the ammunition he carried had also exploded due to the extreme heat. Lloyd gritted his teeth, eyes tightly closed, and relying on his previous judgment, brought the folding knife down with all his remaining strength.
The raging flames froze for a moment.
Then they stopped.
Afterward, the inferno collapsed and dispersed.
Lloyd slowly opened his eyes. The unbearable sun-like radiance had vanished. Standing before him was a headless corpse kneeling upon the ground.
Lloyd took a deep breath.
This was the authority of Michael's faction—the most directly destructive power among demon hunters. That extreme temperature was like a walking fragment of daylight descending into the mortal world. Fortunately, Lloyd's ambush had succeeded, and his follow-up attacks had been decisive enough. Otherwise, once that temperature reached its peak, even steel would melt instantly upon contact.
As he stared at the charred remains, the dried and carbonized shell collapsed, revealing flesh beneath that still stubbornly writhed with life. Lloyd suddenly felt a strange sense of familiarity.
He could not help but think of Stibnite.
That alchemical creation possessed a similar property. With only a tiny amount, it could release terrifying light and heat.
Slowly turning around, Lloyd looked toward Shielmans lying nearby.
The old man was in a miserable state as well. His supposedly sacred clerical robes had been burned into tatters by the high temperature, and his body was covered in burns, blisters spreading across his skin. Yet despite all this, he still clutched his notebook tightly, staring at Lloyd with terror in his eyes.
"Cardinal Shielmans, it has been a long time."
As the thick smoke gradually dispersed, Lloyd pulled another folding knife from beneath his coat. Fortunately, he had brought enough weapons before setting out this time. The cold gleam of the blade reflected Shielmans' face.
Lloyd carefully observed the cardinal's expression.
The terror on Shielmans' face slowly faded, replaced by something far more complicated. He seemed unable to believe what he was seeing. Choking on the smoke, Shielmans coughed violently several times before asking in an uncertain voice:
"Metatron…"
The old voice echoed.
A bitter smile appeared on Lloyd's face, carrying a helpless expression.
As expected, this was the outcome.
Although he had already anticipated it, actually facing the truth still left Lloyd struggling to accept it. But now was not the time to discuss such matters with Shielmans.
He grabbed the cardinal by the collar, picked up the demon hunter's nail sword from the ground, and kicked open the already scorched door.
There were still other demon hunters inside the estate.
Like starving wolves, they were searching desperately for Shielmans' whereabouts.
The reason Lloyd had been able to kill the previous demon hunter so quickly was entirely because of his surprise attack and his vast combat experience. Fundamentally speaking, there was little difference between him and the other demon hunters. Once a direct battle began, Lloyd could barely guarantee his own survival, let alone protect Shielmans at the same time.
As he sprinted forward, sounds of slaughter erupted from all directions.
The raging fire consumed everything within his sight. The once emerald-green grass had turned into ashes. Black snow drifted through the sky, only to be torn apart by the falling rain.
At the edge of the horizon, leaden-gray clouds emerged, slowly advancing toward this place.