"Sherrmans is dead."
The Plague Doctor strode into the room with the latest news, but the man sitting by the window seemed not to hear him at all. His head hung low as he stared out into the torrential rain. Countless candles burned silently around the edge of his chair, their melted wax spilling across the floor and tracing out intricate, cryptic symbols.
Lawrence had been like this more and more often lately. Ever since he had acquired a young body, he had become increasingly impossible to read. There were times when even the Plague Doctor could not tell what Lawrence was thinking. He was like a cold, cunning serpent lurking in the darkness, watching everyone from the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike with venomous fangs and deliver a fatal blow.
The Plague Doctor approached cautiously. On the table lay ink mixed with Secret Blood, and beside it rested a letter that had already been written, awaiting only delivery.
Lawrence appeared to have fallen asleep, but the Plague Doctor knew better. He was traveling through the [Interstice]. No one could say where Lawrence's consciousness was at that very moment.
"Authority—Gabriel…"
Even the Plague Doctor could not help but feel both envy and dread in the face of such arcane power. It was like standing before a warm fire: it could drive away the cold, yet it could just as easily consume you entirely.
That power had already transcended the material world, touching upon the realm of the "spirit" that every alchemist devoted their lives to studying. With such power, a person's will could drift through different bodies like a wandering ghost—or even seize them outright, obtaining a "new life."
In complete silence, he could simply take over another person's existence.
How could anyone not fear such a forbidden and sinister power? Even after witnessing it, the Plague Doctor could not rid his mind of that ominous scene. Something had crawled out from the dying body. It was viscous and foul-smelling, without any fixed form, like a shapeless mass of rotting mud that nevertheless possessed a life of its own. Slowly, it writhed forward, then squeezed itself bit by bit into another empty shell.
Ever since that moment, the Plague Doctor had remained wary of Lawrence. More importantly, it had been the first time he had truly understood the deeper distortion of this world.
How long had the Gospel Church existed? So long that it seemed to have been there from the very moment mankind first began putting words to parchment.
From that ancient age onward, the Book of Revelation had existed within the knowledge of the Gospel Church. Over the course of a thousand years, the Gospel Church had used the knowledge contained within it to create the Demon Hunting Order.
The Plague Doctor remembered something Lawrence had once told him. The Authority—Gabriel had been discovered by the Gospel Church long ago, but for some unknown reason, it had eventually been sealed away. Later, when Lawrence's old body began to fail him, he had unearthed it once again.
It was a terrifying secret. A possibility so horrifying that merely contemplating it was enough to fill the Plague Doctor with dread.
If that was true, then at some forgotten point in the past, the Gospel Church had possessed the Authority—Gabriel. If so, did that mean Lawrence was not the first person capable of stealing another person's life in the form of a ghost? Had other ghostlike beings existed throughout history? And if so… were they truly dead?
In theory, such a power could allow its wielder to continuously change bodies and achieve immortality. Lawrence claimed this was the first time he had ever done it, but what of those ghosts who had existed before him? Had they used this method to constantly change identities, living in the shadows of the world and achieving a twisted form of eternal life?
Such power…
The power of immortality…
No one could resist such temptation. Not even the Plague Doctor himself. Yet in the end, the Gospel Church had chosen to seal that power away.
Had they truly resisted the temptation of immortality?
Or had something happened?
What had happened to them—what terrible event had forced them to abandon immortality and bury everything related to it?
The Plague Doctor did not dare continue down that line of thought. Beneath his heavy robes, strange bulges shifted as though a nest of serpents were crawling beneath the fabric. A suffocating chill pierced his heart like a blade.
He could feel invisible curtains draped across the world, concealing every secret while leaving behind countless eyes to watch every living soul.
He stood there for a long while before his gaze finally fell upon the letter opener on the table.
Lawrence was completely defenseless.
If he wished, the Plague Doctor was confident he could kill him in an instant.
His eyes then moved to that newly born face. No one looking at the young man before them would ever connect him to the dying Reverend Lawrence.
After faking his death, Lawrence had done many things, and the entire situation had unfolded exactly as he had anticipated. He was like a puppeteer pulling invisible strings. On this stage, everyone was his puppet. You might believe yourself awake, convinced that you had escaped Lawrence's control, yet what you failed to realize was that, in some corner you had never noticed, he had been influencing you all along.
"What kind of future did you see, Lawrence…?"
The muffled voice came from beneath the Plague Doctor's beaked mask.
Then, within the sealed room, an unnamed wind suddenly stirred. It swept through the candles, making their flames tremble. In the flickering light, the corpse-like body moved ever so slightly.
Lawrence slowly opened his eyes.
"Plague Doctor?"
He pressed his fingers against his temples. Frequent travel through the [Interstice] had placed considerable strain upon his mind.
"Sherrmans is dead."
The Plague Doctor spoke calmly, but his voice emerged from behind the mask as a deep, muffled rumble.
"Dead?"
Lawrence raised his head slightly and glanced at the Plague Doctor for a brief moment before turning his gaze back toward the endless rain beyond the window.
"Sherrmans… I expected it, but now that he's truly dead, I still find myself somewhat surprised."
"Was he your friend?" the Plague Doctor asked.
"Not quite. He was simply someone who… intrigued me."
As Lawrence spoke, his thoughts drifted back to his days within the Gospel Church, back to the face of that old man and the stories of the past.
"He was a descendant of the Borgia family—the infamous family of poisoners. We assumed he would be as brutal and insane as his ancestors. But strangely enough, he was a devout believer. So devout that it almost seemed like an insult to the Borgia name."
"I once asked him about it. He told me he could become brutal too, just like his ancestors. He could be as vicious as they were, using Cantarella to kill one enemy after another. But then he said, 'Caesar Borgia did exactly that. Yet brutality never gave him the answer. So why not try devotion instead?'"
A faint smile touched Lawrence's lips as he spoke, followed by a quiet sigh.
"He died too…"
There was something strangely weary in his voice.
"It doesn't feel very good. Almost everyone from my generation is dead now. It leaves me alone in this world. Sometimes, I feel like a ghost myself."
"But you killed him," the Plague Doctor said. "If you hadn't sent those two letters, if you hadn't deliberately brought Lloyd and the New Order together, Sherrmans would not have died."
"Yes…"
Lawrence's voice was quiet.
"But if you want to accomplish something, sentimentality is a luxury you cannot afford."
Though he said it so plainly, there was a strange expression upon his face. He seemed to be smiling, yet at the same time, he seemed to be mourning Sherrmans's death.
His expression was complicated—so complicated that even Lawrence himself would have struggled to explain it to anyone else.
The Authority—Gabriel was a double-edged sword. The deeper Lawrence intruded into the minds of others, the easier it became for him to lose himself.
And now, he had already sunk too deeply into it to escape.
"Where did you go just now?" the Plague Doctor asked.
"To a few pieces on the board. I needed to make certain they were moving according to plan."
At those words, another chill ran through the Plague Doctor. Fortunately, the beaked mask concealed it.
Lawrence had many pieces.
Through his mental corrosion, he could easily infiltrate a person's mind without them ever realizing what had happened. Perhaps they would merely dismiss it as some strange hallucination.
The Plague Doctor found Lawrence terrifying.
It was as though he knew exactly how everything would unfold. During that deadly confrontation, he had used his fake death to slip completely beyond everyone's sight. Then, from the shadows, he had manipulated his pieces and accomplished what he wanted.
The Purification Bureau and the New Order were both moving according to his design, yet neither side had the slightest idea that they were being controlled.
"The conflict has already begun," Lawrence said. "And with Sherrmans dead, the Exiles won't simply let this go. All we need to do now is make the situation more violent."
Lawrence closed his eyes, constructing the next stage of events within his mind.
The entirety of Old Dunling was an extraordinarily dangerous vortex. The Purification Bureau, the New Order, the Exiles, Lawrence, Lloyd…
All their hatred and desires, their blood and iron, had been drawn into the same whirlpool.
No one could remain untouched.
"Is the Secret Blood ready?" Lawrence suddenly asked.
"It is," the Plague Doctor replied. "But once it is used, the subject will remain lucid only for a very short time. Afterward, they will mutate into a demon."
"That will do."
Lawrence turned toward the window.
Beyond the curtain of rain stood a pitch-black tower. Lightning tore across the sky above Dunling Tower, while countless crows circled through the storm, crying out mournfully.
For reasons unknown, countless crows could always be found perched upon the tangled cables wrapped around Dunling Tower. They circled endlessly, as though they would never leave.
"You're planning to unleash a demonic tide within Old Dunling?" the Plague Doctor guessed.
"Who knows?"
Lawrence feigned mystery, clearly unwilling to reveal his entire plan.
"We simply need to wait for an opportunity, Plague Doctor. The right opportunity. The moment when every gear turns into precisely the right position…"
Lawrence picked up the letter opener.
With a single flick of his wrist, the blade pierced straight through the wooden table.
"Old Dunling is an extraordinarily well-defended fortress. Only during that perfect moment will we have any chance of breaking through."
"…You intend to destroy all of this? The Purification Bureau along with it?"
The Plague Doctor could not conceal his astonishment at the madness of Lawrence's idea.
"Of course not. It's a fine city. I'm not particularly fond of it, but it would still be better than allowing demons to claim it."
Lawrence's eyes narrowed.
"What I intend to destroy is neither Old Dunling nor the Purification Bureau."
His voice became colder.
"It is him."
"Only then will I have absolute certainty…"
He paused, then turned toward the Plague Doctor.
"By the way, where is Lloyd?"
"He escaped. I don't know where he went," the Plague Doctor replied, a trace of confusion entering his voice.
Lawrence's interest in Lloyd was excessive.
He had been secretly gathering information on him and planting his own eyes throughout Cork Street. Lloyd might not even have realized it, but every move he made had been watched by Lawrence.
"Why are you so interested in this Demon Hunter?" the Plague Doctor asked. "Just because he 'killed' you?"
"Of course not…"
Lawrence shook his head, then continued.
"But do you really think an ordinary Demon Hunter could kill me?"
"You said it yourself, Plague Doctor. After killing me, he should have been on the verge of death as well. Yet that strange Old World Divine Armor appeared. It killed the out-of-control Grail Flesh and somehow brought Lloyd back to life…"
Lawrence lifted his hand and stared intently at the young, vigorous flesh that now belonged to him. Not long ago, he had been barely clinging to life within a dying, withered body. Now he was as vibrant as any young man, filled with strength and vitality.
"There is Grail Flesh inside his body."
Lawrence's voice grew quieter.
"Do you know what I had to sacrifice to fuse with the Grail Flesh?"
"To remain conscious, I drove nail-swords through my own arms again and again, hoping the agony would keep me awake. And even then, I nearly died. I almost lost my sanity and mutated into a mad demon."
Remembering that experience, Lawrence felt a lingering chill.
He could still remember that bizarre sensation, the way it had slowly eroded him, swallowing him bit by bit. It was like sinking into the still depths of a silent sea, where everything was dead, everything was gray.
Lawrence's gaze shifted toward the Plague Doctor.
Behind those lenses was nothing but darkness. It was impossible to tell what kind of face lay beneath the mask—or whether the thing beneath it was even human.
"But Lloyd survived."
His voice carried a strange weight.
"While unconscious, he allowed the Grail Flesh to merge peacefully into his body. Even I couldn't accomplish that. Let alone an ordinary Demon Hunter."
"There is only one explanation."
"He isn't ordinary…"
At the very end of that battle, beneath the rain of burning fire, Lawrence remembered the face that had screamed at him.
"It was him."
Lawrence murmured the words almost to himself.
"Who?"
"My most beloved student."
Lawrence's eyes darkened.
"The Demon Hunter who was given the name Metatron."
"Or rather…"
"047."
The Plague Doctor still did not understand.
He pressed further.
"So what? I remember you saying that every Metatron Demon Hunter died on the Night of Advent. Yet he survived…"
A cold, sinister laugh escaped from beneath the mask.
"Did he flee in terror of death, even as their leader? Has he been hiding in Old Dunling, barely clinging to life all these years?"
Lawrence hesitated.
He shook his head, then slowly nodded.
It was impossible to tell what he was trying to convey.
"I…"
He paused.
"I have a suspicion."
His voice was unusually solemn.
"Only a suspicion. But it is enough to make me wary."
"What?"
The Plague Doctor was becoming increasingly unable to follow Lawrence's words.
Lawrence straightened in his chair.
He stared directly at the Plague Doctor's thick lenses, as though trying to find the hidden eyes behind that darkness.
"This isn't a very long story."
"A story about everything I suspect and fear now."
"You may as well tell me," the Plague Doctor said after a brief hesitation.
Outside the window, the sky remained unchanged. A fine rain continued to fall, countless droplets descending from above. They brought with them a bone-deep cold, yet they also carried the past back like a rising tide scattered across the earth.
Lawrence sighed.
There was nostalgia in his voice.
But more than that…
There was reverence.
"The story of him."
"The story of Lloyd Medici."