The course of the story grew ever stranger, ever more elusive, as a heavy, ashen veil imprisoned the perceptions of every soul, keeping the truth of all this firmly beyond their reach.
"Have you gone mad?"
047's voice broke the silence. He seemed to possess no definite form, yet neither was he truly a ghostly apparition.
"Quite the opposite. I have never been more lucid. And it is precisely because of that clarity that I have made this decision."
Watson replied as power began to surge through her.
During Lloyd and Lawrence's desperate struggle to the death, Lloyd had finally breached the critical threshold at the very last moment. The Demon Hunter had become the source of the Erosion, and because of that, the sealed gate had opened, allowing Watson to find a path of escape.
Lloyd's fears had come true. Watson and 047 were not figments of his imagination, nor were they creations conjured from nothing. Yet at the same time, these prisoners had also escaped his cage.
But the destruction and calamity he had anticipated never came. No one knew what Watson intended to do, nor did anyone understand what kind of power she possessed as the False Grail.
"You… you weren't this insane before…"
047's voice carried hesitation, and beneath it, a trace of sorrow.
In truth, he knew perfectly well that he and 016 were both dead. They had simply returned to life afterward, in some grotesque and unnatural fashion. Whatever they were now, they were no longer entirely themselves.
"I can simply see this world more clearly now. It's quite interesting… It's as though we were all ants once, and then one day I broke free from that feeble body, that feeble will. We became creatures far more powerful. And now, if we continued to think with the mind of an ant, wouldn't that be absurd?"
There was no emotion in her words.
In truth, there was very little emotion left within Watson herself. It was a transformation, much like the one Lloyd had once described. She was merely a monster possessing 016's face and memories. She had once been her, but she was no longer.
016 had died on the Night of Advent. From a purely rational perspective, the Watson standing here now was nothing more than a False Grail that had inherited everything she had left behind.
Watson did not usually like to dwell on such matters. Tracing her own origins too deeply sometimes left even her unable to distinguish who she truly was. So she could only let that command echo endlessly through her mind, devoting herself to it completely.
047 fell silent.
There was no such thing as absolute recognition or understanding between human beings, let alone between a human and a lifeform that had already surpassed humanity.
Yet he could still sense that Watson was clinging to a fragment of her humanity. That fragment was precisely what prevented her ascension from becoming complete. Perhaps that was why she was the False Grail, rather than the true [Grail].
And it was that remnant of humanity that convinced 047, a dying soul barely clinging to existence, to join hands with her and carry out those plans.
...
Several minutes had passed since the battle began.
In truth, that amount of time was fleeting. Yet within those brief minutes, the New Pope had already danced with death several times.
He was thinking desperately as he fought, trying to withstand the Angel's attacks while revealing as little of his own information as possible.
What a miserable day this had become. Not only had so many guests arrived, but no one knew what these guests wanted. Friends or enemies—he could not tell.
The Angel's attacks grew faster and faster. Spiral-patterned nails thrust from its palms, sweeping through the air with terrifying speed. Every strike carried tremendous force, enough to cleave stone apart with ease. But as a Demon Hunter, the New Pope could deal with them calmly.
The same could not be said for the nail-sword in his hand.
After all, it was merely a mundane object. Under such brutal combat, its surface had already become covered in tiny chips and shallow cracks, as though a single more blow would be enough to shatter it completely.
"Are you being hunted by them?"
Lawrence, who had remained silent for so long, finally spoke.
By now, the pressure of the Erosion within the Still Sanctuary had become almost as suffocating as the depths of the sea. Under such power, mortal flesh was beginning to collapse.
The New Pope had been attacked by these Angels more than once.
But why?
Lawrence could vaguely sense the reason, yet he dared not be certain. On the other side, the New Pope had also grown suspicious because of Lawrence's question.
The two stood opposed, wary of one another, constantly probing and testing each other, piecing together the current situation from fragments of speech.
"I don't know. But… it probably has something to do with my pursuit of the [Truth]."
This time, the New Pope made no attempt to conceal his suspicions. He spoke of them openly.
In truth, he did not know the exact reason either. But judging from the warning given by the Old Pope, the latter certainly knew something. He had warned him that continuing to pursue the truth would bring disaster.
What the Old Pope had never expected, however, was that the New Pope had already encountered these Angels more than once.
These holy Angels guarded the [Truth], killing anyone who dared attempt to uncover it.
The Old Pope must have known something as well, yet he refused to speak of it. Even when he was trapped within the hell beneath the well, he had kept his silence.
"Then… does that mean we have also glimpsed a part of that [Truth]?"
The twisted body asked the question.
Its voice trembled, carrying a strange confusion.
For a brief moment, the New Pope hesitated.
Then the Angel suddenly changed its attack.
While entangled with the New Pope, it abruptly spread its wings. Countless sturdy, silver-gray iron feathers shot outward like throwing knives, raining down through the air like a storm of arrows.
Their surfaces shimmered with a pale gray light, flowing through the air like ribbons of silver.
But this time, they were not aimed at the New Pope.
They were aimed at Lawrence.
The violent iron feathers descended in an instant, hammering into the stone pillars and floor and throwing up clouds of thick dust. Each feather was like a longsword, sinking deep into the stone.
Lawrence gasped for breath.
Half his body was already drenched in blood.
This body was simply too weak.
At least, that was how painfully slow it seemed in his eyes.
An iron feather pierced through Lawrence's shoulder and severed one of his arms. Blood poured endlessly from the wounds. It would perhaps not be long before this body bled to death.
Seeing this, the New Pope instead let out a savage laugh.
It was obvious now.
The Angels would not spare anyone connected to the [Truth]. Lawrence—and that mysterious woman—had both become their enemies.
He still had no idea what was happening inside these sinister creatures, but at least he was no longer fighting alone.
The Angel's heavy wings beat violently.
It swept forward at low altitude, moving like lightning.
It had realized that Lawrence was far more fragile than the New Pope and had therefore marked him as the first target to eliminate.
In the blink of an eye, it was already before Lawrence.
For a moment, Lawrence lost himself.
Ever since this began, his understanding of reality had been repeatedly shattered and reconstructed.
He had exhausted himself to obtain the Sacred Coffin and had finally glimpsed the mysterious [Grail].
Yet he had never imagined that he would see it again here.
Not as a cold, lifeless corpse.
But alive.
Lawrence possessed the Book of Revelation, and because of that, he knew far more than either the New Pope or Watson.
Countless theories churned violently within his mind.
But the moment he saw the Angel's empty gaze, all those chaotic thoughts vanished.
It was the same sight the Plague Doctor had once witnessed.
Back then, he had attempted to touch the dead [Grail].
Or perhaps… the Angel.
He had touched the forbidden.
And he had seen the illusory Kingdom of Heaven.
Their gazes met for the briefest instant.
Lawrence was seized by a hallucination.
The Angel's cold, emotionless face gradually softened. Its gentle eyes became as clear as still water, beautiful as those of the most perfect woman in the world. She smiled at Lawrence and reached out, gently caressing his face while softly humming a lullaby.
A short sword sliced into Lawrence's wrist.
The violent pain tore him free from the hallucination.
But it was already too late.
The beautiful woman was gone.
In her place stood an Angel as cold and merciless as a statue.
It embraced Lawrence.
In the next instant, its wings folded inward.
From the outside, Lawrence vanished completely, wrapped within a cocoon of iron feathers.
A sound that made the blood run cold rang out.
Thousands upon thousands of blades crossed and collided, metal striking metal as flesh was mercilessly shredded. Organs and bones were torn apart. Crimson blood seeped through the gaps between the wings, and in the blink of an eye, a vast pool of blood had formed beneath the Angel's feet.
It was like some grotesque act of feeding.
But soon, the movement of the wings stopped.
Sharp blades burst from the Angel's back.
The corpse, mangled beyond recognition, had launched its final attack.
Perhaps even the Angel did not understand how Lawrence had escaped the hallucination—or how he had managed to withstand that terrifying Erosion.
Then a burning pain spread from the wound.
The short sword had been coated in holy silver.
At that moment, it began to suppress the Angel.
A violent howl of wind erupted.
Something was moving at tremendous speed beneath the cathedral dome.
The Angel had no time to defend itself.
In killing Lawrence, it had also bound itself.
A radiant white demon descended like a shadow.
Seni Lothaire came crashing down with his nail-sword in hand, falling like a bolt of thunder.
Everything happened too quickly.
From the moment the Angel pounced upon Lawrence to the moment the New Pope launched his pursuit, it all occurred within a single instant.
The New Pope had made the perfect decision.
And the Angel no longer had a chance to resist.
Within those iron wings, the mutilated corpse unleashed the last of its strength.
It was the body that was weak and pitiful.
Not Lawrence's will.
His head had been almost completely mangled by the iron feathers, yet his grip around the short sword remained unyielding. He twisted it with all his remaining strength, tearing apart the Angel's flesh even as he accelerated the death of his own body.
A flash of brilliant white sword-light erupted like a falling meteor.
The blade descended along the Angel's back, slicing through flesh while severing most of its wings.
The New Pope had put too much force into the strike.
He knew all too well how terrifying the Angel was, and he had intended to kill it with a single blow.
The force of the swing was simply too great.
Halfway through the strike, the nail-sword finally failed under the strain and shattered.
But the New Pope did not stop.
He stepped forward and seized the longest fragment of the broken blade. Even as it cut into his palm, he held on with all his strength and drove it deeper into the Angel's body.
With its flesh no longer able to support them, most of the wings collapsed.
The mutilated corpse within was exposed.
Blood flowed in twisted streams as a blurred, ethereal figure stood before the Angel.
At the final moment, Lawrence abandoned this body.
He cast the agony of having his will torn apart completely behind him.
At this moment, he cared only about one thing—
How to destroy the Angel before him.
He was now one of those who had touched the forbidden.
The Angels would hunt him forever.
There was no choice but to fight back.
But without a physical body, Lawrence returned to being nothing more than an incorporeal will. He had no vessel through which he could interfere with reality.
The New Pope still held the jagged fragment of the nail-sword.
He stood behind the Angel.
Though he could not be certain, after fighting it for so long, the New Pope had roughly deduced that the Angel's structure was based upon that of a human being.
Rather than being human, it was more accurate to call it a higher-order lifeform derived from humanity.
And it was not completely divine.
It possessed the flaws of mankind as well.
The broken blade twisted through flesh, cutting through ribs before continuing deeper.
Then the New Pope seized it with both hands and tore violently until the entire spine snapped apart.
With its support destroyed, the Angel's upper body was dragged down by the weight of its wings and crashed to the ground.
Lawrence withdrew at that moment.
Like Watson, he intended to hide within the shadows and silently watch how the New Pope would kill the Angel.
Wait…
Where was Watson?
Only now did Lawrence realize that he had lost sight of the woman.
That ghostlike figure who had been hiding in the darkness, silently observing everything—
At that very moment, a cold and rotten malice suddenly erupted.
It was as though some devil had finally broken free from its cage.
He saw it.
Everyone saw it.
A distorted pathway appeared in the air, as though someone had just passed through it. The lingering influence stirred a vortex that warped space, within which faint black arcs of light flickered.
Lawrence could not see the woman.
But he could perceive her presence with absolute clarity.
She was moving.
She was attacking…
For an instant, Lawrence froze.
He suddenly understood what the woman intended to do.
A chill ran through him.
It was madness.
And yet, within that madness was a strange temptation, urging Lawrence to do the same.
She was invading the Angel through the [Gap].
She was actually attempting to invade that terrifying, sinister existence!
But after the initial shock of madness passed, Lawrence gradually calmed down.
Yes.
The will controlled the body.
Then what, exactly, was hidden beneath that hateful shell?
The New Pope's fatal strike had completely suppressed the Angel.
Yet the Angel continued to counterattack.
This strange existence could never be treated according to ordinary logic.
Countless red threads extended from within its flesh, pulling at the shattered body and forcibly reassembling it.
The New Pope tried to retreat, but the red threads wrapped around him as well, preventing him from escaping.
Its wrist twisted grotesquely.
The spiral-patterned nail was raised and thrust downward.
Just as it was about to strike the New Pope, the Angel suddenly stopped.
Then, for the first time, an emotion appeared upon that cold, merciless face.
It abruptly looked toward the void.
The woman's form gradually became clearer within its gaze.
She reached out her hand, as though she intended to caress its cheek.
"I… refuse."
The New Pope's face turned deathly pale.
He could not have misheard.
The Angel had spoken.
It was the first time the Angel had ever communicated with a human.
Then countless inscriptions lit up across its jade-like skin.
They burned beneath the flesh, glowing with an eerie radiance as they connected together, forming something that resembled an alchemical matrix.
The patterns were familiar.
The New Pope stared at the glowing matrix, and a strange sense of recognition surged through him.
It was as though he had seen it somewhere before…
The Ascension Well.
Those were the inscriptions carved into the depths of the Ascension Well.
They had lain dormant there as one seamless whole.
The New Pope had never understood what those things were for.
For a time, he had even believed they were nothing more than decorative carvings.
But what was happening now warned him that they were anything but simple.
Watson stretched out her hand with all her strength, trying to touch the Angel's body.
As long as she could "erode" the Angel and interfere with it, she could launch an attack against the will hidden beneath that shell and attempt to strike at its [Gap].
But she was just a fraction too far away.
So close—
Yet still beyond reach.
As the blazing matrix began to operate, Watson suddenly felt an immense repulsive force.
The Angel was rejecting her.
It could actually resist an invasion through the [Gap].
For the briefest instant, that hollow gaze seemed to acquire intelligence.
Some unknown existence had used this body to perceive Watson.
Then, upon that rigid, emotionless face, a faint smile suddenly appeared.
The abnormality was so utterly unnatural that a chill ran through Watson.
Then the Angel came apart.
Flesh disintegrated.
Just as it had appeared from nowhere before, the Angel now underwent the "exchange" of alchemy.
The very composition of its flesh was reversed.
The edges of its body began to turn into ash, scattering into dust.
Whether it simply refused to be invaded by Watson or had abandoned this hunt altogether, no one could say.
The Angel's body withered and dispersed, returning to dust.
The New Pope stood solemnly.
He was not surprised by this ending.
Every time he drove an Angel back, it eventually dissolved into ash, as though it would rather destroy its discarded shell than allow it to be captured.
His expression became complicated as he stared at the incorporeal ghost.
The scattered ashes were distorted by her presence, gradually outlining the shape of a woman.
The New Pope found the silhouette strangely familiar.
He felt as though he had seen her somewhere before.
But he could not remember who she was.
He had witnessed everything the Angel had done.
Yet faced with such an incomprehensible and bizarre scene, the New Pope felt no fear.
Instead, he was ecstatic.
He understood.
He was getting closer.
Closer to the thing he had been searching for.
"What happened here?"
The New Pope questioned the ghosts.
But he did not know whether these ghosts would give him an answer.
There was no reply.
The priest had been reduced to shattered chunks of flesh, and upon that foul, rotting mass of meat, Lawrence's figure had already vanished.
No one knew when he had left.
Watson, meanwhile, remained motionless for a long while before finally turning her gaze toward the New Pope.
"I think I know you."
Watson spoke.
Before she had become what she was now, she had been Number 016, a Demon Hunter of Raphael's faction.
But before the New Pope could say anything, Watson suddenly laughed.
Her existence began to peel away layer by layer until, in the blink of an eye, she disappeared.
The Still Sanctuary was left with only the New Pope and the howls echoing from the corners.
He had survived the Angel's Erosion.
The others had not.
The priests who had worked within the Still Sanctuary had been twisted into monsters, roaming through the sacred palace.
But the New Pope had no intention of dealing with them just yet.
He picked up the broken nail-sword.
The blood upon its surface had dried as the Angel withered away.
Then he walked forward.
He stopped beside the pitch-black well.
He gazed into its unfathomable darkness.
And said nothing.