The age was advancing, ever shifting. Each day birthed something new—bewildering, dreamlike things that stirred the heart and lured the mind into restless wonder.

  And yet, when Lloyd once more found himself standing upon the streets of Old Dunling, he still did not know where the Shattered Dome truly lay.

  He had entered blindfolded, and blindfolded he had emerged. The air was cold and damp against his lungs. Upon his usually impassive face, an inexplicable trace of amusement lingered.

  His identity had changed completely. No longer an external detective of Suarlan Hall, he had become an external detective of the Purge Mechanism. In a certain sense, Lloyd had indeed become a traitor to the Demon Hunting Order. Before its dissolution, the relationship between the two factions had been anything but cordial.

  Behind him, a pitch-black carriage stood waiting, its door left open. Joey sat within, watching Lloyd depart.

  The moment Lloyd stepped away from the Shattered Dome, his files were sealed into a transmission capsule, sent coursing through labyrinthine pipes, archived and preserved. In that fleeting instant, Lloyd Holmes was inscribed into the battle sequence of the Purge Mechanism.

  He could almost hear the heavy groan of unseen doors grinding open. Countless hidden gates in this world creaked ajar for him. Perhaps only temporarily—but from this moment forward, he was no longer alone. Behind him stood the Purge Mechanism. Behind him stood Old Dunling. Behind him stood the vast machine called Inverwig—roaring, relentless, crushing all obstacles beneath its iron advance.

  “Mr. Holmes, I await your good news.”

  Joey’s voice drifted from afar. When Lloyd turned, he saw only a hand waving from the carriage window before the vehicle dissolved into the fog.

  Dim yellow streetlamps lined the mist-veiled road. Lloyd tightened his coat and strode forward.

  His footsteps, once steady, began to falter—scatter—then realign, as though another presence were attempting to match his rhythm.

  Tilting his head slightly, he saw Watson walking beside him.

  She could assume many forms—or rather, she possessed no fixed form at all. It was only so that a lesser mortal like Lloyd might comprehend her existence that she adopted a shape. What surprised him was that she seemed fond of this one: that delicate, nameless face. Each time she appeared before him, her attire differed, as though she were a considerate companion adapting herself to every occasion. Only Lloyd could see her.

  “This is quite an interesting case.”

  Watson now wore a trench coat much like his own. Though her expression remained cold, she stomped deliberately through puddles in her rain boots like a mischievous child.

  But she existed only as a projection within Lloyd’s mind. Confined to his perception, she could not disturb reality. Her boots struck the water, yet no ripples formed. The surface remained still—as though she walked upon water itself.

  “What, do you have a theory?” Lloyd asked, faintly mocking.

  His understanding of her was limited at best. Those who truly knew what she was had perished on the Night of Divine Descent. And so he remained wary.

  “Of course. Would you like to hear it?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  He refused without hesitation. He wanted no deeper entanglement with this devil. Already he stood within darkness; to continue further would mean eventual consumption.

  “Really? Lloyd, I know many things. Are you certain you don’t wish—”

  “Silence.”

  His gaze turned glacial.

  It was an exquisitely beautiful face. He still remembered the first time he saw her—during what he believed to be the most beautiful winter Florence had ever known.

  But he understood now: she was dead. What walked beside him was only the husk of an illusion. Beneath it lurked the unspeakable thing.

  “Oh? Are you angry?”

  Her pale hand brushed his cheek. He struck it away without mercy.

  Watson paused, then spoke softly.

  “They are not asking you to investigate merely for the case. This is also an exercise in trust. He covets the power of the Secret Blood.”

  “If they didn’t covet it, that would be suspicious,” Lloyd replied flatly.

  Greed was human nature. As the Gospel would say, it was the original sin—innate and inescapable. Yet at times, that sin was almost admirable. It propelled humanity forward. With swelling desire, mankind conquered one coveted prize after another.

  Such was the ordinary condition of man. When you see a bar of gold, you cannot help but look twice. Lloyd felt the same about the Purge Mechanism. If Merlin and Arthur had failed to mention the Secret Blood during their earlier discussion, that would have unsettled him far more.

  “Oh? I didn’t expect you to be so open-minded,” Watson teased lightly.

  It might have been a charming moment—were it not for the nausea that rose in Lloyd whenever he remembered her true essence.

  Just as his agitation threatened to erupt, a voice rang out—aged, yet sharpened by an eternal menopause of indignation.

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  “Lloyd, have you truly gone mad? How long do you intend to keep talking to thin air?”

  Mrs. Van Rood pushed open the door and glared at him. Though advanced in years, she seemed perpetually swollen with menopausal fury. At times, Lloyd suspected her condition would persist until the day she died.

  Watson let out a faint laugh and dissolved into the air like ink dispersing in water.

  Lloyd stared at the spot where she had vanished, hesitated briefly, then turned toward Mrs. Van Rood with a familiar smile before stepping inside.

  Human emotion is rarely continuous. He was no exception. He had no desire to present his anger before her.

  Within the warmth of the house, Lloyd noticed the sitting room had transformed. The fireplace blazed brightly. Decorations once hidden in cabinets now adorned walls and shelves. The room radiated familial warmth, as though a festival approached.

  He sighed faintly.

  “Mrs. Van Rood, Old Dunling has only just entered winter. The Day of Divine Birth is still far away. Isn’t this rather early?”

  The Day of Divine Birth was a festival of the Gospel Church. According to the Gospel, it marked the day the ineffable God descended into the mortal world. Thus did mankind record the event and celebrate it each year.

  Centuries ago, it had been only a sacred tradition of the Holy Gospel Papal State. But as the Church’s influence expanded and its faith spread among nations, so too did the festival.

  Now it was observed across many lands. Some celebrants were not believers at all—they merely sought an excuse for joy. At times, Lloyd suspected Mrs. Van Rood belonged to that category.

  She possessed a fervent enthusiasm for the holiday. It was the only time of year she grew noticeably kinder. On occasion, she would even prepare Lloyd breakfast free of charge.

  He found that experience deeply unsettling.

  It felt rather like a physician announcing cheerfully that he had named a newly discovered disease after you.

  Lloyd finished the meal in a state of barely concealed dread, every swallow tight in his throat. He half-expected that the moment he wiped his mouth clean, the old woman would calmly draw a pistol, press the cold barrel against his brow, and tell him he had five minutes to pack his things and get out.

  “You think you can manage me? Not planning to stay, are you!”

  Madam Vanrud shot him a sidelong glare sharp enough to pin him in place. Lloyd wisely kept his mouth shut.

  He checked the time. A few more hours and dawn would break. He hadn’t expected to linger so long beneath the Shattered Dome; he had assumed that by the time he emerged, the sky would already be pale with morning.

  His gaze drifted back to Madam Vanrud, and a flicker of suspicion stirred in him. Had the old woman truly been awake the entire night? Or had she only just risen?

  In truth, it did not matter.

  Lloyd dismissed the thought and climbed the stairs. Before hunting demons, he needed proper rest. A seasoned hunter knew that preparation before the hunt was never optional.

  On the second floor, Sig’s door stood slightly ajar—yet the room beyond was empty. In that instant, Lloyd understood why Madam Vanrud was still awake. She was waiting for Sig to return.

  Sig had been the earliest tenant of 121A. Lloyd was only a later arrival. From the fragments of conversation he had overheard, Sig had lived here since he was very young. Compared to the landlady, Madam Vanrud seemed less like a landlord and more like a stepmother—sharp-tongued, soft-hearted.

  Lloyd and Sig had little contact. Because of the demons, Lloyd was little more than an ill omen to ordinary people. Those who lingered too close to him too long were bound to encounter something they should never have seen.

  He did not wish misfortune upon anyone for his sake. And so, during these six years in Old Dunling, Lloyd had lived in a quiet isolation. He had no true friends.

  He lay upon the slightly chilled bed and stared at the ceiling, papered with seaside images and fading flyers. In the deep stillness of night, such thoughts would sometimes rise unbidden. Yet he always managed to persuade himself.

  The road toward his goal was a sheet of fragile ice drifting over dark waters. If he wished to continue forward, he had to cast certain things away.

  He did not regret it.

  He closed his eyes heavily and waited for a new day to arrive.

  …

  In the stillness of this night, some slept—while others screamed.

  A man ran wildly through a narrow alley, face twisted, terror pouring from him like a scent.

  This shouldn’t be happening. What in God’s name had gone wrong?

  He questioned himself as he fled. Hughes had done well enough as a gang member in the Lower District. He had risen through smuggling—small-scale at first—but in that chaotic mire of factions and filth, he had carved out a modest reputation. Yet the man from Port Rendona had never been satisfied.

  Not long ago, the Lower District had suffered an assault from the Suarlan Office. The gang targeted that night was known as the Green Shark. It was said that their master, the mysterious Sabo, had died before dawn. Panic had spread like rot through the streets. It seemed Old Dunling had finally resolved to cleanse the Lower District entirely.

  Money moved in secret. Wealth was hidden. Men braced for loss.

  But Hughes had not retreated.

  He possessed a ruthless streak, a recklessness that bordered on madness. At the critical moment, instead of shrinking back, he swallowed the Green Shark’s holdings whole. In the chaos, he expanded his power.

  And he had gambled correctly.

  The purge from Old Dunling never came. And he won everything.

  The boy who had once scraped barnacles from fishing boats now held power in his hands.

  Yet that damned power could not save him now.

  Blades and authority were words born for dealings among men. For the thing that followed him in the dark, they meant nothing at all.

  Behind him came the low growl of the creature. It did not hurry. It was not eager to kill. Like a hunter toying with prey, it took its time.

  Ordinarily, Hughes would never tolerate such humiliation. Even in death he would fight.

  But that resolve applied only to men.

  Now, he did not even possess the courage to face what stalked him.

  His guards had lasted less than a minute before being shredded into pulp. In that brief span, Hughes had emptied several rounds at the creature. The alley had been dim, but he was certain—certain—he had struck its head more than once.

  It had not even slowed it.

  Suddenly, a sharp whistle split the air.

  His mind went blank.

  Then came the pain.

  Unbearable.

  He screamed as he collapsed into the filth at the end of the alley. Blood poured into the stagnant water. Below the knees, there was nothing—only clean, terrible severance. His lower legs were gone.

  Survival instinct clawed at him. He scraped at the ground, dragging himself forward, leaving a vivid crimson trail in his wake.

  But a talon pierced through his thigh and pinned him to the earth.

  His cries weakened. Death was no longer something he could bargain with.

  The creature was in no rush. This was not execution—it was indulgence. It wished him to suffer.

  “So… you can feel pain too…”

  The voice it made was blurred and warped. Yet to Hughes, it sounded horribly familiar.

  His screaming faltered. His face went slack.

  He knew that voice.

  “Th-That’s impossible…”

  He repeated the words again and again.

  A twisted hand seized his head and forced it upward. In the faint light, he saw a face—scarred, mutilated, grotesque.

  “How… how could it be you?”

  He did not dare look away. Nor did he dare look fully.

  “No—no, this wasn’t me! He made me do it! You know how it is! I may be the gang leader, but I still need the nobles to shelter me!”

  The creature did not care.

  Its voice was hoarse, steeped in venom.

  “This is the price you owe, Hughes.”

  A claw gently sliced away a small piece of flesh.

  The scream that followed tore through the alley.

  To the monster, it was exquisite. Like the most beautiful song.

  “And don’t grieve,” it murmured. “I will kill every last participant. Each of you will meet a fair end.”

  So it spoke amid the slow cruelty of slaughter.

  The night was long.

  There would be ample time to make Hughes suffer.

  Perfect.