A crisp, unrelenting clatter rang across the tabletop.

  The books that had once rested there had long since been shoved aside; now the surface lay in ruin, littered with filings and scarred by use.

  Lloyd sat hunched in his chair, methodically machining the bullets in his hands. Iron shavings clung to his sleeves and dusted the floor around him. From the case he carried everywhere, he had taken out a small ingot of Holy Silver—salvaged during his escape from the Order. It had once been stored in one of their standardized equipment chests.

  A demon hunter was always expected to face the unexpected. Given their formidable individual combat capabilities, each of them was issued a field kit—part medical chest, part portable armory, capable even of limited weapon fabrication. Precious Holy Silver was rationed among them as well.

  All these years, Lloyd had shaved what he needed from that single ingot. It was not large, yet measured against his careful rate of consumption, it would last him a long time still.

  And careful he intended to remain. The technique of forging Holy Silver was monopolized by the Evangelical Church; to him, this metal—lethal to fiends—was something that diminished with every use. Most Holy Silver weapons were merely plated, and once expended, the metal could scarcely be reclaimed.

  He seated the modified shell into the chamber, then pulled the lever ring with a sharp, decisive motion. The mechanism answered with a clean metallic snap.

  The Winchester was loaded with buckshot—large spherical lead pellets packed tightly within. After his alterations, he had embedded among them several pellets plated in Holy Silver. At close range, the weapon was devastating against demons. Lesser fiends would be blasted apart into torn, unrecognizable flesh by a single discharge.

  Still, Lloyd found it insufficient.

  If he were to confront the creature responsible for the recent massacre, this level of firepower might not be enough to kill it outright.

  His fingers drifted along the length of the gun, brushing the worn wood. As he traced the grain, they caught upon shallow ridges—carved lines.

  He turned the weapon over.

  A short poem had been etched into the stock.

  For an instant, it was as though he had stepped back into a distant past. There had once been another man—one strangely similar to himself—who had caressed this very Winchester with the same absent tenderness before taking up a carving knife and inscribing those words into the wood.

  Lloyd remembered the verse well. The man who lingered within the Interstice had loved that little poem deeply, enough to immortalize it upon his beloved gun. Not long after, he died. The weapon passed into Lloyd’s hands.

  Lloyd had searched through libraries, combing archives and forgotten stacks, yet never found the poem’s origin. The man had claimed he wrote it himself. Lloyd suspected otherwise. It was far more likely a byproduct of the Divine Benediction—during that baptism, he himself had been granted a torrent of nightmarish visions. If such visions could implant impossible dreams, why not verses that had never truly existed in this world?

  He shook his head, dismissing the thought.

  Dawn had broken, though the sky remained heavy with oppressive clouds.

  Taking up his cane, Lloyd concealed the Winchester beneath his coat. By his reckoning, Joey would arrive shortly. He opened the door and descended the stairs—only to hear matching footsteps rising from below.

  He looked up.

  Hig was climbing toward him.

  Dark circles shadowed Hig’s eyes; his complexion was pale, his hair disheveled. Judging by his appearance, he had likely spent another night wandering God-knew-where.

  Lloyd and Hig could not be called close. Lloyd, unwilling to entangle others in his cursed proximity to demons, maintained a habitual coldness toward nearly everyone—even the man who lived next door. And in Hig’s view, his neighbor was hardly respectable company.

  The slightly neurotic “great detective” had lived here for six years. During that time, Lloyd had inevitably returned home bearing injuries he could not always conceal. Madam Vanrudolf, with her dubious past, had seen through him at once. Her own lawless temperament left her unafraid.

  But for Hig, it was another matter entirely.

  You are a diligent mechanic, and the fellow living beside you appears to be some underworld assassin or urban warlord. Beneath his bed rests a Winchester capable of turning a man into pulp through iron plating—while beneath yours lies only a wrench you may not even have the strength to swing properly. Anyone would lose a little sleep.

  And yet, in six years, this violence-prone detective had never brought his “work” home. That, at least, allowed Hig to endure.

  Their interactions were sparse. Seeing Lloyd, Hig froze for a moment, then offered stiffly:

  “Morning.”

  Lloyd inclined his head coolly. That was the extent of their usual exchange.

  Privately, Lloyd entertained many thoughts, but the truth was simple: Hig, a weary mechanic grinding out his meager fortunes, suffered enough already. Lloyd would not add demons to the man’s burdens.

  In truth, Lloyd rather liked him. He liked the idea of friendship, even. But those who grew too close to him seldom met good ends. The fewer who knew him well, the better.

  They moved simultaneously. Lloyd stepped slightly aside to let Hig pass.

  In that fleeting moment as they brushed by each other, Lloyd caught a scent—familiar.

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  Downstairs, he paused and looked upward toward where Hig had disappeared. An uncanny familiarity flooded his senses. He could not quite grasp it. There lingered, faintly, the smell of blood in the air.

  What was this?

  In the mirror by the wall, the scene reflected quietly.

  Watson sat upon the first-floor sofa, smiling as she watched Lloyd. She seemed to know something—yet said nothing, offering only that strange, unsettling smile.

  Lloyd ignored her.

  Since the operation in End Town, she had appeared more frequently—like a ghost orbiting his periphery. At times, a careless glance would catch her presence at the corner of his vision.

  At least she had not manifested while he bathed or relieved himself. Perhaps the damned devil retained some shred of decency. Then again, appearing during such moments would rather tarnish the dignity of an “enigmatic ultimate horror.”

  Outside, a black carriage waited, its door already open. Joey sat within. Lloyd climbed inside and pulled the door shut; the carriage lurched forward into a wild gallop.

  “So I decide how to conduct the investigation?” Lloyd asked, leaning back into the plush seat.

  Joey nodded.

  “We don’t care about the method—only the result. This fiend has evaded the Purge Mechanism for far too long. Since our founding, none have survived so long.”

  She relayed Arthur’s orders.

  “These are the items you’ll need. This is an internal communicator for the Purge Mechanism. Any intelligence will reach you immediately. Keep it on you at all times.”

  She handed it over.

  Lloyd examined the device with curiosity. Telephones and telegraphs already existed in this era, yet such concealed wireless communication was astonishing. University lectures had certainly never covered anything like it. Perhaps it was another invention of the Perpetual Pump.

  He asked Joey, but she only shook her head—she did not know either.

  That only deepened his unease.

  At times, Lloyd felt the world itself was riddled with dissonance.

  Take the steam engine, for example.

  Water boiled within a sealed boiler, pressure rising until steam expanded and drove pistons into motion. Coupled to a generator, that motion produced electricity.

  Beneath Lloyd’s feet, deep underground at this very moment, stood the largest steam turbine array in the world—the Furnace Pillar System. Its immense output powered the entirety of Old Dunling, keeping the ancient city alive and turning.

  And yet, at times, Lloyd would feel… it should not be like this.

  Whenever his thoughts strayed to the inner sanctums of the Demon Hunters’ Order—to the so-called Divine Benediction and the enigmatic Still Sanctum—he could not shake the conviction that these were forces capable of reshaping the world itself. And yet the Gospel Church behaved as though ignorant of their true potential, sealing them away, reserving them solely for the Order’s use.

  Lloyd did not pretend to understand the intricacies of machinery or science. But now and then he sensed something amiss in the fabric of the world—something that lay not only within demons, but within the very nature of human power itself.

  He could not name the strangeness. He could not define it. Yet he would perceive it in flashes—keen, unsettling—and afterward it would linger in him like a splinter beneath the skin.

  People often spoke of eras turning: the old age fading, the new one rising. The barbaric past had been replaced by the steam engine. And so he wondered… would there come a day when even steam itself would be cast aside by something greater?

  This was no lunatic’s fantasy. Within that Divine Benediction he had glimpsed a world far more resplendent than the present one—a vision so magnificent it bordered on the impossible. He did not know whether it had been real, nor whether such a future could ever be achieved. But it had planted doubt in him. Was modern technology truly the summit of progress—or merely another rung on an unseen ladder?

  The carriage lurched to an abrupt halt, shattering his train of thought.

  Lloyd was a man who delighted in thinking; he had always found it the finest way to pass the hours. Yet this time, strangely, he felt a trace of weariness. He had never pondered such questions before—not even when he first encountered the Purge Bureau and stood aghast at their uncanny black technologies.

  Joy did not allow his thoughts to wander further.

  “If we’re investigating,” Joy said, “we should begin here.”

  “What is it?” Lloyd asked.

  Over the past few days, he had noticed something curious: whenever he stepped into one of the Bureau’s carriages, it would begin moving without him naming a destination—as though it already knew where he intended to go.

  “Our guess was correct,” Joy said. “The demon didn’t die. It struck again last night.”

  “So soon?” Lloyd stepped down from the carriage. He was not surprised the demon had survived. What startled him was its impatience. He had assumed it would lie low for days before acting again. Evidently, it had no intention of resting.

  The cold air struck him, thick with the metallic scent of blood. Even without Joy pointing the way, Lloyd knew precisely where the crime scene lay.

  “Another act of revenge?” he asked.

  “Of course. It left writing again.”

  Joy’s tone was steady.

  After a brief silence, Lloyd said, “Then we must move quickly. Otherwise we may never catch it.”

  “Why?” Joy frowned, surprised that a demon hunter would speak so near to surrender.

  “It’s simple,” Lloyd replied. “This is the fifth victim. Nearly a month has passed. At this rate, the mortal will behind it will soon be completely consumed by demonization. When that happens, we won’t get a single answer from it.”

  He continued, laying out his reasoning.

  “And how many enemies could he possibly have? This is already the fifth. If his vengeance ends, he may cease killing altogether—which would make tracking him far more difficult.”

  “Or,” he added quietly, “his revenge is not yet finished. Which means that somewhere in this city, another unfortunate soul is about to be butchered. Whether he lives or dies depends entirely on whether we catch that demon in time.”

  For a fleeting moment, an unfamiliar sense of responsibility pressed upon Lloyd. The fate of a stranger rested in his hands. He did not know the man. Yet that man’s survival hinged upon Lloyd’s resolve.

  “Very well,” he murmured. “Let me see.”

  He stepped beyond the cordon.

  The carnage was almost unbearable to behold. As in the blood-soaked room he had seen before, the loss of blood was staggering.

  Members of the Purge Bureau had already surrounded the scene. The murder had occurred in the Lower District; Lloyd had half expected local gang brutes to appear and cause trouble. Yet evidently, Brolaw’s authority had prevailed. Under his command the vicinity was eerily clean—other gangs keeping a careful, mutual distance.

  It made sense. The victim’s name was Hughes, a gang leader in the Lower District. Men like him did not die easily; wherever they went, underlings trailed close behind. And yet he had died—together with those very followers.

  The other gang leaders must be terrified. If the creature could slaughter Hughes so effortlessly, it could do the same to them. Judging from how cooperative the gang members had been during questioning, their unseen superiors were eager—desperate—for Lloyd’s team to catch the monster quickly.

  “Any insights?” Joy asked.

  He seemed capable of enduring the gruesome sight, watching with cold detachment. Blood blanketed the end of the alley. Hughes lay sprawled upon the ground. From the waist down, most of his flesh was gone, carved away as though shaved piece by piece with a razor.

  “Preliminarily, he died of blood loss,” Joy said. “The suffering lasted a long time. The demon was… meticulous in its torment.”

  “This may be the first investigation in the Bureau’s history involving a demon with reason,” he added. “Before this, none we faced retained any sanity.”

  “Revenge…” Lloyd said suddenly.

  A faint smile touched his lips.

  “This case is simple. If the demon is seeking vengeance, then we need only determine what wrong it seeks to avenge. Isn’t that so?”

  He recalled the previous victims—different statuses, different stations in life—yet all slain in the name of revenge.

  “Bring me the detailed files on each of them,” Lloyd said, his gaze lingering on the mutilated corpse. “There must be a connection between them—something that sparked this vengeance. And if we find it… we may even predict who will be next.”