It was destined to be a moonless night—an abyssal darkness where only the beams cast from the airships remained. Like a solitary island drifting in a sea of black, cut away from the world, left with nothing but a desperate struggle against madness.
The battle had already begun. Countless gunshots tore through the night, mingling with the rising roar of flames.
The arsonists were at work. Dozens of flamethrowers forged a blazing wall of fire—not merely scorching tongues, but jets of ignited oil that clung and consumed. Bullets sliced through the inferno, piercing the unseen creatures hidden within the shroud of darkness.
Through the thick lenses of their visors, the soldiers saw only writhing silhouettes engulfed by fire. Flesh charred into brittle coal; monstrous figures, driven by bloodlust, hurled themselves through the blaze—only to collapse as bullets found their mark.
Breaths echoed heavy beneath the filters of their decontamination masks. Instinctively, they avoided the fallen shapes. Ash—black and tainted—drifted up on the cold night wind, falling as smudged stains upon their fire-proof suits.
"Inform the Scavengers. After tonight, we'll need a large-scale purification."
Galahad stared at the scorching ash resting in his palm. A faint ripple of emotion stirred in him—only to be brushed away with a flick of his hand.
"It's already underway. Before deployment, the Mechanical Institute poured fifty tons of neutralizing agent into the Furnace Pillar. After a full day of steam discharge, the chemicals should be suspended in the clouds. In a few hours, there will be artificial rainfall—just enough to wash away and neutralize the remains."
As Beryl spoke, he stepped back several paces. He had no desire to let these remains touch him.
That was the true horror of demons: anything connected to them— even ash—carried contamination. After every demon-related mission, Beryl would suffer nightmares for days.
The Geiger counters were already screaming, yet this… this was only the appetizer. The true battle awaited. Shell casings clattered; ash clouds churned everywhere.
Gazing to the side, Beryl took interest in the figure approaching through the haze, surprised to see him here.
"You're late, Robin."
The iron serpent screeched to a halt. From the dense steam emerged a cloaked figure—Galahad's greeting was anything but warm.
"It's been a long time since we've handled an anomaly inside Old Dunling. To ensure we had enough firepower, loading that thing onto the transport took time."
Robin looked like a devout war-priest, a black mantle draped with an iron cross. Following his gesture, Galahad turned toward the rolling fog.
Another iron serpent sat there—shrouded in steam—its sharp edge revealed only when the wind shifted.
"Emergency requisition from the armory," Robin said. "The Mechanical Institute modified it. For abominations like the ones below… nothing could be more fitting."
As he spoke, the thing was finally unveiled: a beautifully crafted smoothbore cannon. Golden-flecked paint formed ornate floral patterns across the jet-black barrel. Were it not for the crate of shells beside it, one could mistake it for a museum piece.
The Institute always worked that way—creating instruments of ruin, then adorning them like art.
"Three units of the Mountainfall smoothbore cannon. Four tons of fire-oil carried in two cars. Arthur wants this entire place burnt clean."
Even Robin had shuddered upon learning what they were transporting.
"As for security—rest assured. Before departure, the Mechanical Institute rerouted power to the Furnace Pillar and shifted the steam grid. Now, the whole district is buried in scorching mist. Visibility under three meters. No one even knows what we brought out."
Galahad nodded—but his expression darkened.
"That's not what worries me. The Geiger counters didn't plateau when they hit the limit—they're still rising. Which means the mutation down there isn't over. Those demons are still changing."
A grim revelation. Their power was already exceeding tactical expectations.
"The Purging Bureau and the Demon Hunt Order refuse to expose demons to the world for a reason. Their corruption runs deep. Even a written record of their existence drives people mad. Release a living demon into Old Dunling? It would spread like plague."
Galahad's voice sank.
"We are trained—modified—to barely withstand them. Ordinary civilians would fall instantly into madness and corruption… and become the next demon. Old Dunling is the nexus of this world. If madness spreads from here, the Serpent Rail will carry it everywhere. You understand what's at stake."
This was why such horrors remained in the shadows—why organizations like the Purging Bureau bore the burden of locking them away, preserving the sanity of the world.
If only this battlefield were farther from the city—Galahad wouldn't be so restrained. He would have ordered the airships to scorch the district clean. With the leftover weapons from the Radiant Wars, they could level the entire undercity.
But those dark ages were gone. Back then, humans wielded silver swords and fire alone. Now—humanity commanded far deadlier weapons. The balance had long since been shattered.
"We anticipated this. That's why the Divine Armor is waiting for you."
Every contingency, already accounted for. Even the sacred war-suit was prepared. Robin's faith seemed unshakable—he believed the gods were watching over them.
As his words faded, the final armored steam-car arrived. Its matte-black plating swallowed the light, silent as death—if not for the deep rumble of its engine, none would notice its approach. Steam hissed out as the gates opened, white fog curling outward… revealing a monstrous silhouette lurking beneath.
It didn't feel like steam at all.
Galahad could sense only a biting chill creeping through the mist—cold air, not heat.
This iron serpent was no furnace…it was a roaming vault of winter.
As the gate groaned open, a sickly green glow pulsed to life within.
A blurred voice drifted out, a song—soft, feminine, haunting.
The soldier stared into that emerald light.
A woman's face rippled within the haze—crying, laughing, shifting in distortion.
She was saying something to him…blaming him, missing him.
He felt such longing, such grief—because that face belonged to his fiancée.
But she had died…years ago.
His breathing grew unbearably heavy,
as if iron weights were stacked upon his chest.
He took a step forward, hand outstretched—just a little closer.
Just a little closer, and he could drag his beloved back from the hands of death.
He only needed to—
Beep—
The blaring alarm shattered the illusion.
A faint current discharged from the neural electrodes buried in his neck,
snapping across his mind like lightning.
He dropped to his knees, jolted awake—
and only then realized he had strayed far too close,
bathed entirely in that ghostly green.
A silver-white weapon hovered in his vision.
"Soldier. You've been neurologically contaminated."
Berrow stood before him, cutting against the vile light.
"You should never look directly into that thing,"
he warned, voice low with certainty.
Everyone here knew the truth of what lurked behind them—
and every one of them kept their eyes away,
each rigidly guarding their post.
"I… I…"
The soldier tried to speak,
but his voice dissolved into guttural wails—
words no longer human.
The world twisted, bleeding into scarlet.
"You need to sleep now."
Those were the last words he heard.
Berrow plunged a syringe into his flesh.
Sedative rushed through his veins;
the alarm finally fell silent.
The soldier collapsed into darkness.
"Looks like the Neuro-Recovery Ward is getting a new resident,"
Berrow muttered, eyeing his gun.
Green light stained its silver frame.
"So… those lunatics actually succeeded?"
He turned to Robin for an answer.
Robin didn't turn back.
He clutched a steel cross tight in his hand.
His voice was low.
"They succeeded months ago. Tonight is their first live trial.
They thought this operation was… an appropriate test."
"They're playing with fire—and begging to burn,"
Berrow spat. He despised that weapon.
To him, it was misfortune given shape.
"But isn't our whole war with demons
a long ritual of self-immolation?"
Galahad spoke calmly.
Of the three, he alone stared straight into the glow—
unmoved, eyes solemn and conflicted.
"The numbers keep rising. We must kill the demon in that catacomb,"
Robin continued.
"Galahad, by command, only Knight-Commanders may wield this weapon.
This is the activation key."
He offered the iron cross—
its polished surface etched with hundreds of tiny grooves,
a key to open a most ill-omened casket.
This was the true secret weapon of the night.
Robin was here to deliver it.
"So I'm the test subject?
A Knight-Commander as their lab rat—how generous."
Galahad exhaled a humorless laugh,
but he still took the freezing key.
Without hesitation, he stepped toward the green abyss.
…
"So that's why you're here…"
Berrow listened to Galahad's footsteps fade—
like listening to a friend walk willingly into a chasm.
"Yes. Thirteen suits in the first batch," Robin replied.
"While the Dawnbound hunts demons across the sea,
they're distributing these across Englvig's territory.
Arthur believes this will turn the war.
Even Her Majesty approved."
He sounded tired—
but victory left no other mercy.
"I understand your hatred, Berrow.
But only this thing can let us stand against demons.
Arthur said it from the beginning—
fighting demons means paying the price, again and again."
Behind his mask,
his eyes reflected that raging firestorm—
burning brighter than night itself.
"Blood, pain—everything we can give,
until we die with nothing left,"
he said with a crooked smile,
tracing a cross upon his chest.
"But I'll be fine. I have faith.
I fight demons. I'll go to heaven.
As for you, Berrow…"
"I run casinos, smuggle goods,
break nearly every law in Englvig.
But I know I'm a good man.
Heaven isn't really my concern,"
Berrow replied flatly.
Money soothed him more than prayers ever could.
A faint, hoarse growl rose from the sealed carriage behind them.
Berrow's fingers trembled—just once.
But he did not turn.
He would not be the one to face what was waking.
The green light finally died.
Something twisted and black stepped forth—
steam hissing, metal joints clanging.
Its form was lost to shadows and heat.
It marched past them, unstoppable.
As it moved by, Robin whispered:
"Galahad—after full activation you have ten minutes.
Kill the demon… and come back alive."
The figure paused just slightly—
as if eyes of living fire regarded him—
and then strode onward, alone,
into the blazing carnage ahead.
No one dared look upon the abomination he had become.
"May you turn from evil,
be sheltered always,
forsaken by none,"
Robin prayed softly.