The Radiant
Though night had fallen, the place blazed with light.
Hundreds—no, thousands—of electric lamps shimmered beneath a vast dome of steel and concrete, glittering like a man-made constellation. Walls of transparent glass, several meters tall, segmented the immense space with surgical precision.
This was a miracle of human industry—the beating heart of Old Dunlin's Central Station. From this hub, more than a hundred rail lines stretched outward, reaching every corner of the territory. Massive clouds of steam poured forth, condensing against cold iron, leaving the air damp and biting.
Lloyd stood at the edge of the platform, dressed as ever in his standard attire: a black deerstalker hat, a pitch-black coat, white lining beneath. The chain of a pocket watch glinted faintly from his pocket.
He looked like nothing more than an ordinary traveler, perhaps on his way to meet an old friend. In his arms, he held a brown box, slightly ajar—inside, vivid flowers bloomed.
Sitting on a nearby bench, Lloyd lowered his gaze to check his pocket watch, motionless amid the flow of people, like a statue carved from time itself.
He remained that way for a long while.
Then the whistle sounded.
The iron behemoth arrived, exhaling endless steam as it crept forward, dragging more than twenty carriages behind it. Cold dew clung to its metal surface, like a colossal serpent sliding across the earth.
At the front stood a bronze lion statue. Rusted steel bore white lettering—the train's name.
The Radiant, a steam locomotive built decades ago to commemorate victory in the War of Glory. Most of its kind had long since been retired. Lloyd hadn't expected to see it still running.
It was part of the Serpent of the Atrium system, a network binding the world together. With only a few silver coins, one could travel anywhere—and this was the power of technology.
Distance was no longer a barrier.
Even End Town—that mysterious place Lloyd sought—had a departure tonight.
And he had made it just in time.
"Sir, would you like—"
"No need."
A conductor stepped forward to help with his luggage, but Lloyd refused before the man could touch it.
His cold demeanor left the conductor momentarily flustered, but he'd seen countless passengers. The brief exchange barely registered.
Entering the carriage, Lloyd went straight to his seat—a window spot. He set the case at his feet. Though he moved gently, the weight of it was unmistakable.
It was filled with tools for hunting demons.
Though Lloyd had never stated it outright, he was, in truth, a retired demon hunter. As he once told Sabo: becoming a priest was the first step toward joining the Templars—and the elite among them became demon hunters.
The demons were supposed to be gone.
He had enjoyed six quiet years of retirement.
But now they were back.
And that crossed a line.
No matter the interests at play, Lloyd needed answers. Why had those damned things returned?
The train's final destination lay westward, toward a city where rich mineral deposits had been discovered. Development had begun in recent years, though it remained modest, drawing little attention.
For now.
Lloyd's destination was not there, not really.
According to the intelligence he had gathered from the map at the railway station, the mysterious town of Ende also had a rail connection. Construction had been completed roughly three months ago—but the line was not open to the public. He would have to disembark near the area and continue on foot.
Still… a small town all but erased from memory, now granted a direct railway?
What merit could it possibly have?
Lloyd caught the scent of conspiracy at once. And, just as he had suspected, the truth followed close behind. About a year earlier, an anonymous philanthropist had funded the construction of the line. The purpose was unclear—but in light of everything Lloyd had witnessed so far, the picture was now unmistakably clear.
This had been planned from the very beginning.
The railway was an escape route, built solely for the flight of the Sacred Coffin. Presumably, the food Sabot possessed had also been transported there via this very line.
"What a nuisance…"
Lloyd rubbed his temples. Such elaborate preparation could not have been for a single shipment of supplies—and no one truly knew what those so-called "foods" actually were.
Judging by the carrying capacity of a railway, and the time involved, far more had been transported than he had initially estimated.
For a fleeting moment, the air grew solemn, almost tragic, as though he were heading alone toward the underworld, armed with nothing but himself.
But Lloyd did not shy away from that thought. This was his bottom line. He had to see it with his own eyes—no matter the cost.
As he was lost in these thoughts, someone appeared before him and took the seat opposite. The man wore a gentle smile.
"Good evening, sir. Are you going to see a friend?"
He looked to be about the same age as Lloyd—twenty-four or twenty-five. His clothes were ordinary, his face unremarkable, his demeanor painfully average. Everything about him was plain. And yet, when all that ordinariness gathered in one place, it became strangely jarring.
He was too ordinary—so ordinary it was impossible not to notice.
"Yes," Lloyd replied casually. "It's been a long time since I last saw him."
As he spoke, his gaze drifted toward the box the man carried. Inside were flowers, their intoxicating fragrance soothing the nerves.
A classic gift box from a street florist—the sort of thing one buys when they have no idea what else to bring. Safe. Inoffensive. Always acceptable.
"Friendship everlasting. That's a nice sentiment."
"It is," Lloyd agreed. "Feels good, doesn't it? And you? The west isn't exactly thriving. Most people don't go there unless it's for tourism."
At Lloyd's question, the man paused, a trace of worry crossing his face before he sighed.
"I wouldn't go if I had a choice. But work calls."
"Work?" Lloyd narrowed his eyes slightly. "Let me guess…"
He studied the man carefully, employing the few detective tricks he possessed to piece together his identity.
If it was work, the west had very few options—mining, mainly. But the man was clean, his fingers unblemished, bearing none of the marks of coal or stone. His overall presence was bland, yet there was a faint, peculiar scent clinging to him.
Oil. Machine oil.
"A mechanic?" Lloyd said. "Aside from mining, that's about all the west has. Something broke, and they called you in to fix it."
Bullseye.
The man straightened, curiosity lighting his eyes as he looked at Lloyd anew. He had meant nothing more than idle chatter to pass the long journey—but instead, he had stumbled upon someone genuinely interesting.
"How did you know?"
"My roommate's a mechanic," Lloyd replied. "Same smell of oil, hands full of calluses, always on call. Factory machines break down all the time, and when there aren't enough hands, he's dragged back to fix them—no matter where he is."
Truth be told, if this man had looked a little more worn, with dark circles under his eyes, he would have been the spitting image of Lloyd's roommate. The resemblance was oddly comforting.
"I haven't seen him in nearly half a month. Wouldn't be surprised if he's drowned in the factory by now."
"That's… yeah…"
The man laughed dryly, scratching his head. He wasn't fond of this cursed job either.
"So what do you do?" the man asked, clearly intrigued by Lloyd.
"Hm…"
Lloyd paused before answering.
"A detective. A second-rate one."
As for the specifics, he had no intention of elaborating. Whether it was catching cheating spouses or working for Shrike, none of it was fit for daylight. And the deeper things—battling demons and abominations—were even less so.
"A detective?"
The word struck something in the man. This time, he truly looked at Lloyd, his gaze sweeping back and forth as certain hidden traits slowly overlapped with a figure from his memory.
"And what might your name be?"
As if making a final confirmation, the man extended his hand, adopting the posture of someone seeking friendship.
Lloyd reached out naturally and clasped it, a broad, easy smile spreading across his face.
"Lloyd Holmes."
The man froze for a heartbeat at the detective's name—but he concealed it well, maintaining the same pleasant smile as before.
"Kamu Naredo."
Looking at the detective whom both Arthur and Shrike longed to tear apart alive, Red Falcon finally spoke his name.