Old Dunling. The Shattered Dome.
This was a place of secrecy. Only a single lift connected it to the outside world; all other exchanges relied on a system known as pneumatic tube logistics. Pipes crisscrossed the entire Shattered Dome, and under the force of compressed air, capsules containing documents raced through them at terrifying speed. There was always something faintly mystical about these capsules—so much so that even those who deposited them never truly knew where the documents would ultimately arrive.
This was where all records finally converged. During the Hundred-Year War, Inlveg had lost an immeasurable number of books. As a result, in the facilities of the new age, every department—even the Purification Directorate—placed obsessive importance on the survival of documents.
Countless pipes descended from the dome like falling star-trails, finally pouring into a pool at their feet filled with insulating fluid. Lights glimmered at the bottom of the pool, illuminating rows of copper pillars one by one, as though this were some ancient mythic rite of sacrifice, radiating a resplendent and solemn glow.
The man in the gray robe stared at those copper pillars, absorbed, so much so that even the lift opening once more failed to draw his attention.
"What are you looking at?"
Arthur stepped out of the lift and spoke to his old friend.
"Those difference engines."
The gray-robed man gestured toward the machines resting silently within the insulating fluid. Assembled together, they stood like upright copper columns, rubber-sheathed cables threading through them like seaweed swaying on the ocean floor.
They, too, were products of technology—miracles born with the arrival of the Steam Age. They accelerated multiplication, refined the precision of logarithmic tables, transformed complex functional expressions into difference operations, and replaced squaring with simple addition.
What lay here was only a fraction of them. The largest array of difference engines was being constructed at the Perpetual Pump, offering convenience to those mad scientists.
"Sometimes," the gray-robed man said after a long silence, "I wonder whether we've taken the wrong path."
Another pause followed before he continued.
"Just like steam technology—we've reached a bottleneck. No matter how much we refine it, we cannot break past that limit. Were we mistaken from the very beginning?"
He pondered this, gazing at those ritual-like copper pillars. They were the embodiment of technology—but if civilization were to perish, would new life arise one day and worship them as gods?
"Even these difference engines are no exception. Our idea of pushing something to its limit is simply to make a larger version of it—like the Furnace Pillars, like this Babbage Array."
"That isn't a breakthrough. It's evasion. If this continues, we'll be like an obese man with his throat slowly being crushed."
Silence followed.
On this matter, Arthur had nothing to offer but silence. The man before him was the technological heart of Inlveg. If even he was lost, then only one person in the world might still possess an answer.
"Didn't you go to the End of the World?" Arthur finally asked. "Didn't the Keeper give you an answer?"
All such decisions had always been made by the gray-robed man. Arthur didn't even know where the End of the World lay—it was a secret stored only within his friend's mind.
"No. He didn't even meet me. I nearly froze to death on the ice plains."
There was a trace of bitterness in the gray-robed man's voice. Then he turned to Arthur.
"Compared to all this, the operation in End Town is the priority. So why did you agree to it? Letting a witch-hunter from the Demon-Hunting Order take charge—you know perfectly well what secret blood is. That hunter is a walking source of contamination. If he loses control, the threat will be catastrophic."
"Yes," Arthur replied calmly, "but I believe he can be trusted."
"You haven't even met him, Arthur. Are you letting some so-called intuition guide you now? That kind of thing can be deceived."
The gray-robed man was clearly displeased.
"I know. Which is why I have sufficient reason. Do you remember the intelligence we stockpiled at the Place of Seven Hills for six years? Our intelligence division has finally cracked the key. And frankly—it's far more complicated than we imagined."
"How complicated?"
"Very."
Arthur's voice carried the weight of steel. He looked at the pool, luminous under the lights. The difference engines were running at high speed, the heat generated by friction dissipated through the insulating fluid.
"Our first mistake was a judgment error. The Place of Seven Hills was sealed for six years. You know how small that place is—take a piss anywhere and you might be standing over a buried cardinal. Six years is more than enough to turn the entire city inside out."
Arthur sighed.
"Six years. Even with individual verification, every single identity could have been confirmed."
The gray-robed man's expression hardened. He sensed the danger.
"Our informants were turned?"
"More or less. According to their testimony, they were exposed in the second year. But the Evangelion Church didn't kill them. They only released them recently—and sent them back with intelligence."
This was the part Arthur found most difficult to comprehend.
"This intelligence was deliberately handed to us by the Evangelion Church. We've been cut off from them for too long. This is their gesture—an attempt to reestablish contact."
"A gesture?"
The gray-robed man scoffed. "I don't believe those zealots are capable of goodwill."
"Yet it's the truth. In fact, just minutes ago, we received a telegram from the Place of Seven Hills. In it, the newly appointed Pope expressed his intention to restore diplomatic relations—and to share knowledge concerning demons. If the previous Pope ruled with an iron fist, this one is more like a cunning fox. I can't discern his motives at all."
Hearing information that could reshape the balance of the Western world, the gray-robed man nodded slowly. Then, as though something immense surfaced from beneath a vast oceanic shadow—an ancient monster leaping upward—shock and dread flashed across his face.
He looked at Arthur, icy certainty filling his gaze.
"Wait. You said newly appointed Pope?"
Arthur had anticipated his friend's fear. He nodded once more, repeating himself, his voice distant and heavy.
"That's right. The thirty-sixth Pope of the Evangelion Church."
"Seini Lothair."
The old era had passed.
And the new age arrived in thunder.
…
"Isn't it a beautiful sight?"
"My father always said I was lucky—born at the seam between two ages. The old classes, already petrified, would be swept into the rubbish heap. Everything new would be waiting for the young to seize: steam technology, the East, wealth. There's simply too much in this new era that's worth taking."
Atop the lonely lighthouse, Red Falcon faced the howling sea wind and looked down upon the twisted, grotesque land below, speaking as though he were delivering a reflection on life itself.
"You give me the feeling of a frustrated poet," Eve said bluntly, "the kind who climbs a building just to die and prove a point."
Red Falcon turned to her, his face stricken with sorrow.
"Compared to what's about to happen," he said quietly, "jumping to my death would be far more merciful."
"Hah. Instead of worrying about how to die, you could try helping," Eve snapped. "You may want to die—I don't."
They stood at the very crown of the lighthouse. Its brilliant beam poured out a harmonious, blazing white. Perhaps that eerie green glow had only existed because of the Dreamweaver; now, with the Dreamweaver dead, it was slowly fading away.
But this was no end to a battle. It was the beginning of the final one.
After killing the Dreamweaver, Eve had shaken Red Falcon awake. As they argued over what to do next, the doors at the base of the lighthouse were smashed open. The demons poured in like a swarm of ants.
Fortunately, the captain—the Dreamweaver himself—had fallen from above, his massive corpse blocking much of the entrance and slowing the tide. The two of them cleared out everything from the upper levels, hurling whatever they could downward, bracing the upper doors with all their strength before retreating to the very top of the tower.
From there, they could see the demons surging from beyond the horizon—countless, unnumbered. With the weapons they had now, the only choice left to them was how they wished to die.
"Wait, Eve," Red Falcon suddenly said. "This lamp—it burns oil."
Only then did he notice what made this lighthouse strange. In an age where most lighthouses were powered by electricity, this one still relied on old-fashioned kerosene. A complex lens assembly sat submerged in mercury, sweeping through the darkness as machinery turned.
Eve's eyes lit up at once. As long as there was oil, they could hold out a little longer. It was something Lloyd had once told her: demons feared fire.
"What are you planning to do?" she asked. "Smash it?"
She had seen no reserve fuel anywhere. The oil in the wick was likely the last of it. If they dismantled the lamp, she might be able to hold the demons back for a while—but the pressure of absolute darkness would only grow worse.
"It may be the only way," Red Falcon said. "Otherwise, they'll climb up here sooner or later."
He looked down toward the base of the tower. The demons had piled into a shallow mound, trying to scale the exterior. Inside, the spiral staircase made it difficult for them to force open the heavy doors—for now.
"The choice is yours, madam."
At that moment, Red Falcon displayed that damned gentlemanly streak of his. People tended to grow strange when driven into a corner.
Eve fell silent. She could see the strain on him—his face pale. Unlike her, infused with secret blood, his willpower was being tested to its limit.
"Isn't there… any other chance?"
Eve didn't want to die. There were too many questions left unanswered. She didn't want to end here.
"I'm afraid not."
Red Falcon handed her his communicator. The indicator light was still red. They were stranded on a dark, isolated island—nothing here but the two of them, and the demons below, waiting to feast.
Slowly, Red Falcon raised his gun and aimed at the fragile lens system. One shot would shatter the wick, spill the oil, and burn those damned monsters alive. Of course, in a space this narrow, it was entirely possible that he and Eve would die in the inferno before the demons did.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
It was a brutal decision. They stood a single step away from death.
Eve didn't answer at once. She stared at the communicator in her hand, then closed her eyes. Perhaps this was her ending—buried here in flame and darkness.
"Do it," she said.
At that very moment, the red light turned green.
Static crackled—and then a familiar voice came through.
"Hello? Anyone there?"
Eve's eyes flew open. She stared at the communicator.
"Hey!"
The voice came again. This wasn't a hallucination.
For a heartbeat, Eve froze—then she screamed.
"Red Falcon, don't shoot!"
He didn't. In the instant before pulling the trigger, he heard that damned, familiar voice through the communicator. He stared at the device clutched to the girl's chest.
"Is that you, Eve?"
"Where are you?"
Lloyd's voice was warm and casual—like a mother calling you to breakfast after you've just woken up.
"It's me! We're at a lighthouse! The coordinates are—are—"
Eve faltered, realizing she had no idea how to give their position. But the voice came again, unhurried.
"A lighthouse? I see you."
See them…? Impossible.
And then she understood. That brilliant light in the darkness didn't only draw predators—it also guided those who hunted them. She shuddered at the thought of what would have happened if she had shattered the lamp. The night was pitch-black; without it, there would be no direction at all.
"Where are you?!" Eve shouted—then immediately added, "Don't come closer! It's crawling with demons—you can't handle this!"
There were demons like grains of sand in a desert. Coming here would be suicide.
But the voice returned again, calm and steady.
"Twelve o'clock."
"What?"
She didn't understand.
"Twelve o'clock," the voice repeated.
This time, she lifted her head and stared into the blackness at the edge of her vision. As the man's countdown echoed through the communicator, the roar of steam grew clearer.
"Three."
"Two."
"One."
And then—she saw it.
A long, mournful whistle cut through the night. Headlights tore open the darkness. A creation of steel surged forward—heavy carriages tearing free of rails, charging across the land in a storm of sparks. The entire train lunged like a colossal serpent, crushing demon after demon beneath its unstoppable mass.
"Ladies and gentlemen," came the voice,
"this is the Radiance Express. I am your conductor for this journey—Mr. Lloyd Holmes."
The demon hunter stood atop the violently swaying engine, arms spread wide as if to embrace the world itself. Blood poured from a massive wound in his palm, scattering across the train in the raging wind.
"Be moved!"
"Rejoice!"
"Bear witness!"
The voice in the communicator carried a note of narcissism—bordering on madness.
"This is the great rescue," he declared,
"brought to you by Lloyd Holmes!"
"At eighty kilometers per hour!"
It was a feral cry that tore through despair itself—an act so brazen it shattered courage and reason alike.
Endless, blazing white flames erupted from the blood he scattered. The incandescent train, wreathed in fire, came crashing down like a flaming sword guarding the gates of heaven.