The mirror reflected the grotesquely overgrown tree behind him, its inky veins twisting deep into the dark, as though beneath the bark there was no living flesh at all—only an abyss no hand could ever reach.
Only after a careful inspection and finding nothing out of place did Lloyd pull on his nightclothes. Ever since the Ender Town operation, he had once more driven his Secret Blood at full intensity—a surge of power he had not felt in a long time. Its return was both familiar and deeply unsettling.
That was why he performed this ritual check every single day.
The strange tattoo across his back was the product of the Demon Hunters' alchemical craft—a discipline now rarer and more mysterious than the fiends themselves. After all, demons possessed terrifying vitality; a few of them always survived. But alchemists, crushed beneath the march of modern steam technology, had nearly vanished. Perhaps the last true alchemist in the world had already died of illness in some forgotten alley. The markings etched into Lloyd's skin might well be the final swan song of that art.
The tattoo was an alchemical matrix carved directly into the flesh of a hunter. Its functions were many, but the simplest explanation was this: Secret Blood was the power source, and the matrix determined what that power was meant to do.
According to the angels described in the Gospels, these powers were divided into branches bearing different names. Take Ade's Michael Branch, for example—their alchemical matrices granted them the authority to burn all things. Their Purifying Flame burned hotter than that of ordinary hunters; at its peak, their very bodies could briefly turn to living fire, writhing and surging like wild elements unleashed.
Within the Order, hunters were assigned different duties based on their branch. Those of the Michael Branch were executioners and purifiers—once a demon was captured, they could carry out immolation anywhere, at any time.
Lloyd belonged instead to the more solemn Metatron Branch. Their authority allowed Secret Blood to proliferate and form incomparably sturdy divine metal armor. Hunters of Metatron served as the Pope's guardians, clad in sacred armor as they stood watch in the shadows of Saint Nalo Cathedral.
If the Popes across history were the mortals closest to God, then the Metatron hunters were those closest to the Pope—agents of the divine will, the ones who stood nearest the throne.
And yet, at his core, Lloyd was no longer entirely the same as the others. Since the Night of Holy Descent and the strange events he had endured, something had taken root in his mind. He did not know what he was becoming, nor in what direction he was drifting.
He lay down in bed. The ceiling above him was plastered with posters—bars, scheduled dances, luxury boutiques, fine restaurants.
A person needed reasons to go on living. So every night before sleep, Lloyd would stare at those posters for a long while, thinking about what he might eat tomorrow, what he might do, where he might go. With such thoughts, he could greet the coming day with the faintest trace of anticipation.
He closed his eyes, and the demon hunter fell into a deep sleep.
Only after the hunter slept did another door in 121A Cork Street slowly creak open. A man stepped out, his body heavy with fatigue. He looked utterly worn down, his hair messy as though it hadn't been tended in ages.
Sig glanced at Lloyd's door. He very much wanted to greet the roommate he had not seen in so long, but it seemed their schedules now missed each other perfectly.
It was close to midnight. Having just woken up, Sig felt painfully hungry. He wasn't sure whether any restaurants were still open, so perhaps he could try his luck in the first-floor kitchen.
Sig was a mechanic, born somewhere too obscure to bother naming. Though of humble origin, he was bright. Through sheer intelligence he had earned admission to a mechanical institute in Old Dunling. It was far from the prestigious universities, but it was still his ticket toward the upper layers of society.
After that, life unfolded in an ordinary way. Sig worked and studied, graduated smoothly, and now held a mechanic's post at a factory.
There was nothing especially glorious in his past, nor anything unbearably dark. Sig was, in every sense, a standard-issue ordinary man.
He tried to avoid drawing Mrs. Van Rood's attention. Despite living here so long, he had never figured out her schedule. No matter the hour, the old woman always seemed awake, liable to appear from nowhere and startle the life out of you.
Rummaging through the fridge, Sig found some sausages. Not exactly delicious, but enough to fill his stomach. He sat down with the plate. In the deep of night, with no one else around, he unexpectedly felt a faint sense of what it meant to be alive.
Life at the factory was harsh. The air was stifling, his nose forever filled with the smell of machine oil. The roar of machinery never ceased. To sleep there, Sig needed earplugs, and even then rest came with difficulty. His mental state was terrible.
He was savoring this brief peace when suddenly a plate was pushed in front of him. Mrs. Van Rood glared fiercely and said,
"Eat this. That stuff's too cold."
Sig froze, startled and flustered, like a child caught sneaking food at night.
"I… I thought you were asleep."
"Old people don't need that much sleep."
She pulled over a chair and sat beside him, eating together at the table. The atmosphere was awkward; they chewed in silence until she suddenly spoke again.
"You haven't been back for half a month, have you?"
Sig nodded.
"The factory added a new production line. The new machines have lots of problems."
The dim yellow light fell across their faces, almost like a family conversation. Mrs. Van Rood asked once more,
"And how are you feeling? You haven't been touching those hallucinogens again, have you?"
So it had come to this. Sig looked embarrassed. After a long pause, he answered,
"No. I won't touch that stuff again."
Her aged eyes fixed on him like a judge's. After a long while, she finally looked away and speared half a sausage with her fork.
"I hope that's true… Sig, you're not like Lloyd. That boy may be a bit neurotic and unreliable, but he knows very clearly what he wants, so I never worry about him. You're different. You're easily influenced, just like when you used those drugs before. If I hadn't found out early, I don't dare imagine what you would've become."
For once, Mrs. Van Rood openly showed concern for her tenants. If Lloyd could see this scene, he would probably suspect she'd been possessed by a demon.
Sig lowered his head. It was his stain, and he couldn't deny it. On the surface he was a proper mechanic with a steady job, but for a long time before, he had used hallucinogens at night.
The drugs had plagued Old Dunling for years. Though driven underground by official crackdowns, the harm remained obvious. The wretches wandering the Lower District were proof enough.
"And you know what kind of work Lloyd does. You don't want to be looked down on, do you?"
She asked it lightly, then left a business card on the table.
"Sig, I hope you don't mind. It's for your own good. A friend of mine runs a mutual aid group. I hope it can help you."
"Dreams are a place to rest, not a place to hide."
Mrs. Van Rood left. Only after a long while did Sig finally move again. He rolled up his sleeve. Along his arm ran a row of needle marks.
A feeling called shame slowly swallowed him whole.