Was this what death felt like?
Though Lloyd was standing in a sea of flames, he could feel none of their scorching agony. Instead, it was as if he were submerged in an invisible ocean, surrounded by an indescribable cold. It felt as though vines carved from ice were coiling around his body, binding him tighter with every passing moment.
It was an unexpected sensation. This was hardly the first time Lloyd had faced death. He had spent so much of his life teetering on the boundary between life and death, brushing shoulders with the god who presided over the departed, only to walk away with everything on the table before the executioner's blade could fall. He had always managed to escape with his winnings intact.
But it seemed that this time, Lloyd would not be walking away unscathed.
Moriarty was still alive. He let out a pained groan amid the flames, one hand clutching the hideous wound in his head while the other seized his nail sword and waved it about wildly. The man had no swordsmanship to speak of. Without his Authority, he was nothing more than an ordinary madman. Yet even with Lloyd having slashed his eyes blind, Moriarty still refused to concede defeat.
Like Lloyd, he would not stop until he was truly, utterly dead.
Lloyd reached out and slowly pulled the nail sword from his chest. Blood welled through the gap between steel and flesh, but before long, the flow dwindled to nothing. It was as though the succession of wounds had drained this body of everything it had to give.
Death was a curious thing. Everyone had their own understanding of it. According to the teachings of the Gospel Church, death was a blessing: the faithful would ascend to Heaven, while sinners would descend into Hell. Others believed that death led to another world, a desolate place of ashen gray and solitude, where no matter which direction one traveled, the same endless gray stretched into the distance. There, one endured a despair so profound it seemed almost eternal.
To Lloyd, death held none of that mythological grandeur. Dead was dead. Nothing remained, nothing could be carried forward. It was like a dream from which one would never awaken.
There was, however, one distinction. Lloyd had always believed that death was a long process, not the kind of death defined by biology. He believed the death of the body was only the beginning. True death came when the very last person who remembered the deceased finally forgot them. That was the end of death itself.
No one would remember them. No one would know their past. Everything they had been, everything they had experienced in their lives, would dissolve into dust and scatter into nothingness, as though they had never truly existed in this world at all.
Forgetting was true death.
Something stirred within him, and Lloyd gradually began to remember. Beneath his chest, he could feel a violent pounding, though he could not tell whether it came from joy or fear.
This name was a wish...
He twisted the blade with all his remaining strength, slowly drawing it out of his flesh.
Lloyd could not die yet. He was the only one who still remembered those people. If he died, those poor souls would truly be gone. Even if it was only for the sake of those unfortunate bastards, Lloyd had to keep living.
He was no longer the solitary demon hunter he had once been. Little by little, he began to remember everything—the things that had been deliberately concealed from him.
At last, the nail sword that had pierced his chest came free. Lloyd leaned on it to keep himself from collapsing under the loss of blood.
Something strange caught his eye. A twisted fragment clung to the blade. His vision was growing increasingly blurred, but he could still make out its shape.
Lloyd recognized it. Arthur had given him this insignia, saying it was a little gift from Seleu, a token of the Stuart family's generosity. So this was what had saved him. Moriarty's nail sword had never pierced his heart. This tiny object had stopped it.
"A second chance..."
Lloyd whispered the words and forced himself to his feet. Moriarty was still alive. The battle was not over. Staggering, Lloyd began to make his way toward him.
The entire engine room was burning and collapsing around them, yet the core furnace continued to churn out power. Twisted flesh sprawled in every direction, gradually wrapping itself around everyone in its path. Neither Lloyd nor Moriarty had escaped its grasp.
"You're still alive, aren't you, Lloyd Holmes?!"
Moriarty could no longer see, but he could sense Lloyd's presence. He threw his head back and roared.
The twisted flesh had begun burrowing into his body. After Lloyd's devastating blows, Moriarty had lost the ability to control the Yanar demon hunters. Now the grotesque flesh had run rampant. Thick, muscular tentacles coiled around the Riesenbach layer upon layer, draping the steel vessel in a spreading shroud of blood-red growth.
They were prey trapped in a spider's web, being devoured by a demon that had slipped its leash.
Lloyd remained silent. With what little strength he had left, he swung his sword, severing the flesh as it crept toward him. Before him, the furnace blazed like the sun, its surface covered in hideous masses of flesh. And those same masses were gradually assimilating Moriarty, making him one with the thing he had unleashed.
It seemed the man truly had little fighting ability of his own. His greatest strength had always been his mastery of Authority. Without it, Moriarty had reverted to the pathetic madman he had always been beneath the surface, struggling helplessly as the demon consumed him.
That wouldn't do. Lloyd intended to kill Moriarty with his own hands. He wasn't about to let that damned demon steal the victory from him.
He shuffled forward, step by painstaking step. Entangled in the flesh, Moriarty finally stopped moving as well. He heard the faint sound of approaching footsteps and burst into laughter.
"So you really are still alive!"
He was positively delighted. Though blind, Moriarty could still move. He tried to follow the sound of the footsteps, but most of his body had already been assimilated and bound by the demon's flesh.
Without the slightest hesitation, he hacked wildly at the flesh holding him captive, severing every strand he could reach, whether it belonged to the demon or to himself.
He kept swinging as though he could no longer feel pain. At last, he wrenched his arm free from the mass of flesh, though a section of it had already been severed. His right leg had been broken by his own frenzied blows, and blood poured endlessly from the wound. But he no longer cared. Bracing himself on his nail sword with his one remaining arm, he inched toward Lloyd.
Their battle was not over. Until it was, no one would be allowed to interfere.
His battered, staggering silhouette seemed to grow taller amid the sea of flames.
"I'm beginning to think you really are a madman," Lloyd remarked, with a trace of admiration.
Beneath the inferno, that grotesque figure threw back his head and laughed.
"This is a wretched world. I cannot set it right, so I can only let it set me right instead."
The two men slowly drew closer, like desperate fugitives who had reached the end of the road. Each clutched the only sword he had left, stubbornly striking at the other for one absurd reason after another.
The clash of steel stirred the sparks, sending them swirling into burning trails through the air.
Just as expected, Moriarty's swordsmanship was abysmal. Lloyd's blade slipped past his wild swing and severed his remaining arm in a single stroke. Blood scattered through the flames as the severed limb, still gripping the nail sword, vanished into the inferno.
"I win, Moriarty," Lloyd said softly.
But then he saw it.
Beneath the enormous scar that nearly cleaved Moriarty's skull in two, a faint glow of fire flickered within the depths of his blood-smeared face, buried in that profound darkness.
Moriarty's smile twisted into something increasingly grotesque. This was a technique Lloyd himself had used before.
"I'm a quick learner, aren't I, Lloyd Holmes?"
Moriarty had captured Lloyd the moment Lloyd slashed out his eyes. He had been feigning weakness all along, waiting for this final moment to deliver a fatal blow.
Authority—Raphael.
The illusions converged into one. The severed arm dissolved into countless sparks, and in the next instant, another sword thrust forward. Guided by the sound of Lloyd's voice, Moriarty had pinpointed his position.
A razor-sharp flash of steel descended before Lloyd's eyes, its tip stopping at his throat. Yet after an overwhelming wave of frigid cold swept over him, the blade could advance no farther.
Moriarty was dead.
In truth, Lloyd could not even be certain whether he was alive or dead. Amid the burning inferno, every figure had become twisted and grotesque, like demons writhing in the depths of Hell.
Lloyd could no longer make out Moriarty's face, but he could see countless tentacles piercing his body. The madman who had spent so long manipulating others had, in the end, become the one being manipulated. At the final moment, the grotesquely growing flesh had swallowed him whole.
So had Lloyd won?
He had expected some earth-shattering battle. Instead, it had come down to two utterly wretched men grappling with each other in a ridiculous brawl, and even at the very end, neither had managed to claim a decisive victory.
Because Lloyd, too, was dead—or at least, that was what he believed.
Countless tentacles had pierced his body as well, halting the sword strike that should have severed Moriarty's head. His blade hung suspended in midair, unable to complete its final descent.
In the next instant, a surge of flames swallowed the entire engine room. The wildly proliferating flesh finally broke through its steel confines. From the perspective of the Dawnbound, sailing toward the Riesenbach, the sight was unmistakable: even the enormous gas envelope was crawling with fleshy vines, tangled among countless severed limbs and corpses.
Lloyd's consciousness gradually dissolved into confusion. After the endless heat came a cold as profound as the deep sea. He heard someone calling his name, and so he opened his eyes.
...
On the deck, 042 opened his eyes.
He was drenched from head to toe, though not because he had fallen into the sea and been hauled back aboard. Rather, he was smeared with layer upon layer of blood, his own mingling with everyone else's and spreading all the way to the far end of the deck.
He was utterly exhausted. Clutching his broken nail sword, he tilted his head back.
Above him stretched a beautiful night sky, crystal clear. Countless stars glittered beside a luminous moon, sweeping across the heavens. A soft, hazy white light descended like a curtain, veiling the sea below.
"How beautiful..."
042 could not help marveling at the sight. In all his years, this might have been the farthest he had ever traveled from Fei Lengcui. He was happy. Of course, what made him even happier was what lay ahead. In just a few more days and nights, he would see a city rise beyond the horizon. He would reach a new land and begin a new life.
Just as 047 had so often told him, a whole new life awaited him in that place called Old Dunling.
Even imagining it filled 042 with a sense of wonder. He almost felt that simply dreaming of that beautiful land, then dying beneath this beautiful night sky, would not be such a bad way to go.
Yes. For someone like him, this would be a wonderful funeral.
He slowly raised his hand. Blood had completely soaked his palm.
His condition was dire. During the fierce battle just moments ago, he had suffered grievous injuries fighting the demonized demon hunters. A gaping wound marred his abdomen, exposing white bone and viscera, while blood continued to pour from the injury.
042 no longer had the strength to fight. Yet aboard this fleeing vessel, the thunder of gunfire continued to ring out. At first, it had been accompanied by the clash of blades and the roar of men, but as the gunshots went on, those other sounds gradually faded away. Before long, only the monotonous reports of firearms remained.
Then even the gunfire fell silent.
Someone was approaching 042.
The man wore a suit of divine armor riddled with cracks and carried a short-barreled shotgun in his hand. Blood stained the barrel. As he walked, pieces of his armor began to fall away one after another, clattering against the deck and revealing the battered body beneath.
He came to 042 without a word, leaned against the wall, and slowly lowered himself to sit beside him.
"Is it all over?" 042 asked.
"Yeah," the man replied. "The out-of-control demon hunters have all been dealt with. They're nothing but corpses now, and their bodies haven't even gone cold yet."
"What do we do now?" 042 asked again.
The man remained silent for a long time before finally smiling.
"We do what we agreed on. We head for Invelg, for Old Dunling. Fei Lengcui is in chaos now. They won't have the resources to come after us. All we need to do is take new names, and we can live like ordinary people."
"That sounds wonderful..."
042 spoke softly.
"Now that I think about it, freedom is a heavy thing to carry, isn't it?"
From the moment this burning night began, 042 had fought without pause, killing one person after another, one demon after another. Together with the man beside him, he had fought his way out of the Seven Hills, then broken through the encirclement of the Knights Templar. They had seized a ship preparing to leave port and believed they had finally survived.
But one by one, their companions had succumbed to madness.
They had kept killing—killing their enemies, killing their comrades, until at last, they were killing themselves.
"But at least we got what we wanted, didn't we, 042?" the man said. "You never imagined it would really happen, did you? That one day, we would actually leave Fei Lengcui and be free to do whatever we wanted."
The man raised his head as well, gazing at the beautiful night sky.
"Yeah..." 042 murmured. "It's just a shame that 016 won't get to see any of this."
The man's expression darkened once more. Sorrow clouded his gray-blue eyes.
042 stiffened slightly. He was grieving, too. He wanted to comfort the man, but when he tried to speak, no words came. After a long silence, he finally managed a helpless murmur.
"What a terrible night..."
During their escape, the two had exchanged what they knew: the events that had unfolded inside the Stagnant Sanctuary, and those that had taken place in the Dry Well.
So many people had died tonight. Familiar demon hunters, as well as powerful figures who had occupied the highest positions in society.
"That's why I've been thinking," 042 said. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if this so-called Golden Age really came? There'd be no more demons, 016 wouldn't have died, and none of these terrible things would ever have happened."
"The Golden Age, huh..." The man brightened at the thought. "That does sound wonderful. But forget about all that for now, 042. Our new life is just within reach. Think about the good things waiting for us."
"The good things..." 042 smiled faintly. "To be honest, I don't even know what I'll do once I get to Old Dunling. You know me. I'm not exactly the most interesting person."
The deck lay silent around them, strewn with corpses. The ship sailed on without a sound beneath the solemn night sky.
"Then why not become my assistant?" the man suggested.
"You're really going to open that agency?"
"Of course I am! How many times have I told you? I'm going to open a detective agency. With the physical abilities and skills we demon hunters possess, we'll make a fortune."
"That doesn't sound bad."
"Naturally!"
The man was brimming with confidence, but then his expression grew serious again. He turned to 042 and asked, "But... what is it that you want to do? 042, that's my dream, not yours."
"My... dream?"
"That's right. What do you want to do, 042? Everyone has something they cling to, something that gives them the strength to keep living. What is it that keeps you going? What is your wish?"
042 fell silent, his gaze growing distant and vacant.