The dusk over Old Dunlin was far from beautiful. The sky hung low, a dome of endless steam and ash that smothered the horizon. Sunlight, stripped of its warmth, bled faintly through the haze, turning the clouds into a blur of crimson — as though the heavens themselves were raining fire upon the dying city.
A zeppelin drifted through the murky sea of clouds like a black whale, its shadow vast and mythic to those watching from the ground below.
Lloyd sat comfortably in the pilot's chair. Ever since he had altered the route of the steam tram, those he had been tailing had vanished from his sight.
"Detective," he said into the wind without turning back, "we could cooperate, you know."
He didn't care how the woman behind him — Eve — was reacting. His voice was calm, unhurried, carried by the turbulence.
"Our goal is the same — those people. Once we catch them, we'll have the lead we need. What happens afterward... can wait. What do you say?"
Eve hesitated. The airship shuddered under a crosswind, and after a brief moment of thought, she lowered her gun. Their time together had been short, yet Lloyd had already left a deep impression on her.
She had never met someone so composed — so utterly in control. There was something heavy and impenetrable about him, as though the world itself moved according to his rhythm.
"So you're agreeing to my proposal, then?"
Lloyd's gaze, half-veiled beneath gray-blue light, carried a subtle glint — a promise, or perhaps a hidden trap.
"Lloyd Holmers," he said at last.
A name — the first step toward trust.
Eve hesitated, then extended her hand. Yet just as she was about to speak her own name, Lloyd withdrew his hand with a faint smile.
"Eve Worshal. I already know who you are."
Her eyes widened. "How do you—?"
A chill of suspicion ran through her. In that instant, she regretted their fragile alliance.
"I'm a detective. That sort of thing is simple," Lloyd replied, his eyes scanning her with the precision of a craftsman appraising a piece of work.
"New uniform, spotless attire — you're fresh from the academy. You should really see how your colleagues look most of the time. Drunkards, the lot of them. You, on the other hand, stand out like a crystal among mud."
He tilted his head slightly, as if delivering a professional assessment rather than an insult.
"Driven. Passionate. Righteous. You're the textbook graduate — still clinging to your illusions about justice, eager to prove yourself."
He sighed, shaking his head with mock sorrow.
"Another child misled by the glitter of newspaper headlines. This job isn't as glorious as you think. It's not a world where shouting 'hands up!' makes criminals obey. The cowards will run. The brave ones will shoot before you finish your sentence."
His tone was cruelly accurate. To Eve, it felt as though he had peeled back her armor and laid bare something raw beneath it.
"And you're nobility," he added, nodding at the silver chain around her neck — its small ruby pendant glinting like a drop of blood. It must have slipped from under her collar during the last jolt.
"That's not something a common aristocrat can afford," Lloyd murmured. "You know, the police registry usually flags recruits from noble families — just to make sure the precious sons and daughters don't die on the job. You can check the list yourself. It's probably still pinned to your bulletin board."
He smiled again — that calm, unsettling smile. In Eve's eyes, he was growing more enigmatic, more dangerous by the second.
"You… how do you know about internal police matters?"
The Suarlan Bureau wasn't exactly open to the public.
"My poor nephew died this morning. Surely I'm allowed to file a report, aren't I?" Lloyd's smile didn't waver.
The truth was simple: names likeSuarlan HallorCity Councilhad never intimidated him. With the right excuse, any door in this city could be opened.
"There are only a few noble recruits. Only one of them's a woman. I'd wager that's you, isn't it — Eve Worshal?"
She stared at him, speechless — fear flickering behind her eyes. Lloyd looked pleased.
He had always called himself nothing more than asecond-rate detective with a talent for lies. There were no geniuses in this world — and if there were, they'd be locked up in the Mechanical Institute long before ever turning to crime-solving.
Why waste a mind capable of reshaping civilization on catching petty murderers?
The perfect lie, Lloyd believed, was built on truth. He would never tell Eve that her police ID had slipped out during the crash, nor that the butcher known asShrikealready had eyes inside the Suarlan Bureau — eyes that reported every movement in the city by nightfall.
Truth, when paired with elegant deduction, created faith. Even if riddled with flaws, the illusion stood firm — because the result was real. Just like a mathematical proof: if the logic checks out, no one dares question the absurdity of the conclusion.
"Now," he said with that trademark smile, "do you believe I'm really a detective?"
He didn't need an answer. Victory already gleamed in his eyes.
"Where are we heading now?" Eve asked. Though temporarily allied, her guard hadn't lowered.
"To intercept them. Their destination's the Lower District. There are many routes to get there, but only one main gate wide enough for horses to pass quickly."
Old Dunlin's way ofgoverningthe chaos below was through isolation. Massive walls and tenement blocks divided the two districts, leaving only a few guarded arteries open for movement.
Yes, there were secret tunnels between buildings — dug long ago by smugglers — but the fugitives were on horseback. If they wanted speed, they'd have to take the gate.
And they weren't just being chased by Lloyd. The mounted police from Suarlan Bureau would already be in pursuit by now, the echoes of gunfire following close behind.
"How can you be sure we'll catch up?" Eve demanded.
Lloyd simply pointed to the route map pinned above the cockpit.
"You really should keep up with the daily news," he said. "The Lower District's just been added to the Iron Serpent line."
Lloyd had a peculiar habit—he read the newspaper religiously, and once a week he'd walk down to the city hall just to see if any new decrees had been issued.
That habit, oddly enough, came from a movie he'd once seen in a dream—a black-humored film where Earth was destroyed to make way for an intergalactic highway, simply because no one had checked the latest notices at the Galactic Council.
But dreams belong to yesterday. Let's return to the present.
A few months ago, Old Dunling decided to extend the Iron Serpent railway toward the Lower District. Lloyd guessed some high-ranking official was preparing to move against that part of the city—just like they did long ago.
Once the tracks reached the Lower District and the armored serpents began their patrols, Old Dunling would be able to "purify" the filth below at any time. But the operation collapsed almost as soon as it began.
The tracks were laid, yes—but not a single Iron Serpent could enter. The outlaws who lived there were far more united than anyone expected. The plan was quickly abandoned, and the railways became smuggling routes for the gangs instead. The black market flourished overnight. Lloyd still remembered the way Beryl laughed about it.
"It's a failure, sure—but those tracks still connect the outer and lower districts. It's just that no one dares drive through."
Overlaying the map in his mind with the rail diagram glowing on the control panel, Lloyd knew—he could intercept them, right outside the Lower District.
The convoy sped forward, events spiraling far beyond their expectations. Just as Lloyd had warned, the mounted police from Sualan Hall were already closing in, their shrill whistles echoing like doomsday bells.
The situation was dire, but the Lower District loomed just ahead. Once they crossed that border, even Sualan Hall would hesitate to follow. If they could just reach it, this dreadful day might finally end.
By then, the sky was already half-swallowed by night, with only streaks of red cloud casting their dying glow.
This was the interval of Old Dunling—when daylight wanes and darkness has yet to descend.
A cool breeze whispered through, steam whistles echoed across the streets.
They were almost there—when suddenly, a thunderous roar erupted. The ground trembled. And out of the fog, the Iron Serpent came crashing through.
"Finally caught up with you!"
The mist tore apart—enter the great detective, with all the drama of a curtain rising.
Inside the cab, Lloyd raised his Winchester and fired without hesitation. The mounted police behind joined the chaos; to them, Lloyd was just another enemy. Bullets sang, tearing holes through the train car's metal skin.
Almost there, they thought—but then the Iron Serpent surged forward, closing the distance behind them.
Gunfire. Explosions. The world dissolved into chaos. Heat and noise swallowed everything—the screams, the shockwaves, the taste of blood.
Then the Iron Serpent derailed.
After building the Lower District rails, the first thing the gangs did was sever the line connecting it to the outer city. The route was straight—but broken.
The Iron Serpent rolled and twisted, crushing foes beneath its weight until it was nothing more than a mangled heap of metal. Blood streaked the ground in long, wet trails; the half-alive groaned faintly beneath the wreck.
Eve's head throbbed; her body felt shattered. Thrown clear in the final moment, she rose on trembling legs, her vision blurred with tears of pain—and saw, beneath the crimson clouds, a black silhouette.
Lloyd stood not far from the wreckage, a shotgun in one hand and his cane in the other, one boot pressing down on a still-breathing man.
"Looks like it's just you left, friend."
The shotgun's dark muzzle hung low. No one could tell if Lloyd would pull the trigger.
"I won't tell you anything,"the man said calmly, indifferent to the nearness of death.
"Oh?"
Lloyd smiled faintly—he was good at breaking the unbreakable. But before he could speak again, the man's head burst open beneath his boot.
The smile froze.
He looked up—and there, under the decaying archways, a wounded figure stared back at him, smoke still rising from the gun barrel they slipped beneath their coat before turning away.
The insurance man. The last survivor.
This time, Lloyd was truly angry. But just as he took a step forward, he stopped. Figures emerged from every direction, armed with guns and blades, their presence thick with menace.
Then he realized something.
He turned back—and saw the glittering skyline of Old Dunling just a hundred meters away. The mounted police stood in perfect formation, rifles raised skyward, dividing luxury from filth with a wall of iron. Their eyes were cold, unblinking.
Lloyd had crossed into the Lower District. The Iron Serpent's wreck had crushed his enemies—but also carried him past the point of no return.
More gangsters emerged, wave after wave, until they filled the streets like a living tide.
There was no way back. Behind him waited arrest; ahead, certain death.
And just when despair was closing in—another gunshot rang out.
Eve stood trembling, both hands clutching the pistol. A thug lay sprawled before her, a smoking hole in his chest.
Noticing Lloyd's gaze, she stammered,
"He—he touched me first!"
The moment hung awkward in the smoky air.
Before Lloyd could answer, the dark tide surged forward again.