Heavy clouds devoured the moon, plunging Old Dunling into an abyssal darkness. Towers rose in clustered masses, and under the faintest glimmer of light, they loomed like a grotesquely twisted iron forest.
Zeppelins still patrolled the skies. Their brilliant searchlights swept past, yet refused to share even a single beam with the Lower City below—a place so dark that the eye could hardly distinguish anything beyond the void.
Tonight, the city was under martial law. Every route leading downwards was heavily barricaded—not by the mounted police, but by the Royal Guard, rifles loaded and fingers tense on the trigger. No one knew when they arrived. By the time the people noticed… the soldiers were already there.
Iron boots struck the rain-slick stone, the metallic echo carrying through the lifeless alleyways.
Draped in crimson cloaks, the soldiers bore the newly forged "Dragon Roar" rifles from the Mechanical Academy—a weapon described as a cannon disguised as a gun. With each shot, a three-foot blaze spurted from the muzzle. The thunder of the blast sent a heavy slug screaming forth, tearing through flesh and even ship-decks behind it. Developed for siege warfare, its volleys shattered brick defenses like brittle clay.
Cold whistles hung from their lips, and at times a raven-like screech pierced the darkness—death's summons given voice.
"They won't march into the Lower City… right?"
Berlau asked while sneezing. Height brings cold; this was a lookout platform disguised on the records as a steam tower. Here, a commander could survey the battlefield and issue orders from above.
Even with scorching steam roaring around, Berlau still felt chilled and pulled his coat tighter.
"They're sealing the exits. Under the Dragon Roar, no one leaves the Lower City before dawn."
Tonight's events must remain buried. Not even the Royal Guard could be allowed to know the full truth.
Galahad stared toward where a flicker of light shimmered in the dark, calm and unwavering as always.
"And if there are too many demons? Can they hold against a horde?" Berlau's voice carried unease. The Lower City sat right beside the Outer District—hell and paradise separated by a mere street.
"This is Old Dunling. No demon must escape. Not a single one may rise from that underworld."
Because Galahad knew exactly what would unfold before the night ended.
Ahead of them stretched a district of ruins, but both men understood that beneath those shattered facades lay a subterranean feast—where revelers reveled in sinful bliss, unaware that death already tapped upon the door.
"This is the age of steam now. A symphony of gunfire can shatter any foe. Remember those winged cavalry who clung to the glory of the old days? They once dominated the continent, armor light or heavy at will—angels of war with wings upon their backs."
Disdain curled Galahad's words—contempt for a bygone era.
"In the end, they were nothing but relics buried with history. Their proud armor meant nothing against black powder. The final winged brigade was obliterated mid-charge by artillery fire. Only their commander reached the enemy's tower—but he was just one man. The battle had already been decided."
"This is the dawn of a new age, Berlau. If the proud winged knights fell to us, what chance do those demons have? They belong to the old world. And the old world deserves a proper grave."
He spoke with chilling serenity. Dim light caught his iron mask, and the scent of gunpowder lingered over him like a shroud.
"Looks like a lot of people will die tonight… Tell me, why strike now? We still haven't uncovered that mysterious Duke's identity. Aren't we risking alarm?"
Berlau gazed down at his domain—this filthy heap of refuse. And if this was a rat's kingdom, then he was its rat-king. He knew all too well how many would perish by sunrise.
"We're out of time. We found traces of the Plague Doctor. He should be somewhere in that subterranean revelry. You know what he'll do once he acts… and by then, nothing can be undone."
Silence settled. Berlau understood—the Plague Doctor Galahad spoke of. And tonight, Galahad was the commander; Berlau merely assisted.
"That great detective should be down there too, correct?"
"Yes. Without his intelligence, we would never have realized Sabot was helping them."
Galahad checked his pocket watch. Not yet time. A few minutes still remained.
"Can you reach the detective? Tell him to get out. Tonight is no place for a detective."
"You're… cleansing the entire underworld?"
Berlau's expression hardened. A massacre, plain and simple.
"No one knows what the Plague Doctor will unleash. Arthur wants every trace erased."
After a long, heavy pause, Berlau exhaled. There was no contact. The latest miracle of communication—wireless radio—was still exclusive to the Purification Bureau. The outside world remained blissfully unaware such a thing existed.
Lloyd would not hear him. The detective was alone.
"Seems your precious detective is doomed to die there," Galahad said coldly.
"No. He's a menace. And as the saying goes—scourges live a thousand years."
Berlau grinned, utterly confident in that troublesome man.
"Scourges live a thousand years…?"
Galahad raised an eyebrow, puzzled by this distant phrase from the East. Even after the Midgard Serpent had shrunk the world into one cradle of fate, that far-off Orient remained little more than a half-whispered myth.
The age of steam had ignited a revolution—so fierce that even the great dragon slumbering in the East was stirred awake. After the Glorious War, Ingervig's mastery of steam reached its pinnacle: new steam-powered warships and colossal airships took to the seas and skies, cannons of terrifying power gleamed upon every deck. People believed none could ever again challenge Ingervig's supremacy among the nations—until the dragon came.
It was a morning drowning in fog. Sailors carried out their routine inspections, preparing for another voyage, when the sea suddenly rose into relentless waves that battered the humble fishing vessels as though a storm had arrived too soon.
They looked up—and every soul froze.
Out of the suffocating mist emerged a leviathan of wood and iron. Towering. Mythic. As if an ancient beast from forgotten epics had returned to claim dominion over the sea.
Two civilizations collided in that one breathless moment. Even the proud seamen of Ingervig stood terrified, their minds unable to comprehend what loomed before them. The royal flagship itself would appear no more than a child's toy beside this vessel. And the structure—steamships had existed for nearly a century, yet this giant seemed carved from history itself: built not from iron but from unyielding timber, seamless as though it grew from the trunk of a world-bearing tree.
It was the warship known as the Kui-long.
Its sails stretched wide enough to blot out the sun, stitched with the sprawling figure of an Eastern dragon. Hundreds of cannons extended from its flanks. At its prow snarled a dragon's head—so lifelike that many believed they were witnessing the apocalypse.
Yet the true terror came with sunrise.
As the mist thinned and sunlight revealed the sea, people saw the countless silhouettes behind the giant. Hundreds of ships—each as colossal—marching across the waves beneath banners that fluttered like migrating scarlet sparrows, like a firestorm sweeping across the heavens.
A fleet that had crossed the world.
Panic spread instantly through Rayndorna's harbor and surged all the way into the Platinum Palace of old Dunling. Though their weapons were decades behind Ingervig's own, no one believed victory was possible against these eastern titans.
It was the first time the people of Ingervig had laid eyes on those from the East. They imagined monsters from rumor—yet the general called Zuo Zhen came not with war. Armored like a god of steel, he strode into the Platinum Palace bearing a decree from his Emperor and offering gifts from the East. In return, the Queen granted them knowledge from the Academy of Machinery—secrets of steam. Then, like a storm passing, the eastern fleet vanished beyond the horizon, and for more than a decade, the sea remained quiet.
Until tonight.
"Good men die young, while scourges live a thousand years."
Berlau muttered, pulling his coat tighter. No steam hissed from the vents—only icy droplets clung to the metal.
"It means," he continued, "those shackled by their own conscience rarely live long… while despicable vermin survive to the bitter end."
"You think he's vermin?" Galahad was truly surprised. He never expected Berlau to pass such a judgment.
"Oh yes. Only cowards run to a new life to escape the old one. Lloyd Holmes is the worst of them."
Berlau's tone was calm. Too calm.
"But precisely because of that, he'll live. So don't waste concern—just strike. That detective will survive no matter what."
He recalled how Lloyd had first appeared: a man barely recognizable as living. Festering wounds. Hollow eyes. Darkness clinging to him like a shroud. Yet he did not die—not then, and certainly not tonight.
滴——滴——
A soft beeping cut through the darkness. The communicator on Berlau's chest flickered to life—a marvel of the Academy of Machinery: wireless transmission of voice across the entirety of old Dunling, faster and freer than any telephone. A device meant to redefine warfare—though for now, only the Purification Bureau possessed it.
As Berlau listened, his expression deepened into a grim shadow. Even in pitch black, Galahad felt the shift.
"What happened?" he asked.
"The fourth cavalry unit attempted to enter the Lower District and were blocked by the Imperial Guard."
Strange—so many patrolmen appearing together at this hour.
"Has the Suarlan Hall been corrupted as well?"
Galahad's voice cracked with anger.
"No. It's that bastard."
Berlau growled, far more furious than the knight.
"Hold the attack. There's an important target in the catacombs."
"What target?"
Galahad demanded—tonight's command was his. Why was Berlau suddenly overruling him?
"That bastard Lloyd," Berlau snapped. "He claimed he alone could handle Sabo—I assumed he had some genius plan. But you know what he is: the mastermind of the Red River Massacre, the detective who sees all… and the perfect criminal."
"And now I finally understand where that bastard's confidence came from!"
Enraged, Berlau reached instinctively for his revolver—only to remember it was currently in Lloyd's possession. Regret burned through him.
"Half an hour ago, the Suarlan Hall received an anonymous letter. One address. One name."
From the shadows he drew a weapon of silver—an elongated rifle with a magnifying scope and blade-like ridges carved along its frame. A prototype born from the Academy: too costly for armies, yet devastating in the hands of its sole owner. Berlau—the King Below. And when a king unsheathed his blade… the fate of the battlefield trembled.
"The address points to the catacombs under Sabo's control. The battlefield of tonight."
His voice dropped to a chilling whisper.
"And the name—Eve Phoenix."
Galahad froze. For the first time, the stoic knight's façade cracked. He pressed a hand to his brow, standing silent for a long, suffocating moment before murmuring:
"Arthur will kill us all."