It was as though hell had returned to the earth. Twisted chaos flooded every corner, and under the spell of hallucination, the world itself seemed to come alive. Countless faces grew out from the contorted scenery—each wearing its own expression—wailing in agony.
The stunted figure resembled a gaunt specter, and his rapier, straight as a needle, writhed in illusion like a white serpent awakened.
Once, this place had been an arena. Gladiators would stand beneath the gloom of the underground, listening to cheers from the world above, waiting for the chains of the rising platform to tighten and pull them into the first sliver of light.
And now, everything looked the same once more. Two figures stood like iron-blooded warriors—only one would remain alive.
Without warning, the rapier lunged, its technique as broken as Sabo himself. There was form—something that resembled proper swordplay—but also a chaotic mixture of stolen tricks and improvised cruelty.
Steel clashed. A sharp ring shook the air. Lloyd clenched his grip, sliding his sword-staff aside.
It was a maneuver known as deflection—shifting the blade's angle the moment steel collided, redirecting the opponent's force. It wasn't merely defense; it was the art of seizing momentum. The opponent, unable to withdraw quickly, would leave behind a fatal opening.
Lloyd found that opening. The rapier grazed past his ribs, and the sword-staff rose like judgment itself, descending in a guillotine arc.
Sabo barely had time to turn his stunted body aside—sparks exploded violently from the strike.
He leapt back with inhuman agility, staring wide-eyed. His arm numbed from the impact. Who could imagine a mere detective wielding such monstrous strength?
Round one belonged to Lloyd.
Sabo glanced down at his weapon: a jagged notch marked the blade. Had Lloyd's sword-staff been just a little heavier—a true forged sword—Sabo's rapier and head would have been severed together.
"…Do priests learn swordsmanship as well?"
This was not a skill a detective should possess—let alone a priest.
"In Florence, 'priest' is simply a rank," Lloyd replied quietly. "Like the holy knights—most were priests before they ascended."
Slowly, he raised his sword-staff. The point dipped low, a stance born of duelists and killers.
"Courage… Strength… Skill… and Deceit."
Few knew those were the four principles of swordsmanship. Courage to strike. Strength to break steel. Skill to kill. And deceit—because swordplay was never noble. Killing was the truth; glory nothing more than a shroud for the guilty.
He stepped forward, and thunder fell.
The blade screamed through the air—under illusion, it became the howl of ghosts devoured by steel.
Sabo's small shape stretched into a shadow; he knew he could not stop this strike. But thought was too slow. White light descended.
Red dust burst with the impact—and from its heart, the rapier struck slyly.
Lloyd barely parried. The rapier curved like a serpent once more, and this time found flesh.
They grappled in a world twisted by hallucination, roaring like beasts.
Black formalwear tore apart. Blood surged out. And instead of retreating, Lloyd surged forward—through the distorted haze, he reached up and seized the white serpent.
The rapier—swift as lightning—was caught. For the first time, Sabo was truly startled. He hadn't expected Lloyd to keep pace amid madness. But fear faded quickly—his blade was jagged like a saw. One clean pull would shear Lloyd's hand apart.
Sabo yanked hard—yet the blade did not move. His weakness had always been strength. Lloyd crushed down with iron grip and raised the sword-staff.
Before muskets and cannons ruled the battlefield, war belonged to horses and men entombed in iron. Romantic tales lied—real duels between knights were clumsy collisions of walking steel coffins. With crude metalworking, a sword could rarely slice armor; blades were mere symbols. Blunt force ruled—crushing organs was more effective than cutting flesh.
Yet even so, some devoted themselves to the art—shattering armor with dull swords through pure technique and will.
This was one such technique—grasp the enemy's weapon with your own blood, and kill him regardless of the cost.
Lloyd dragged the blade toward himself—then swung. A guaranteed strike. Unless Sabo abandoned his weapon. But without fingers, he had nothing else—no gun, no grip, no hope.
The sword-staff fell like a weeping gale—aimed to cleave a child-sized head.
It split the ground instead.
Confusion flickered—only for a breath. Illusion had deceived his aim. The dark blur rolled across the dirt. Steel slipped free—Sabo had let go.
A terrible omen.
Lloyd knew Sabo well enough—even in this brief encounter. A man willing to sacrifice nearly all his fingers for victory would never yield. Abandoning his sword meant only one thing:
He had more weapons.
The dwarf-like body twisted with predatory grace—pitiless, compact, deadly.
Agony burst across Lloyd's back.
Just as he feared—Sabo had another hidden blade, strapped to his elbow. Fingers could be lost. But joints—the bones that bent a body—they remained lethal.
"Compared to being a detective, I think you'd make a far better swordsmanship instructor."
Despite the words of praise, Sabo showed no mercy once he moved. Like a spinning tempest, he carved several fresh wounds into Lloyd's body within the span of a few breaths.
"No need for that. Swordsmanship is nothing more than a relic of a bygone age."
Lloyd's voice was icy, untouched by fear.
A memory surfaced—one night in Florence. His swordsmanship tutor, drunk and weeping under the moonlight. When Lloyd asked what troubled him, the old man spoke of his own master, of the time when firearms had already grown monstrously powerful through endless refinements. The old master declared that the age of swords had passed; from then on, the battlefield would be ruled by muskets and cannons. Swordplay would survive only as a performance to amuse the nobles.
Enduring the pain in his hands, Lloyd crossed his blades and struck fiercely—wide sweeping arcs that forced Sabo back within a warped haze of illusion. Then, with a sharp twist, he hurled his rapier, aiming to impale his foe.
"What a shame. To let such an art die would be tragic."
Sabo still believed he could end Lloyd's life right there. In his eyes, Lloyd had made a careless mistake. With only a few fingers, he effortlessly hooked the speeding blade, flicking it into a flourish before sending it back into his hand. But then he noticed—Lloyd had already raised his arm.
Blood flowed freely, soaking the short stock of the shotgun. Whether by illusion or something far more sinister, the weapon seemed alive—feeding on Lloyd's blood. The delicate engravings along the gun writhed as though awakening.
"Because the era has changed, Sabo."
Lloyd's voice was hoarse. To aim properly, he had first discarded the rapier—correcting his own trajectory through its motion. And then, he pulled the trigger.
The age had already changed. The old world would never return. One either followed fate's progression—or perished.
A conical storm of lead burst forth like a rain of blackened arrows. A flash of fire roared from the muzzle, as though a crimson dragon exhaled its breath. Sabo threw himself sideways and raised his rapier to shield his heart—as long as it beat, he believed he could fight on.
But such efforts were futile. Flesh could never outrun bullets driven by fire and steel.
The deadly clash left half of Sabo's body drenched in blood, multiple holes gushing fresh crimson. The kinetic force of the shot strangled his movements—everything slowed.
Lloyd squeezed the trigger again. And again. Thunder roared without end until Sabo's already-broken body was shredded apart, staggering backward from the ceaseless impacts. At last, he propped himself against his rapier, barely standing at the edge of the high platform.
"Looks like I win."
Lloyd emptied the final round and lowered the shotgun with a cool, indifferent gaze.
Sabo bowed his head, choking on blood. The pain was blinding in its clarity. He should have been dead already—yet suddenly he let out a harsh, chilling laugh. Something twisted and uncanny lurked beneath that sound as he lifted his eyes to Lloyd.
"This isn't over, detective," he rasped, stubborn as a child who refuses defeat.
"You're dying."
To Lloyd, the man looked far too ruined to survive.
"Yes… and that's what makes it terrifying, isn't it? Death is nowhere near the end of this story."
He straightened with agonizing effort. More blood surged from the wounds—far too much for any human body to contain, a torrent without end.
"You should run, great detective. Facing it is like flipping a coin."
Behind that strange metal mask, his eyes shimmered with madness. He turned his gaze toward Eve—the girl trembling in terror, clutching the coin in her pale fist.
"One side is death. The other… is madness."