It was like a swarm of insects whining endlessly by her ears—piercing, frantic, draining Eve's calm by the second. Unease, panic, and terror coiled like hungry predators, gnawing at the last strands of her sanity.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to collapse. But Lloyd was dragging her forward—this deranged bastard, this so-called detective—somehow radiating a strange, undeniable sense of reliability in this moment. His grip on her hand was the only thread keeping her reason intact.
They ran wildly through the pitch-black passage, as though the tunnel stretched into eternity. There was no end in sight. And although the crimson tide of death behind them had faded from view, its whispers still echoed through the dark—relentless, closing in.
"Don't be afraid. That thing can't catch us."
Lloyd's voice cut through the chaos, sounding almost like he was trying to comfort her.
"It's just a pile of human bodies glued together. Sure, it defies logic—but it still has to follow some rules. Too fat and it's slow. Too big and it gets stuck."
Before Eve could react, he scooped her up. She was already beyond fear—stunned to the point of doll-like stillness as he maneuvered her without hesitation.
There—an elevated pathway above them, hidden in the dark. With a strength born of sheer desperation, Lloyd hurled Eve upward, then vaulted up after her.
This was the catacomb escape route. Knowing Sabo's paranoia, this place must be riddled with tunnels—one of them had to lead to a hidden exit. If not for that grotesque monster, Lloyd would have taken his time testing each one. But now—everything had to be left to chance.
He could only pray that Lady Luck still favored him.
Fear and death were breathing down their necks. Eve couldn't understand—how could a man in a situation like this remain so calm? Why wasn't he terrified?
His composure was beyond human. His resolve, unshakable. Strip away his vile personality, and Lloyd was a terrifying genius—his cunning schemes and swordsmanship alike far surpassing ordinary minds.
She opened her mouth to ask—but then she felt it.
Lloyd's hand, gripping hers tightly… was trembling.
The tremor was slight. But unmistakable.
He was afraid—this damned detective was afraid too. But unlike her, he was forcing himself to stay cold and focused. Because if he faltered for even a second… they would die.
As for death? Lloyd didn't fear such trivial things. He was the kind of lunatic who would point a Winchester straight at the Grim Reaper knocking on his door and pull the trigger just to see what happens.
Lloyd would survive—he had to survive.
He had come all the way to Old Dunling. A new life awaited him. Feeding pigeons in the square with a cigarette between his lips… riding the steamtram around the great mechanical city…
No one would take that future from him. Not even a monster clawing its way out of his own buried memories.
"Don't worry. Fear is normal. That thing presses on your mind, stirs your emotions, forces you to drown in negativity. Lose to it, and you become a puppet of terror."
His voice sounded like someone who had faced this nightmare before.
He drew in a deep breath of tobacco, letting the smoke steady him. In the darkness, Eve could only see the tiny ember of his cigarette—a single burning point—smell the sharp, smoky air.
She couldn't see his face. But something else—something unfamiliar—began to rise in her chest.
"We need to get out. Fast. And if possible, we must alert the Suarlan precinct. Normal people facing that thing… would just be marching to the slaughter."
His tone was flat. But beneath that flatness simmered rage—and guilt.
This was his fault.
When he first saw Wall's mutated corpse, he should have realized something was terribly wrong. Wall must have begun transforming back then—toward becoming a demon. Lloyd had just happened to kill him early, before the change was complete.
Wall had begged Lloyd to kill him for that reason—he must have realized what he was turning into.
Lloyd should never have let his guard down. Life in Old Dunling had made him soft. The signs were all there—the twisted flesh, the unnatural shifts… yet he hadn't connected the dots.
"What… what was that thing…?"
Eve forced her breathing into order, gripping her weapon as she asked the man ahead of her—her voice barely steady.
Lloyd froze. Something about the question seemed to drag up memories he'd buried deep. When he answered, his voice scraped out—rough and strained:
"A demon."
…
"Let there be light," said God—and there was light.
The first verse of the Gospel. Believers recite it to praise God's power and holiness. But what the scripture never recorded was this: if light is born, then darkness must follow.
Philosophers explained it so—opposites define existence. Without cold, warmth has no meaning. Without sin, virtue has no value. Without death, life loses its beauty.
It is as though God, in bringing forth radiance, also carved out the deepest abyss—where horrors named demons were born.
The term first appeared in the Church's Book of Isaiah, describing those who stand against God. Unlike mortals basking in divine light, these creatures crawled from His shadow—luring humans into damnation, reveling in sin and violence, cast out of heaven and left to fester in hell.
Eve's mind drifted. Of course she knew the term well. Old Dunling was originally founded by Romans—they brought glory, and they brought faith. The Church's influence may have dwindled, but its believers still numbered many. Eve's late mother had been one of them.
Her mother once told her these stories—gave her even a sacred name. Eve understood theology well. Too well. And because she understood it… she now feared it.
"T-This can't be real…"
Her worldview cracked violently. Her heartbeat thundered in the confined tunnel—like a bell tolling doom.
She'd always scoffed at myth and religion—mere tools for rulers to manipulate the masses. But now something straight out of scripture had manifested before her eyes. Not hallucination, as Lloyd insisted—but a living, breathing monstrosity.
"There's nothing impossible about it. We have to leave. Now. I don't know how a demon appeared here, but there are hundreds trapped in this catacomb—helpless from the hallucinogens. They're its food. And it will only grow bigger… and stronger."
Lloyd's voice floated through the darkness.
"…How do you know all this, Lloyd!?"
Eve's footsteps faltered. The whispers scraping at her skull intensified—as if a twisted monk was chanting right beside her ear. The drug's effects mixed with the demon's psychic assault. Her mind strained on the brink.
Her pistol snapped up—aiming into the darkness—at the silhouette ahead.
"…Don't give in, Eve. You're already under its influence."
Lloyd's voice remained calm. Utterly calm. As though the gun pointed at him meant nothing at all.
Cold sweat slid down the girl's cheek. Her breath grew heavier, thoughts tumbling wildly inside her skull. Every doubt she had about Lloyd expanded, magnified by the rising tide of fear.
Why did this detective know so much? Why had he chosen her of all people to accompany him? Was it truly just for that rescue mission?
None of these questions were lethal on their own.
The most dangerous doubt… was about Lloyd himself.
A detective who wielded martial prowess and forbidden knowledge—Lloyd's very existence was the greatest anomaly.
"Don't be afraid, Eve. I understand you," he murmured through the darkness. "The first time I faced a demon, I was just like you… I almost killed my own friend. That's their nature. They shatter the human mind. Anyone who stands against them must guard not only against the demon, but the fraying sanity of their allies."
His voice soothed, but his hand had already tightened around the sword-cane. Here, in the darkness of the tunnel, sight was scarce and the distance between them was short. If he struck quickly enough, Lloyd was certain he could kill the girl before she pulled the trigger.
There was no inner turmoil in him—not anymore.
The very first time he swung his blade at the monstrous unknown, he had understood: confronting such horrors demanded sacrifice. Sometimes that sacrifice was one's compassion. Sometimes one's moral principles. And sometimes… the warmth of another's blood.
"Eve, calm yourself. Don't shame your ancestors."
His voice sharpened, stern as a strict old instructor chastising a misguided student. Yet while he spoke, his sword-cane rose silently above his brow. With his strength, one blow would cleave Eve clean in half.
Her emotions spiraled. The hand clutching the gun trembled.
For nearly a full minute they stood locked in silent tension.
At last, Eve's will broke. The gun slipped from her fingers.
"W-what… what's happening to me…?"
Her knees buckled. She collapsed weakly, red veins crawling across her eyes. Her once-vibrant face turned ghostly pale—a young woman suddenly reduced to a fragile, fevered wretch.
"Demons are… peculiar things," Lloyd explained, lowering his blade. "They barely qualify as living. Anything they touch becomes tainted by their absurdity. Even a cup they brush against—if a normal person were to handle it, nightmares would follow.
Likewise, to look upon them, to hear them, to smell their stench—any act of perceiving them brings influence. That influence manifests as madness, scaled to the degree of contact."
He lifted her up gently and retrieved her gun, making sure she wouldn't do anything foolish again.
"Even reading words that describe them is dangerous.
Do not behold. Do not touch. Do not understand."
Eve turned her head with difficulty. In that twisted atmosphere, Lloyd remained disturbingly composed, seemingly untouched by panic.
"Then… why aren't you afraid…?"
Supporting her as they walked, Lloyd answered without pause:
"There are many reasons. Spend every day beside a tiger—
the first time you see it, you'll tremble in terror.
But see it long enough… you'll treat it as nothing more than a very large, very angry cat."
Light spilled faintly ahead—an exit.
"So in your eyes, that thing is just… a big cat?"
The glimpse of hope soothed her nerves; Lloyd's absurd metaphor even coaxed out a fragile chuckle.
"When terror becomes routine, it dulls into just another feeling," he replied. "I told you—I was once a priest. From the Holy Papal State of Florentia. I know demons are the unknown… and only another unknown can stand against them."
He raised his Winchester. A flick of his finger through the guard, a fluid flourish—
the shotgun spun and locked a shell into place.
His cigarette burned out. He crushed it under his heel.
"The unknown that once protected us was called God and Faith.
Now its name is Machinery and Power."
He tore off his mask, tired of the suffocating fit. In the dim exit light, Eve finally saw his face clearly.
She had believed Lloyd was forcing himself to remain calm—just hiding his terror well.
But the truth etched across his features was not fear.
It was unbridled, violent fury.
His gun hand trembled—not from dread,
but from excitement.
And he understood exactly why.
Like a hunter who had sealed away his rifle after the forest burned to ash—
after the age of hunting faded into memory—
he had long been discarded by the world.
But then one day, through the haze of apathy, he discovered:
The dark forest still exists.
And it is crawling with abominations that deserved the flames.
So he dusted off his old weapon…
and welcomed the hunt once more.