The freezing wind and snow swept over Lloyd, leaving a thin dusting of white upon his clothes. Before him, the ice was torn open by a massive rupture, within which shattered crowds struggled—sinners drowning, thrashing as if condemned to die beneath the surface.
The man rose to his feet and shook the frost from his body. He stepped forward across the drifting ice floes, treading casually on withered hands, or planting his boot hard against some loathed skull, kicking it down into the depths.
"Care to give it a try?" he said lightly. "Very cathartic."
Amid this hellish tableau, the man seemed genuinely amused.
Lloyd shook his head, refusing this damned form of entertainment. He stared at those faces twisted beyond humanity and asked,
"So… this is it?"
"A part of it," the man replied. "Just a probe. Even after being sealed away for so long, it never tires of testing the strength of its cage. It waits for the moment those iron chains finally crack."
His gaze pierced the dark blue seawater, down past the coiling chains, into the deepest reaches of the abyss.
"The real thing is hiding down there—resting, gathering strength."
The man turned back and thumped his own chest, grinning at Lloyd.
"But don't worry. I'm here. And as the gatekeeper of demons, the jailer should always be stronger than the prisoner, shouldn't he?"
He had always been like this—utterly confident. And because of that confidence, he had died.
"One more thing," he added. "Lloyd, it's time for you to leave."
At last, the smile faded. His expression hardened.
"…Do you know what that thing really is?"
Lloyd asked the question quietly. If this man, like himself, was a wandering soul trapped within his own memories, bound to him by some strange resonance, then perhaps he had once known the truth Lloyd now faced.
The man nodded—but said nothing, wearing only a peculiar smile.
"What is it?" Lloyd pressed.
That thing—the source of everything that had come to pass—the Sacred Coffin.
Everything Lloyd had endured traced back to that mysterious object, and now he stood only a hair's breadth away from it.
"It's only natural you don't know," the man said at last. "Back then, you weren't qualified to attend that banquet."
The fractured images slowly stitched themselves together. No answers were needed. Lloyd's earliest dreams now found their meaning—the conversation with Archbishop Lawrence, the invitation from the Pope, the celebration of the Day of Divine Birth, and the death of the final demon.
Those dreams had never been Lloyd's.
They were the dreams of the man standing before him.
Their wills had intertwined long ago, only to finally meet within the Gap after so many years.
With his confusion resolved, Lloyd looked at him.
"A shameful memory," the man murmured, almost wistfully. "That night, I lost everything."
The fragility vanished in an instant. His voice sharpened.
"That thing is its remains, Lloyd. You understand what that means, don't you?"
He placed a hand on Lloyd's shoulder. The bearing of a demon hunter returned to him, undiminished by time, as though years had never passed.
Like a coronation, performed in this forgotten wasteland.
Lloyd's pupils constricted. He hadn't expected this answer—yet somehow, it felt inevitable. Cold blood surged once more through his veins. He couldn't say whether it was duty or vengeance driving him—only that something burned inside him, demanding release.
"So… this is why you dragged me into the Gap, isn't it?"
The ghost buried deep within his memories had sensed it, and as their bond deepened, finally found him. This was no sentimental reunion—only the beginning of another hunt.
The man nodded, burying all tenderness deep within himself. Once more, he became cold and severe, his words heavy with authority.
"Lloyd Holmes. Our task is not yet complete. The Night of Sacred Descent has not yet ended. Your final duty has arrived."
Madness and hatred burned in his eyes—so intense that even the wailing drowned souls recoiled in fear.
He spoke as if swearing an oath.
"Kill it. Cast it into the furnace. Burn it to ash. Sink it into the deep sea. Erase every trace of its existence—let it be forgotten for all eternity."
This was the hatred of the gatekeeper. Even as a dead soul, he had nurtured it endlessly, never letting it fade.
He leaned in close, whispering into Lloyd's ear like a child murmuring in sleep.
"You haven't forgotten… have you?"
Recalling the short verse etched into his Winchester, Lloyd whispered it aloud.
"Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
They do not go gentle into that good night."
"Rage, rage—"
"Against the dying of the light."
With a crooked grin, the man kicked Lloyd squarely, sending him plunging into the freezing sea. Countless hands, sensing hope, clawed at him desperately, trying to drag him down into the abyssal dark.
The suffocating cold assaulted every sense. Absolute isolation engulfed him, as if the world itself had been severed—until searing heat erupted through his body.
Then the man's voice echoed like a curse.
"Go back to hell."
And the world was filled with light.
...
This was a dull, joyless slaughter.
Ed gripped Lloyd's head in his hands. Since moments ago, the demon hunter had seemed dead—motionless, unresisting, allowing Ed to strike him again and again.
Perhaps it was because of that dream. It only made Ed angrier. Lloyd's retirement had clearly been too comfortable—to think he couldn't even resist such a basic erosion. A disgrace to all demon hunters.
Heat built in Ed's palm. Like slowly killing a small animal, he attempted to incinerate Lloyd's brain directly. Around them, the demons waited anxiously, craving Lloyd's flesh like beasts awaiting their master's command.
Bathed in light, Ed still clung to a faint hope—that Lloyd might wake up. Otherwise, this was no different from abusing a corpse.
Time passed.
Suddenly, Ed laughed. Rage had clouded his judgment—imagine getting angry at a dead man.
He reached out to make one final check. By examining the alchemical sigils carved into Lloyd's back, Ed could identify which branch of demon hunters he belonged to. His burning hand moved toward the cloak—
—and was seized.
Ed jerked his head up.
Two blazing eyes locked onto his.
What followed was a thunderclap of motion—so fast Ed saw only streaks of searing white light. Flames were cleaved apart by a howling wind. The metal armor encasing his body shattered. Crimson blood traced the path of the blade, scattering through the air.
The sharp nail-sword reflected Lloyd's eyes. The next instant, the Winchester roared. A heavy round slammed into the inferno—heat could melt steel, but it could not nullify momentum.
This was a meticulously prepared combo. Under sword and gunfire, Ed lost his balance, and Lloyd clung to him like a revenant.
But Ed would not allow another opening.
The burning Pure Flame surged again, like a fallen sun. Any sane being would recoil from such heat.
Lloyd did not.
He charged straight through it, and the jet-black blade pierced the raging fire.
Ed stared in disbelief.
Black iron feathers enveloped Lloyd's body, forming something like divine armor. Scorching white flames poured from the gaps between the wings. As Lloyd tightened his grip, the silver nail-sword was coated in the same black sheen.
This was a power Ed had never seen—no known branch of demon hunters possessed anything like it.
In the next instant, more black blades pierced him, like execution spikes pinning him to the earth.
[WARNING: Secret Blood Awakening at 30%. Critical threshold reached.]
[Silver Binding Bolts beginning to melt.]
[According to the Scabbard Accord, you have 300 seconds of action time. Afterward, remain in place for retrieval by the Templar Order.]
That damned voice echoed in Lloyd's mind. He clearly despised it—freeing one hand to rap sharply against Ed's smoking skull.
Then he looked down at Ed's terrified face and asked, almost curiously,
"Your silver binding bolt should be just as loud as mine right now, shouldn't it?"
As if asking a friend something utterly mundane, Lloyd raised the black sword once more—and brought it down.