A strange fragrance clung to the blindfold, seeping steadily into Lloyd's nose. It wasn't quite suffocating, yet it unsettled his sense of direction, as if the world itself had tilted a few imperceptible degrees off balance.
With a witcher's sharpened senses and a memory honed to near-perfection, Lloyd could normally reconstruct any path he had taken, even in darkness. But it was obvious the Purge Authority had anticipated that as well. They had left him no room to maneuver.
All he could hear was the relentless roar of machinery. The motion beneath his feet suggested descent. That made sense—few places were better suited to conceal a secret institution than the labyrinthine understructures of Old Dunling.
During the Radiant War, countless shelters had been carved beneath the city, most of them linked to the sprawling sewer network. Like an ant colony, the passages twisted into maddening confusion. Without a map, one could wander for days and die of hunger in the dark.
After the war, the underground had been altered again and again. Beyond the core Furnace Pillar system, steam lines and drainage arteries radiated outward like metallic roots. Later still came the subway systems, layered in to ease civilian travel. With each addition, the depths grew more incomprehensible. At times, Lloyd suspected that not even the Mechanical Institute possessed a complete set of blueprints anymore. It was like a castle built by a child stacking bricks without a plan—impressive, precarious, and forever on the verge of collapse.
They traveled for over half an hour before Red Falcon finally removed the blindfold. After so long in darkness, the sudden light stabbed at Lloyd's vision. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, blinking until the blur slowly resolved.
He found himself standing in a steel corridor. Steam pipes ran exposed along the walls, patched so many times that water seeped from the seams in slow, stubborn droplets. Rust bloomed everywhere—on the walls, along the rivets, even in the air, which carried the sharp, metallic tang of corrosion.
Behind him, the gate had already slammed shut. Through its wide seams, polished metal gleamed—layer upon layer of interlocking slabs like crossed halberds, stacked to guard the entrance. Across the rust-scarred surface were engraved figures of demons and gods, their faces twisted in hatred, as if they might burst through the metal at any second.
Dim yellow lamps stretched overhead in a long, unbroken line, reaching toward another sealed gate at the far end of the corridor. Soldiers stood stationed there in heavy iron armor, weapons in hand that Lloyd had never seen before. Cables trailed from the devices like leashes of lightning.
He asked no questions. This place radiated an unspoken oppression, not unlike the Grand Cathedral of Saint Naro.
Red Falcon gestured for him to follow. Only then did Lloyd realize they were alone. Joey and the other soldiers had not come this far. Noticing his confusion, Red Falcon spoke softly.
"To minimize the risk of demonic contamination at headquarters, personnel circulation here is kept to an absolute minimum. Even High Knights require strict approval to enter."
Lloyd nodded. Red Falcon continued.
"One more thing. Please keep your secret blood in a dormant state. The facility is fully covered by large-scale Geiger counters. Even the slightest abnormal reading will trigger an internal lockdown. We'd rather not invite unnecessary trouble."
The soldiers' faces were hidden behind their heavy helmets—Lloyd saw only darkness where their eyes should have been. As he and Red Falcon passed, the steel gate rose slowly. The weapons in the soldiers' hands snapped to life, crackling with brilliant arcs of electricity. Those unseen gazes followed Lloyd until he disappeared from their sight.
There were many such gates along the way. In the event of an intrusion, each would seal shut, trapping demons inside like insects in amber.
"What are those things?" Lloyd finally asked, unable to suppress his curiosity as he again saw the weapons dancing with electric arcs. "I've never seen arms like that."
The Purge Authority's arsenal carried a distinctly futuristic edge—thermite rifles, for instance, and the audacious fusion of machinery with demonic biology seen in the Old Century Divine Armor. Every design seemed born from wild imagination. In that light, it was no exaggeration to say that Ingervig truly had ushered in the age of steam.
"Electric lance guns," Red Falcon replied without hesitation. "Designed specifically for dealing with demons."
"You can think of them as scaled-down harpoon guns. The projectiles are conductive metal spears, launched by compressed gas. The impact force is enough to punch through tough flesh. A small cable is attached to the tail of each spear—once embedded, it delivers an electric shock directly to the target."
He spoke with the calm clarity of someone explaining a well-studied tool.
"Based on years of analysis, demons are biological in nature. Their muscles, like ours, rely on nerves. Under high current, those muscles seize into spasms, severely impairing mobility. Naturally, different models exist for different sizes of demons. When we need to recover a runaway Old Century Divine Armor, for example, we deploy the heavy electric lance variants."
Lloyd studied the crackling weapons with growing wariness. The Purge Authority's black technology was no less formidable than that of the Witcher Order. He understood the principles—but had never imagined such things could be standardized for military use.
"And humans?" he asked. "What if the intruder is human? These anti-demon weapons would be useless, wouldn't they?"
This time, Red Falcon looked at him in mild surprise—then laughed.
"It seems even Mr. Holmes can fall into a thinking trap now and then."
He pointed at himself, then at Lloyd.
"Not everyone has your strength. Ordinary humans are fragile—so fragile that weapons designed merely to restrain demons are lethally effective against us."
"Those conductive spears would pass through a human body with ease. And the current meant to paralyze a demon would be fatal to a person. The instant they're hit, a normal human would be burned black by the voltage—resistance wouldn't even be a question."
Weapons capable of fighting demons had always been catastrophically deadly to mortals. Lloyd was reminded of the Ninefold Xia Divine Armor he had seen at the Far Eastern Exposition. He still didn't fully understand its origins, but the implication was obvious: if a single Old Century Divine Armor appeared on an ordinary battlefield, it would be a one-sided massacre.
Lloyd fell silent. For the first time in a long while, he felt the cold edge of true danger again. Arthur had once spoken of the world's ultimate trajectory. If the demons restraining the Purge Authority were ever completely eradicated, then one day—perhaps not so far off—these very weapons would make their grand debut on battlefields where humans fought only humans.
It was the witchers' fate all over again. When every demon had been hunted to extinction, the only enemies left in the world would be those who did not share the same faith.
"What's wrong?" Red Falcon asked gently, noticing Lloyd's strained expression. "Are you uneasy?"
After all, every weapon here had been built to fight demons—and the line between witcher and demon was thinner than most cared to admit.
Lloyd shook his head and continued,
"It's nothing. Just… the world really is more complicated than it looks."
Redfalcon froze for a beat, then let out a laugh.
"I don't carry that many worries. I used to be the same—always anxious about the fate of the world, dreaming about saving it and other ridiculous things. Drove me half mad. But later, I found my place in it."
"Your place?"
"This world is a colossal machine, running in mad, relentless motion. Old Dunling, the Purge Agency—they're just parts of that machine too, whole systems inside something even bigger. And us? We're nothing more than gears, meshing together one after another. Gears don't decide where the machine goes. All we can do is turn with all our strength… and make sure it never stops."
There was an unexpected brightness to Redfalcon when he spoke of such things. Lloyd considered his words, but said nothing more.
After passing through a maze of winding corridors, the two finally emerged into a comparatively open space. People moved at a near run, each one visibly burdened with purpose. Gates lifted and slammed shut in endless cycles, the air trembling with the ceaseless thunder of machinery.
Lloyd tilted his head upward. Above the vast dome stretched countless translucent pipes. Something coursed through them at high speed, shadows flickering within, vanishing beyond his sight in moments.
Everyone here had a function. Everyone bore their task. Straining, turning, keeping the machine moving forward.
If the Purge Agency was a machine, then Lloyd had just crossed its heavy, ironclad shell.
Now, he stood inside its delicate and perilous core.
"We're almost there. But you'll have to go on alone."
Redfalcon stopped abruptly and pointed toward an elevator at the far end of the hall.
"This invitation came from Arthur himself. And the place you're headed—the Round Table Chamber—without an invitation, even High Knights like us can't reach it."
"So your internal hierarchy really is that strict?" Lloyd asked, a note of displeasure in his voice. It seemed to him that the Knight Commander alone held true authority, while the rest were little more than tools.
But Redfalcon shook his head.
"You came from the Demon Hunter Order. You know ordinary people can't withstand demonic corruption, right? The Purge Agency is mostly made up of regular folk too. They stand no chance against that kind of erosion. Only a rare few, after special modification, gain even limited resistance. Our ranks are, to a large extent, based on that resistance."
He showed not the slightest resentment toward the system.
"Sometimes, that kind of hierarchy is exactly what keeps us alive."
"For example," Lloyd said, recalling certain places within the Order, "areas restricted to Knight Commanders—because the corruption there is something the rest of you couldn't survive?"
"Exactly. So there's nothing to resent. The bigger the gear, the greater the pressure it has to bear. Isn't that so?"
He watched Lloyd step into the elevator. The steel gate descended slowly. The last thing Lloyd saw was Redfalcon's easy smile.
Then darkness swallowed him. In the dim amber light, he could only feel the faint swaying of the cabin and the taut pull of cables lifting him upward.
Dozens of seconds later, the elevator doors opened.
It felt like stepping into another world.
Moments ago, Lloyd had been inside a machine—hemmed in by oppressive steel, deafened by thunderous noise, the air thick with the unbearable tang of rust.
Now, it was as if he had entered a lavish royal court.
A crimson carpet cushioned his steps. Exquisite vases lined the corridor, each brimming with flowers in full bloom.
Portraits hung along both walls. Every face was different, yet the attire told a clear story of history's march. First came armor and swords. Then cloaks and muskets. The figures in these paintings must have been great individuals of their eras—only such people would be enshrined in a place this secret. And yet, Lloyd recognized none of them.
With quiet appreciation, he walked past the gallery and pushed open the final set of doors.
A massive round table dominated the center of the chamber, its surface scarred with countless sword marks. Chairs encircled it, and beyond them stood rings of towering bookshelves. The scent of aged paper seeped from the volumes, saturating the air.
A faint weariness tugged at Lloyd. Night had already fallen when he departed, and delays along the way had cost him time. To show sincerity, they had stripped him of everything—every weapon, even his pocket watch. He had no idea what hour it was now.
The Purge Agency had certainly shown him courtesy. After all, Lloyd himself was the real danger. If they truly wanted safety, they would have kept those so-called electric spears and thermite rifles trained on him at all times—and strapped him with a dozen Geiger counters, ready to unleash a storm of fire the moment the readings spiked.
Of course, there was another possibility. If that were the case, the one guiding him here wouldn't have been Redfalcon.
It would have been that mysterious Lancelot… clad in the god-armor of the old century.
Pulling out a chair, Lloyd sat without ceremony and looked toward the far end of the round table. In the dim yellow light, Arthur slowly lowered the book in his hands and regarded the guest he did not welcome.
"Don't speak yet. Let me think."
Arthur spoke first. Then he drew a revolver. From the caliber, Lloyd knew that at this distance it could easily turn his head into a cloud of blood and bone.
Arthur seemed caught in a difficult struggle. He picked up the gun, set it down, picked it up again. Several times, the barrel aligned squarely with Lloyd—yet each time, he lowered it again with visible reluctance.
Lloyd could feel the killing intent in Arthur's gaze as clearly as a blade against his throat. But when it came to fighting demons, Arthur was left with little choice.
After a long while of silent turmoil, Arthur finally seemed to give up.
"You talk to him instead. I'm afraid I might actually shoot him."
Arthur never bothered to hide his disgust for Lloyd.
At that moment, another figure stepped out from behind the bookshelves.
He wore a gray robe. Exposed skin was covered in obscure, indecipherable script. Lloyd's eyes sharpened with tension—he had seen things like this before.
Back in the Demon Hunter Order.
They had called it alchemy.
The gray-robed man took a seat beside Arthur and lowered his hood. His face was young and handsome, yet steeped in a morbid stillness, as if death clung to him. His hair was already completely white, spilling down in disordered strands once freed.
He was a deeply unsettling figure. Lloyd could feel the weight of age in him—yet he looked so young. He carried the scent of a corpse… and yet, undeniably, he was alive.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lloyd Holmes."
His voice was hoarse, utterly mismatched with his youthful appearance.
"You are…?"
Lloyd straightened, his expression turning grave.
The gray-robed man spoke slowly.
"I am the current Director of the Perpetual Pump. One might say I am the last alchemist left in Old Dunling. My true name has been defiled by past rituals, so it's best left unspoken. You may call me by my codename."
"Merlin."
His rasping voice drifted through the chamber. When he looked at Lloyd, there was a trace of familiarity in his eyes.
They were the same kind of being.
Remnants of a bygone age.