Port of Rendona.
As the largest and most ancient harbor of Invervig, Rendona is a place steeped in stories. During the Radiant War, it once fell into the hands of Gaulnaro; when the counteroffensive began, it became a vital supply base for the Royal Fleet. And when peace finally descended, it transformed into Invervig's greatest export port, welcoming tens of thousands of foreigners each day.
Countless great ships lie anchored within the harbor, while sailors move ceaselessly among them.
It is a miniature world unto itself. Here, one can see people from every corner of the globe. Merchants display their rare and peculiar goods, selling them along crowded streets. Somewhere, unfamiliar instruments are played, their strange and unheard melodies echoing through the air.
Seagulls wheel overhead.
This place is nothing like Old Dunling.
In an unremarkable corner, two new arrivals stood quietly, lifting their gaze toward a construct of cold metal.
"So… this will be our base from now on?"
In the mirrored lenses of the beaked mask, a dark silhouette was reflected. The Plague Doctor studied the rusted vessel before him, doubt creeping into his voice.
Compared to the other ships docked here, this steamship was undeniably wretched. The others resembled radiant young maidens, polished and resplendent, while this one was like a vagrant who had just crawled out of the lower districts.
The Plague Doctor had seen this ship before. After he had taken the Sacred Coffin, it was this very vessel that had dragged him from the sea. Yet now, it appeared far more dilapidated than when he had first encountered it.
As though it had endured some brutal baptism.
As though someone had ravaged it without mercy.
If not for Archbishop Lawrence's assurance, he might have suspected that this ship had only just been salvaged from the ocean floor. The markings on its hull had been worn away by time, and the deck lay in ruin. Should it sail by night, it might well be mistaken for a ghost ship.
"Yes," Lawrence affirmed once more, stepping aboard with him.
"Do not let its appearance deceive you. This is, in truth, the newest model of steamship. We merely altered it… so it could approach the coast unnoticed."
His hand brushed across the steel railing. The rust was artificial, created with chemical agents. Without such disguise, this vessel would never have passed Invervig's inspections and entered these waters.
During the Radiant War against Gaulnaro, Invervig's naval power had reached extraordinary heights. The Royal Fleet once anchored within the White Tide Strait, firing massive cannons directly upon Gaulnaro's coastal defenses, reducing them to ruin.
If this ship were to face such bombardment now, it would not endure for long.
Lawrence might survive, perhaps, sustained by the power of the Holy Grail. With enough luck, he might even swim ashore.
But what lay within the ship would not.
And for those things, Lawrence had already spent far too much time.
He was old—so old that even he no longer trusted how much time remained to him. Yet if that final endeavor succeeded, he would be granted a new life.
"Come, Plague Doctor. There are things inside that will interest you."
As if promising some hidden gift, Lawrence pushed open the hatch. A dim wind drifted upward, carrying with it the faint scent of blood.
"Something that interests me?"
That alone stirred a flicker of curiosity within him. There was little left in this world that could capture his interest. He gazed into the darkness below—and descended without hesitation.
He did not fear betrayal. They were the same kind of being. The Plague Doctor understood what Lawrence desired, just as he trusted in the strength he himself possessed.
This was to be a long partnership.
A wolf does not stand as an equal with a lamb—unless the other is also a wolf.
As they descended, the air grew colder, as though they were entering a vast refrigerated chamber. In the dim light, the Plague Doctor noticed something unexpected.
Order.
Cleanliness.
It stood in stark contrast to the ship's exterior, just as Lawrence had said—the decay was merely a disguise.
The first level resembled a cargo hold, packed with sealed crates. From them emanated an ominous aura. At the far end were supplies—enough to sustain dozens at sea for a long time.
"Your resources are… considerable."
The Plague Doctor gestured toward them, then glanced at Lawrence.
Such a stockpile required not only wealth, but connections.
Despite his knowledge—knowledge no ordinary mind could bear—the Plague Doctor's life had never been easy. Ideals required money. Survival came first; without that, ideals became nothing more than delusion.
For him, food was not the problem.
Funding his research was.
"This must have cost a fortune."
"I have lived long enough. A bit of savings is hardly an issue," Lawrence replied with a faint smile.
"You expect me to believe that covers all this? Bounties, perhaps?"
When short on money, the Plague Doctor would take on bounties—or rob a bank if conditions allowed. It sufficed in the short term, but such interruptions severely hindered long-term research.
"No," Lawrence said calmly. "I simply prepared well."
He opened a sealed crate. Inside lay rows of nailed swords, arranged with precision.
"My position as an archbishop granted me certain conveniences. In Florence, with enough money, priests can absolve your sins in the name of God."
"How ironic."
The cold gleam of steel reflected in the Plague Doctor's mask. He glanced again at the supplies. Clearly, this had been a long and deliberate accumulation.
Lawrence's betrayal on the Night of Holy Descent had not been impulsive.
It had been planned.
"Yet it is true," Lawrence continued. "Even when the technology of secret blood matured within the Evangelical Church, we never ceased our pursuits. With the support of the Medici family, many forbidden studies were conducted in secret."
At the time, the Church still held immense influence in the Western world. Over generations, noble families and the Church had become intertwined, inseparable. Many bishops—even popes—had emerged from those lineages.
"Commoners would pay dearly to bury their loved ones in church grounds," Lawrence said. "They never knew the bodies would be exhumed and used in further research."
"According to doctrine, dissection is blasphemy."
He closed the crate.
"Yet beneath sacred cathedrals lie bodies, torn apart piece by piece."
Dim light spread as he activated a switch, illuminating the remaining darkness.
"Faith is an efficient machine for gathering wealth. But I am no longer an archbishop. These resources… diminish with every use."
The Plague Doctor stared at the supplies, momentarily silent.
"So… if necessary, we rob a bank?"
"No need."
Lawrence opened another door leading deeper within.
"There will always be those willing to fund a great cause. Besides, the two of us alone are not enough."
No matter how powerful they were, they were too few. Without support, without supply lines, they would be nothing more than hunted fugitives—fighting, fleeing, until they died in some forgotten alley.
"Are new members joining us?"
A hint of excitement crept into the Plague Doctor's voice.
"Perhaps. I have made contact with the remnants. I grant them power to rival firearms; in return, they serve me—and provide subjects for testing the new secret blood."
"The remnants…"
The Plague Doctor had heard of them, but did not expect Lawrence to have reached them.
"They are easy to control," Lawrence said. "They belong neither to Invervig nor to Gaulnaro. They exist between worlds—like demon hunters. Neither fully human, nor something else."
"I have planned this… for a very long time."
He paused.
"Long enough that even I am astonished by how much time has passed."
Then he turned, looking at the Plague Doctor—with something unexpected in his gaze.
Envy.
"I may have talent in hunting demons," he said with a faint smile. "After all, I became an archbishop."
"But compared to you… it is nothing."
"My talent?"
The Plague Doctor frowned.
"Yes. Your 'talent' in biology."
"I am merely a warrior," Lawrence continued. "I can change a battle—a war. But I cannot change the world."
He looked down at his aged skin, his voice tinged with quiet resignation.
"How long can I fight? A century, perhaps. Yet when I die, all of it vanishes with me."
"But you are different."
"Even if you die, your work will endure. It will continue to shape the world."
He listened to the faint hum echoing through the ship.
"Like the man who invented the steam engine. He has been dead for ages, yet his work still transforms the world."
"Swords and armor yield to machines. Steamships outpace sails. Railways bind cities together, shrinking the world beneath human feet."
"If the world is a machine… then he pressed the accelerator."
"I have lived long enough to feel it."
His clouded eyes held the weight of memory. He had lived through two eras—one ruled by faith and steel, the other by iron and steam.
Sometimes, in dreams, he returned to the age of galloping warhorses.
But upon waking, he saw only machines drifting beneath a darkened sky.
He mourned the past.
And stood at the dawn of something new.
Hearing such unguarded admiration, the Plague Doctor fell silent. For the first time, he sensed something within Lawrence—
A quiet sorrow.
A sorrow born of time itself.
"Living too long… is not a blessing, is it?"
"Perhaps not," Lawrence replied softly. "If there is a god, then death is its greatest mercy."
He paused.
"But not yet. Not before I complete what I have begun."
At last, they reached a sealed door. Frost clung to its surface, as though winter itself had been imprisoned behind it.
"Enough reminiscence."
Lawrence turned, his gaze steady.
"Plague Doctor. It is time to show your talent."
He pushed the door open.
Slowly.
Heavily.
Cold air surged outward.
"I have no gift for this field," he admitted. "Even after all these years, I have made little progress."
Then he stepped aside.
Revealing everything.
"My true investment."
The Plague Doctor's voice trembled.
He knew exactly what he was seeing.
More than that—
he understood what it meant.
Someone else had walked the same path.
And reached this point.
"This… was part of your plan?"
"No."
Lawrence shook his head.
"This… is the preparation of the Demon Hunter Order."
A pause.
"Their legacy."