The largest and most heavily secured testing ground within the Perpetual Engine was a colossal prison known simply as the Workshop.
Loyd and Merlin stood within its iron confines, yet neither man's thoughts lingered there. The relentless thunder of machinery echoed through the chamber as layer upon layer of reinforced armor locked into place. Massive platforms rose and descended in steady rhythm, every movement revealing that today's experiment had been prepared long before either of them had arrived.
Excitement filled the Workshop.
Merlin was the only alchemist present, but the engineers surrounding him were no less consumed by the hunger for knowledge. They pursued the frontier of human understanding with the same fervor, striving to push mankind's comprehension of the world beyond crude, unyielding steel and toward the intricate perfection of advanced machinery.
Yet amid the anticipation, the two of them carried emotions utterly unlike everyone else's.
Fear.
Reverence.
And confusion.
Merlin sat motionless atop the Black Angel's shoulder as though his soul had drifted elsewhere. His vacant eyes stared into nothing, but beneath that lifeless expression his mind raced furiously, gathering scattered clues one after another, attempting to piece together a mirror that someone had deliberately shattered.
A long silence passed.
Even the researchers began exchanging puzzled glances. Merlin should have been directing the experiment's commencement. Instead, he remained seated upon the divine armor's shoulder, speaking to Loyd in whispers as though conspiring over something that no one else was permitted to hear.
Then a thought struck him.
Merlin leaned closer to the visor. A fleeting flash of horror crossed his face before it was swallowed by something even more terrifying.
"Loyd... there's one more question."
His voice was scarcely louder than a breath, as if fearing that merely speaking the secret aloud would summon disaster.
"In all your years as Demon Hunters... have you ever believed demons could die... naturally?"
"...Naturally?"
The pressure weighing upon Loyd's mind was no lighter than Merlin's.
He had believed he understood the Gospel Church well enough. Yet now it became painfully clear that this ancient institution, despite appearing old and crumbling on the surface, concealed depths far beyond anything anyone had imagined.
"Yes. Natural death."
Merlin continued quietly.
"Even without disease or violence, the human body inevitably decays. Organs weaken with age, just as gears inside a machine slowly rust until, one day, the engine simply stops—and can never be restarted."
A dreadful suspicion had taken root inside him.
"You Demon Hunters carry Secret Blood. That forbidden blood strengthens your bodies, granting physiques that far surpass ordinary humans—perhaps even approaching those of demons. It gives you astonishing vitality, allowing you to postpone the failure of your organs far beyond a normal lifespan."
He paused.
"But here's the problem."
"We've fought demons for generations... and yet, I don't think we've ever encountered one that died of old age."
His voice became even quieter.
"Or perhaps they do die naturally, but because we spend our lives killing one another, we've simply never had the chance to observe it."
His gaze drifted toward the intricate visor of the divine armor, where elegant patterns shimmered faintly across the metal.
"Which brings us back to the Stagnant Sanctuary."
Merlin stared at the armor.
"Loyd... have you ever wondered how long this thing has existed?"
"A few years?"
"Several decades?"
"Or... centuries?"
His final question hung in the air like a curse.
"...What exactly are demons?"
Pale steam hissed from the seams of the divine armor.
Its iron feathers clattered onto the floor like thousands of suspended blades, while the Black Angel knelt motionless, resembling a weathered stone statue. Plates of armor split apart one after another, exposing Loyd within. Thick, blood-like fluid dripped lazily between the opened plates.
He took a drink of water before lighting a cigarette.
Leaning back, he stared silently toward the brilliant ceiling overhead, lost in thoughts even he could not fully grasp.
Electrode cables remained embedded deep into his back, wrapped in living flesh before disappearing into the Black Angel itself. Their connection had not been severed.
This was merely an intermission.
Researchers moved busily around him, unable to conceal their astonishment.
No one had expected anyone to successfully synchronize with such an eerie divine armor, let alone control it so effortlessly. Soft emerald lights bathed the cockpit in an almost peaceful glow. An ordinary pilot would already have shown severe symptoms after remaining connected this long.
Loyd, however, looked perfectly fine.
As though the Black Angel had been waiting for him all along.
No one could answer Merlin's final question.
Not Loyd.
Not anyone.
Too many mysteries still lay hidden beneath the world's surface, truths mankind had yet to touch.
His eyes wandered aimlessly around the Workshop.
Ironically, learning so many forbidden secrets within such a short time had left him exhausted in a way battle never could. If given the choice, he would gladly crawl into bed and sleep for an entire day.
Perhaps a whole day had already passed.
He honestly couldn't tell.
The engineers remained oblivious to his thoughts, focusing solely on their work as thick cables and fresh fuel were connected to the Black Angel.
When the experiment first began, Merlin had intentionally limited the armor to its safest operating state. Now, however, it would need sufficient mobility for meaningful testing.
Even so, the crimson restraint mechanisms remained firmly attached.
Loyd's performance had been flawless.
Yet Merlin couldn't shake the feeling that something dangerous still lurked beneath the surface.
"Loyd."
Merlin's voice echoed through the communication device.
"I'll go through those alchemical journals thoroughly."
Instead of looking toward the speaker, Loyd glanced up at the elevated platform where Merlin was already preparing the next phase of testing.
"You think you'll find something?"
"I do."
Merlin nodded.
"If our theory is correct—that demons possess extraordinary longevity because of the vitality of their flesh—then someone must have documented it. After all... that property bears an uncanny resemblance to the legendary Philosopher's Stone."
"The Philosopher's Stone?"
Merlin smiled faintly.
"The Philosopher's Stone. The Elixir of Life. Immortality. They're all different names for the same impossible miracle."
"It grants power rivaling the gods."
"It grants life without death."
"Or so countless alchemists believed."
His expression softened with nostalgia.
"My teacher was still alive back then. Alchemists weren't nearly as rare as they are now. We traded supplies. Occasionally exchanged techniques."
He chuckled.
"Though more often than not... we simply stole knowledge from one another."
"That's when I learned swordsmanship."
"I killed quite a few alchemists who were chasing eternal life."
He continued calmly.
"Firearms were unreliable in those days. Blades remained the most dependable weapons."
"The greatest reason alchemists pursued immortality was simple."
"If they could never die..."
"...they would never lose the knowledge they'd accumulated."
"Greed."
"Ugly, insatiable greed."
"And in the end..."
"We all paid for it."
Loyd remained silent for a while.
Then he asked softly,
"Merlin..."
"How long have you lived?"
The Great Radiant War had accelerated centuries of firearms development, compressing nearly a hundred years of technological evolution into a single era of endless conflict.
Loyd understood exactly how distant that earlier age truly was.
"Don't worry."
Merlin answered without hesitation.
"I'm no demon."
"And certainly no monster."
"I'm merely someone who received alchemy's protection."
"I've simply lived... a little longer than ordinary people."
He certainly looked young.
Yet time seemed to have frozen his body at some forgotten moment in history, leaving him unchanged while the centuries drifted past.
"What about the visitors from Florence?"
Loyd suddenly asked.
"How are Arthur's negotiations going?"
After everything they'd uncovered, the Gospel Church seemed deeper than ever before.
"Sometimes I feel..."
"...even if we someday conquer the Seven Hills..."
"...we still won't recover all of its secrets."
Merlin sighed.
"You're probably right."
"And Arthur's having a difficult time as well."
"I haven't seen him for days."
"From what I've heard..."
"...that Anthony fellow is proving quite troublesome."
He adjusted several controls before speaking again.
"Prepare yourself, Loyd."
"The next test is about to begin."
Only then did Loyd notice that every researcher had already evacuated the Workshop.
Massive blast doors slammed shut one after another, sealing the chamber from the outside world.
He climbed back into the cockpit—a grotesque chamber lined with living flesh.
Every time he entered the Black Angel, he endured the same instinctive revulsion.
It felt less like boarding a machine...
...and more like climbing willingly into the mouth of a sleeping monster.
The opened armor folded shut around him.
The visor sealed.
Steam engines roared.
The kneeling Black Angel slowly rose to its feet as its iron feathers hummed with resonant vibration.
Above, massive Geiger counters came online.
Curtains of artificial rain descended from the ceiling, washing away lingering contamination throughout the Workshop.
Heavy rails groaned.
A gigantic object slid forward before being hurled onto the floor directly before Loyd.
"...What's that?"
He frowned.
"I've never seen a machine like that."
Merlin answered calmly.
"A Third-Generation Old Era Divine Armor."
"To be precise..."
"...it's a degraded version of the Second Generation."
He laughed.
"Actually, almost every surviving Old Era Divine Armor is just another degraded descendant of the First Generation."
"We ordinary humans can't withstand that level of demonic corruption."
"So we've gradually reduced the proportion of demonic flesh integrated into each successive design."
"If you think of demonic flesh as an advanced composite material, it's actually quite remarkable."
"It possesses extraordinary toughness."
"Exceptional regenerative capability."
"That's why we built the Third Generation around those remaining advantages."
"It can be mass-produced."
"Its pilot requirements are dramatically lower."
"But naturally..."
"...its combat performance is nowhere near that of the earlier generations."
As Merlin explained, the machine across the Workshop slowly stood.
With far less demonic tissue and far more reinforced steel, it towered above the Black Angel, appearing heavier, bulkier, and significantly more durable.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes."
An unfamiliar voice echoed from within it.
Loyd didn't recognize the speaker.
"That's Night Owl."
Merlin explained.
"Current test pilot for the Third-Generation Sword Dancer."
"...Test pilot?"
Loyd frowned.
"So this is another experimental weapon?"
"Exactly."
"You've successfully synchronized with the Black Angel."
"So I'd like to compare the First Generation directly against the Third."
Merlin never wasted an experiment.
"So..."
Loyd asked.
"My job is to beat him into the ground?"
"It would be ideal."
Merlin answered matter-of-factly.
"Hit him as hard as you can."
"The Third Generation isn't particularly expensive."
"If the results are satisfactory..."
"...we can begin limited mass production immediately."
"...I won't kill him?"
Merlin chuckled.
"What do you think all that thick armor protecting the cockpit is for?"
Then he switched communication channels.
"Night Owl."
"No need to hold back against Mr. Holmes."
"He's a Demon Hunter."
"Even without divine armor, he's tougher than you'll ever be."
"I want complete combat data comparing both generations."
"So..."
"Do your best."
"Try to kill him."
"Understood."
Night Owl answered simply.
Across the Workshop, the Black Angel watched the Sword Dancer warily.
This was Loyd's first battle in divine armor.
Less than an hour ago, he'd only just figured out how to raise its arm.
The order was given.
Combat began instantly.
Loyd steadied himself.
Theoretically, no degraded Third-Generation unit should ever rival a genuine First Generation.
Yet the Sword Dancer didn't charge.
Instead, a blade several meters long shot from beneath its forearm.
Its opposite hand seized an enormous divine firearm.
Heavy armor plates descended over its vital areas.
Loyd froze.
He frantically pulled levers and hammered buttons.
Nothing.
No hidden weapons emerged from the Black Angel.
Only its countless steel feathers responded to his will.
"Merlin!"
"What the hell is this?!"
he shouted.
At that very moment, he noticed the weapons rack mounted across the Sword Dancer's back.
Though carrying fewer weapons than a Weaponsmith-class frame, it bore multiple massive external armor modules, sacrificing nearly all elegance for sheer equipment capacity.
Merlin laughed softly.
"I only realized this while developing the Third Generation."
"We'd fallen into a terrible design trap."
"The First Generation is incredibly powerful."
"But its synchronization requirements are absurd."
"And honestly..."
"...its greatest strengths are merely regeneration and mobility."
He sighed.
"We forgot what humanity actually excels at."
"Our greatest advantage has never been individual strength."
"It's industry."
"It's manufacturing."
"It's production."
"Instead of stuffing more demonic flesh into the armor..."
"...why not bolt on another layer of steel?"
"Rather than chasing mobility..."
"...why not mount more guns?"
He smiled.
"After all..."
"...the Mechanical Institute can build these things every single day."
"Loyd."
"This..."
"...is the victory of industrial power."
The instant those words left his mouth, the Sword Dancer pulled its trigger.
A torrent of blazing dragonfire erupted forward, carrying streams of half-molten iron.
Acting purely on instinct, Loyd commanded the Black Angel.
Its iron feathers sliced through the inferno, scattering molten steel into burning arcs.
Then—
A howl split the air.
A freezing blade cleaved open the sea of flames.
The Sword Dancer crossed the battlefield in a single heartbeat.
"...You call this poor mobility?!"
Loyd roared.
Merlin laughed openly.
"It is."
"That's why we strapped so many extra things onto it."
Watching Loyd suffer was, admittedly, rather entertaining.
The fully armed Sword Dancer unleashed a sword strike that stretched for meters.
Crude propulsion units mounted upon its back blasted with primitive, overwhelming force.
They could only drive the machine in a straight line.
But that was enough.
It was a machine born from pure madness.
A group of engineers had spent their days adding another attachment here, another device there, faithfully adhering to one beautifully irrational philosophy:
If the machine itself isn't powerful enough...
...just keep bolting more things onto it until it is.
And thus, this experimental divine armor was born.