Lloyd never thought he would have anything to do with such a gentle word as "home." And yet, whenever he returned to Old Dunling after surviving some near-death ordeal, the sight of the city always stirred within him a strange warmth—the kind of warmth people spoke of when they said they had finally come home.
The machines never stopped working. Flames roared and climbed within the furnaces, while torrents of rain rushed through the channels before finally returning to the River Thames.
Even this damned rainy season could not bring society to a halt. Umbrellas gathered into flowing rivers that threaded through the streets, while iron serpents swam among them like fish, gliding forward to the shriek of steam whistles. Or perhaps, amid clouds of billowing steam, their doors would open and countless passengers would leap out.
Under the Serpent of the Inner Court system, the city's transportation continued to operate with impeccable order. Yet the carriages that had once symbolized status and wealth had begun to look almost ridiculous. Compared with the advanced machinery surrounding them, they seemed hopelessly antiquated. In fact, only a few years ago, horse-drawn carriages could still be seen everywhere on the streets. But as machinery continued to advance, their numbers dwindled further and further.
Sometimes, people even felt that the city itself was alive.
It was growing. It was changing.
Like some enormous tree, it possessed an ecosystem of its own—an ecosystem of steel and machinery.
Lloyd stood in a corner of the street, soaked to the bone, his clothes smeared with filthy blood.
Because of the rainy season, the war airships had all been forced to descend, and the mounted police had become the primary force maintaining order throughout the city. They rode through the streets beneath the pouring rain, seemingly impervious to the weather.
Given how complicated the current situation was, Lloyd had no desire to attract anyone's attention. He had only just escaped death, and all he wanted now was to return to 121A Cork Street without incident, crawl into his familiar bed, and sleep until his body stopped aching.
His clothes were torn to shreds, and he did not even have an umbrella. There was a very real possibility that the police would mistake him for a foreigner who had slipped into the city from the Lower Districts.
With that thought in mind, Lloyd moved closer to the street. He began wondering whether he should simply rob some passerby of an umbrella and a set of clothes.
He had just made up his mind to act when he saw a familiar face.
...
The man walked leisurely down the street beneath his umbrella.
After finally emerging from the grief of his divorce, he had slowly begun to rediscover the pleasures of life. He could sleep in the living room, sleep in the kitchen, spend an entire day fooling around outside, or drink himself senseless in the bathroom.
He was free. Completely and gloriously free.
For one fleeting moment, he felt that the first half of his life had been nothing more than a long imprisonment. Every decision had required careful consideration. Everything he did had to take other people's thoughts into account.
But now?
Now he felt fantastic.
There was fine liquor in the shopping bag hanging from his hand, and even the damp mist of the rain seemed strangely gentle.
Life was truly beautiful.
At least, it was—until he noticed a man who looked suspiciously like a homeless vagabond standing ahead of him.
At first, he could not make out the man's face clearly. But as the distance between them closed, the color gradually drained from his own face.
His eyes darted around, desperately searching for somewhere to hide.
But he was too slow.
Just as he was about to turn away, a hand seized the handle of his umbrella.
In an instant, the two men stood beneath the same canopy, as intimate as a pair of lifelong friends.
"Long time no see, Director Buscalo!"
At the sight of that wretched expression, and with the stench of blood practically brushing against his nose, Buscalo's face twisted as though he had just swallowed a fly.
But that was the cruel part of life.
No matter how unbearably annoying the man standing before him was, Buscalo still had to put on the expression of an old friend.
"Y-yes… long time no see, Mr. Holmes."
...
147 Hammerling Street.
Lloyd stripped off his damp clothes and changed into the clothes Buscalo had given him. Perhaps because of the difference in their builds, Lloyd looked as though he were wearing a nightgown rather than ordinary clothes.
Buscalo's house was large.
He had once lived here with his wife and their daughter. But after the divorce, his wife had taken their daughter and left. Now, the enormous, empty house contained only Buscalo.
Lloyd still remembered what the place had looked like the last time he had "broken in" illegally.
The house had been immaculate then. Everything had been neatly arranged, every corner filled with the quiet traces of ordinary life.
Now, bottles rolled aimlessly across the floor. Clothes and miscellaneous belongings were piled everywhere. In some corners, there was even a godforsaken sour stench, as though some wild man from the depths of the mountains had taken up residence here.
Buscalo sat down on the cluttered sofa and pulled out the liquor he had bought. He did not bother with any ceremony. He simply bit open the cork and began drinking straight from the bottle.
The sheer boldness of it even made Lloyd look at him with renewed respect.
One of the main reasons Lloyd disliked making friends was the secret blood running through his veins.
That forbidden secret blood attracted things that should never have existed.
Shelmans had explained this phenomenon in his notes as well. He called it "phototaxis."
In an endless sea of darkness, Lloyd, carrying secret blood within him, was like a solitary point of light. He was a flame in the night, drawing moths from every corner of the darkness. They flew toward the fire, swarming toward him in ever greater numbers.
Because of this "phototaxis," every kind of supernatural abomination was drawn toward Lloyd. And, in turn, Lloyd could not help but drift toward them as well.
Inevitably, those around him would become caught in the aftermath.
Lloyd did not want innocent people to suffer because of him.
So unless circumstances made it absolutely necessary, he had always remained alone.
And yet, something had happened that even he had never expected.
Sometimes, Lloyd could not help wondering whether something called "fate" truly existed in this world.
Perhaps it had all begun with his first encounter with Buscalo. Perhaps that initial meeting had somehow led to their reunion aboard that death-bound train, and perhaps the influence of that encounter had continued all the way to this moment.
But who could ever say for certain?
"Want a drink?"
Buscalo suddenly called out.
He looked toward Lloyd, who was leaning against the windowsill, and raised his bottle.
"You're drinking this much in the middle of the day?"
"One, because I feel like drinking. Two, because I need courage."
As he spoke, Buscalo glanced at Lloyd, then at the weapons leaning against the wall.
Dangerous arcs of light shimmered across their surfaces.
Putting aside Lloyd's peculiar nervous habits, from Buscalo's perspective, Lloyd was nothing less than a metropolitan serial killer.
A defenseless doctor and a serial killer alone in the same room.
Lloyd could understand why the doctor needed alcohol to gather his courage.
Lloyd only wanted somewhere to rest.
He had just endured a battle of terrifying intensity, followed by an overwhelming flood of knowledge.
Even now, that strange sense of unease remained painfully vivid.
It was as though, somewhere beyond the edge of his vision, a monster with a hundred eyes was staring directly at him. Countless eyeballs turned wherever Lloyd moved, watching him without blinking, gnashing their teeth and salivating for blood, waiting for the perfect opportunity to deliver a fatal strike.
It was exhausting.
Far too exhausting.
Lloyd had once believed that killing Lawrence would complete his revenge for the Night of the Advent.
But the deeper he dug into the past, the more he realized that everything was far more complicated than he had imagined.
No matter how much firewood he threw onto the flames, he could not illuminate this unfathomable darkness.
"They aren't coming back, are they?"
Lloyd tried to relax before asking Buscalo.
"Who?"
Buscalo was already somewhat drunk and clearly failed to understand what Lloyd meant.
"Your wife. And your daughter."
Lloyd continued, "The last time I came here, you were at least still cleaning the house. After all, if they came back and saw this mess, they'd be angry. But now…"
He did not finish.
They were not coming back.
And because of that, Buscalo no longer cared about any of this.
The house had fallen into chaos. He called it freedom, but in truth, it was simply indulgence.
"Mr. Holmes, this is marriage."
Buscalo did not look sad in the slightest. He merely stared at Lloyd with his eyes wide open.
"Well, all right. I was pretty miserable at first. Even though I'd grown tired of my wife, I still loved my daughter very much… But eventually, I got used to it. I found the feeling I had when I was young again. It's been fantastic."
It seemed Lloyd had been worrying for nothing.
As he spoke, Buscalo raised his bottle and began singing and dancing drunkenly.
Whether in the past or now, Buscalo had always been rather afraid of Lloyd. After all, everything about their relationship had been terrible from the very beginning.
But just as Lloyd had grown accustomed to monsters, Buscalo had gradually grown accustomed to Lloyd.
Besides, there was no way he could resist anyway.
If resistance was impossible, why not enjoy himself while he still could?
"Wait. Did you lose your job?"
Lloyd noticed the bills scattered across the floor, one pile after another.
"Oh… those? Can't be helped. Excessive indulgence comes with a few drawbacks. Like… forgetting to go to work."
Buscalo's voice gradually faded.
Whether he simply did not want to face Lloyd's gaze or for some other reason, he eventually drank himself into unconsciousness and collapsed on the floor, snoring loudly.
It was almost as if he were saying:
I'm asleep now. Do whatever the hell you want. Just make sure you're gone by the time I wake up.
Lloyd's expression became complicated.
It seemed that everyone was at least a little neurotic in their own way.
They simply did not usually show it.
After carrying Buscalo back to his bedroom, Lloyd sat alone on the sofa in the living room.
Faced with the wreckage surrounding him, he had absolutely no intention of cleaning the place for Buscalo.
Instead, he placed Shelmans's notes on the table, his expression grave.
There was still no evidence that could directly prove the existence of the "Curse of Knowledge."
But Lloyd could feel the unease with absolute clarity.
If not for that concern, he might already have gone to the Perpetual Motion Pump and told Merlin everything.
But he could not.
Perhaps there was something special about Lloyd that allowed him to avoid the Curse of Knowledge.
But he did not dare gamble on whether Merlin would be able to escape it.
Shelmans had died for this knowledge.
And throughout history, there had perhaps been countless others who had died for the same reason.
Lloyd was beginning to understand why the knowledge of the Church of the Gospel contained such obvious gaps between eras.
At some point in the distant past, others had known these things too.
But because of the curse, they had all died.
Perhaps some people, like Lloyd, had been able to avoid the curse—or at least delay its arrival.
But even then, the knowledge would remain theirs alone.
They could not tell anyone else.
Because the moment they did, that strange curse would spread with it.
It was like an invisible wall.
Humanity had been trapped behind it, imprisoned within its boundaries, forever condemned to ignorance.
...
Being drunk felt terrible.
Buscalo's head was spinning, and every inch of his body ached. It felt as though someone had beaten him half to death.
After struggling to crawl out of bed, Buscalo sat on the edge and stared out the window.
Night had already fallen.
Streetlamps had come alive below, while rumbling iron serpents continued to weave tirelessly through the city. People flowed along the streets in endless streams.
The feeling was unpleasant.
Not merely because of the hangover.
But because when he woke, he was alone.
The dim room was thick with the smell of alcohol and sour decay. It felt as though he were living inside the den of some wild beast.
Bottles rolled across the floor, their glass surfaces reflecting Buscalo's disheveled face.
Freedom really was wonderful.
But after excessive pleasure came an emptiness that was difficult to escape.
Buscalo did not particularly want to see his wife again, but he truly missed his daughter.
Her mother had taken her back to their hometown, a small town untouched by the brilliance of modern technology, where communication still depended entirely upon letters.
He could not hear her voice.
He could not see her face.
Thinking about it, Buscalo reached for another bottle, intending to drown himself in drink once more.
Only then did he realize there was no alcohol left.
Perhaps this was simply what the life of a middle-aged divorced man looked like.
Buscalo sat there in a daze until he heard a faint noise coming from the living room.
A thief?
At this point, Buscalo hardly cared.
There was nothing valuable left in the house anyway.
But then his expression suddenly changed.
As the alcohol slowly left his mind, he gradually remembered what had happened before he passed out.
He cautiously pushed open the bedroom door.
And there it was.
That damned face was looking back at him with a friendly smile.
"You're awake? Thank you for taking me in."
Lloyd had already changed back into his clothes.
He looked completely clean and ordinary now. Anyone seeing him on the street would never have guessed that this seemingly unremarkable man was a killer.
Buscalo recognized the clothes immediately.
They were his.
Because the sizes were different, Lloyd looked absurdly bulky in his oversized clothes.
"You're leaving?"
Buscalo had finally regained his composure.
Lloyd nodded.
He did not bother hiding anything. Right in front of Buscalo, he calmly tucked his lethal weapons beneath his coat.
"You… really are dedicated to your work. Going out to work in the middle of the night."
"Middle of the night?"
Lloyd froze.
Then he pointed toward the clock.
"It's already the next day. Dawn is almost here."
"This…"
Buscalo clutched his head.
He had never imagined that he had slept for so long.
He was beginning to panic when he suddenly remembered that he had already quit his job.
So what was there to panic about?
He collapsed back onto the sofa, apparently intending to go back to sleep.
"Mr. Lloyd Holmes."
Suddenly, he called after Lloyd.
Lloyd turned around.
Buscalo slowly climbed off the sofa and looked at him with an unusually serious expression.
"Don't get married."
"Huh?"
Lloyd had no idea whether Buscalo was still half asleep or had started another drunken fit.
He had no intention of wasting time figuring it out.
Buscalo finished speaking, grabbed the only family photograph in the house, and lay back down.
A moment later, his snores filled the room once again.
Lloyd was only staying here for a brief rest. If he remained too long, he might attract some unnecessary trouble.
Seeing that Buscalo was in no immediate danger, Lloyd left without another word.
The life of a demon hunter was always like this.
Constant travel.
One trouble after another.
It was not as though Lloyd had never rested.
After the Night of the Advent, he had come to Old Dunling and become a detective of rather unusual style, living a life that was, by all appearances, relatively peaceful.
But too much peace could make a man forget what he truly was.
And when all that sin finally came looking for him again, everything suddenly felt so unfamiliar.
The sky remained gloomy.
From time to time, cold droplets of rain fell from above, lingering briefly in the streets before disappearing into the endless city.
Then Lloyd decided where he would go next.