The corridor remained—long, hushed, and steeped in that same oppressive stillness. Yet something had changed. It was no longer the endlessly twisting passage it once was, nor did those grotesque hounds lurk in the dark. Everything, on the surface, was normal.
Only the waking minds within it had become something else entirely.
"Lloyd! Lloyd!"
Selu called out again and again, her voice echoing faintly along the stone walls. The witch hunter gave no reply.
He had carried her out of the room—but after only a few staggering steps, he collapsed into unconsciousness. It seemed his cigarettes were far less invigorating than he claimed.
Damn it… of all moments to fall.
Selu struggled free from beneath him, pushing herself upright with trembling limbs. The effects of Florende's potion still coursed through her veins. Her senses had been sharpened beyond their natural limits—she could see into the dark as if it were dusk, hear the faintest whisper as though it were thunder. Even her thoughts had been stripped of fear, cold and lucid.
But such clarity came at a cost.
Details flooded her vision in suffocating excess. Every sound struck her ears like a hammer. Her thoughts surged uncontrollably, as if countless unseen voices were murmuring within her mind.
The world had grown too loud, too vivid.
Without a will tempered for such strain, one would shatter beneath it.
And Selu… was holding on.
Her will was like a lone vessel upon a blackened sea—each towering wave crashing down upon it. It might endure one moment… perhaps another.
But the next?
It could sink without warning.
"Wake up!"
Gritting her teeth, she seized Lloyd's arm and began dragging him across the floor. She did not know where the enemy lay—but she knew, with absolute certainty, that the manor had become a place of death.
Only then did she realize just how heavy he was.
His weight made no sense—far beyond what his frame should allow.
It was the Silver Bind within him.
Like an internal skeleton of metal, it reinforced his body—both shield and prison.
A bitter helplessness crept into her chest.
She could do nothing.
Just like all those years ago, in Gaul Nalo… she had been powerless then, too. But back then, Lloyd had come for her.
Now… who would come for her?
A sound broke the silence.
Footsteps.
Echoing from the stairwell, slow and deliberate.
Selu froze, every nerve tightening. With what strength she had left, she dragged Lloyd into the shadow of a corner. Then she reached for the Winchester.
She knew this rifle.
During their long flight through danger, Lloyd had told her countless strange stories—half to distract her, half to steady her heart. Among them… the poem etched into this very weapon.
A poem of courage.
A poem that cursed death itself.
"Do not go gentle into that good night."
She whispered the line, as though the act of reciting it might truly summon courage into her bones.
Her finger settled against the trigger. She slowed her breathing, drawing in air in careful silence—cooling herself like a failing engine fed with fresh steam.
Her jaw tightened.
Once, Lloyd had saved her.
Now… it was her turn.
"Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
Like a devout believer uttering a final prayer.
But Selu had no god to turn to.
Only herself.
Only that fragile, desperate spark within her—the courage to tear through the dark.
She murmured again, softer now:
"Though wise men at their end know dark is right…
Because their words had forked no lightning…"
No.
That wasn't who she was anymore.
She was no longer the trembling beggar girl beneath a freezing wind.
She was Selu Stuart.
Duchess of Stuart.
It was time to prove it.
The footsteps drew closer—like death itself, approaching without haste. Just beyond the corner.
Selu tightened her grip on the Winchester, ready to surge forward—
And then—
A powerful arm seized her from behind.
The rifle was torn from her hands. She was cast aside in a single motion.
Lloyd rose.
He had returned—from that chaotic Interstice between realities. The witch hunter stood once more, sword in one hand, Winchester in the other, placing himself firmly before her.
He continued her poem, his voice low and steady:
"Rage. Rage."
The Winchester roared.
The shot thundered through the corridor, the bullet punching clean through the wall—striking its target beyond the corner without hesitation.
For a fleeting moment, Lloyd was reminded of his days within the Order. Back then, too, he had praised the divine with every breath—
While sending one monster after another into hell.
"Against the dying of the light."
The rifle clicked empty. He cycled the lever with a sharp metallic snap.
"Stay close."
It felt familiar.
Just like the first time they had met.
Stay close.
Selu hesitated—then nodded, firmly.
...
The enemies were not monsters.
They were men.
Armed, advancing through the dark—yet wholly unprepared for a hunter like Lloyd.
His brow furrowed. This was more complicated than he had thought. Not merely creatures of the abyss—but human hands had entered this chaos as well.
More figures appeared at the stairwell, stepping over the fallen. Without hesitation, they opened fire.
Triggers clenched.
A storm of bullets tore through the corridor.
The gunfire wove a deadly net. There was no space to evade—and if Lloyd moved, Selu would be exposed.
The invaders smiled.
To them, he was already dead.
Then—
A blinding white flare ignited in the dark.
The bullets struck—not flesh—but metal. Sparks erupted in showers as rounds ricocheted wildly.
From the depths of nightmare, it emerged.
Black divine armor enveloped Lloyd's body. Twisted plates, like thorned vines, coiled around him—warding off every shot.
The terror of dreams made manifest.
Before the invaders could react, Lloyd advanced.
Fast.
Relentless.
His sword rose.
It was no masterwork blade—merely a ceremonial weapon, a symbol of rank.
But in his hands—
It became death itself.
Secret blood surged through his body, muscles tightening as inhuman strength poured into the strike.
The blade fell.
Impact.
Severance.
A scream tore through the air as an arm was cleaved clean away. No ordinary edge could cut bone so completely—
This was not cutting.
This was force—raw, overwhelming force—breaking the body apart.
Stay rational.
Stay angry.
Under the protection of the black armor, the battle became slaughter.
There was no room to dodge.
For either side.
The blade crashed into a skull, shearing away half of it without resistance. The body collapsed, revealing those behind—faces already twisting in terror.
"Damn it! Fire! FIRE!"
They obeyed, unleashing torrents of ammunition. Kilograms of bullets poured forth—yet they left only shallow scars upon the armor. Some rounds deflected, turning back upon their own ranks.
Lloyd did not stop.
A single swing tore through flesh and bone alike. It was not efficient—but it was devastating.
He was not merely killing.
He was spreading fear.
Fear—after all—was a universal language.
Like a walking grinder of flesh, he carved through them. Limbs fell. Blood and fragments filled the air. Their screams rose in chorus—they had never faced something like this.
Some still tried to fire.
But then—
Their morale broke.
Under the crushing weight of terror, they fled.
And what followed was no longer battle.
It was release.
Lloyd vented his fury without restraint. No mercy. No hesitation. Each swing of his blade claimed another life—until no sound remained.
The hall fell silent.
Bodies lay scattered, walls etched with the marks of violence.
Amidst the carnage, the black knight stood.
Before him, a handful of survivors trembled. Their faces, reflected in the blood-stained blade, were warped by pure, unfiltered fear.
"I believe…"
Lloyd spoke calmly, his voice devoid of emotion—
Like death itself calling their names.
"…we can talk now."