How long has mankind truly existed in this world gone mad?
Lloyd often found himself haunted by questions no ordinary soul would ever ask. He called it the curse of overthinking—the futile pursuit of answers hidden beyond the reach of reason, a journey that exhausted the mind while yielding nothing in return.
So... how long had humanity truly walked this world?
Surely far longer than the fragments preserved within recorded history. Yet throughout those immeasurable ages, mankind had left behind no trace at all. Only within the past few thousand years had words been carved into stone, ink set upon parchment, and history finally given a voice.
Then what had humanity been doing before that?
Before language.
Before records.
Within that nameless age swallowed by darkness.
Lloyd refused to believe civilization had simply appeared out of nothing. If mankind had not been born from emptiness, then what had existed before all of this?
Perhaps that, too, was knowledge's cruelest curse.
He could imagine the question, yet never its answer.
And deep within him lingered an unsettling intuition.
If humanity truly possessed an era erased from memory... could that forgotten age also be tied to the demons?
Humans had not appeared without origin.
Neither had the demons.
So where had they come from?
When had these impossible aberrations first crossed into a world that had once been ordinary?
His consciousness drifted farther and farther away.
Yet within that bizarre state, his thoughts became clearer than ever before. Every passing moment sharpened his awareness until, buried beneath layers of impossible clarity, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the truth's beginning.
Perhaps...
Perhaps this is why.
The answer surfaced—
Only to be violently torn away.
An overwhelming force crushed his thoughts as unbearable pain ripped through his consciousness. The last time Lloyd had crossed the Gap, Watson had guided him. This time, however, he had forced the passage open himself.
The sensation was so unnatural it nearly shattered his mind.
Then he saw it.
Amid an endless, unknown cosmos, countless radiant lights floated across the darkness, each glowing with dazzling colors that shifted like living rainbows.
Every single one of them...
was a Gap.
The Black Angel had woven an alchemical formation that magnified the pathways between the Gaps, stretching far beyond the borders of Ingelvig, crossing the sea itself. In a single instant, Lloyd's consciousness leapt across unimaginable distances, hurtling toward the place where everything had begun.
The countless lights accelerated.
Their brilliance elongated into rivers of color, becoming dazzling streams that wrapped themselves around him.
Silence roared.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Then, slowly, the void began to brighten.
Gray-blue hues seeped into the world.
The stronghold of the Demon Hunters.
The birthplace of Secret Blood.
Within the silent sanctuary, a translucent figure stood motionless in a shadowed corner.
He stared blankly at the ruined palace before him.
His body refused to move, as though death itself had frozen every limb.
Sometimes, fate delivered its miracles with terrifying speed.
Dreams imagined countless times suddenly became reality, arriving without warning and leaving every emotion suspended.
Nothing remained—
only emptiness.
The phantom tried to move.
To everyone else, he would have been invisible, no more substantial than a wandering spirit.
Yet that ghostly body trembled.
Joy and grief battled within him.
He longed to scream in rage—
yet instead lowered his head in silent mourning.
Because Lloyd truly was a ghost.
A lonely soul that had survived the Night of Divine Descent.
He should have died that night.
Yet somehow, he had endured.
Everything he had ever known had been consumed by those flames, leaving him alone before these shattered ruins, chasing memories that no longer existed.
"...It's... been... so long."
The words escaped his lips as though they demanded every ounce of strength he possessed.
He no longer cared to understand anything else.
He did not question the state he was in.
Had he still possessed flesh and blood, tears would already have covered his face.
It had been...
a very long time since he had cried.
The ghost continued forward, one slow step after another, crossing broken stone and worn stairways.
After Anthony departed for Ingelvig, the vast Cathedral of Saint Nalo seemed to belong to only one remaining soul.
The new Pope.
Silence ruled every hall.
Following his ruthless purge and the baptism of blood that had followed, the Gospel Church seemed to have returned to the age when faith alone governed mankind.
The Gates of Heaven slowly closed.
Within the dim vertical shaft, the great elevator descended toward the Stagnant Sanctuary below.
Only here could the new Pope finally relax.
Inside the immense shaft known as the Gates of Heaven—a place belonging neither to Paradise nor Hell, but to the unseen crack between both worlds—he could finally escape the countless unseen eyes watching from beyond.
He removed his pale iron mask.
Then lit a cigarette.
Time slipped quietly away.
By the time the final ember died, the elevator had reached its destination.
The heavy doors opened.
The Stagnant Sanctuary lay before him.
Since the loss of the Book of Revelation, much of the sanctuary could no longer be reactivated. With most Demon Hunters deployed to Old Dunling, scarcely anyone remained behind.
In truth, no guards were needed.
This had once been the heart of the Demon Hunter Order.
Now...
nothing remained.
Only desolation.
Only ruins left behind to remind future generations of a forgotten glory.
Though he now ruled the Gospel Church, almost no one truly knew the new Pope.
His face remained forever hidden behind cold steel.
He rarely left Saint Nalo Cathedral.
Few had even seen him with their own eyes.
The Cardinals who had sworn loyalty to him often searched in vain, never realizing that whenever he vanished...
he had simply returned here.
To the Stagnant Sanctuary.
Though later restorations had softened its decay, nothing could restore the brilliance it had once possessed.
What had once stood as the Order's greatest sanctuary had become little more than its gravestone.
The Pope walked in silence until he reached the end of the familiar corridor.
He pushed open the massive doors.
A gentle fragrance greeted him.
Beyond them stretched a sea of flowers.
Countless pure white blossoms bloomed beneath the earth, swaying softly like waves stirred by an invisible wind.
No one knew when this place had been created.
Those who remembered the old sanctuary certainly knew no such warmth had ever existed within its merciless halls.
Soft white light poured down from somewhere unseen, bathing everything in a hazy brilliance that concealed its source.
"Your Holiness."
The gravekeeper approached.
He had long since grown accustomed to the Pope's frequent visits—and to his own quiet duty.
Guarding graves, after all, was far preferable to endless slaughter.
The Pope offered no reply.
He simply wandered through the endless blossoms.
Only here could the restlessness buried within him finally find a measure of peace.
Everything remained silent.
As the flowers shifted gently, rows of gravestones emerged from beneath them.
None bore names.
Only numbers.
Forgotten numbers.
Rusted swords stood planted beside every grave, each weathered blade preserving a story no living soul remembered.
"Your Holiness... the Heart Nexus is still hungry. We..."
After a long hesitation, the gravekeeper finally spoke.
The moment the words left his mouth, regret followed.
The steel mask slowly turned toward him.
Within those black, empty eye sockets, he could feel a pair of lifeless eyes studying him.
Like a corpse that had forgotten how to die.
"They have already offered their final contribution."
"The Secret Blood has been drained."
"The Silver Shackles have been melted down and reforged into new Nail Swords."
"So let those bodies finally rest."
His voice carried no emotion whatsoever.
It sounded less like speech...
and more like a machine repeating a predetermined command.
"And you should grieve, child."
"It is because they died..."
"...that madness has not claimed this world."
The Pope gazed across the sea of flowers without the slightest change in expression, standing as still as a carved statue.
The gravekeeper dared not speak again.
He quietly retreated.
He had lived a long life.
He had served many great figures.
Yet this Pope was unlike any of them.
Everything about him was contradiction.
Everything about him remained unknowable.
Never grow attached to a weapon.
Anyone who knew the existence of Demon Hunters understood that truth.
They possessed no names.
Only numbers.
No past.
No future.
Only the endless present of slaughter.
This iron-blooded Pope could execute nobles without hesitation, drown every rebel in blood...
yet before these long-dead hunters, he displayed something resembling pity.
Perhaps even reverence.
The gravekeeper never understood why.
Nor did he dare ask.
Sometimes ignorance was mercy.
Sometimes he wondered whether the very moment one learned of the demons' existence, some unseen entity had already placed a curse upon them.
A curse that condemned every witness to wage an endless war against darkness—
a battle destined never to be won—
while that hidden existence watched from beyond the heavens, mocking every mortal foolish enough to resist fate.
The Pope finally reached a familiar grave.
He sat quietly before it.
With his back to the gravekeeper, he removed his mask and placed it gently upon the weathered stone.
Then he continued his endless mourning.
Time itself seemed frozen.
Like a photograph suspended forever.
Everything remained motionless—
until a child long separated from home finally returned.
Lloyd stared blankly around him.
He remembered no such place within the Stagnant Sanctuary.
Nor had he ever seen these strangers before.
The ghost stepped slowly across damp earth and scattered petals.
Everything felt unfamiliar—
until he saw the man kneeling alone amid the endless white flowers.
"...What happened here?"
Only after the first overwhelming wave of grief had subsided did Lloyd truly realize where he was.
He had returned to the Stagnant Sanctuary.
Not in body—
but in some strange, impossible state.
Perhaps this truly was what it meant to become a ghost.
He reached out, attempting to touch the world around him.
His fingers passed through everything.
No one could see him.
No one could hear his voice.
It was as though he had been completely severed from reality itself.
Lloyd was, after all, a detective.
Though he often relied more upon guns and swords than deduction, this was a rare opportunity to think.
The peculiar nature of this state reminded him of Lawrence.
Lawrence could travel through the Gap, invade another's consciousness, and seize control of their body.
Could Lloyd now exist in the very same state?
Had he simply never touched a living being before, never triggering that strange possession?
Cautiously, he moved toward the sea of flowers.
Then—
a voice broke the silence.
"...Is it... you?"
Lloyd froze.
If he understood correctly, only two living people stood here.
The Pope.
The gravekeeper.
And himself—
a ghost.
Then...
who exactly had the Pope been speaking to?
A chill gripped his heart.
He had been gone from the Gospel Church for far too long.
Long enough for Popes to change.
For the Demon Hunter Order to dissolve...
and be reborn.
Countless things must have happened during his absence.
Things he knew nothing about.
The gravekeeper, equally confused, noticed nothing unusual.
He could neither see Lloyd nor understand why the Pope had suddenly begun speaking to empty air.
He had no idea danger was already upon him.
Lloyd needed answers.
Unable to affect reality as a ghost, a bold thought emerged.
There was only one way to test his theory.
He slowly placed a hand upon the gravekeeper's back.
The instant contact was made—
his spectral body collapsed into countless fragments.
Memories.
Emotions.
Endless torrents of them crashed into his consciousness all at once.
Pain and madness intertwined.
Time stretched into eternity.
His very will was torn apart...
then painstakingly stitched back together.
The world slowly regained its light.
Lloyd found both hands pressed against the earth.
The soil beneath his palms felt damp...
and real.
He froze.
Then slowly raised his trembling hands.
Ecstasy and terror flooded him together.
He had done it.
Just as Lawrence once had.
By crossing the Gap, he had seized another body.
Across an impossible distance, he had reached into the Stagnant Sanctuary itself and interfered with reality.
Before he could even process what had happened, the man within the flowers slowly rose.
He picked up his mask.
Placed it back upon his face.
Then turned toward Lloyd—
or rather...
toward the gravekeeper.
"So..."
"It truly is you."
Lloyd understood nothing.
He was not the gravekeeper.
The Pope's words made no sense.
But then he saw it.
The iron mask beneath the pale light.
The immaculate white robes.
"...The... Pope."
Never, in all his imaginings, had Lloyd expected the man before him to be the Pope himself.
Without another word, the Pope bent down and gathered the Nail Swords standing beside the graves.
Steel screamed through the air.
One blade buried itself in the earth directly before Lloyd.
"I thought you would never return."
"But in the end..."
"...you were afraid."
"Weren't you?"
The Pope tightened his grip upon the rusted Nail Sword and advanced.
With every step he took, the sea of white blossoms withered into ash.
Life fled from every flower.
Only black earth and lonely gravestones remained.
There was no time left to think.
Lloyd had no idea how he had been discovered.
Nor who the mysterious "you" truly referred to.
Instinct alone drove him.
He snatched up the Nail Sword before him and raised it defensively.
Then—
their eyes met.
His heart seemed to stop.
Within the hollow darkness beneath the steel mask...
blinding white flames ignited.
The fire grew brighter and brighter until every trace of rust upon the ancient blade was burned away.
The Secret Blood boiled once more.
After countless years...
it awakened again.
Seni Lothel lowered into a familiar stance, Nail Sword poised, its point aimed directly at Lloyd.
The posture was unmistakable.
One Lloyd could never forget.
"I will never yield."
"No matter how many times you come to kill me..."
"...the answer will always remain the same."
Then he moved.
Lightning and white fire descended together.
The blade flashed.
And judgment fell from heaven.