The Divine Armor of the Old Century（Book 1）

Chapter 94

The twisted tree reflected in the mirror bore deep, black veins, so profound it seemed that beneath its surface lay not flesh and blood, but an unfathomable abyss.

After thoroughly checking for any anomalies, Lloyd finally put on his pajamas. Since the Ende Town operation, he had not experienced such an intense surge of secret blood. This resurgence of power felt both unfamiliar and terrifying to him.

Thus, he conducted this inspection every day.

The strange tattoo on his back was a product of the Demon Hunter Cult's alchemy—a nearly lost art more mysterious than the demons themselves. After all, demons, with their incredible vitality, often had a few survivors, but modern steam technology had decimated alchemists, leaving perhaps only a handful. The last alchemist might already have died on some street corner, making Lloyd's tattoo the swan song of this ancient craft.

This tattoo, an alchemical matrix engraved on demon hunters, had many effects. The simplest way to understand it was that secret blood was the power source, and the alchemical matrix determined what this power was used for.

According to the angels in the "Gospel," these powers were categorized into different branches. For example, Ed's Michael branch granted him the ability to burn everything. His purifying flames were hotter than those of ordinary demon hunters, and his body could briefly transform into blazing flames, dancing like elemental fury.

Within the Demon Hunter Cult, hunters were assigned different responsibilities based on their powers. Michael branch hunters were tasked with burning and purifying. Once they caught a demon, they could execute a fire ritual anytime, anywhere.

Lloyd belonged to the more solemn Metatron branch. His power could proliferate secret blood, generating an incredibly sturdy metallic divine armor. Metatron hunters guarded the Pope, clad in their formidable divine armor, lurking in the shadows of Saint Nalo Cathedral.

If the Pope was the closest person to divinity, then Metatron hunters were the closest to the Pope, the agents of God, nearest to the throne.

Yet, in essence, Lloyd was somewhat different from all this. After experiencing the bizarre events of the Night of Descent, he felt like he was heading in an unknown direction, akin to something lurking in his mind.

Lying in bed, Lloyd stared at the posters covering his ceiling—bars, regular balls, even some luxury stores and restaurants. People always need some motivation to live. Every night before sleeping, Lloyd would look at these posters, thinking about what to eat, what to do, or where to play the next day, giving him a sliver of anticipation for tomorrow.

Closing his eyes, the demon hunter drifted into a deep sleep.

As the demon hunter slept, another door at 121A Cork Street slowly creaked open. A man, exhausted, stepped out of his room, looking disheveled and unkempt as if he hadn't taken care of himself for a long time.

Sig glanced at Lloyd's door. He wanted to greet his long-absent roommate, but it seemed their schedules had perfectly misaligned.

It was near midnight, and Sig felt a pang of hunger. Unsure if any restaurants were still open, he decided to try his luck in the kitchen downstairs.

Sig was a mechanic from an unknown place. Despite his humble beginnings, Sig was intelligent and managed to get into the Old Dunlin Mechanical Academy. Though not as prestigious as other universities, it was his ticket to higher society.

Everything went as expected: Sig worked hard, graduated smoothly, and now worked as a mechanic in a factory.

He had no particularly exciting stories or traumatic past. Sig was a textbook example of an ordinary person.

He tried to avoid attracting Mrs. Fanlud's attention. Despite living here for a while, he hadn't figured out her schedule. It seemed she was always awake, ready to appear and startle him at any moment.

Rummaging through the fridge, Sig found some sausages. Not gourmet fare, but enough to fill his stomach. He sat at the table, savoring the quiet, rare moment of feeling life's simplicity.

Factory life was tough: hot, oily air filled his nostrils, and the constant noise made sleep difficult even with earplugs. His mental state was poor.

Suddenly, a plate was placed in front of him. Mrs. Fanlud stared at him sternly.

"Eat this. That stuff is too cold."

Sig was surprised and flustered, like a child caught sneaking food.

"I... I thought you were asleep."

"Old people don't need much sleep."

Mrs. Fanlud pulled up a chair and sat at the table with Sig. The atmosphere was awkward, both eating silently until Mrs. Fanlud broke the silence.

"You haven't been home for half a month, right?"

Sig nodded.

"The factory added a new production line. The new machines have many issues."

The dim light cast a homely glow on their faces. Mrs. Fanlud asked again.

"How are you feeling? You haven't been using hallucinogens, have you?"

Here it was, the inevitable question. Sig looked embarrassed and took a long time to reply.

"No, I haven't used them again."

Her aged eyes scrutinized him, like a judge. Finally, she looked away and picked up a sausage.

"I hope you're telling the truth... Sig, you're different from Lloyd. That kid might be a bit neurotic and unreliable, but he knows what he wants, so I never worry about him. But you're different. You're easily swayed, like when you used hallucinogens. If I hadn't found out in time, I can't imagine what you'd be like now."

For the first time, Mrs. Fanlud showed her concern for her tenants. If Lloyd saw this, he'd probably think she was possessed by a demon.

Sig hung his head. It was his shameful past. Outwardly, he was a decent mechanic with a proper job, but for a long time, he used hallucinogens at night.

Hallucinogens had plagued Old Dunlin for a long time. Although driven underground by the authorities, their harm remained evident. The destitute in the lower city were a testament to this.

"And you know Lloyd's job. You don't want to be despised, do you?"

She asked lightly, leaving a business card.

"Sig, I hope you don't mind. This is for your good. It's a support group run by a friend of mine. I hope it helps you."

"Dreams are merely a place for rest, not a refuge."

Mrs. Fanlud left. Sig took a long time to move, rolling up his sleeve, revealing a row of needle marks. The feeling of shame slowly consumed him.