The Divine Armor of the Old Century（Book 1）

Chapter 137

"This is all I know... about the Night of Ascension."

In the dimly lit tunnel, Lloyd leaned against the battered carriage of the steam subway, with Merlin and Arthur sitting across from him.

He exhaled a faint puff of smoke that rose and dissipated in the murky air. Perhaps he had smoked too much, for his throat burned painfully. Lloyd coughed vigorously a few times, dropping the cigarette butt from his hand, which landed among the three or four others already at his feet.

"What a long night it was," Merlin broke the deathly silence, unsure whether to be happy or sad, he could only lament helplessly from the perspective of an observer.

"Indeed, a very long night. Sometimes I feel like the Night of Ascension never ended; its aftershocks still disrupt the entire world," Lloyd sighed, recalling those memories was not a pleasant task.

"But we have the Night of Ascension to thank for this. Though I was merely a guard, guarding the grand Saint Nalo Cathedral, as Mandazo demon hunters, we were privy to many secrets."

"For instance, the demon militarization project driven by greed. If it ever succeeded, it would spark a new war, likely claiming more lives than the Night of Ascension," Arthur nodded in agreement, his voice tinged with helplessness.

"That's the current situation. Hundreds of years ago, war was about numbers, who had sharper swords, and stronger warhorses. But now, times have changed. In our last war, we used swords and shields. In the next, it might be filled with explosions and artillery shells."

"Everyone is holding back, maintaining a delicate balance."

Merlin nodded stiffly. As one of the last remaining alchemists, his mind was mostly occupied with forbidden knowledge. He was not well-versed in current affairs, and nodding seemed like the only thing he could do.

"Mr. Holmes, as a demon hunter, do you have any ideas on how we could defeat Dean Lawrence? You must have felt it too—the level of corruption he wields. Ordinary soldiers entering the fray would be marching to their deaths, and even you might not withstand his power," Merlin asked, their primary goal now being to capture Dean Lawrence. Given the dean's enigmatic nature, he might well be able to trigger another Night of Ascension within Old Dunlin.

"I don't know..." Lloyd spoke with a hint of confusion.

"Dean Lawrence was right—I am his shadow. All demon hunters are his shadows. Whether it's the use of power or methods to slay demons, he taught us everything. He is the teacher of us all."

"Not to mention, I wasn't even a particularly good student."

Dean Lawrence, the only demon hunter among the bishops of the Gospel Church, no one knew what he had done to earn that blood-red robe, nor how long he had lived. Even on that night of battle, Dean Lawrence hadn't used his full power.

He was terrifying, more so than any demon Lloyd had ever encountered. Dean Lawrence knew everything about demon hunters—he was the hunter of demon hunters.

"What a bother... By the way, Mr. Holmes, would you be interested in helping with a research project? If it succeeds, we might have a better chance against Dean Lawrence," Merlin suddenly proposed.

"What do you mean?" Lloyd looked at the alchemist, whose hollow gaze always gave Lloyd the creeps.

Merlin's stiff face managed a smile. "Emerging technologies. This is a new era, Mr. Holmes, no longer a time where supreme knightly valor alone wins wars. Technology dominates the battlefield—military technology, ever-expanding military capabilities."

Like war zeppelins, train cannons, new firearms, and even... ancient-century mechs.

This technology, like demons, originated from humanity itself, from the minds of those scholars.

"Well, consider it, and then let's get out of this wretched place, shall we?" Merlin looked around at the desolate tunnel, the dust swirling like the tomb of some creature.

...

In life, there are many things akin to save points. When you reach one, it feels like you've been cleansed and reborn.

The concept of a save point is quite nuanced. If quantified, after reaching a save point, all your stats reset to their optimal values. Save points vary in form and significance for different people.

For some, a cup of coffee rejuvenates them; for others, it's a nap or a hearty meal.

For Lloyd, he had many save points, but his most frequent one was this.

Opening his eyes, he saw the ceiling covered with various posters, mostly restaurant advertisements, listing all sorts of strange dishes.

The dim light outside carried the sound of hurried hoofbeats. As night fell, a sea of candlelight arose.

After leaving the underground and hastily bidding Arthur goodbye, Lloyd returned to 121A Cork Street. Having not slept in his own bed for many days, he collapsed onto it and slept soundly until sunset.

Merlin was working on some weapon project, but to fight Dean Lawrence, Lloyd readily agreed. This was no longer just his war—it was the entire Purge Mechanism's war against Dean Lawrence.

The entire Purge Mechanism was now operating at full speed, with sealed maintenance passages reopening, workers descending to check for demon breeding grounds in the vast underground maze.

The inner city was fully sealed off, heavily armed soldiers patrolling day and night.

Lloyd curled up in a corner of his bed, the room devoid of any light, utterly silent. He stared blankly into the darkness, lost in thought.

Upon returning, Mrs. Fernud was still asleep. She truly was getting old, which saved Lloyd from having to explain his absence.

His roommate wasn't home either, possibly off to work or doing something else.

Everyone had their own lives, like parallel lines that might intersect but never truly connect. Their lives were mundane dramas, worrying about everyday necessities, while Lloyd's life was a horror war film, a slight misstep leading to an early grave alongside other demon hunters.

Happily soaking in magma, telling jokes, perhaps meeting demons in hell, and merrily slaying them again... provided there was an afterlife.

Come to think of it, that wasn't so bad. Those who intersected with Lloyd never met good ends—facing demons wasn't for everyone.

His hand reached for the bedside, the cold touch bringing Lloyd comfort. The first thing he did upon returning was prepare his weapons. A silver-plated cane-sword lay at his head, a fully loaded Winchester on the other side. He had no desire to face demons next time armed only with a dinner knife.

Grabbing his familiar Winchester, Lloyd leaned against the wall in the dark, gently caressing the gun's body. His fingers traced the engraved letters, words he had long memorized even if he couldn't see them.

"Do not go gentle into that good night."

Lloyd whispered.

This was Mandazo's favorite poem, so much that he had it engraved on his beloved gun.

He called it a curse against death.

How arrogant, whether out of admiration or ignorance, to curse the inevitable death, like a madman waving a sword at the sky.

But Lloyd now felt a new understanding, a glimmer in his gray-blue eyes. He seemed to grasp that final rage.

Yes, do not gently accept death's arrival. Even if death knocks, shoot through the door and rage, burn fiercely.

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

He whispered.