The Divine Armor of the Old Century（Book 1）

Chapter 158

The corridor remained as silent and eerie as ever, yet it was different now. Gone were the seemingly endless twists and turns, and the ominous hounds that once lurked in the shadows. Everything appeared normal, except for one crucial detail—the conscious ones had changed.

"Lloyd! Lloyd!"

Célia's voice echoed through the hallway, but the demon hunter lay unresponsive.

After carrying her out of the room, he had collapsed a few steps later... apparently, his cigarettes weren't as invigorating as he had hoped.

Damn it. The one moment they needed him most, he was out cold.

Struggling to her feet, Célia managed to crawl out from under Lloyd. Florend's potion was still coursing through her veins, amplifying all her senses to an almost unbearable degree. She could see through the darkness, hear the faintest of sounds, and her thoughts were eerily clear, untouched by fear.

Yet, this heightened awareness came at a heavy price. Every tiny detail overwhelmed her; whispers in her mind turned into a cacophony, making it hard to focus. Her senses were on the brink of overload, threatening to shatter her fragile control.

Célia felt as though she were a tiny boat in a vast, stormy ocean, her willpower barely keeping her afloat amidst crashing waves. One more wave, and she might sink.

"Wake up!"

She strained to drag Lloyd, unsure of where the enemy might be, but certain that the mansion was now a perilous place.

Using all her strength, she realized just how absurdly heavy Lloyd was—his weight far exceeded his frame. It was the burden of the silver bindings within him, acting both as armor and prison.

A profound sense of helplessness washed over her. She could do nothing to help.

She felt as powerless as she had years ago in Galunaro. Back then, Lloyd had saved her. But now? Who would come to their rescue?

Footsteps echoed from the stairs. Someone was approaching.

Célia's senses sharpened with vigilance. She dragged Lloyd into a corner and grabbed the Winchester rifle.

She knew this weapon well. During their flight, Lloyd had shared many strange stories to comfort her, including tales about this gun.

Lloyd said it bore a poem of courage, a curse against death.

"Do not go gentle into that good night," Célia murmured, hoping the words would lend her strength.

Her finger rested on the trigger. She tried to breathe quietly, fresh oxygen cooling her panicked mind like a steam engine's coolant. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to remain calm.

Long ago, Lloyd had saved her. Now it was her turn to save him.

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light," she whispered, as if invoking a prayer for courage.

Célia was no longer the shivering beggar in the cold. She was the Duchess of Stuart, Célia Stuart.

It was time to prove herself.

The footsteps grew louder, death itself approaching. Célia tightened her grip on the Winchester, ready to confront whatever came around the corner. Suddenly, a strong hand seized her, lifting her off the ground and disarming her. She was flung behind Lloyd, who had risen from the floor. He had returned from the chaos of the **Interstice**. The demon hunter drew his knight's sword and took up the Winchester, positioning himself in front of Célia.

Continuing her recitation, he bellowed, "Rage, rage!"

The Winchester roared louder, bullets piercing through the walls, striking their targets beyond.

The moment reminded Lloyd of his days in the demon hunter order, where he sang praises to the gods while sending demons to their doom.

"Rage against the dying of the light," he finished, the Winchester empty. He reloaded calmly, then turned to Célia.

"Follow me."

Everything felt familiar, like the first time Lloyd had met Célia.

"Follow me."

Célia hesitated, then nodded firmly.

The enemy wasn't some monstrous creature, but men armed and moving through the darkness. They hadn't anticipated encountering a demon hunter like Lloyd.

Lloyd frowned. The situation was more complicated than he had imagined—there were not only demons but also humans involved.

Stepping over bodies, more invaders appeared at the staircase, opening fire on Lloyd. The corridor became a web of death, with Lloyd unable to dodge without exposing Célia.

The invaders smiled, believing they had won.

But in the darkness, a blaze of white-hot flame erupted. Bullets struck metal, sparking as they ricocheted off.

A nightmare from the depths, Lloyd's armor cloaked him in twisted black scales, shielding him from the barrage.

Before the invaders could react, Lloyd charged, swinging his knight's sword.

The sword wasn't crafted for combat but as a symbol of status. Yet in the hands of a demon hunter, it became a lethal scythe. His strength, enhanced by the secret blood, made each blow devastating.

An arm severed, the invader screamed. The knight's sword, though not sharp enough to cut through bone, broke it with sheer force.

Stay rational. Stay angry.

Under the protection of his armor, the fight turned into a one-sided slaughter.

In the confined space, neither Lloyd nor the invaders had room to evade.

The blade cleaved through an invader's skull, leaving nothing but a shattered body.

"Dammit! Fire! Fire!" someone shouted. Bullets flew, but the armor deflected them, some even ricocheting back.

Simple swings, tearing through flesh, spreading fear.

Fear was an international language.

Like a walking meat grinder, Lloyd's sword dismembered limbs, blood and flesh flying. The invaders screamed, unprepared for such a foe.

At first, they tried to shoot him, but fear soon broke their resolve, and they fled.

It turned into a demon hunter's rampage, Lloyd venting his fury, showing no mercy. Each swing took a life, silencing the screams.

The blood-soaked hall was littered with corpses and sword marks. The black knight stood before the few survivors, his blood-stained sword reflecting their twisted, terrified faces.

"I think we can talk now," Lloyd said, his voice cold and emotionless, like death itself.