The Divine Armor of the Old Century（Book 1）

Chapter 173

Dean Lawrence gasped in pain, his breaths ragged. His eyes fluttered open, and before he could adjust to the searing agony in his mind, the torment of his body nearly tore him apart again.

"Plague Doctor?"

His bloodshot eyes struggled to focus on the figure before him. The Plague Doctor, saying little, toyed with a silver scalpel. Sharp bone blades jutted from either side of Lawrence's elbows, preventing any movement. He tried to shift, only to be met with a pain so intense it nearly made him lose consciousness. He glanced down and saw the bone spikes piercing his joints, locking him in place.

"Hmm? It looks like you managed to escape."

The Plague Doctor examined him closely. The fear that had once radiated from the predator's gaze was gone. It seemed this battle within the [Interstice] had come to an end. However, the Plague Doctor did not rush to free Lawrence. Instead, he picked up a syringe and injected its contents directly into him.

"This should ease your pain a bit."

As the drug spread through his system, the intense pain began to blur. Lawrence's mind fogged, and he asked, "Hallucinogen?"

"It's the only thing that seems to dull the pain for now."

Watching Lawrence gradually calm down, the Plague Doctor sighed in relief. "So, what was that just now?"

The terrifying, malevolent power—based on Lawrence's earlier words, the Plague Doctor knew it allowed one to use the [Interstice] as a springboard to control others' bodies and minds. Yet, now, Lawrence had been countered. This man, who had orchestrated the Night of Divine Descent, had been subdued. But by whom?

"I don't know, but I have a rough guess."

Recalling the familiar feeling of that woman, a name nearly forgotten by Lawrence surfaced. But she was supposed to be dead, lost to history long ago.

"It looks like the plan needs some revision."

He muttered, then painstakingly began to stand. He slowly extracted the bone spikes that had pierced him, causing blood to gush out like a flood, mixing with the melting red wax.

Lawrence's steps were unsteady, and he nearly fell. He knelt on the ground, emitting a painful roar like an aged lion. The Plague Doctor watched coldly, not hurrying to help. Lawrence wouldn't die from this—not yet.

His body exhibited a regeneration far beyond that of humans. The wounds began to heal rapidly, accompanied by an eerie wriggling of the flesh. An infant's cry echoed, or perhaps it was a sharp, eerie laugh, chilling to the bone.

As his wounds healed, his body aged rapidly, as if time itself had sped up. His already aged frame withered to a corpse-like shade of dark green, as if something was draining his life force, accelerating his decay.

"You're losing control of it."

In the long silence, the Plague Doctor's voice was cold. It took a while before Lawrence slowly stood, the excessive pain having numbed his nerves. His expression was dazed, deep wrinkles overlaying each other like the bark of a dead tree.

"I know... let me be the test subject."

He said bleakly, slowly revealing his body. A twisted mass of tumors had overgrown, resembling a second head, just slightly lower. It had human features, eyes closed like a sleeping infant. The deformed part's flesh was tender, like a flower blooming on a withered tree.

Lawrence was losing control over the blood of the Holy Grail, which grew like a parasite in his body, waiting for the day it would mature. It was similar to the relationship between Watson and Lloyd—terrifying entities parasitizing Lloyd's consciousness.

He coughed violently, expelling a large amount of blood. It was hard to believe this body still had blood left in it; he looked like a dying man.

"I can't die just yet."

Lawrence murmured. It was a willpower that even Watson would be astonished by. Whatever training or experiences he had gone through, it allowed him to cut away parts of his consciousness that had been invaded, escaping Watson's control.

But now, this indomitable will was trapped in a dying shell. He could not stop here. The day of his death was approaching, and he welcomed it.

...

Lloyd barely opened his eyes, panting heavily. His last memory was of Watson breaking free from his body. When his consciousness regained control, he had already left the [Interstice].

It had been a long war, yet it felt like it had occurred in an instant. Selu peeked from behind a door, looking at him in fear. Lloyd, not yet comprehending the situation, saw the soldier beside him collapse.

The soldier's consciousness had completely disintegrated, like those invaders before him. His brain had died, and blood flowed from his ears and nose, as if some unknown force had utterly destroyed his mind.

What happened?

A familiar pain shot through his head, followed by memories that were not his own flashing before his eyes. Ancient memories—Lawrence's memories. The fragmented consciousness was being absorbed by Lloyd, just as it had when he killed Horner. From the shattered consciousness, past recollections gradually emerged.

The twilight of Florence, the flowing Tiber River, prayers rising like the tide, nearly overwhelming everything.

"Lloyd!"

A voice called out anxiously. The Red Falcon, weapon in hand, ran towards him. Judging by the chaotic footsteps, he wasn't alone.

Lloyd wanted to speak, but suddenly he felt all his strength leave him. He stumbled, nearly falling. It was strange—despite the battle in the [Interstice], he had never felt this exhausted. Body and soul were both drained.

Then he smelled the thick scent of blood. Looking up sharply, he realized he was on a beach. The sky was covered in a hazy mist, emitting a ghostly blue glow. The air was cool, with an indescribable ethereal quality.

Cold liquid lapped at his feet, and Lloyd slowly looked down to find it was seawater. But this seawater was a deep, heavy red.

His gaze followed the red sea to the horizon. The crimson stretch extended to the edge of his vision. A chill emanated from within, like a glimpse into the depths of hell.

This was a sea of blood.

Yet, a sound pulled Lloyd back to reality, as if everything before had been a remnant of the [Interstice]'s illusion. Yave supported him, injecting a Florentine solution into his body to help him regain clarity.

It worked, but the vision of the crimson sea remained etched in his mind, like a curse. There was something there. Even if it had only been a fleeting hallucination or something else entirely, Lloyd believed it existed in the real world somewhere.

An ancient story reached out to him, anticipating his arrival.