The Divine Armor of the Old Century（Book 1）

Chapter 189

"This time, it was a complete failure."

In the dimly lit cabin, the Plague Doctor spoke to himself. The ship's hold had changed drastically since his arrival. Chilled gases formed a milky sea at floor level, slowly ebbing and flowing, with each step stirring up small waves. It resembled a strange ritual site, with burning candles piled in the corners, their blood-red wax dripping onto the floor, mingling with the cold gases like warm sunlight breaking through clouds, emitting a faint, rippling glow.

The Plague Doctor turned to retrieve another potion, casually observing his "laboratory" with a sense of deep affection. The sides of the hold were lined with massive containers, their lights failing to fully illuminate the grotesque forms within, only faintly revealing a corner of their horrific shapes. The low temperature kept them in an ancient slumber.

Near the operating table hung several dangling hooks, one of which held a barely alive demon. Its body had been brutally dissected, its sharp claws removed one by one. Yet, this wasn't enough to kill it. Its heart beat weakly, like cattle awaiting slaughter. Despite the demon's bloodthirsty nature, the Plague Doctor, a skilled physician, had driven slender silver nails through its major joints and inserted tubes into its main blood vessels, injecting large amounts of tranquilizers that spread through its body via the bloodstream.

Thus, the fearsome monster lay docile as a kitten, its meaningless groans the only sound as the Plague Doctor's scalpel descended.

"Not only did you fail to possess that witcher's body, but you also couldn't infiltrate the Stuart group. And in the end, you died."

Shaking his head, the Plague Doctor glanced mockingly at the demon.

"A total loss, indeed."

Looking at the demon, the Plague Doctor continued, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"That's not like you, Lawrence. I always thought you succeeded in whatever you set out to do."

"Shut up."

A weak voice came from within the demon.

"Alright, alright, I'll stop," the Plague Doctor replied with a wicked smile, then pulled open the demon's flesh with a hook, revealing its twisted innards.

It was a scene of unimaginable desecration. Deformed organs squeezed together, writhing with each heartbeat. Amidst the blood and gore, a nearly charred lump of flesh lay, its eyes long since crushed by Lloyd in their final battle, barely recognizable as a human head.

"Huh, didn't expect this technique to actually work. But it won't save you, Lawrence. Your lifespan can now be counted in hours."

The Plague Doctor looked at the grotesque sight without a hint of discomfort, nodding in satisfaction. It was his most perfect masterpiece.

After the explosion, unnoticed in the chaos, the Plague Doctor had secretly reached the battlefield and found the nearly dead Lawrence among the train wreckage. Like Lloyd's demonization had given him a sliver of survival, Lawrence had also undergone demonization, and merely destroying the heart wasn't enough to kill a demon.

The Plague Doctor picked up the charred head and temporarily grafted it onto the demon's body like a plant. Using the demon's organs and blood circulation, he managed to keep the head alive. This technique had only appeared in medical hypotheses, intended for situations where limb reattachment was difficult or there were more urgent symptoms, by grafting a severed limb to the body's stomach to maintain blood flow and limb viability until conditions allowed for proper reattachment.

Uncertain if a severed head could be reattached, the Plague Doctor, driven by a desire to advance medical and biological knowledge, haphazardly experimented and surprisingly managed to keep Lawrence temporarily alive—or at least in a state of near-death.