The withered body was infused with strength, stiff muscles gaining vitality, and fresh blood surged once again.
It became Lawrence.
"The name is not important, Lorenzo Holmes. Whether I am Lawrence is not important either, what matters is what I am going to do, what matters is the will that runs through all of this."
It looked at Lorenzo, as if fighting for the mask, fighting for the "meaning" the mask represented, countless hands clutched onto it once again.
"Many years ago, here, at the moment I was about to die, the blood of the Holy Grail saved me and let me see the future, a future unimaginably distant."
It walked towards Lorenzo, not very far, but within this distance, it died several more times, the mask replaced again and again.
Lorenzo's heart turned completely cold; he suddenly felt lost, and fearful, unable to understand exactly what he was facing.
Lawrence had long since died, countless remnants rotting his will, his true self lost in broken memories.
