The city was slowly stirring back to life. Iron serpents thundered through the puddles, throwing up sheets of water nearly half a man's height, as if even this gloomy rainy season needed to pause and catch its breath. For once, the heavens had ceased their endless weeping, yet the black clouds still hung heavily overhead, blotting out every trace of light.
The iron serpent came to a halt at the intersection. As the carriage doors opened, Lloyd was swept out by the press of the crowd. He stumbled for a step before finally finding his footing amid the surging stream of people.
As the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution, Old Dunling was extraordinarily advanced compared to the rest of the world. Steam engines had spread outward from here like ripples upon a pond, and although the changes they had wrought over the years had transformed Inervig and the surrounding nations to an immense degree, nowhere beyond Old Dunling had quite managed to catch up with the city itself.
To many foreigners, riding an iron serpent was an experience of considerable novelty. Their homelands had trains and steam engines too, but within their cities, transportation still relied primarily upon carriages. To them, these steel beasts that roared and rumbled across the ground were strange creatures indeed.
Lloyd had felt much the same way the first time he rode one. He had clutched the handrail for dear life, convinced that the bizarre contraption beneath his feet might explode at any moment.
Perhaps because the rain had stopped, the streets were gradually filling with people. From the nearby sewers came the constant rush and gurgle of water, sounding almost like countless rats racing wildly through the darkness.
This was the other side of Old Dunling—the Southern District, a place Lloyd rarely visited. Even now, he had to keep checking the street signs to make sure he was going the right way. After walking for what seemed like an eternity, he finally found his destination.
It was a bookshop tucked away on a street corner. The door stood slightly ajar, and from outside one could see shelves and piles of books stacked almost to the ceiling. Yet for some reason, the shop had remarkably few customers. Almost no one seemed willing to enter. And whenever someone did, they would pull their hat low over their face, as though they were desperate to keep their identity hidden, looking for all the world like thieves conducting some illicit business.
Lloyd found this rather strange. And as he prepared to step inside, he clearly felt the eyes of the pedestrians around him.
They were not hostile gazes. Lloyd could sense that much. What they carried was closer to confusion and bewilderment.
As though there were something terribly wrong with Lloyd entering the bookshop...
Lloyd paid it little mind. He was a Demon Hunter, after all. He had stared down monsters and demons without flinching. Surely he wasn't going to be frightened by the eyes of a few ordinary passersby.
He pushed open the door and walked in without hesitation.
And then he felt it.
Countless astonished gazes fell upon him.
The customers inside the bookshop were all watching him from the corners of their eyes. The sheer intensity of those furtive stares made Lloyd's skin crawl.
What... was going on?
Lloyd swallowed. The more he looked around, the more certain he became that something was terribly wrong. Yet he sensed no immediate danger. Even so, his hand had already settled around the hilt of his folding knife, ready to cut his way through an army if necessary.
A customer approached.
He was wearing a hat indoors, his head bowed low, and he clutched a bulging black bag in his arms. Whatever was inside, Lloyd had no idea.
The customer moved quickly. The moment he left the bookshop, he broke into a run, disappearing straight into a narrow alley at the corner.
"This..."
Lloyd was utterly baffled.
Then he heard a voice, so quiet that he almost missed it.
"Boss. These, these, and these."
Another customer stood before the counter, gathering several books into his arms. The shopkeeper immediately understood what he wanted and swiftly rang up the purchase, placing the books inside another black bag.
The entire transaction was smooth and practiced, without the slightest hesitation. The customer took his goods and, just like the one before him, vanished from Lloyd's sight in an instant.
And this sort of scene was happening everywhere in the shop.
The place was unnaturally quiet. Unless absolutely necessary, no one spoke. Money changed hands, books changed owners, and the customers disappeared.
If Lloyd hadn't known the true nature of this establishment, he might have suspected that these people were dealing in hallucinogens.
Actually, the difference wasn't all that great.
The atmosphere was practically identical to that of spies secretly meeting during wartime.
"Seriously... what exactly are you doing here?"
Lloyd could take it no longer. He walked up to the counter and stared at the old man standing behind it, who was grinning from ear to ear.
"Lloyd?"
The shopkeeper clearly hadn't expected such a special customer.
Oscar Wilde was a writer whose books didn't sell particularly well. He was also a member of the Night Watch. Given the Night Watch's immense financial resources, Oscar had no real reason to keep writing books for money, yet the old bastard had not only continued writing, but had even opened a little bookshop of his own.
"Running a perfectly normal business. What's wrong with that?"
Oscar genuinely seemed incapable of realizing just how bizarre his bookshop was.
Lloyd was about to question him further when another customer approached from the side and placed several books upon the counter.
Their covers were plain and unremarkable.
But the titles made Lloyd's eyes widen.
The Difference Engine and Old Dunling.
The Falcon Beneath the Night.
The Secrets of Victoria.
The Daily Life of Oscar Wilde.
...
As technology advanced, culture and ideas had begun to change as well. The solemn, traditional literature of the past no longer appealed to younger generations. Instead, people had begun to favor simpler tales of fantasy, much like the old fascination commoners once held for the legendary lives of knights.
And so these new stories came to be known as knight novels.
Yet just as the new age inevitably collided with the old, the arrival of the steam engine had initially been met with resistance. Some people believed it to be the work of demons, claiming that human souls had been imprisoned within steel, and they rejected the new technology entirely.
Knight novels had suffered much the same fate.
They had existed for some time now, but traditional society still refused to acknowledge them as respectable literature.
Lloyd covered his face with one hand.
He knew about these things because Red Falcon had told him. For someone who spent his days killing demons and his nights killing even more demons, the High-ranking Knight should, by all rights, have been cold, ruthless, and efficient.
Who could have imagined that, in private, he was an avid reader of knight novels?
Not only that, he had repeatedly recommended The Falcon Beneath the Night to Lloyd.
Fine. Fine.
None of that was particularly strange. Lloyd had read a few of them himself. He liked books, after all. Sometimes he had even wondered whether he should write down the stories he had obtained during the [Baptism of Divine Grace] and make a fortune from them.
But...
But...
"Have you really sunk this low?"
Lloyd pointed at The Daily Life of Oscar Wilde, his voice bordering on hysterical.
Knowing Oscar as he did, Lloyd was fairly certain there was nothing respectable about the contents.
"What do you mean, 'sunk this low'? Traditional literature may be my ideal, but I love these new forms of writing as well. I am a man of broad tastes. Don't lump me together with those stiff old fossils."
Oscar actually sounded rather proud of himself.
Silence followed.
Only silence.
How did one defeat a lunatic?
Find someone even crazier.
And clearly, at this moment, Oscar was the one who was crazier than Lloyd.
Lloyd had only a dozen or so hours ago survived a desperate battle to the death. He had escaped from the Demon Hunters carrying forbidden knowledge, barely found enough time to rest at Buscalo's place, and then hurried here because he needed to report Shermans' death to Oscar.
And what was Oscar doing?
The immortal old bastard was sitting there signing copies of that damned Daily Life book.
The contrast was so absurd that it felt almost surreal.
One moment, Lloyd had been fighting through a cataclysmic battle filled with despair.
The next, he had somehow found himself in a hospital ward, trading nonsense with a group of fellow patients.
"Thank you for your support! Thank you!"
The old man beamed as he saw another customer off. The customer, meanwhile, hurried away and disappeared from sight as quickly as possible, apparently unwilling to remain visible to anyone for even a second longer.
To many people, knight novels were considered thoroughly vulgar and beneath the dignity of respectable society. There was an old saying that went, What respectable person would read this nonsense?
As a result, many readers bought their books as though they were committing some shameful crime.
Lloyd finally understood those strange looks on the street.
And the utterly cursed atmosphere of this bookshop.
"Ah, well, if we're being honest, my knight novels are actually far more popular than my serious works. Some people even consider me their idol."
As Oscar spoke, he stood up and apologized to the remaining customers before closing the shop door.
He might have been eccentric, but Oscar understood one thing very clearly.
Lloyd was like a harbinger of death.
Whenever this man appeared, he never brought good news.
And now there was an unmistakable bulge beneath his coat in the shape of a knife hilt.
There was even the faintest scent of blood lingering in the air, so thick that it struggled to be concealed beneath the smell of paper and old books.
Meanwhile, Lloyd stood beside the shelves, casually flipping through The Daily Life of Oscar Wilde.
He read only a few lines before his eyes began to ache.
The writing was simply unbearable.
After skimming several passages, Lloyd could already see Oscar's unmistakable style.
In the story, Oscar was still a writer.
But he was also a literary giant whose name resounded across the Four Kingdoms. Even Queen Victoria was supposedly one of his readers. Whenever they encountered disagreements over certain developments in the story, she would summon him to Platinum Palace in the middle of the night to discuss them.
After reading only a few pages, Lloyd could barely recognize the real Oscar anymore.
According to Oscar's own writing, he was an unparalleled man of action. He had sailed aboard a Night Watch vessel into the frozen wastes of the far north, set foot upon the glorious lands of abundance, fought boarding actions against Viking pirates, and drifted freely across endless oceans.
"What is this? The Life of Oscar Wilde?"
Lloyd certainly wasn't going to believe any of the nonsense written in the book.
"I actually considered that title when I first named it," Oscar replied with complete seriousness. "But it felt a little too solemn."
This lunatic had genuinely spent time thinking about the title.
The shelves held more than just knight novels. Most of the books displayed at the front were Oscar's own works. Aside from that damned fantastical autobiography, the rest were his traditional literary works.
Judging by how many copies remained unsold, Oscar was clearly not particularly popular in that field.
People always said books were an ocean of knowledge.
But somehow, this ocean felt rather strange.
Lloyd and Oscar sat facing each other inside the bookshop.
After a long silence, Lloyd let out a weary sigh.
"I'm exhausted..."
Oscar smiled.
"Lloyd Holmes, your life is far too oppressive. Why don't you find yourself some fun?"
Lloyd nodded and casually picked a book from the shelf.
Fun?
Lloyd wasn't opposed to the idea.
But right now, he simply couldn't relax.
Everything he had experienced before still weighed heavily upon him, leaving him with an uneasiness he couldn't shake.
"Oscar, that matter you entrusted to me... I've dealt with it."
As he spoke, Lloyd opened the book.
"You found Shermans?"
Oscar's eyes lit up.
He might have been an unsuccessful writer, but he was still a member of the Night Watch.
"Yes. I found Shermans. But he died not long afterward."
Lloyd spoke calmly.
Oscar froze.
The playful expression on his face slowly disappeared, replaced by solemnity.
"He died...?"
"He was killed by the New Order's Demon Hunters. There were too many of them. I didn't have the ability to get him out."
Lloyd continued reading as he spoke.
"I see..."
"Shermans had joined the Purification Bureau long ago. From the looks of things, Miguel intended to use him as a contact between the exiles and the Purification Bureau. But his position was exposed, and the Demon Hunters of the New Order assassinated him."
Lloyd deliberately left out the part concerning the notes.
He didn't know what this so-called curse truly was, but he knew one thing with certainty.
If it really existed, Oscar would never survive it.
"At first, I thought the Purification Bureau had exposed his location. That they had reached some kind of agreement with the New Order. But later, I realized that didn't make sense. If the Purification Bureau had abandoned Shermans, they would have dealt with him themselves. They wouldn't simply allow the New Order to carry out an assassination like that within Inervig."
"Where do you think the problem lies?" Oscar asked.
"That letter."
After thinking for a moment, Lloyd answered.
"The letter written in Secret Blood. The Purification Bureau had no reason to send a letter like that. This is Old Dunling. They had no need to act in secret. And the New Order? After losing the Apocalypse, their supply of Secret Blood is finite. What would they gain by sending it to me? Luring me into finding Shermans, then capturing me there?"
Lloyd fell into thought.
"But if that were the case, then I should have been their primary target—not Shermans."
"Have you thought of something?" Oscar asked.
"Secret Blood..."
Lloyd's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Low-quality Secret Blood."
His thoughts returned to the events following the Day of Divine Birth, when he had been investigating the low-quality Secret Blood that was still circulating through the shadows.
"Lawrence's remnants..."
Even after the deadly battle aboard the train, low-quality Secret Blood was still secretly circulating.
If the New Order hadn't suddenly appeared and brought with them the mystery surrounding Lloyd's own identity, he would have continued hunting down those remnants.
They had already grown to a certain scale.
They possessed a degree of understanding of the Apocalypse.
And, more frighteningly, they were capable of producing Secret Blood on a massive scale.
A sudden chill swept over Lloyd.
He realized that he had become so absorbed in his struggle against the New Order that he had overlooked something far more dangerous—the remnants of Lawrence's faction.
"Damn it!"
Lloyd cursed under his breath.
Oscar couldn't understand why Lloyd's expression had changed so abruptly.
It had been his mistake.
There was a force lurking within Old Dunling that was far more dangerous than the New Order.
After all this time, how much low-quality Secret Blood could they have produced?
And how many demons could that blood create?
Old Dunling was densely populated.
If the demons ever ran rampant, the entire city could fall in a single night...
Another Night of Advent.