Year 932 of the Ingelvig Calendar.
Another year had passed. Another year had been added to a person's life. Everything in the world had crept forward by yet another imperceptible step.
The streets still bore the fading traces of the Divine Birth Festival. Garlands abandoned by the celebrations drifted through the air, caught by the wind before being crushed beneath the wheels of passing carriages.
Though the festival had ended only recently, the joy had already vanished from people's faces. Just as on any ordinary day, they walked through the mist-laden morning with solemn expressions, as if those days of merriment had been nothing more than a fleeting dream.
Yet among the crowd stood one thoroughly discordant figure.
A shameless grin stretched across his face, making him seem completely out of place amidst the sea of weary pedestrians.
Drawing in a deep breath of the smog unique to Old Dunling, Lloyd looked positively delighted. Then again, the great detective always looked like that.
This was already his seventh year living in Old Dunling.
As he gazed upon the sprawling city of steel and machinery, he could not help but marvel at how quickly time had slipped away.
More than anything, however, it was because he had grown accustomed to life here.
The days spent at the countryside estate had been peaceful enough, yet something about them always felt wrong. Only after returning to this gloomy city did Lloyd feel like a small fish finally finding its way back into its pond.
People always needed something to fill the subtle emptiness of their lives.
Before long, the Suaran Hall came into view.
Leaning on his cane, Lloyd strode straight inside. As an external consultant detective, he was often more enthusiastic about showing up than the official employees themselves.
"Morning, Press!"
The voice hit like a summons from death itself.
At his desk, Press visibly shuddered.
The detective approached with infuriating cheerfulness, weaving left and right through the narrow aisles between workstations. Young investigators glanced over as he passed. In moments, he had arrived beside the desk reserved for him.
To keep the detective occupied with something resembling legitimate work, Lloyd's public identity had been established as a consulting detective for Suaran Hall. Press acted as the intermediary responsible for communication between both sides.
Though they had not worked together for very long, Press had already sensed the mysteries surrounding Lloyd—and the existence of a secret department whose authority surpassed even their own.
Fortunately, he had little interest in any of that.
He was merely a detective whose sharp edges had long ago been worn smooth by life.
Press possessed no lofty dreams of justice or heroic ambitions.
He simply wanted to work until retirement, then find a small town where the sun could still be seen and spend the remainder of his years in peace.
Ordinary beyond measure.
"Good morning, Mr. Holmes. Haven't seen you in quite some time."
Since the serial murder case, Lloyd had vanished without a trace. For a while, Press had genuinely assumed the detective had died in some sewer beneath the Lower District.
"Got any work for me? I've been bored out of my mind lately."
"Plenty. Suaran Hall never runs out of cases."
The reply came with unmistakable exhaustion, as though every ounce of energy had already been devoured by work.
"You look terrible."
Lloyd crouched beside the desk and peered upward at Press from below.
Dark circles hung beneath the detective's eyes. His gaze was vacant, lifeless.
Like an ancient tree slowly rotting from within.
"If you'd spent the Divine Birth Festival working overtime, you'd look the same."
His voice sounded as though it had been dragged out of a grave.
"That bad?"
"When they pay you, they expect results. Rent isn't cheap in Old Dunling."
Press muttered under his breath.
"Everyone says Old Dunling is wonderful. Says the streets are paved with gold. So they all come rushing here. But how many actually end up living well?"
He stared blankly into space.
"In the end, we're all just working for someone else. Tiny little gears in a machine. Turning and turning and turning... until we're replaced."
The negativity pouring from him was almost visible.
Like invisible claws, it scratched wildly at everything around him, dragging nearby souls into the same miserable state of mind.
"Alright, alright, I get it."
Lloyd raised both hands in surrender.
"But if we're all destined to be tools anyway, shouldn't we at least aim to be the best tools possible?"
The attempt at comfort was, unfortunately, not especially comforting.
Under circumstances like these, even the brightest passion would eventually be ground to dust.
Press sighed.
"It's fine. As long as they keep paying me."
He forced a trace of life back into his weary eyes and looked toward Lloyd.
"We're all wage slaves in the end. As long as I save enough for retirement, that's good enough. Either busy living... or busy dying."
Apparently, being forced to work throughout the Divine Birth Festival had pushed the poor detective dangerously close to his limit.
"So what's going on?" Lloyd asked, dragging over a chair and dropping into it. "Some huge case keeping everyone this busy?"
The only major incident he could think of was the assassination attempt on Lawrence.
But thanks to the Cleaners handling the aftermath, that affair would never become public knowledge.
"No major cases."
Press rubbed his forehead.
"Just countless small ones."
Since Lloyd had, at least publicly, gone respectable and now worked as a consulting detective for Suaran Hall, Press saw little reason to hide anything.
"Hallucinogens, for one. No matter how hard we crack down on them, they keep resurfacing. Then there are the stowaways."
His voice immediately rose in irritation.
"Honestly, what's so special about Old Dunling? Why do they keep coming here?"
The thought alone gave him a headache.
According to Old Dunling's regulations, anyone lacking proper identification could only reside in the Lower District.
Which meant those illegal immigrants generally ended up gathering in the filthiest parts of the city, never enjoying a single luxury that Old Dunling had to offer.
And yet they continued arriving in endless waves.
You couldn't stop people from walking where they wished.
No matter how many officers were deployed, a few always slipped through, disrupting public order.
"These past few days have been a nightmare."
Press leaned back in his chair.
"The festival itself is over, but diplomatic delegations from every nation will continue arriving over the coming weeks. To maintain stability, none of us have been allowed leave. Hopefully once all this is over, we can finally get some rest."
Lloyd knew a little about the celebrations.
Whether by accident or by Arthur's deliberate arrangement, his stay at the countryside estate had coincided perfectly with the festival itself.
He had missed the entire thing.
"So the foreign delegations are still here?"
"Not only are they still here—more are still on the way."
Press began counting them off.
"Leiber. Gaulnalo. Vilia. Nalo... and plenty more. Pretty much every neighboring nation has sent representatives."
He shook his head.
"Old Dunling has effectively been under lockdown for days. Haven't you noticed how empty the streets feel?"
He gestured around the office.
Even today, attendance was noticeably low.
"The mounted police are stretched thin. We're even running patrols through the outer districts now."
Only then did Lloyd realize how seriously the authorities were treating the situation.
The celebrations had ended.
The delegates were not coming for music and dancing.
Somewhere behind closed doors, enormous arms deals might be taking shape. Agreements involving technology, industry, diplomacy, and countless political interests were likely being negotiated at this very moment.
Fortunately, none of that had anything to do with him.
Lloyd possessed enough self-awareness to know exactly what kind of story he belonged in.
His life was meant to be an action-packed tale filled with fights, monsters, and danger—not a political drama.
There was no point worrying about matters beyond his reach.
Still, viewed from that angle, he could suddenly understand why Arthur had been so desperate to eliminate Lawrence.
Had Lawrence survived long enough for all these delegations to reach Old Dunling, nobody could predict what kind of chaos he might have unleashed.
"So..." Lloyd said carefully, "does that mean I'm taking the day off?"
Unlike Press, he was merely a consultant. He wasn't required to report for duty every day.
"Get lost."
Press didn't even bother looking at him.
He was exhausted, irritable, and running on no sleep whatsoever. The last thing he wanted was to be dragged into one of Lloyd's bizarre adventures.
Lloyd shook his head and rose from his chair.
Apparently, Press had no intention of wasting what little free time he possessed.
Yet the moment he stood up, he spotted a figure approaching from across the room.
He froze.
Then, without hesitation, sat right back down.
This time he slid all the way to the floor and leaned against Press's desk, as though attempting to hide from someone.
Press blinked.
"What exactly are you doing?"
"If you keep quiet," Lloyd interrupted immediately, "I'll figure out a way to get you out of here."
He lowered his voice dramatically.
"The kind of arrangement that comes with paid leave."
And just like that, whatever Press had been about to say was cut off entirely.
Though still groggy and half-lost in a haze of exhaustion, Press immediately perked up. As absurd as the promised reward sounded, he was strangely inclined to believe it. Lloyd might have been an utterly unreliable detective on the surface, but if one were serious about it, Press had always regarded him as one of those mysterious figures who walked freely between light and shadow—a man summoned at will by secretive agencies and capable of calling Shrike his brother.
Then curiosity crept into him. He glanced around, trying to figure out what Lloyd had spotted.
A familiar figure soon entered his sight.
And instantly, a headache began forming behind his eyes.
The young woman wore a standard police uniform. Her fiery red hair had been neatly tied up, and unlike the exhausted officers around her, she seemed perpetually energetic whenever he saw her—as if fatigue simply did not exist in her world.
"So she's not on leave anymore?" Lloyd whispered.
"But nobody takes leave for months, do they?" Press whispered back, though he had no idea what had happened.
"But..."
Lloyd's thoughts became tangled.
Knowing Arthur, there was no way the old man would willingly let Eve return to work.
Or had he finally figured it out?
Perhaps he had come to understand that suppression was never as effective as acceptance.
"She passed probation?"
"She did."
Press nodded.
The first time he had met Lloyd, Eve had been there as well. He couldn't understand why Lloyd was reacting so strongly.
"You're avoiding her now?"
"More accurately, I wasn't prepared for such a sudden reunion."
Lloyd shrank deeper into his hiding spot. No one would have believed that a detective of his size could fit into such a ridiculously narrow space.
"With your personality, I'd have thought you'd shamelessly stand up no matter what happened."
Though they hadn't known each other long, Lloyd's vividly shameless nature had already left a deep impression.
Lloyd froze.
After thinking carefully, he realized Press was absolutely right.
That was exactly the sort of thing he would have done.
Yet after a moment, he shook his head.
"Press... people change."
"Into someone with thinner skin?"
Lloyd didn't answer.
He simply fell silent.
The last time he had seen Eve was when Lawrence first appeared.
Arthur had been right all along.
Lloyd was a madman disguised as a normal man.
Consumed by burning hatred, he had abandoned Eve and thrown himself into an attempt to kill Lawrence.
Later, Lloyd had often asked himself the same question:
If he could return to that moment and choose again, would he do anything differently?
The answer was always the same.
Yes.
The Night of Divine Descent had taken everything from him.
And the culprit had stood right before his eyes.
In that moment, not only Eve—even Lloyd's own life—had meant nothing.
But things were different now.
Lloyd had died and returned.
And with that resurrection, some of the cold cruelty frozen inside him had melted away.
Throughout his long pursuit to assassinate Lawrence, he had gradually become more human.
His heart of stone had grown flesh and blood.
He had shed the hide of a beast.
He had begun living as a man.
And because of that, he found himself thinking about that day more often.
In that hopeless situation, he had been Eve's final hope.
Yet that hope had been willing to drag both her and Lawrence into death together.
Lloyd's thoughts kept changing.
The way people often described growth.
Age, experience, loss, and time reshaping a person little by little.
Sometimes he comforted himself.
After all, he had only known Eve for a handful of days.
And at the time, he had been completely consumed by the killing frenzy...
Though, admittedly, that sounded suspiciously like something a scumbag would say.
In the end, Lloyd simply wasn't the same person anymore.
He had become more human.
He could no longer grin and say, "Hey, long time no see," then shamelessly bluff his way through the situation.
Now he felt something unfamiliar.
Embarrassment.
Guilt.
"Has she left?" Lloyd asked.
After all, there was no reason to seek out misery voluntarily.
If he could avoid it for a while, then avoiding it sounded perfectly reasonable.
"She has. Looks like she's gone on patrol," Press replied.
"Finally. I can stand up again."
Lloyd climbed to his feet from the floor.
He wasn't ready to face Eve.
Nearly getting someone killed was easier to dismiss when one possessed no shame.
Now, however, guilt had inconveniently entered the equation.
The thought alone sent a shiver down his spine.
So this was the problem with having emotions.
They created weaknesses.
If someone ever learned how to exploit this guilt against him...
The prospect was terrifying.
Yet like a man who had tasted forbidden fruit, Lloyd had already experienced the joy that came with those emotions.
And now that Lawrence was dead, he found it increasingly difficult to strip them away and return to being the cold, merciless weapon he once was.
After scanning the room and confirming Eve was truly gone, Lloyd turned to leave.
"Wait, Lloyd!"
Press grabbed him by the arm.
"What?"
"We had a deal."
Dark circles framed Press's eyes as he stared at Lloyd.
If the detective dared spout another piece of nonsense, Press was more than willing to introduce him to the wrath of an overworked office worker.
Lloyd swallowed.
"Fine, fine. Honestly, I think you desperately need sleep. This damned capitalist system has turned people into ghosts!"
The detective looked genuinely heartbroken.
Or at least he pretended to.
As he spoke, he began rummaging through the files on Press's desk.
"Any cases that need immediate investigation?"
"Plenty. We're short-handed. Cases are piling up faster than we can process them."
Press watched him flip through documents.
"And what exactly does that have to do with me getting some rest?"
"Because," Lloyd declared, "we need a grand adventure to disguise the fact that you're skipping work."
Press shook his head.
He knew there was nothing grand about this adventure.
The detective was simply bored out of his mind and looking for entertainment.
The so-called case merely provided a legal excuse for Lloyd to start shooting things under Ingelvig law.
Closing his eyes, Lloyd reached into the stack and randomly pulled out a file.
"This one!"
He looked absurdly pleased with himself.
"Well then, my old friend! Let us be off! And if you walk too slowly, I swear upon all creation that I shall kick your backside with my boots!"
The detective's voice deepened theatrically, speaking in a style that sounded centuries out of date.
Press felt immediate discomfort.
To put it simply—
It was unbearable.
Just as when Lloyd tormented Red Falcon, his chaotic train of thought seemed capable of infecting everyone around him.
"Wait! I still have work to finish here!"
"No, Detective. You have been officially requisitioned!" Lloyd declared righteously. Then he lowered his voice. "It's just paperwork. Once we're outside, go home and sleep. I'll handle the investigation. And I'll write a proper report, I promise."
Press looked at him skeptically.
But somehow Lloyd's eyes suddenly became alarmingly sincere.
"Fine... fine."
"Excellent. Then let us see what magnificent case fate has bestowed upon us today..."
Lloyd opened the file.
The smile on his face gradually stiffened.
A trace of gravity entered his eyes.
It was an ordinary case.
Nothing more than a group of fleeing illegal immigrants.
Yet the place they had come from filled him with an inexplicable sense of unease.
"Illegal immigrants... from Fiorenza?"
Lloyd murmured under his breath.