Old Dunling—the miraculous city of wonders. Steel and machinery, wealth and power; every word used to describe it was enough to stir humanity's most primal desires. Yet far too many had been blinded by those desires, never once stopping to consider the price behind such splendor, nor the countless souls buried beneath the foundations of its towering pyramid.
Fortunately, winter's bitter winds had not yet fully departed. The air remained cold enough that the stench had not become entirely unbearable, though even so, Lloyd could not help but frown.
Dead fish floated upon the river's surface. Filth and refuse were dumped carelessly into its waters. Disease and death brewed silently beneath the sluggish current.
Centuries ago, the Black Death had swept across the western world. People died in endless waves, and the soaring mortality rates drove entire populations to the brink of madness. Even the rule of the Gospel Church had been shaken. Faced with relentless death, people began to lose faith in distant and intangible gods. Convictions once thought unbreakable started to crack.
It had been a dark age.
But there was always light beyond darkness.
As history moved forward, order collapsed beneath the shadow of death. People ceased to be devout. Why suffer through pious asceticism when tomorrow was uncertain? Better to seize pleasure while life remained. Thus, amid corpses and bones, the brilliance of human art and thought emerged from rotting flesh itself, accumulating across generations before erupting into what would later become the Renaissance.
With such a bloody lesson written in history, the Institute of Machinery had incorporated sanitation systems into the Furnace Pillars when Old Dunling was first designed. Water carried away filth, which passed through multiple purification processes and the roaring furnaces before returning to the land as vapor.
Occasionally, hundreds of tons of disinfectant were poured directly into the Furnace Pillars. In the dead of night, vaporized chemicals drifted through the city, cleansing every corner. Of course, other substances could be added as well—alchemical agents capable of accelerating the dissipation of corruption, for instance.
Like a self-sustaining ecosystem.
Only this ecosystem was built from steel and fire.
And after so many years of operation, it had proven surprisingly effective.
"It smells awful," Lloyd said.
Though the Institute had done everything possible, the water remained questionable before passing through the Furnace Pillars. Thankfully, it never lingered here for long. The current carried everything westward toward the sea, where it would eventually merge with the endless ocean.
"Welcome to the bottom of society, Mr. Lloyd Holmes," Press said solemnly.
Dockworkers bustled across the harbor, unloading cargo. Yet no matter how hard they labored, they earned little. Such was the fate of most stowaways as well. Without legal identities, they could only take illegal jobs for meager wages before disappearing into the chaos of the Lower District.
This was the reality for most citizens of Old Dunling.
No wealth. No glory.
Merely tiny gears within a vast machine.
"You'll get used to it, Lloyd," Press said. He had assumed that someone who spent so much time wandering the Lower District would have long since become accustomed to sights like these.
The two men continued across the docks.
After the stowaways had been discovered, the cargo ship had been detained and remained anchored at the harbor.
"Let's see if there are any clues aboard," Press said. "Though no matter what we find, we'll probably end up visiting the Lower District anyway..."
He left the rest unsaid.
The Lower District was chaotic, but even chaos possessed its own order. Generally speaking, once stowaways reached the area, Press worried more about their safety than about arresting them. There was little need for the police to drag them back. Sooner or later, life in the Lower District would become unbearable, and they would leave on their own.
Truthfully, the case hardly required investigation.
The two of them were mostly using it as an excuse to kill time.
But Lloyd's thoughts were far removed from Press's.
Anything connected to Florence—or more accurately, the Gospel Church—put him immediately on guard.
According to Arthur's intelligence, the Pope was attempting to establish an alliance with Ingelvig, and a new Order had already been founded. Yet the problem remained: Lawrence had taken the Book of Revelation with him. Without it, where would the Gospel Church obtain new Sacred Blood?
The truth remained hidden beneath layers of fog.
Though Lloyd had cleared away much of the mist, he still could not see the full picture.
After Lawrence's death, the Purging Agency had mobilized completely. Beneath the appearance of calm, the entirety of Ingelvig stood on high alert. Beginning from Old Dunling itself, agents searched relentlessly for demonic traces, hoping to recover the lost Revelation.
They found nothing.
It was almost as though the book had never existed.
Lloyd knew better.
The crisis had not been resolved.
It had merely been delayed.
"Is this the ship?" Lloyd stopped and looked toward the vessel beside them.
Press checked the documents.
"This is the one."
After presenting his credentials, the guards allowed them aboard.
According to the captain, he had no idea anyone had been hiding on his ship. It was a cargo vessel. Aside from the sailors' quarters, there was little space suitable for habitation. He could not comprehend how anyone had survived the journey under such conditions.
"We should have brought the captain along," Lloyd remarked as he gazed at the towering stacks of iron containers that formed a maze around them.
"He's currently being detained," Press replied while leading the way with the paperwork.
They descended into the lower cargo hold.
Wooden crates packed with straw filled the area, protecting what appeared to be fragile goods.
"Artworks from Florence," Press commented. "I think they're from that Medici family. They've spent years sponsoring artists. Apparently, if those people chip away at a block of stone a few times, it suddenly becomes priceless."
Though officially considered art, years of speculation had transformed such pieces into luxury goods. Every wealthy individual wanted to fill their manor with paintings and sculptures to appear cultured.
"Great Lloyd."
Lloyd glanced at the artworks and spoke casually.
Press blinked.
For a moment, he thought Lloyd had begun praising himself again without warning.
Seeing his expression, Lloyd immediately realized the misunderstanding.
"Not me. Him. Lloyd Medici—the head of House Medici and a Cardinal of the Gospel Church. A man with immense influence. Despite his power, he spent much of his wealth supporting struggling artists. Under the patronage of House Medici, Florence entered a golden age of culture and humanism. But after he grew old, everything changed."
Lloyd paused, recalling distant memories.
Back when he served in the Demon-Hunting Order, he had once met the old man.
"'Great Lloyd' was the title people gave him. Not me. Though if you'd like to call me that as well, I certainly wouldn't object."
The detective's shamelessness returned in full force.
Press chose not to respond. He knew little about that distant city, though judging by Lloyd's explanation, the man did possess a surprising amount of knowledge.
"It's strange that you share a name with someone like that," Press said.
"If you're shameless enough, you could change your surname to Victoria and nobody could stop you," Lloyd replied immediately.
Press shook his head.
Some things were best left as fantasies.
He simply lacked Lloyd's level of shameless confidence.
"Hm... what's this?"
Press stopped beside several carefully preserved paintings.
The subjects depicted within were strikingly sensual.
"This counts as art?"
"Do you have a problem with it?" Lloyd replied. "The human form is rendered beautifully. It's perfectly normal. Wealthy Florentines commission these all the time. Living beneath the weight of constant religious doctrine tends to make people a little repressed."
Then Lloyd leaned closer and lowered his voice.
"Did you know there's a rumor? Somewhere inside Saint Narlo Cathedral, there's a hidden chamber covered in paintings just like these. And only the Pope is allowed inside."
He waggled his eyebrows.
"Which means that bastard is probably the least devout person in the entire Church."
The two men continued talking as they reached the stowaways' hiding place.
The floor panel had already been removed.
Beneath it lay a network of pipes and a narrow cavity large enough to conceal several people.
"They hid in there?" Lloyd asked, visibly surprised.
"According to our reconstruction, they stayed outside most of the time and only climbed in when someone approached," Press answered.
No one could endure remaining inside that cramped space indefinitely.
"Is that so?"
Lloyd crouched down and stuck his head inside.
Darkness posed little challenge to a demon hunter's vision.
Dust and debris filled the cramped compartment.
No obvious clues.
Then suddenly, something occurred to him.
His expression hardened.
"When your people arrived, was it exactly like this?" he asked.
Press shook his head.
"I wasn't the first investigator on scene. I was on duty elsewhere. But all the relevant information is in the report. With the diplomatic delegation visiting, nobody would have overlooked anything."
Without another word, Lloyd snatched the file and began reading.
"No one cleaned this area afterward, correct?"
"No one. The cargo remains impounded. Most of it is extremely valuable, and the guards haven't allowed anyone inside."
After finishing the report, Lloyd fell silent.
Press waited patiently.
That was simply how Lloyd operated. One moment he was a lunatic dragging everyone into his antics; the next, he would descend into profound silence, as though contemplating some terrible secret.
"Press," Lloyd finally said, "you mentioned those people were extremely agile. Even your mounted officers couldn't catch them."
Press nodded.
That was exactly what the report stated.
Slowly, Lloyd continued.
"That's the problem. Think about it. A group of people who spent weeks at sea. They disembark and immediately outrun mounted police officers. Doesn't that strike you as suspicious?"
"But—"
Press started to object.
Then he stopped.
Because he suddenly realized the same thing.
Of course stowaways would run from mounted police.
But not like that.
Not after a voyage like this.
Either nobody had noticed the inconsistency, or they had dismissed it as unimportant.
"And what did they eat?" Lloyd continued.
The captain claimed he never knew they were aboard.
Which meant they had likely remained hidden here the entire journey.
Yet aside from cargo, there was nothing.
No food.
No water.
"And another thing."
Lloyd looked at him.
"What exactly were they here for?"
"If it was wealth they wanted, isn't it everywhere around us?"
He gestured toward the crates.
Every box contained a valuable artwork. Even sold cheaply, each piece would fetch a substantial sum.
Yet the stowaways had ignored them all and fled immediately.
At that moment, Press felt the last traces of sleep vanish.
His mind sharpened instantly.
"Then what exactly were these 'stowaways' trying to accomplish?"
Lloyd's voice dropped almost to a whisper, as though he feared waking something that slept beneath the world.
"I'll request additional manpower."
Press had already realized the situation was far more complicated than it appeared.
Yet according to Suaran Hall's procedures, such details should never have been overlooked.
Unless—
Unless understaffing had caused a fatal mistake.
"No," Lloyd interrupted. "Don't draw attention to this. Leave it to me."
"To you?" Press looked skeptical.
Suddenly Lloyd's cold expression blossomed into a grin. He threw an arm around Press's shoulder.
"Have you forgotten?" he said, deliberately emphasizing each word. "I'm a man of considerable importance."
The mysterious department.
The moment the implication clicked, Press finally understood.
Perhaps he had already become involved in something connected to that shadowy organization.
"Wait. Seriously?"
He tried his best not to mention the department directly.
Still, he found it difficult to trust Lloyd completely.
The man was insane enough to fabricate something like this.
"This isn't something I'd joke about, Press."
For once, Lloyd sounded entirely serious.
"You're envious of my life, Press. But do you know what happens to people who know too much?"
He smiled faintly.
"They die faster."
His voice grew colder.
"So before death catches up, you might as well enjoy yourself. Just like during the Renaissance. Under the shadow of mortality, why waste your life laboring when you could live while you're still breathing?"
The demon hunter had returned.
Invisible pressure filled the air.
Press found himself wavering.
Finally he said,
"Lloyd, trust is a valuable thing."
"Trust me."
Lloyd's answer came without hesitation.
Press remained silent for a long moment.
Perhaps exhaustion finally won.
He handed over the file.
After a brief pause, he asked,
"Need my badge?"
"Wear that into the Lower District and someone will probably kill you."
"Fair enough."
As Press disappeared into the distance, Lloyd's gaze grew heavy.
A theory had already formed in his mind.
A fragile one, riddled with holes.
Yet he could not dismiss it.
The Revelation had been missing for far too long.
If Lloyd himself were the Pope, then after rebuilding the Order, his first priority would be reclaiming the sacred text.
Press worried about coincidence—the diplomatic delegation, the lack of manpower, procedural oversights.
Lloyd worried about something else entirely.
He would not explain it.
Because sometimes events were not coincidences at all.
Sometimes they were inevitable.
They were all people bound to darkness.
Drawn into the same vortex of chaos.
And sooner or later, every path would lead them toward the same destination—
the silent heart of death itself.