Chapter 35

A brand-new era had arrived, and the relentless wheels of progress were crushing everything from the old days beneath them.

It seemed as if millions of birds were screaming, gathering into a massive, cloud-like swarm that drifted and danced above the Lower District.

It was the sound of iron whistles blowing in succession; soldiers sounded them with force, their iron boots striking the damp ground as they occupied every street and plaza according to the orders carried by those sounds.

The purification of the Underground Palace had entered its final stage. Tons of fire oil were poured in through various entrances, and a sky-high inferno raged, beneath which muskets unleashed a continuous, ear-piercing thunder.

Endless black shadows rushed from the other side of the sea of fire, carrying inescapable whispers and wails. It seemed that no matter how much fire and lead were poured into them, they could always return from that pitch-black nightmare.

"Increase the firepower!"

Shrike shouted sternly. The armored plates of the black steam-powered carriages flipped open, and rows of welded muskets fired with tremendous force.

Robin whispered a prayer of blessing. His low voice echoed through everyone's communicators, and as the sound spread, shrill alarms occasionally blared from the soldiers' bodies. At these moments, Shrike would skillfully raise his gun and fire anesthetic rounds at them.

That, too, was a product of the Mechanical Institute. By embedding electrodes beneath the flesh, a direct current could stimulate the central nervous system. It was generally used for psychiatric purposes, but under the modifications of the Purification Agency, it had become a safeguard for people fighting against demons.

When a soldier's neural contamination reached a certain level, the electrodes would discharge to forcibly interrupt their descent into madness. On one hand, this was to keep the soldiers conscious in the crisis; on the other, the interference from the electrodes made it easier for Shrike to kill them if they truly fell into insanity.

This was a conflict that had existed since the old era, steeped in blood and pain. Even though the Purification Agency held the absolute advantage tonight, casualties still occurred under the constant interception.

Blood flowed down the scorching gun barrels. Most of the soldiers' webs of their hands had long been split open by the recoil of the firing weapons. Even with the protection of gloves, everyone's condition was steadily declining.

Finally, at a certain moment, the reading on the Geiger counter stabilized. This indicated that the demon within the Underground Palace had stopped mutating, or rather, that Galahad had killed it.

Because of this, heavy footsteps began to echo from within the raging sea of fire.

"It's Galahad!"

Robin said with a hint of joy. It was an act of venturing into hell, and every return was a great blessing.

He spoke and moved to go forward to welcome him, but Shrike grabbed him and held him back. The eyes beneath Shrike's mask held a complex expression as he demanded through the communicator.

"Galahad, I need to confirm your will is clear. Say something! Now!"

The silver gun barrel pointed straight at the figure in the sea of fire, his finger locked tight on the trigger. This time, it was not an anesthetic round, but live ammunition of iron and gunpowder.

"What are you doing! Shrike!"

Seeing Shrike act this way, Robin grew somewhat angry, but Shrike replied fiercely.

"This is protocol! Galahad! Answer me!"

He roared into the communicator once more, but other than the occasional crackle of electricity, there was nothing—as calm as a dead sea.

Answer me, damn it!

Shrike felt an unprecedented anxiety in his heart. Galahad still had time; he still had time to answer.

As long as he answered now, as long as a sound came through the communicator, even if it were blurred or incoherent words, it would suffice. But in the end, there was nothing. The reserved time had run out, and Shrike's eyes were filled with sorrow.

It was a feeling like sinking into the Ice Sea. Even though the scorching fire had long since soaked Shrike's clothes with sweat, he still felt a coldness he had never known before. After a brief silence, Shrike seemed to have made a decision; the complexity in his eyes vanished, leaving only a coldness like steel.

"All units, report: Galahad has been neuro-contaminated and has fallen into madness. He is now listed as a hostile target. Command is temporarily assumed by Shrike."

Shrike roared into the communicator and then opened fire on the figure in the sea of fire. The silver muzzle erupted with the sound of thunder, and the bullet spun and struck the figure, but it was like a pebble dropped into water, merely causing a faint ripple.

"Third Squad, Fourth Squad, suppress Galahad with fire!"

At his command, the figure in the fire was covered by a dense rain of bullets. Without realizing it, everyone had retreated from the immediate area; facing a berserk Galahad, their presence was merely meaningless suicide.

"I told you, that thing is the embodiment of ill omen! Using such a thing comes with a price!"

Shrike shouted as he ran toward the Iron Snake behind him. Robin was completely stunned; he could never have imagined that Galahad, who had been his comrade just a moment ago, would become an enemy in an instant.

A hoarse roar erupted, as if releasing immense pain, and then burning eyes looked toward them.

"Don't just stand there! We have to kill him! Once Galahad breaks out of the containment zone, he will become an even more dangerous demon!"

Shrike roared at Robin from behind, but it was too late. Robin only felt a scorching wind rushing toward him. Years of instinct caused him to draw his blade in an instant, but before it was fully unsheathed, the sound of metal shattering rang in his ears.

The broken blade smashed Robin's mask, blood stained his vision, and then a sharp edge pierced through his chest.

It was a scorching breath, as if a terrifying monster were breathing right before his eyes.

Pitch-black iron armor covered the man's body. Though it was a suit of armor, it seemed to have a life of its own; between the gaps, scarlet muscles like fabric connected the eerie metal. Sharp plates of armor shifted slightly like breathing plants, appearing to be foreign objects that had burst through Galahad's body to grow outward.

His body was stained with fire oil, and his raging flames rose like a demon stepped out of mythology.

"Galahad!"

Robin tried to call out to the humanity that had been lost, but in those pupils, there was only endless darkness, without a shred of light, like an abyss.

This reminded Robin of a line he had once read in a book, a line that was widely circulated.

When you gaze into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.

Robin revealed an ugly smile. He remembered reading this when he was in college; everyone used to quote it to appear learned, but what many did not know was that the line had a first half.

He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.

The sharp blade was pulled out violently, and Robin's body flew high like a kite with its string cut, then fell powerlessly to the ground.

"I told you that thing was completely unreliable!"

His angry words were filled with self-reproach; if he had only tried harder to stop it, none of this would have happened. The screech of rending steel rang out, and without even looking, Shrike knew the fate of Robin.

In order to fight the demons, humanity had acquired far too much forbidden knowledge. It was like Pandora's box—an embodiment of misfortune from the moment it appeared, leaving behind only endless calamity and a single sliver of hope once opened.

Humanity had relied on that sliver of hope to battle the demons until now, and Galahad was undoubtedly the product of that calamity.

"Have the Imperial Guard take over the defensive line! Everyone, pin down Galahad!"

Shrike roared as he sprinted, vaulting over numerous obstacles to land atop the Iron Snake. It was a reinforced chassis from the Mechanical Institute, built sturdier than one might imagine to transport these weapons.

With the howling wind rushing past his ears, Shrike slid with all his might toward the undercarriage, his sharp black sword piercing through the reinforced hull and embedding itself deep into the earth.

"Galahad!"

Shrike stood atop the carriage and shouted at his old friend, who was shrouded in pitch-black darkness. Amidst the raging fire, the figure drew his blade—he did not hold it; rather, scarlet muscle tissue had fused it directly to his arm.

It was no mere blade, but a bizarre, elongated extension of his iron armor. The scale-like blades spread outward from his elbows like wings, and with the clattering sound of grinding steel, he unfurled those dark wings to their fullest within the inferno.

It was as loathsome as it was divine, like an angel stepped straight out of the Gospel Book.