***

A brand-new era had arrived, and its rolling wheels mercilessly crushed everything from the old one.

It was as if a thousand birds were shrieking. They gathered into a vast cloudlike flock, circling and wheeling above the Lower District.

It was the rising and falling sound of Iron Whistles. The soldiers blew them with all their might, their iron boots pounding the damp ground as they followed the commands to seize every street and square.

The purification of the Underground Palace had entered its final stage. Tons of oil were poured in through its various entrances, and raging flames blazed across the sky. Beneath them, muskets fired one after another with ear-splitting thunderclaps.

Endless black shadows came sprinting from beyond the sea of fire, accompanied by inescapable whispers and wails. No matter how much fire and how many bullets were poured in, they always seemed able to return from that pitch-black nightmare.

"Increase the firepower!"

Shrike shouted. The black Steam Tram raised its armor, and row upon row of muskets welded together opened fire with tremendous force.

Robin whispered a prayer of blessing. His low voice sounded in everyone's communicators. Now and then, as it spread, a soldier's body would emit a shrill alarm, and Shrike would deftly raise his gun and fire an anesthetic round at them.

That, too, was a product of the Mechanical Institute. Electrodes were implanted beneath the flesh, and the current directly stimulated the brain's central nervous system. Normally, they were used to treat mental illness, but after the Purification Agency modified them, they became a safeguard against Fiends.

When a soldier's neural contamination reached a certain level, the electrodes discharged, forcibly interrupting the descent into madness. This was meant to bring soldiers back to their senses in the middle of a crisis. The interference from the electrodes also made it easier for Shrike to kill them if they truly went mad.

This conflict had persisted since the old era, bringing blood and suffering with it. Though the Purification Agency had held every advantage that night, the unrelenting battle had still taken its toll.

Blood ran down the scorching gun barrels. Most soldiers' palms had already been split open by the recoil of their weapons. Even with gloves protecting them, everyone's condition continued to deteriorate.

At last, the Geiger Counter's readings began to stabilize. That meant the Fiend inside the Underground Palace had stopped changing—or that Galahad had killed it.

And so, heavy footsteps sounded from within the blazing sea of fire.

"It's Galahad!"

Robin said, his voice tinged with delight. He had ventured deep into hell, and every return was accompanied by a tremendous blessing.

He started forward to greet him, but Shrike stopped him with a sudden arm. Beneath his mask, his eyes held a complicated expression as he demanded into his communicator:

"Galahad, I need to confirm that you're still clear-headed. Say something! Now!"

The silver-white barrel pointed straight at the figure in the fire. His finger pressed hard against the trigger. This time, he wasn't firing an anesthetic round, but a live round of iron and gunpowder.

"What are you doing, Shrike!"

Seeing him like this, Robin grew angry. Shrike replied fiercely:

"It's protocol! Galahad! Answer me!"

He roared into the communicator again, but there was nothing except the intermittent crackle of static. It was as quiet as a dead sea.

Answer me!

Shrike had never felt such desperation. Galahad still had time. He still had time to answer.

If only he would answer now, if only a voice came through the communicator—even a muffled one would do. But in the end, there was nothing. The time they had set aside ran out, and Shrike's eyes filled with grief.

It felt like sinking into the Ice Sea. The scorching flames had already soaked Shrike's clothes with sweat, but he still felt colder than he ever had before. After a brief silence, he seemed to make a decision. The complexity vanished from his eyes, leaving only an icy steel resolve.

"All units, report: Galahad has been driven mad by neural contamination and is now designated a hostile target. Command is temporarily assumed by Shrike."

Shrike shouted into the communicator, then opened fire on the figure in the flames. The silver-white muzzle erupted with a thunderclap. The spinning bullet struck the figure, but it was like a stone dropping into water, raising only the faintest ripple.

"Squads Three and Four, suppress Galahad with fire!"

His voice was weak. The figure in the flames was swallowed by a dense rain of bullets. Without anyone noticing, everyone had withdrawn from the surrounding area. Facing the out-of-control Galahad, their presence would only mean a pointless death.

"I told you! That thing is the incarnation of ill fortune! Using it comes at a price!"

Shrike shouted as he ran toward the Iron Snake behind him. Robin had gone completely still. He couldn't believe that Galahad, who had been his comrade only moments ago, had become an enemy in an instant.

A hoarse roar burst out, as if releasing unimaginable pain. Then the burning eyes turned toward them.

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

Shrike roared at Robin from behind, but it was too late. Robin felt a scorching gale rush toward him. Years of instinct made him draw his sword in a flash, but before it was fully out of its sheath, he heard metal shatter beside his ear.

The shattered blade broke Robin's mask. Blood stained his vision, and then a sharp blade pierced his chest.

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

Black armor covered the man's body. It was clearly armor, yet it seemed alive. Crimson muscles in the gaps bound the bizarre metal together like woven fabric, while the sharp plates shifted faintly like breathing plants. They seemed to be foreign growths that had burst out of Galahad's body.

His body was smeared with lamp oil, and blazing flames surged around him like those of a demon from myth.

"Galahad!"

Robin tried to call back the humanity he had lost, but his eyes held nothing but endless darkness, not even a glimmer of light. They were like an abyss.

Robin remembered a line he'd once read in a book. It was widely quoted:

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

Robin managed a strained smile. He remembered reading it at university. Back then, everyone used the line to seem well-read, but few knew it had a first half.

Those who fight monsters must take care not to become monsters themselves.

The sharp blade jerked upward, sending Robin's body flying like a kite with its strings cut, before it fell helplessly to the ground.

"I told you that thing couldn't be trusted!"

His angry words were full of self-reproach. If only he had tried harder to stop it, none of this would have happened. The sound of steel splitting rang out. There was no need to look; Shrike knew exactly what had happened to Robin.

To fight the Fiends, humanity had learned too many forbidden things. They were like Pandora's Box: from the moment it appeared, it was an incarnation of ill fortune. Once opened, it brought nothing but endless calamity and that single sliver of hope.

Humanity had relied on that sliver of hope to fight the Fiends all this time, and Galahad was undoubtedly a product of that calamity.

"Have the Imperial Guard take over the defensive line! Everyone, hold Galahad back!"

Shrike shouted as he ran, leaping over one obstacle after another and landing atop the Iron Snake. It was an enhanced vehicle built by the Mechanical Institute, sturdier than one might expect so it could transport these weapons.

The rushing wind roared in his ears. Shrike slid beneath the vehicle with all his strength, just as a sharp black sword pierced through its reinforced hull and sank deep into the earth.

"Galahad!"

Standing on top of the carriage, Shrike called out to his old friend, who was enveloped in darkness. In the flames, the figure withdrew his blade. He wasn't holding it; crimson muscle tissue had fused it to his arm.

It wasn't a sword at all, merely a bizarre extension of his iron armor. Scales like a blade spread outward from his elbow like wings. With a clattering scrape of steel, he fully unfurled those dark wings amid the flames.

So loathsome, yet so divine, like a *** who had stepped out of the Gospel Book.