Recycling

The out-of-control will stared at the figure atop the carriage. It was a gift from the darkness, a force no mortal could hope to resist. Shrike had no chance of winning, yet just as Galahad prepared to tear him to shreds, a massive pressure of wind engulfed him, followed slowly by the sound of mountains crumbling.

The long-range heavy strike carried the force of a thousand engines, its explosive shockwave rippling outward in layers.

It was a thirty-kilogram projectile, striking the runaway Galahad at an extreme muzzle velocity. An attack of this magnitude was no less than being hit head-on by the latest heavy-duty train. Even that ominous power could hardly withstand such immense kinetic energy; Galahad's form twisted unnaturally before being sent flying backward.

The projectile dragged him down, smashing him deep into the earth before the tip of the shell detonated. The violent gunpowder released a massive amount of thermal energy, triggering the inner shell embedded within. The flowing mercury evaporated in an instant, and for a moment, lethal mercury vapor enveloped the blast site.

Shrike's heart hammered violently. This bait-and-switch tactic was incredibly risky; had he taken even a single wrong step, he would have been sliced into mincemeat by Galahad's wings.

On the other side, blue smoke drifted from the muzzle of the smoothbore cannon. The massive recoil caused the carriage frame to tilt, and soldiers scrambled to reload. This weapon had been transported here to take down large targets, yet it was now being used against one of their own.

"Reload! Don't let him recover!"

There was no mercy. From the moment Galahad lost control, Shrike had ceased to view him as the person he once knew.

The roar sounded once more, and the heavy projectile knocked the rising figure back down. Milky-white mercury vapor rose amidst the raging flames. At the end of the day, demons were merely strange, mysterious monsters; no matter how terrifying they were, they still retained the characteristics of "living beings," meaning conventional physical methods remained effective.

Galahad's body was shaken and twisted. By all rights, a human body should have had its internal organs reduced to mush under such a heavy blow, but a terrifying vitality dominated this frame. Shattered bones were realigned by powerful muscles, and he stood slowly, bracing for the next round of attacks.

The roar descended again. After the blinding flames, a broken blade tore through the milky mercury vapor. The lethal gas had no effect on Galahad; the armor was controlling him, but it was also protecting him.

Dense explosions rang out. It was not just Galahad enduring the assault; the underground palace was teetering under the continuous fire and explosions. Its structure, sturdy for decades, was on the verge of collapse, and the internal framework had already begun to cave in. It was like a coffin, burying all that filth deep beneath the earth.

Picking up his silver-white rifle, Shrike loaded a specialized bullet and aimed through the lens into the blast crater.

Beneath the lens, he saw a vitality akin to a demon god. Under the protection of that armor, this was no longer a life that could be called human.

***Spread his wings to the fullest. Such a heavy blow had only snapped his feathers. With the sound of squirming flesh, new blades extended from his elbows, filling out his wings once more. Beneath the steel feathers, the fabric—resembling biological muscle tissue—split open to reveal dark red fissures, and then, as if venting heat, gray-white steam was released from within.

The steam rose continuously, covering the blast crater in the blink of an eye. Shrike could no longer see him.

"Keep up the suppression!"

Shrike realized something was wrong and roared, but the thunderous cannon fire drowned out his voice.

It was a scene no human could normally capture, but in this life-or-death moment, all of Shrike's senses seemed to become incredibly sharp. He saw it.

***Carrying a thousand swords, shining with white light and gray-white steam, he moved at high speed. The steel feathers emitted a piercing screech, and he actually achieved a sensation akin to gliding across the ground. As the lethal projectile spun toward him, he twisted his body and swung his hand casually, causing a thousand swords to strike the projectile heavily.

It was a blinding explosion. Because it was so close, the shockwave knocked Shrike over. In the final moments of his vision, the dark angel spread his wings and stepped out of the raging fire. Milky-white mercury vapor peeled away along his sharp edges. His eyes were pitch black, like a messenger of death.

The next second, *** descended beside him. Sharp steel feathers fell one by one like a cage, sealing off all of Shrike's escape routes.

The silver-white muzzle pressed against his heart. Shrike raised his head under immense psychological pressure, only to see that Galahad's face was covered in tiny scales. His pupils were lightless, pure black, and his pale face was filled with an incomprehensible sorrow.

Wake up! Galahad!

Shrike screamed powerlessly in his heart. His spirit was being tortured, and he could no longer speak. As the blades fell, they pierced his body like long nails, and blood slowly drained from his warm flesh.

Seeming to sense Shrike's sorrow, Galahad appeared to recognize this former friend. He leaned down gently and embraced him.

A thousand swords plunged down.

The sharp screech of grinding steel echoed in his ears, cutting at his eardrums like knives.

It seemed Shrike was going to die just like this, killed at the hands of Galahad. Honestly, with his end approaching, Shrike felt no fear. He only felt a deep sadness. Galahad had killed Robin, and now he was going to kill him. He was his friend, a man who fought against monsters, but in the end, he had become a monster himself.

How ironic...

The sharp blades in his vision grew larger and larger, but just then, a spear covered in circuitry pierced the steel cage and struck Galahad's body. It failed to penetrate the sturdy armor, but sharp barbs popped out from the tip, locking firmly onto Galahad's body.

"Little bird, fly away!"

A hellish voice rang in his ears, a voice that reminded Shrike of some lunatic. But before he could recall the man's face, more spears struck Galahad. Though they couldn't wound him, the protruding barbs acted like shackles, binding him tight.

Dazzling firelight streaked before his eyes. The steel-like wings melted one by one, and scorching molten iron dripped onto Shrike, making him growl in pain. Yet, despite the agony, he seemed to have survived. A hand reached in through the melted cage, grabbed him, and dragged him out.

"Little bird is safe. Begin recovery of Galahad!"

The man wore a white lab coat and a gas mask with filter canisters on his face. Seeming to realize Shrike was looking at him, he barely lifted his eyelids, which were framed by dark circles, and greeted Shrike with a sickly, excited gaze.

As the man's words fell, Shrike felt a tingling sensation. The particles floating in the air before him began to glow and then extinguished. His hair slowly stood on end, as if someone were stroking it. The next second, flowing electricity surged past them, illuminating everything as if a thunder god had descended.

The wings let out a low hum, and the thousand swords leaped out, but Galahad was restrained by the spears. Just as he reached the final distance, a massive surge of electricity pierced through him.

The light illuminated Shrike's weary eyes. These were the spears; each one was connected to a cable. They were never intended to pierce Galahad from the start; their purpose was to conduct electricity.

"Come, put this on."

The man acted as if he were admiring the scenery, handing Shrike a gas mask identical to his own, and then a gunshot rang out.

The electricity completely halted Galahad's movements. One iron canister after another fell beside him, and pale yellow anesthetic sprayed out, completely enveloping that hideous body. His violent movements began to slow under the massive dosage, like a trapped beast struggling in vain.

"Why are you here, Nikolai?"

Looking at this lunatic, Shrike felt no joy at having narrowly escaped death.

Nikolai pointed at Galahad amidst the electric arcs, his tone filled with exhaustion. His voice rose and fell, as if his throat were raw.

"Galahad can die, but the Original Sin Armor on him is very expensive. Besides, we still need the test data."

More men descended from the Iron Snake at the rear, fully armed and well-equipped.

Only then did Shrike realize his mistake. The Original Sin Armor wasn't something one person could wear. These damn lunatics had been in that carriage from the start. They would never spare any life for the sake of their so-called progress. Tonight's operation was, to them, merely a weapon test.

"What exactly are you doing!"

Shrike roared in fury, but Nikolai remained completely unaffected, speaking with casual indifference.

"These Knights Commander are specialized; they can withstand far more neural contamination than a little bird like you. But clearly, not everyone is Lancelot. Aside from him, none of the other Knights Commander have managed to master their armor. Galahad is even worse—he's been controlled by the armor instead."

There was not a hint of remorse in his tone; to Nikolai, everyone was merely a lab rat for his experiments.

The dark figure amidst the thunder was reflected in his gas mask. More men surged past the pair, wearing suits constructed entirely of iron chains. Their bodies formed a human Faraday cage to prevent potential electric shocks, and as they dragged heavy cables, Galahad was hauled along like a stray dog.

The unstoppable monster from moments ago had been subdued by professionals just like that, and then, a pitch-black coffin was transported down from the Iron Snake.

The frame was forged from an unknown metal, its dark gold surface carved with eerie, grotesque reliefs. Copper pipes densely covered the edges of the coffin; it looked like a magnificent painting of an angel descending, yet simultaneously like endless demons rising from the shadows.

The six corners of the coffin popped up one by one—they were silver-white nails, yet they functioned like bolts in a mechanical structure. As the coffin opened, an endless stream of white cold air surged out. The air, previously scorched by flames, instantly plummeted below freezing, and fine frost began to form on the metal surface.

Galahad, limp as a dead dog, was dragged to the edge. To control this runaway knight, the Iron Snake carried hundreds of meters of cable, and the continuous electric shocks paralyzed his muscles, suppressing all his movements. Yet, just as he was being shoved into that ice-box-like coffin, his exhausted body erupted with incredible strength once more.

His dark eyes turned toward the other side with a strange glint, and his dark red muscles tensed up again.

Sharp steel feathers instantly sliced through the soldiers' iron suits, and high-voltage currents burned them to charcoal in a flash. Then, a blade swung down, severing several cables.

"If you can still move, come and help!"

Nikolai panicked. According to the experimental data, the Original Sin Armor should have lost its mobility, but the reality was defying all expectations. The blade swung high, killing one person after another who tried to restrain him.

As he struggled with all his might, the sound of a collapsing mountain rang out one last time. It was a speeding projectile that struck Galahad instantly, but with this bombardment, the Iron Snake carrying the smoothbore cannon finally tipped over under the relentless shelling.

Shrike struggled to his feet. At the final moment, he grabbed his silver-white spear and slammed it heavily onto Galahad. The shaft was covered in sharp barbs, much like thorns.

Between the shelling and the heavy blow, Galahad, having just broken free from the electric shocks, lost his balance. At that moment, a new electric spear struck him. Like using a torch to drive away a wild beast, Nikolai drew a heavy revolver. Despite his frail frame, the massive recoil didn't budge him in the slightest. Shot after shot, the bullets hit like heavy fists, forcing Galahad back step by step.

After firing the last round, the off-balance Galahad was finally forced inside. The coffin was sealed shut, and the popped-up silver nails dropped one by one, double-securing it.

Muffled thuds echoed from within, as if a malicious ghost were pounding on a door.

Nikolai let out a long sigh and took off his gas mask. He lit a cigarette with his sickly, pale face, then sat leisurely atop the coffin, his hand gently brushing over the frost-covered metal surface.

"Galahad recovered. Prepare for extraction; leave the rest to the Purification Agency."

The pounding continued, shattering the ice on the surface. Countless pipes extended from the Iron Snake and connected into the coffin. It was unclear what exactly they injected, but the restless coffin calmed down after a few minutes. The Geiger counter, which had been screaming incessantly, fell silent. The frenzied demon had finally been pacified.

"Nikolai, I need an explanation."

Shrike struggled to stand. Blood was pouring from every wound on his body, but he didn't care. The expression beneath his mask was angrier than it had ever been.

"Don't be impatient. All of this was authorized by Arthur and the Chief."

Nikolai found Shrike's rage laughable. He continued, "In about a month, Arthur will hold a Round Table conference at the Shattered Dome. All your questions will be answered there. But before that, Shrike, you'll have to find a way to stay alive."

Shrike's expression turned strange. He wanted to say something more, but his vision was a blur of chaos; the excessive blood loss and his injuries were taking their full toll at this moment.

Watching Shrike collapse helplessly, Nikolai sighed. However, a group of soldiers quickly lifted him up; as a high-ranking knight of the Purification Agency, Shrike could not be allowed to die just yet.

The engines began to roar. Nikolai walked leisurely across the scorched battlefield, his murky eyes scanning the burning world. Finally, he left behind a white silhouette. On the back of his white lab coat, a pitch-black serpent bit its own tail, coiling and extending, endless and eternal.