Pollution

"You... You mean I came into contact with Secret Blood a long time ago and became one of those so-called Candidates?"

Eve asked in disbelief. As far as she could remember, the first half of her life had been easy. She was the princess of Phoenix, and everyone in Old Dunling had been waiting for her to come of age. Whoever married her would practically own half of the great Phoenix family.

"Yeah. That's the only explanation. Old Dunling seems a lot more complicated than I thought. For instance, I believed the Fiends had all been wiped out, but after all these years, I've run into them here."

Lorenzo spoke casually. As far as he was concerned, it wasn't even a big deal. At least she was still alive.

"The Fiends were wiped out more than a decade ago. It was the Demon Hunter Order's biggest celebration ever. Everyone drank themselves into a stupor, then doused the last Fiend in burning holy water and watched it die, screaming in agony."

"To be safe, the Demon Hunter Order kept monitoring the world for several more years, making sure the Fiends were truly gone. With no prey left in the forest for hunters to hunt, I retired and came to Old Dunling to chase my dream. Like I said, I really did dream of becoming a detective."

Lorenzo rambled on like an old woman. He was a truly strange man, sketching out a savage, terrifying world in the midst of idle chatter, while sounding as though he were teasing big cats at the zoo. It was hard to tell whether he was used to it or simply born that way.

Optimistic?

Eve looked at his lazy, world-weary face. Warm sunlight filtered through the glass and fell across it—a lovely scene, except his expression made it seem as if someone owed him millions. The coldness he'd shown earlier had vanished completely.

This... He really didn't have a care in the world.

"Wait. So you're one of those so-called Candidates, too?"

Only then did Eve recall that Lorenzo, like her, was a Candidate for Secret Blood—and that he knew even more about it than she did.

"Yeah, but it doesn't matter anymore."

He seemed not to care at all. Slowly getting to his feet, Lorenzo looked at Eve.

"Eve, your situation is much more complicated than what we've been discussing. But for now, you're safe. If you need anything, here's my card."

Looking at the thoroughly soaked business card, Eve remembered that Lorenzo was a detective. He might not be a very good one, but he was probably the toughest detective around.

"I take on everything from state secrets to catching cheating spouses. If it involves Fiends, please pay double."

He slicked back his wet hair, picked up the Winchester beside him, and prepared to leave.

"Where are you going?" Eve asked quickly.

"Home?"

Lorenzo turned around. Somehow, he was already walking steadily again. His vitality was hard to believe.

"But... weren't you going to have that doctor bring you medicine?"

"I just wanted to get him out of the way. My 'friend' has suffered enough already. Middle-aged, divorced, and his only child apparently doesn't even live with him. Why drag him deeper into the darkness? Let the poor man be."

He was the one who had used the Shotgun to knock down Buscalo's door, and now he was acting all sympathetic. Sometimes Eve couldn't figure out what made this detective tick.

He was like the wind, always acting before he spoke. By the time Eve thought of what else to say, the door had already closed. Lorenzo was gone.

Suddenly, the place felt strangely empty, like a hamster whose house had been lifted away. An indescribable feeling filled the room. Eve knew she had already stepped into that darkness and had no choice but to keep moving forward. She was afraid, but at least the real world was coming into focus.

She lowered her gaze to the soaked business card. The cheap ink had run, blurring the writing, but she could still make out the words.

"121A Cork Street, East Ilins District, Outer District."

"Lorenzo Holmes."

Sunlight streamed through the glass window, driving away the chill of the approaching winter. His body felt warm and wonderfully comfortable.

Shrike struggled to open his eyes. Above him was a familiar ceiling, covered in mythological murals: an enraged god unleashed flames, driving a twisted demon from the mortal world.

As he stared at it, Shrike suddenly smiled. If anyone painted it again, he thought, they ought to add airships and cannons. Those were a lot more useful than some vague, ethereal god.

He remembered that this place had once been a monastery, before it was converted into a hospital. Whenever he was wounded and lost consciousness, he always woke up here again, as if it were the restart point of his life. But he never woke up in a good mood.

Shrike tried to move, but his hands seemed to be bound. He couldn't budge them.

Just as he'd thought...

"You're awake?"

A familiar voice came from the other side. Shrike stared blankly for a moment, then turned his head. Robin was lying in the bed beside him, his chest wrapped in bloodstained bandages. He wore a breathing mask, and his voice rasped like a broken bellows.

"You're still alive?"

Shrike was both glad and astonished. That sword thrust should have been fatal.

"Yeah. Galahad's sword missed the mark."

Robin glanced sideways at Shrike. He sounded casual, but his injuries were still severe. Even turning his head took effort.

"Glad to be alive. What happened in the end?"

"It was Nikolai. You know how impossible it is to predict the way those lunatics from the Perpetual Motion Pump think. They treated the operation as an experiment on the Original Sin Armor, and the experiment failed. Galahad lost control. It took a lot of effort to subdue him. I don't know where he is now."

Shrike spoke slowly. Even now, more than ten hours later, he was still haunted by that night. The black angel had opened its arms to him, its sharp wings coming within a hair's breadth of cutting him to pieces.

"But one thing's certain: he's probably wishing he were dead now. As far as the people at the Perpetual Motion Pump are concerned, we're all test subjects. We have no rights."

Shrike wanted to curse, but even speaking made his whole body ache. The pain was truly unbearable.

"I hope you can understand them. They're just a bunch of 'great men' who traded ethics and morality for knowledge. Our society needs people like that, just not too many of them."

Kestrel entered the hospital room. As the only senior knight stationed in Old Dunling who currently had free time, he felt he ought to visit his two colleagues, who had somehow survived.

"Thank goodness this crazy world needs them. Otherwise, I'd lock those lunatics in an asylum for the rest of their lives," Robin said weakly from the bed beside him.

Kestrel walked over to their beds. Their injuries were severe, but at least they were both awake. Just then, a group of nurses entered, pushing a complicated machine.

The moment Shrike saw it, his head began to ache. He tried to escape from the bed, but the nurses gave him no chance. The head nurse strode over and flipped back Shrike's blanket. Beneath it, he wore a white hospital gown and bandages, with his limbs firmly bound by restraints made from leather and linen.

"Please cooperate, sir. This is standard procedure. We need to make sure you haven't been contaminated."

As the head nurse spoke, she wheeled the machine over to Shrike's bed. The other two watched with undisguised glee.

Fiend contamination was strange. Anything connected to a Fiend could become a means of transmission. Years of accumulated knowledge at the Purification Agency had taught them that contamination first affected the nervous system, corrupting a person's will, then twisting their flesh. In the end, the victim became a new source of contamination.

To prevent a virus-like outbreak from spreading, the Purification Agency conducted a mental evaluation of everyone involved after each operation against the Fiends. The evaluation method had been invented by those people at the Perpetual Motion Pump, which only made Shrike want to kill them more.

Kestrel stood guard on the outer perimeter, while Robin was too badly injured to be put through the procedure. So this evaluation was entirely for Shrike.

The nurses skillfully took a pair of scissors and cut away some of the hair at the back of Shrike's head. Then they gently inserted the needle-like electrodes into the exposed area.

"This may hurt a little," the nurse said.

"I've done this before. I know exactly how much this damn thing hurts," Shrike said helplessly. More than the pain, he couldn't stand something else. But before he could finish, the head nurse threw the switch. A few sparks burst from the machine, and Shrike felt as though someone had grabbed him and was pulling his whole body downward.

First through the soft mattress, then through the layer of concrete, then deeper still—falling endlessly into the darkness.