"It truly is good to see you, Mr. Holmes!"
The moment Lloyd stepped through the tavern door, Herkley burst into delighted laughter from behind the bar.
Because of where the tavern stood, daytime rarely brought much business. Lloyd swept his gaze across the room. Only a handful of patrons lingered inside, each of them already deep in their cups.
"Not something I hear very often," Lloyd remarked. "Someone actually happy to see me."
The thought carried a hint of irony. He had long since grown accustomed to being little more than a walking catastrophe—a harbinger of misfortune whose presence inevitably dragged calamity in its wake. It was almost amusing that anyone could welcome him with genuine enthusiasm, though, to be fair, the man before him could hardly be called ordinary.
"To be precise," Herkley corrected with a grin, "I'm delighted to see the secrets inside your head."
He left Lloyd no room for comforting illusions.
Though they had only known one another for a short time, Lloyd had already become accustomed to Herkley's peculiar honesty. Taking a seat beside the counter, he asked, "We're doing this here?"
The things they intended to discuss belonged to the hidden corners of the world. Lloyd had always imagined such conversations taking place in dim basements or forgotten alleys, not in broad daylight at the center of a tavern.
"Of course. It's the perfect place." Herkley shrugged. "Care for a drink?"
Lloyd glanced toward the rows of bottles behind the counter. Strange-colored liquids shimmered inside them with unsettling hues.
"You actually studied bartending?"
"...More or less." Herkley answered with complete sincerity. "I just mix things together until they stop killing people."
"I rather enjoy the process."
He deftly uncorked several bottles, pouring vibrant liquids together with practiced hands before sighing almost wistfully.
"You know I'm obsessed with uncovering hidden truths. But to keep myself from attracting the attention of... certain people... I've had to be exceedingly careful."
"Still, wandering aimlessly through that pursuit has led me to discover quite a few fascinating things."
Lloyd absentmindedly stirred his drink with a spoon.
"Such as?"
"Alchemy."
Herkley smiled.
"The funny thing is, it's much more commonplace than people think. In fact... it's surprisingly close to reality."
Lloyd stopped stirring.
"Charlatans love waving the word around to fool gullible people. It's become little more than a carnival trick, so genuine alchemy is incredibly rare. But after years of searching, I've found plenty of frauds... and every so often, something unmistakably real."
"I'm hardly an alchemist myself. My understanding is limited. But comparing the authentic cases I've collected, I started noticing some rather interesting patterns."
He slid the drink across the counter.
It shimmered with a gentle ocean-blue hue, looking harmless enough. Then Herkley added a single drop from an unlabeled vial.
The tranquil blue immediately erupted into violent motion.
The liquid boiled, churned, and within seconds the entire glass had transformed into a deep crimson, as though someone had poured fresh blood into the sea.
"A great deal of fundamental alchemy," Herkley explained, "is rooted in chemistry... physics... the natural laws themselves."
"That does sound interesting."
Lloyd knew almost nothing about alchemy.
He had never forged miraculous artifacts or pursued forbidden knowledge.
He was a demon hunter.
His job was simply to wield the weapons forged by alchemists and use them to kill monsters.
It was wonderfully uncomplicated.
Herkley shook his head with quiet disappointment.
"It should have revolutionized civilization. Yet somehow it faded away until it became little more than street entertainment."
"Because that is humanity's nature."
Lloyd took a sip of the elaborate concoction.
After all the dramatic colors and bubbling reactions, it tasted almost exactly like ordinary beer.
He genuinely couldn't tell what all the theatrics had been for.
"Every alchemist ultimately seeks Truth," Lloyd continued. "But to them, Truth is finite. If one person obtains it, someone else loses the chance."
"That is the curse of knowledge."
"It preys upon ambitious scholars. The more they acquire, the more it magnifies the ugliness already hidden within them."
Herkley quietly stopped what he was doing.
Secrets like these were exceedingly difficult to come by.
"So alchemists become rivals... often outright enemies. They refuse to share what they've learned, terrified someone else might reach Truth first. It's a diseased system."
"And in the end..."
"They carry every secret they possess straight into the grave."
"So that's why the tradition disappeared?"
"Partly."
"You really do know an astonishing amount, Mr. Holmes."
Herkley's excitement only intensified.
In many ways, he resembled those long-extinct alchemists—another man hopelessly addicted to knowledge.
Fortunately, unlike them, he still retained some measure of sanity.
His eyes burned as they lingered on Lloyd.
Lloyd noticed immediately.
If the opportunity ever presented itself, he was absolutely certain Herkley would gleefully crack open his skull just to see what mysteries were still hiding inside.
"Let's put that aside for now."
Lloyd set his glass down.
"I need information. And naturally, you'll be paid."
Ever since leaving the Stuart estate, his thoughts had revolved around his next move.
Every major faction had quietly infiltrated Old Dunling.
Their intentions remained hidden.
But Lloyd understood one thing perfectly.
They were all waiting.
Waiting for the single spark capable of igniting everything.
Until that spark arrived, however, the city's unnatural calm left him with nowhere to begin. He wanted to act, yet every trail ended in silence.
Then Oscar appeared.
Never in his life had Lloyd imagined the novelist possessed any connection whatsoever to North Delro. Until now, Oscar had simply been an obscure but entertaining writer in his eyes.
Yet Oscar himself no longer mattered.
The exile did.
Cardinal Shermans.
Lloyd intended to close this case flawlessly.
Not merely because it was his duty.
He needed Shermans alive.
As a former Cardinal, the man had once stood near the pinnacle of the Gospel Church. He undoubtedly knew countless secrets buried within its foundations.
Perhaps...
Perhaps somewhere among those secrets lay the key to eradicating demons forever.
"So," Herkley asked, his tone finally growing serious, "what is it you wish to know?"
"The exile from Florence."
"His name is Shermans."
"A Cardinal of the Gospel Church."
"The new Pope is hunting him."
Herkley's eyes narrowed as countless fragments of memory surfaced within his mind.
Several silent seconds passed before a smile slowly crept across his face.
"And what," he asked quietly, "are you willing to give me in return?"
"Ask."
Lloyd answered without hesitation.
"I get to ask first?"
Lloyd nodded.
Herkley considered countless elaborate questions.
They all collapsed into one.
"Who are you?"
"Lloyd Holmes."
"A detective."
"A demon hunter... part-time."
"I was supposed to be retired."
"Where do you come from?"
"The Holy Evangelical Papal State."
"The Order of Demon Hunters under the Gospel Church."
"Shermans was once one of my superiors."
"What do you intend to do?"
"Hunt demons."
"As many as exist."
Lloyd's face never changed.
Only a handful of simple answers.
Yet they supplied enough pieces for Herkley to reconstruct entire sections of the puzzle that had long refused to fit together.
Silence settled between them once more.
Finally Herkley spoke.
"Let me think about your question."
"That's all you're asking?"
Lloyd had expected far more.
Instead, Herkley abruptly stopped.
"You need me."
"So eventually..."
"You'll tell me every secret yourself."
"No reason to rush."
There was unmistakable confidence in his voice.
Herkley had already inferred the outline of Lloyd's circumstances.
Behind him stood another organization every bit as mysterious.
Yet Lloyd had never spoken of them as though he truly belonged there.
Whatever relationship existed between them, it was far from absolute.
And because of that...
Lloyd needed him.
Desperately.
"As for Shermans..."
The magnificent Hall of Memory unfolded before Herkley's inner eye.
Tower after towering floor rose toward the heavens until the endless structure pierced the clouds.
Ancient hymns drifted through the air.
Massive bronze doors thundered open.
An immeasurable flood of images burst forth.
Thousands upon thousands of whispered voices surrounded him.
Different languages.
Different accents.
Different stories.
Each fragment stitched together another hidden chapter of history.
Lloyd waited patiently.
Herkley fascinated him.
After surviving the shipwreck, the man had gained a gift no ordinary human should ever possess.
An ocean of information surged through his consciousness.
If his mind had been a machine, then every gear was now spinning at impossible speed.
Scalding steam escaped through iron seams.
The roar of its mechanisms echoed like rolling thunder.
"...I think..."
"I've found something."
Herkley finally emerged from his thoughts.
Within his mind, the grand hall still stood complete.
If thought itself could be seen, Lloyd would have watched him climbing endless ladders between towering bookshelves, tirelessly searching for a single forgotten volume.
His expression had become oddly complicated.
Before revealing anything, he offered one final warning.
"My conclusions aren't necessarily correct."
"They're deductions."
"If you want certainty..."
"You'll have to see the truth with your own eyes."
"I know."
Lloyd showed little concern.
"I only need a place to begin."
"Once I have that..."
"I'll know where to look."
He understood the limitations of Herkley's gift perfectly.
Even so, within those limits lay extraordinary possibilities.
At that moment, Lloyd found himself silently cursing Oscar once again.
The novelist's intelligence had been pitifully incomplete.
Old Dunling was enormous.
Without Herkley, finding a single man within it would have been nearly impossible.
Perhaps impossible altogether.
"Is something wrong?"
Lloyd noticed the strange look lingering on Herkley's face.
After carefully confirming his own reasoning one last time, Herkley finally asked,
"Do you remember the first time we met?"
"The Rat's Nest?"
Lloyd remembered well enough.
While chasing a suspect, he'd been struck by a carriage and thrown several meters through the air.
"They were foreigners."
"They concealed it well."
"But I could hear it."
"Their accents."
"They were people who lived in the shadows."
"And whatever they intended to do belonged in those shadows as well."
"Otherwise..."
"They would never have sought me out."
Lloyd listened intently before finally muttering,
"You analyze your own clients?"
"My dear client nearly got me killed."
Herkley smiled bitterly.
The reason he had trusted Lloyd from the very beginning was simple.
Lloyd had saved his life that day.
His intellect bordered on the inhuman.
His body did not.
The shipwreck had left lasting scars.
With such a frail constitution, a fall from that height would almost certainly have killed him.
"Those people were suspicious."
"And even the questions they asked were suspicious."
The statement sounded almost absurd.
"You'd be surprised," Herkley continued.
"Most people reveal themselves through the questions they ask."
"Merchants seek profit."
"Politicians seek power."
"My business hasn't reached clients quite that prestigious."
Though the Rat enjoyed modest fame in the Lower District, Herkley had deliberately kept himself insignificant in the eyes of Old Dunling.
"What did they ask?"
"And what answer did you find?"
"They wanted to know what had happened in northern Old Dunling."
"My deductions pointed to a covert military operation conducted there not long before."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than he noticed the subtle change in Lloyd's expression.
"...Don't tell me..."
"You were involved."
Lloyd offered no reply.
Instead, he rose to his feet.
"I think I understand."
"We'll discuss the rest another time."
"If you need me..."
He placed a business card upon the counter.
"My address."
"W-wait."
"I haven't even explained my deduction yet!"
"I already deduced it."
Lloyd smiled faintly.
"Herkley..."
"I'm actually rather clever."
"I simply prefer solving problems with violence."
With that, he turned toward the door.
Lloyd possessed a brilliant mind.
He simply disliked wasting it on elaborate calculations when a blade could settle matters infinitely faster.
Every person was driven by purpose.
Even those fleeing for their lives.
If Shermans truly wished to escape the new Pope, he would have vanished into some distant wilderness—not come to Old Dunling, where every competing power watched one another with sharpened knives.
Which meant only one thing.
He had come with an objective.
Within moments, Lloyd had already reconstructed the hidden truth.
This time, however...
He could not accomplish it alone.
Though the arrival of the diplomatic delegation had made him wary of the Purification Bureau, this particular matter left no room for separation.
"I should have realized sooner."
He murmured to himself as he disappeared into the street.
A man of Shermans' rank could not possibly be ignorant of its existence.
The priceless relic known only as The Apocalypse.
If the exiles obtained it, even the new Pope would cease to be a threat.
Should they wish it...
They could simply found another Church.
That...
was the true purpose of the exiles.
They had never come to Old Dunling to run.
They had come...
to begin their counterattack.