But Lorenzo was different from everyone else; when people reach their limits, they have a place called ho to retreat to, but he had none.
Arthur could go ho and confide in his late wife’s photograph or cry to Eve, even if the girl might not be too fond of her father acting this way. Gawain and Percival could also return to their hotowns. Everyone present had normal social circles in ordinary human society—they all had families, except Lorenzo.
Perhaps Lorenzo once had one, but everything was erased with the fire on the Night of the Holy Arrival. Arthur was unsure of what he might do.
He just looked outside with so concern; the sky was gloomy, and a light drizzle fell.
...
The characteristic drizzle of Old Dunling fell, drenching Lorenzo, who was sowhat disoriented, sitting in a corner of the alley. The excruciating pain in his mind sowhat alleviated with the coolness of the rain.
Every day, a massive amount of water vapor is released, accumulating over Old Dunling, making the sky perpetually gloomy, like an inverted ocean above the city where massive steel whales road.
The cold rain impacted his face; the vacant look in his eyes gradually gained a glint.
"I am... Lorenzo Hols, I am... 042."
Lorenzo looked up at the sky, stubbornly stating.
Even now, Lorenzo still considered himself 042. As for the matter of being 047, there must have been a mistake sowhere; it had to be.
Either Anthony forged those pieces of evidence, or he was telling the truth, but the truth wasn’t just that...
Thinking to this point, Lorenzo was quite troubled. If he was 042, then who was the ghost living in his [gap]? Or was it sothing like a damned split personality? But... But it didn’t make sense...
He tried hard to digest these pieces of information, slowly lowering his head, looking at his reflection in the puddle.
"Night of the Holy Arrival..."
Lorenzo muttered to himself.
If anything seed questionable, it was undoubtedly the Night of the Holy Arrival.
Human mory is coherent and logical. In Anthony’s inquiry, Lorenzo couldn’t recall specific details about the Night of the Holy Arrival; he only rembered that he killed 047 personally. This mory mysteriously inserted itself into his mind, constantly hinting at him.
Actually, Lorenzo had started feeling slightly shaken. Maybe Anthony was right; perhaps he truly had gone mad, and stubbornly insisting he was 042 was undoubtedly continuing down the path of insanity.
Yet Lorenzo didn’t want to give up.
All evidence proved that 042 didn’t exist, but Lorenzo refused to believe this. He still firmly believed in the existence of 042, as if abandoning these would an that he, himself, nad 042 and Lorenzo Hols, would genuinely disappear.
He continued to think hard, desperately trying to recall everything about the Night of the Holy Arrival. This train of thought filled him with pain and helplessness as he tried to reconstruct everything from that night in his mind.
But in the end, that night remained a blank, as if soone had removed everything from that night. Lorenzo forgot, but for the sake of mory’s coherence and logicality, his brain auto-completed the mory of that night. Although full of holes, it remained real as long as he didn’t try to recall it seriously.
"Am I really... 047?"
Lorenzo hesitated as he spoke.
Thinking this way might make sense; he was indeed 047, and because of the Pseudo Holy Grail, his mory beca fragnted. He imagined an identity of 042 to rationalize everything.
But is this the real answer?
This is an unverifiable paradox. Lorenzo was like a drowning man struggling earnestly, yet unable to find the singular path.
He suddenly had a terrifying thought: perhaps his anger towards the Demon also originated here?
The best way to forget sothing is to let sothing else take over your life. So Lorenzo beca so persistent against the Demon, pouring all his passion and fury into it until he almost forgot these things.
He rubbed his head hard, trying to pry open that solid skull to find the lost fragnts from the bleeding inside, but Lorenzo couldn’t do it. He didn’t even know where to go next.
Anthony succeeded. He managed to make Lorenzo lost, filled with cracks, though he couldn’t destroy this iron-clad will.
But amidst this despair, a clattering footstep suddenly sounded. Walking through the puddles, soon a black umbrella shielded the sky, dispersing the rainwater.
"You look truly wretched now, Mr. Lorenzo Hols."
The man gazed at Lorenzo with a look of regret; a fluffy chinchilla was perched on his shoulder.
Seldom seen, this tough guy who could kill with a ladle had turned out this way, unclear what he had gone through.
But Heracles quickly noticed that the gaze of that drenched man had changed.
For so reason, Lorenzo looked at him in an increasingly strange way, as if previously he were just like a forlorn drunkard. Now there were flas gradually rising in his eyes; before Heracles could say any comforting words, this guy revived again, with a surprisingly strong vitality.
"You’re here at just the right ti, Heracles."
Lorenzo reached out, grabbing his collar, climbing up from the muddy ground.
Invincible Mr. Hols stood up again, his gaze as sharp as a knife.
"What’s going on?"
Heracles was a bit stunned. He had co because of so intel, a holess man found Lorenzo collapsed here, and Heracles thought he was dead, hurried over, and didn’t expect it to turn out like this.
"I am 042, I am Lorenzo Hols."
He was in a completely disheveled state, speaking stubborn words, like a rebellious child.
"Heracles, you have a good mory, don’t you?"
"Yes... yes."
Although Heracles hadn’t known Lorenzo for long, he could feel sothing was off about this guy—like fireworks rising in a downpour, nearing death, yet brilliantly burning.
"Can you recall so things you’ve forgotten?" Lorenzo asked.
"Of course, fundantally all your mories are stored in that magnificent palace. If you forget, it’s just that you’ve forgotten which door they’re placed behind."
Saying this, Heracles earnestly explained, it was with this terrifying mory that he established a kingdom in the shadows.
"Then teach , tell everything!"
Lorenzo seed very tired, placing a hand on Heracles’ shoulder, letting him shoulder half of his weight. Perhaps from being too dirty, Polo didn’t like the filthy Lorenzo and jumped onto Heracles’ head.
"What... do you want to do?"
Lorenzo gave him a very weird feeling, dying, yet full of vitality.
"I am a detective, aren’t I? What else can I do besides solve cases?"
Lorenzo gasped, followed by a laugh, the laughter sowhat grim, and then as if singing so opera, he loudly vented.
"This is the last case, Heracles."
The world, with its gray-blue eyes, reflected a gloomy world. They began to twist, collapse, and finally fade into nothingness.
This was the last case; Lorenzo needed to figure out what the blank of the Night of the Holy Arrival was all about. He wanted to know who he really was.
or 047, or perhaps neither?
Who cares?
"This... might be Lorenzo Hols’ detective career’s last case."
Lorenzo shouted loudly, seemingly questioning those lurking in the shadows, then couldn’t help but laugh out loud.
Heracles supported him, the light rain grew heavy, then the downpour followed, countless raindrops falling, pounding the ground, steel, umbrellas... They shattered into countless forms, rising, dragging the entire city into a hazy curtain of rain.
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