Matt woke with a mild start, his body still heavy from wounds that had only just begun to close.
The hidden corner of the Harvest Church remained unchanged. Vines formed a living curtain, the ground beneath him was packed earth, and that faint emerald glow lingered in the air, never fully fading.
He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather pouch.
Inside, the Pugilist bracelet rested wrapped in damp soil from the garden.
As long as it didn't touch his skin, the Giant's cursed pride stayed dormant.
Better that way.
He had no desire to wander through Backlund feeling invincible and foolish at the same time.
The vines whispered softly as they parted.
Elara stepped inside unhurriedly, a small case hanging from one hand and that familiar look in her eyes—the one that always seemed to know more than she said.
"So, you're awake already," she remarked, leaning lightly against the wall of roots.
"I thought last night would leave you unconscious longer."
"How do you feel?"
"Like I got run over by a carriage," Matt replied with a crooked half-smile as he tucked the pouch away.
"But alive."
He paused before adding,
"By the way… I don't want to waste time hunting rats and cats in the black market."
"I'd rather finish this quickly."
Elara let out a low laugh, almost affectionate, and sat down across from him. The moss beneath her shifted slightly, forming the familiar bench.
"Stubborn," she said.
"But listen carefully. This is nothing like Joren."
"The man calls himself Vargan."
"Sequence 8."
"His body is far stronger and more resilient than yours right now. And he has more abilities."
"Two or three unpleasant tricks."
Her voice turned slightly colder as she listed them.
"Soul-burning flames. Minor curses. Corrupting black smoke…"
"The usual things."
"The most common ability is Slowness. He can make everything feel sluggish for you—as if you were moving underwater."
She raised a finger slightly.
"But pay attention to this: against ordinary humans, he rarely uses his full arsenal."
"He prefers using just enough power to amuse himself."
Matt's expression darkened slightly.
"So what do I do?"
"You observe," Elara replied calmly.
"Three full nights."
"No attacking."
"Not yet."
Matt frowned but nodded slowly.
"And the bracelet?" he asked. "Do I start wearing it now or—"
Elara shook her head immediately and pointed toward the pouch.
"Don't even think about it."
"As long as it's wrapped in soil from the garden, the artifact cannot influence you."
"The pride remains dormant."
"Only take it out if you reach the point where nothing else will work."
Her gaze sharpened.
"That is your hidden card."
"He does not know you possess it."
She slipped a hand into the pocket of her coat and handed him a small folded piece of paper.
"Warehouse 17. Northern docks."
"Just before the border with Awwa County."
"He goes out hunting vagrants between midnight and three in the morning."
"The rest of the time he hides inside."
"Start tonight."
"Watch him. Listen. Learn his patterns."
"Return at dawn each day and report to me."
She paused briefly before adding in a softer tone,
"This will be your true Acting."
"The one that completes the digestion of your potion."
Matt accepted the paper and slipped it into his pocket.
Then he rose to his feet, the scar on his side pulsing with a steady warmth—almost like approval.
"Understood," he said.
"Three nights."
"I'll study him like my next victim…"
He smiled faintly.
"…because that's exactly what he is."
Elara stood as well and gave him a light pat on the shoulder.
The gesture felt strangely human.
"Good," she said quietly.
"The garden is watching, boy."
"Don't make it wait too long."
Matt adjusted his torn jacket and stepped out of the hidden corner into the smoky air of Backlund.
The pouch containing the bracelet rested heavy in his pocket.
Like a silent promise.
The slow hunt had just begun.
Matt pushed open the door of the Harvest Church, and the smog of Backlund struck him like a damp slap.
The sun had already sunk behind the eastern chimneys, leaving the sky a dirty gray that seemed to swallow what little light remained.
He raised the collar of his torn jacket and began walking north, following the flow of the Tussock River. His boots splashed through puddles along the cobblestone street, mixing the smell of burnt coal with the distant stench of rotting fish drifting from the docks.
Three nights, he thought, sidestepping a rattling garbage cart that rolled past.
Three nights watching, breathing the same air as that monster.
Not like with Joren. That was fists and luck.
This time… I choose the moment.
The pouch containing the bracelet weighed heavily in his pocket like a carefully guarded secret.
He wouldn't touch it until it was absolutely necessary.
Halfway there, on a side street where a few shops still clung to life, he stopped before a small bread stall. An older woman with soot-darkened hands stood behind a wooden board balanced on two barrels.
The smell of freshly baked black rye bread made his stomach growl.
"One loaf. The cheapest," Matt said in a calm but hoarse voice.
The woman looked him up and down, measuring whether he could actually pay.
"Two pennies," she replied, cutting off a thick piece and wrapping it in brown paper.
Matt pulled two copper coins from his pocket—part of last week's take—and dropped them into her calloused palm.
He took the bread, tore off a chunk, and bit into it as he resumed walking.
It was hard. Sour.
But filling.
This will keep me until dawn.
I can't afford to be distracted by hunger.
The streets grew more miserable as he moved closer to the poorer districts surrounding the northern docks.
The alleys narrowed.
Gas lamps became sparse.
The shadows between abandoned warehouses seemed deeper.
Here the smog was thicker—almost solid—and the distant roar of factories blended with drunken laughter and the cries of hungry children.
Matt passed exhausted laborers trudging home and prostitutes already beginning their nightly work beneath broken arches.
His Criminal instincts never stopped scanning.
A thick piece of rope lying beside a broken barrel.
Useful for binding… or making a noose.
A dark glass bottle half-buried in the mud.
Break it and it becomes a knife.
An old burlap sack left forgotten near a crate.
Perfect camouflage.
He collected each item without drawing attention.
Anything can be a weapon.
Anything can be a tool.
The phrase was no longer just instinct.
He was beginning to act—to understand the essence behind it.
He wasn't stealing for pleasure.
He was preparing the perfect crime.
Further ahead, in a narrow alley near the docks, he spotted what he needed.
A local thug.
Tall. Broad-shouldered.
A scar ran across his cheek, and a wooden club hung from his belt.
The man leaned against a wall, smoking a cheap cigarette while watching passersby with the bored expression of someone waiting for easy trouble.
Matt approached casually, chewing another piece of bread.
"Hey, friend," he said with a crooked smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Looking for quick work? Something easy. No questions. Real money."
The thug looked him up and down, spat onto the ground, and let out a short laugh.
"And who the hell are you to offer work, beggar?"
Matt didn't react.
Instead, he pulled three copper pennies from his pocket and rolled them across his fingers with a casual dexterity that made them seem more impressive than they were.
"Just a man who needs an extra pair of eyes tonight."
"Warehouse Seventeen. Northern docks."
"Right before the border with Awwa County."
"Midnight to three in the morning."
"You stay outside and watch who comes and goes."
"That's it."
"I'll pay five soli for the three hours."
"Easy money."
"What do you say?"
The thug narrowed his eyes.
Five soli was more than a dock worker earned in an entire day.
"And what exactly am I watching?" he asked suspiciously. "Police? Cargo?"
Matt shrugged, biting into his bread as if the answer barely mattered.
"Nothing that'll splash onto you."
"Just watch."
"If you see anything strange, tell me tomorrow in the same place."
"I'll add two more soli."
"Deal?"
The thug hesitated for only a moment.
Money spoke louder than suspicion.
"Deal," he said finally, extending a dirty hand.
"But if this gets me into trouble, I'll break your face."
Matt shook his hand firmly.
The scar on his side pulsed faintly beneath his jacket—as if the Mother approved of the small crime he had just committed.
"Relax," Matt said calmly.
"It's only surveillance."
"Midnight. Warehouse Seventeen."
He turned and continued walking toward the docks, finishing the last piece of bread.
Behind him, the thug remained in the alley, counting the coins in his palm.
First piece placed, Matt thought as the mist rising from the Tussock wrapped around him.
Now let's see how the target reacts when I place human bait in front of him.
The night was still young.
Matt continued walking north, chewing the last piece of black bread while the smog thickened and the smell of the rotting river seeped between the warehouses.
The thug was already a distant shape in the alley behind him, counting his coins.
Now I need better eyes than my own.
I won't get closer than two hundred meters until I know exactly how that monster breathes.
He pulled out the cheap pocket watch he had stolen weeks earlier.
Four hours until midnight.
Plenty of time.
He turned two streets west, toward an area where the shops still attempted to look respectable before the East Borough gave way entirely to docks and misery.
He found what he was looking for on a narrow corner.
A small storefront with a grimy window.
"Old Thom's Lenses & Watches."
Monocles, pocket watches, second-hand hats, and several used brass binoculars were piled together in the display.
A bell chimed as he pushed the door open.
The old man behind the counter looked up slowly, studying him with tired eyes.
"Looking for something that lets me see far," Matt said quietly.
"Simple. Nothing fancy."
"And light."
The shopkeeper gestured toward a shelf.
"Used naval field binoculars. Old model. Six-power magnification."
"Eight soli and four pennies."
He tapped another item.
"Or the large monocle. Three soli, if you want something more discreet."
Matt shook his head.
"The binoculars."
He paused.
"But I'll give you seven soli. Exact."
The old man haggled out of habit, but eventually accepted.
Seven Silver Soli was fair for a second-hand item that still worked well.
Matt paid with what remained of the coins from his last robbery and slipped the binoculars into the inner pocket of his jacket.
They were light.
But they felt like a proper tool.
Now that's better.
Two hundred meters… and I'll still see everything.
He left the shop and continued north.
Twenty-five minutes later he reached the northern docks, where the warehouses stood farther apart and the border with Awwa County lay little more than a kilometer away.
He did not approach Warehouse 17 directly.
Instead, he circled the district through narrow alleys and low rooftops, exploring the terrain with the careful instincts of a Criminal.
Fifteen minutes later he found the perfect place.
An abandoned three-story building.
Half destroyed by an old fire.
Roughly two hundred and fifty meters from the target warehouse.
The rear of the building faced a dead-end alley, and the roof still held the broken remains of a chimney—perfect cover.
Matt climbed an old exterior staircase, testing each step to make sure it wouldn't creak...
Matt climbed the last rusted steps of the exterior staircase and stepped onto the roof of the abandoned building.
The wind from the Tussock struck his face, heavy with the smell of river water and coal smoke.
From here, the two hundred and fifty meters to Warehouse 17 were perfect.
The main entrance.
The boarded windows.
The side dock.
All of it framed neatly within the circle of his new binoculars.
Before settling down, he took out the items he had collected along the way and carefully arranged them in a sheltered hollow behind the broken chimney, where nothing could be seen from the street below.
The thick rope he coiled neatly and tied to a piece of exposed iron, ready to serve as a snare—or a quick descent if necessary.
The dark glass bottle he placed upside down so it wouldn't catch any stray light, wedged between two loose bricks.
The old burlap sack he spread across the roof like an improvised blanket, muffling his movements and ready to pull over himself if he needed to blend into the darkness.
Just in case, he thought as he finished arranging them.
I might not need them tonight…
He smirked faintly at himself.
Then he settled against the chimney, rested the binoculars along the edge, and waited.
The hours passed slowly, wrapped in the distant rumble of factories and the steady sloshing of river water against wooden pilings.
Matt nibbled the last piece of black bread.
He maintained a light Cogitation, calming the restless impulses of his pathway while occasionally checking the pocket watch.
Cold crept steadily into his bones.
But the scar on his side pulsed with a quiet warmth—as if the Mother were reminding him he was exactly where he needed to be.
At exactly midnight, the thug appeared.
Matt spotted him immediately through the binoculars.
The broad man with the scar across his cheek walked with his hands in his pockets, the wooden club still hanging from his belt.
He stopped about thirty meters from Warehouse 17, precisely where Matt had instructed.
Leaning against an unlit lamppost, he lit a cheap cigarette and began watching the warehouse entrance just as he had been told.
He didn't seem nervous.
Just bored.
And eager to earn his five soli.
Matt allowed himself a small smile.
Good.
Bait placed… and he doesn't even know it.
Another hour passed.
One in the morning.
Then the movement came.
The side door of Warehouse 17 opened with a slow, rusty creak.
A tall, thin figure stepped into the fog.
He wore a long dark coat that seemed to swallow the faint glow of distant lamps.
His steps were measured.
Almost lazy.
As though the entire world already belonged to him.
From this distance Matt couldn't see the man's face clearly.
But he noticed something else.
The mist around him seemed to thicken.
As if the very air had grown heavier.
Vargan.
The Wingless Angel paused briefly in the doorway, sniffing the air like a predator.
Then his head turned slowly toward the thug waiting beneath the lamppost.
A chill crawled up Matt's spine.
The scar on his side pulsed harder.
There you are…
He tightened his grip on the binoculars.
And you don't even realize…
the hunt has already begun.
Vargan stepped forward into the street.
The hunt had just become real.