Matt kept begging until the cheap pocket watch he carried showed exactly seven in the evening. The sun was already sinking behind the chimneys, leaving the sky a dirty gray mixed with pale orange. He had gathered six more pennies in the square—some tossed by workers out of pity, others from women passing in a hurry. Added to the penny from the bakery, he had seven in total.
Not much, but enough for what he needed.
What irony, he thought as he stood up and brushed the dust from his trousers.
The Mother's blessed Criminal, collecting alms like a stray dog. If the Abyss could see me now, it would die laughing.
He walked a few streets toward a small shop of cheap supplies he knew in the lower-middle district. When he stepped inside, the place smelled of rancid oil and damp wood. His eyes immediately found a small bottle of cheap lamp oil on a shelf.
"Three pennies," the shopkeeper grunted.
Matt paid without bargaining. He slipped the small bottle into the inner pocket of his jacket.
This will be useful later. A little fire… you never know.
He left the shop and slipped into the first dark alley he found—narrow, wedged between two abandoned buildings where the streetlamps barely reached.
Leaning against the wall was exactly what he was looking for.
A thug roughly his build, though slightly taller, smoking a cheap cigarette with a baton hanging from his belt. Thick wool jacket—worn but decent. Dark wool trousers. Black leather boots, used but solid.
Perfect for blending in around the docks without attracting attention.
Matt didn't hesitate.
He approached from behind with silent steps, activating the Criminal instinct in his mind, and struck.
One precise punch to the back of the neck, followed by a knee to the ribs.
The man didn't even have time to shout.
He collapsed like a sack.
Matt dragged him deeper into the alley and quickly stripped him of his jacket, trousers, boots, and the flat cap on his head. The entire process took less than a minute.
He changed quickly.
The wool jacket hung slightly loose on his shoulders, the sleeves covering a little more of his hands than necessary. The trousers were a bit wide at the waist, but with the thug's own belt they fit well enough. The black leather boots pressed slightly against his toes, yet they were infinitely better than his broken ones.
The flat cap shaded part of his face.
Matt looked down at his hands and let out a low laugh, almost inaudible.
Would you look at that… the great Criminal dressed like a street thug. It fits loose, like I stole it from someone bigger than me… because that's exactly what I did.
He adjusted the cap, gave the unconscious thug a kick—just to make sure he'd take longer to wake—and stepped out of the alley.
Now his walk was different.
More confident.
More like someone who belonged.
This is Acting too, he thought as he disappeared into the shadows of the East Borough.
Acting like an honest vendor in the morning, a beggar in the afternoon, and now just another thug at night. All to avoid losing myself in the real role.
It would be so easy to simply… let go. Rob. Kill. Take whatever I want without all this theater.
But no.
Here I am, pretending to be someone more ordinary just to keep being myself.
The scar pulsed once.
Warm.
Approving.
Matt smiled crookedly beneath the cap.
Matt pushed open the varnished wooden door of "The Silver Anchor."
The place was far more decent than the dives near the docks. The walls were made of well-polished light wood, and gas lamps with glass shades cast a warm, steady glow across the room. Round tables with clean checkered cloths were neatly arranged, and a long oak counter stretched along one side with padded stools in front of it.
The air smelled of fresh beer, better-quality pipe tobacco, and a lamb stew drifting out from the kitchen.
It wasn't luxurious, but it was the kind of place where office clerks, small merchants, and craftsmen came to drink something decent without spending a fortune.
Matt took a seat on a stool at the far end of the counter, where the light didn't fall directly on his face. With the four pennies he had left, he ordered the cheapest thing available.
"Just a mug of regular dark beer," he said in a rough voice.
The bartender—a man with a clean vest and a neatly trimmed mustache—nodded.
"Three pennies, sir."
Matt placed the coins on the polished wood and received a heavy tin mug filled to the brim. That left him with exactly one penny.
He took a sip.
The beer was cold, with a cleaner taste and far less watered down than the stuff served in dockside bars.
Around him, the conversations were calmer, less brutal.
Two men in cheap suits—probably accountants or workshop supervisors—were speaking quietly to his left.
"…the Red Ravens clashed with the Iron Brotherhood near Dock Nine last night," one of them said. "They say several people died. District police are already going door to door asking questions. If this keeps up, they'll put extra patrols out and block half the street. Bad business for everyone."
The other man sighed.
"As long as it doesn't affect the factory orders…"
Matt listened only half-heartedly, letting their voices blend into the background murmur of the tavern.
And then he saw her.
She was sitting alone at a table near the window, beneath the soft glow of a gas lamp.
She was too beautiful.
Jet-black hair fell in perfect waves down to the middle of her back, shining as if it absorbed the light and returned it brighter. Her face was oval, her skin pale and almost luminous. Her lips were full, a deep natural red that somehow looked both natural and impossible.
Her eyes were large and emerald green—so clear they seemed to shine from within. Long eyelashes cast delicate shadows across slightly flushed cheeks. Her nose was fine and elegant, and a faint smile rested at the corner of her lips, inviting without saying a word.
She wore a dark dress of simple yet elegant design: fine burgundy wool, with a modest neckline that revealed the graceful curve of her neck and collarbone. The sleeves fitted neatly to her wrists, and a subtle corset shaped an impossibly narrow waist. A light black shawl rested over her shoulders, and lace gloves barely hid the delicacy of her hands.
But what disturbed Matt the most was the feeling surrounding her.
An unreal charm. Almost magnetic.
Every movement—turning her head, lifting her glass, crossing her legs—seemed naturally designed to draw attention without effort. The air around her felt warmer, denser, as if reality itself leaned slightly toward her presence.
Men at nearby tables glanced at her constantly.
Some with open desire.
Others with an uneasy fascination they couldn't explain.
Matt felt his breath hitch for a moment.
Gods… she's too perfect. No one in this district looks like that. No one.
Then the scar on his side pulsed sharply.
A surge of urgent green warmth climbed his ribs like a warning.
Something's wrong.
The charm was too strong.
Too clean.
Matt looked away abruptly. He finished the beer in a long swallow and set the empty mug down on the counter.
He didn't want attention.
Not here. Not now.
He stood up, adjusted his flat cap, and walked out of the bar without looking back—though he could still feel that seductive presence clinging to the back of his neck like a dangerous perfume.
Better not tempt fate.
The night was still young.
And the second watch was waiting for him.
When Matt stepped out of the bar, the evening cold greeted him like an old acquaintance. He raised the collar of the stolen jacket—still a little loose on his shoulders—and began walking back toward the northern docks.
The last penny he had left spun slowly between his fingers, moving with precise, practiced motions, like a lucky coin he had never actually possessed.
One penny… he thought with irony as the cold metal passed from one finger to another.
Yesterday I stole an entire loaf without anyone noticing. Today I sold bread for hours, begged like a dog, and now this is all I have left.
What a pathetic way to act the role.
But it works.
No one looks twice at a poor thug with a single coin in his pocket.
The walk was slow and deliberate. He wasn't in a hurry. He wanted to arrive when the daylight was already dying and the shadows were long enough to hide everything.
He passed through increasingly dirtier streets, leaving behind the small middle-class workshops and moving deeper into the district of abandoned warehouses, where the Tussock smog grew thicker and the smell of the rotting river filled his nose.
He wasn't sure how long the walk took.
Maybe forty minutes.
Maybe an hour.
Time stretched strangely when someone walked without hurry, their mind fixed on what would come next.
The penny kept spinning between his fingers.
Eventually, he arrived.
The abandoned three-story building stood before him like a dark old friend.
He climbed the rusted exterior staircase with silent steps, testing each rung just like the night before. When he reached the roof, he moved carefully toward the broken chimney and lay face down on the burlap sack he had left there.
The binoculars were already in place at the edge.
He partially covered himself with the sack and the loose jacket, blending into the shadows.
From that vantage point, Warehouse 17 was clearly visible two hundred and fifty meters away.
The side door was closed.
The windows were boarded up.
The dock was empty.
Everything was silent.
Matt rested his chin on his crossed arms and waited.
The penny remained in his left hand, spinning slowly, again and again.
Second night, he thought as the sky finally darkened completely.
Let's see what else you have to show me this time, Vargan.
The wind from the Tussock blew cold across the rooftop.
Matt didn't move.
He simply waited—patiently—like the Criminal he was learning to become.
The hour was approaching.
Matt remained motionless on the burlap sack, his body pressed against the cold roof while the wind from the Tussock brushed the back of his neck. The penny continued spinning between his fingers—a nervous habit that kept him anchored.
The night stretched on slowly. Too slowly.
And his mind began to wander.
That woman from the bar…
The memory came back suddenly, sharp and irritating.
Jet-black hair falling in perfect waves. Emerald-green eyes that seemed to glow from within. Red lips that invited without needing words. The burgundy dress hugging an impossibly narrow waist, the black shawl sliding slightly with every movement.
And that feeling…
That unreal charm that made the air around her grow warmer, thicker, as if reality itself leaned toward her.
Who the hell was she?
Matt frowned in the darkness.
No one in that district looked like that. No one walked as if the entire world existed just to look at her.
A Beyonder?
The thought arrived suddenly—cold and logical.
Elara had once mentioned the Demoness Pathway in one of her lessons: a gradual transformation toward femininity, seduction, disasters born from desire, moral plagues…
Could it be that?
That charm wasn't normal. It was too perfect. Too dangerous.
If she really was a Demoness… what the hell was she doing in a lower-middle-class bar? Was she looking for something? Or someone?
He made a clear mental note, almost carving it into his mind.
Ask Elara tomorrow morning. Everything. The dress, the eyes, that feeling that makes you want to look even when you know something's wrong.
The penny spun once more between his fingers.
Time kept passing.
Distant streetlamps flickered. The river lapped softly against the wooden pilings. Little by little, the clock in his mind crept toward one in the morning.
Then the side door of Warehouse 17 creaked open.
Vargan stepped into the fog.
Tall. Thin. A dark coat swallowing the light around him.
He paused for a moment in the doorway, sniffing the air as he always did. Then he began walking east with slow, deliberate steps.
Matt stopped spinning the penny.
He clenched it tightly in his palm.
The second night had just become interesting.
Matt grabbed the binoculars with both hands and raised them to his eyes, adjusting the focus with a precise movement.
The distance of two hundred and fifty meters collapsed until Vargan looked almost within arm's reach.
The Wingless Angel walked east for several minutes, disappearing into the dark alleys. Matt waited, barely breathing. The penny remained clenched in his left palm, pressing into the skin.
A short while later, Vargan returned.
He was dragging a woman with him.
She was young—perhaps in her early twenties. Her cheap cotton dress was torn at the shoulder and chest, exposing pale skin marked with fresh bruises. She struggled, but without real strength, as if her body already knew resistance was useless.
Her legs kicked weakly, her movements clumsy and desperate. Her mouth was open in a silent scream, her eyes wide with terror.
But the worst part was Vargan's eyes.
They were filled with a wet, lustful hunger.
It wasn't just the hunger for death.
It was something deeper.
Something rotten.
A crooked smile stretched across his face as he dragged her along, like a man savoring the moment before beginning a meal.
Matt felt a chill crawl up his spine.
The same look Joren had when he talked about "total freedom" and "returning to raw nature"…
Could he be from the same sect? The Rose School? Those naturist lunatics? Those bastards who worship the Usurper?
Vargan grabbed the woman by the throat with one hand.
His fingers pressed deep enough to stop any sound—but not enough to make her lose consciousness. He wanted her awake. He wanted her to feel every second.
The woman's eyes bulged. The veins in her neck swelled as her fingernails dug uselessly into his forearm.
They stayed like that for several endless minutes beneath the dim glow of a broken streetlamp.
Vargan leaned down and whispered something into her ear.
Matt couldn't read the lips, but he saw the woman's body stiffen even more.
Then, without hurry, Vargan dragged her toward the side door of Warehouse 17.
Her heels carved two uneven lines across the dirty ground.
The door opened with the same rusty creak as before—and closed behind them.
Matt slowly lowered the binoculars.
He didn't want to know what was happening inside.
He didn't want to imagine it.
For his own sake.
He leaned back against the chimney, finally releasing the breath he had been holding.
The penny in his hand was warm now.
Almost burning.
If he belongs to the same sect as Joren… then this isn't just some random Wingless Angel.
It's something bigger.
And I'm right in the middle of it.
The door of Warehouse 17 was already closed.
Inside, the woman was alone with Vargan.
For a brief moment, a clear and treacherous thought crossed Matt's mind.
I could end this right now.
All he would need to do was leave an anonymous note at any police station or near one of the large churches. The official Beyonders of the Church of the Evernight Goddess or the Church of the God of Steam and Machinery would arrive within hours.
With their power, Vargan would disappear before dawn.
Everything would end.
The woman.
The next victims.
The monster.
Everything.
Matt's hands tightened around the binoculars.
Suddenly a heavy heat rose in his chest, as if an invisible hand had begun squeezing his lungs from the inside. His breath faltered halfway; each inhale required deliberate effort.
His stomach twisted into a hard, burning knot, like someone had shoved a handful of hot coals into it.
His legs tensed abruptly, the muscles in his thighs trembling faintly against the cold rooftop, ready to sprint down and do exactly that.
But then the real blow came.
The scar on his side pulsed with a sharp, painful stab—nothing like the usual comforting warmth. This one was harsher.
Almost accusing.
Cold sweat appeared at the back of his neck and ran down his spine like a thin thread of ice. His fingers began to tremble around the binoculars, small spasms he couldn't control. His jaw clenched so tightly that a dull ache spread through his teeth.
If I do it… I gain nothing.
No Beyonder characteristic.
No heart for the potion.
No merit before the Mother.
No progress in his Acting.
Just…
Nothing.
The feeling of helplessness crashed down on him like molten lead. It settled heavily on his shoulders, cold and crushing, making his arms suddenly feel heavier.
His chest tightened even more, as if the air itself refused to enter his lungs. Nausea climbed up his throat, and he had to swallow twice to keep from vomiting right there on the roof.
Matt let out a broken breath—almost a gasp—and leaned back against the broken chimney.
The penny in his left hand had grown warm.
Almost burning against his palm.
He couldn't do anything.
And that certainty hurt in every muscle of his body.
The second night had only just begun.
Matt remained lying against the chimney, the binoculars still in his hands, when the internal clock he carried in his mind reached forty minutes.
The side door of the warehouse opened with a slow metallic scrape.
Vargan stepped out alone, carrying the same bucket and dirty rag as always. This time, however, the trail was larger—dark stains stretching several meters, clumps of hair stuck to the ground, and a sweet metallic smell that reached even up to the rooftop.
Matt registered the detail without blinking.
The thought arrived cold and automatic: the woman had taken longer to break. Vargan had enjoyed it more. He had deliberately stretched the suffering, savoring every extra minute.
A sour knot formed in Matt's throat. He felt bile rising and had to swallow twice to force it back down. His fingers tightened around the binoculars until his knuckles ached. For a moment, the urge to climb down and end everything burned through the muscles of his legs.
No.
He shook his head sharply, digging his nails into his palm until the pain anchored him.
Don't think about that. Not now. Focus.
Vargan finished scrubbing the ground with precise, almost bored movements. He gathered the last remains, dumped the dirty water into the river, and placed the bucket and rag back inside the warehouse with a care that felt almost domestic.
The door closed behind him—for barely twenty seconds.
Then it opened again.
Vargan stepped out once more, this time with empty hands and his coat properly adjusted. He sniffed the air once, turned west, and began walking with that slow, confident stride of someone who knew the night belonged to him.
Matt slowly released the breath he had been holding.
Matt adjusted the binoculars slightly when he saw Vargan returning through the same alley, this time walking more slowly—almost limping.
He wasn't alone.
He was dragging a man by the left ankle.
The body was a ruin of torn flesh.
The stranger was already dying. His shirt had been ripped to shreds and soaked in dark blood that glistened under the dim glow of the streetlamp. A deep, jagged cut ran across his chest from side to side—so wide that Matt could see the pale curve of ribs beneath the torn flesh.
The man's right arm hung at an impossible angle, broken in several places, the bone of the forearm protruding like a dirty white splinter.
But the face was the worst.
The left cheek had been almost completely torn away, exposing teeth and gums in a grotesque, permanent grin. One eye had burst—nothing but a red, empty socket slowly dripping. The other still blinked weakly, filled with tears and raw animal terror.
Every breath came out as a wet, bubbling gurgle. His throat bore three parallel cuts that whistled faintly each time he tried to inhale.
Vargan, however, wasn't untouched.
His right pinky finger was missing. The stump was still bleeding, a thin but steady stream running across his palm and dripping to the ground with every step. The wound looked clean, as if something very sharp had severed it in a single strike.
There was also a long tear along the left side of his coat, the fabric dark and sticky.
Matt felt a chill creep up his spine.
Another Beyonder.
He must have fought someone of his own Sequence—or lower… and won.
But it cost him.
Matt couldn't determine the dying man's pathway. The wounds were too chaotic. Too brutal. It could have been anything—a Criminal like himself, a Prisoner, maybe even something worse.
Only one thing was certain.
This time, Vargan had truly fought.
And he had enjoyed every second of the victory.
The Wingless Angel dragged the dying body toward the side door without any hurry, leaving behind a wide, shining trail of blood. The man's head bounced against the cobblestones with dull, wet thuds.
He was still breathing.
Barely.
Each inhale sounded like someone drowning in their own blood.
The door creaked open with the same rusty groan.
Vargan stepped inside with his prey.
Then the door closed behind him.
Matt slowly lowered the binoculars. His heart was pounding hard against his ribs.
Tonight wasn't routine.
Tonight someone else tried to hunt him…
And failed.
He kept staring at the closed warehouse door, feeling the scar on his side send a slow, warm pulse—almost like a warning.
Matt remained motionless, the binoculars pressed to his eyes, as the minutes dragged by like molten lead.
Exactly thirty minutes later, the side door opened again.
Vargan stepped out alone, this time carrying the bucket and rag, a faint look of irritation on his face.
The trail of blood was far larger than before.
It stretched nearly twenty meters beyond the warehouse, splattering across cobblestones, walls, and even a lamp post. The fight had clearly spilled far beyond his usual territory. Dark, sticky stains marked several spots, along with clumps of hair, torn pieces of cloth, and a wide smear where the body had been dragged.
Vargan took longer than usual to clean.
He worked with the same efficiency as always, but he had to go back and forth several times, scrubbing places he normally never touched.
The stump of his right hand continued to bleed slightly as he worked, leaving fresh droplets that he had to wipe away afterward.
Matt timed every movement in silence.
When Vargan finished, he carried everything back into the warehouse and disappeared for a full twenty minutes.
When he reappeared, the bucket was gone.
He paused briefly in the doorway, glanced down both sides of the street, then stepped back inside, closing the door with a sharp, final thud.
The warehouse fell silent again.
Matt slowly exhaled and lowered the binoculars.
The second night was over.
Dawn crept in soon after, painting the sky in dirty gray and pale orange. Matt stood, his muscles stiff from hours of stillness. He slipped the binoculars into his inner pocket and climbed down the rusted staircase without a sound.
He left nothing behind.
The rope, the bottle, and the burlap sack remained hidden in place for the third night.
This time he didn't walk slowly.
He moved with quick, purposeful strides through the half-empty streets of early morning, the loose jacket fluttering slightly with each step.
Urgency burned in his chest.
He needed to tell Elara everything.
The dying man with the brutal wounds.
Vargan's missing pinky.
The fight that had spiraled out of control.
And the growing suspicion that the Wingless Angel belonged to the same sect as Joren.
He wanted to reach her as soon as possible.
Harvest Church wasn't far now.
And Matt felt that every second counted.
Matt descended the last steps of the tunnel with firm, purposeful strides. He wasn't running, but there was no mistaking the urgency in his pace. Behind him, the roots closed with a soft whisper, as if the garden itself sensed that he carried important news.
He emerged into the underground chamber, the emerald glow from the ceiling lighting his face. With one hand he removed the flat cap and walked straight toward the moss bench where Elara was waiting.
She raised her gaze, her green eyes shining with restrained curiosity.
"You've returned earlier than I expected," she said in a low, calm voice. "Sit, my son. Tell me everything in detail."
Matt sat down across from her, resting his forearms on his knees. He took a deep breath before speaking clearly.
"Tonight changed everything, Elara. Vargan came out close to one in the morning. First he brought a woman. Same routine… but this time it took forty minutes. Ten minutes longer than usual. He savored it more. Made her suffer more slowly."
He continued without hesitation.
"Then he came out again and dragged a man who was already dying. His chest was split open from side to side—ribs visible. His right arm was destroyed, bone sticking out. Half his face was torn away. The poor bastard was still breathing, choking on blood. And Vargan wasn't unharmed. He's missing the pinky finger of his right hand. Clean cut. He also had a deep wound along his side. The fight spread outside his usual territory—he had to clean a long trail, more than twenty meters. It took him longer than normal to erase everything. After that he stored his tools and came back out only twenty minutes later. Then he locked himself inside again."
Matt paused briefly, looking straight at her.
"He had to fight another Beyonder. Same level or lower. Someone attacked him and nearly hurt him badly… but lost. And the look he had when he dragged that woman… it's exactly the same look Joren had. I think he belongs to the Naturist Sect."
Elara remained silent for a few seconds, absorbing every word. Around them, the emerald flowers slowly opened and closed, as if breathing with her.
Matt leaned forward slightly, his voice low but firm, without the slightest hesitation.
"I've seen enough. Tonight, I'm going to kill him."
The words came out clear and decisive.
"I won't wait any longer. Tonight is the third night… and it will be the last. I understand how he moves now, how he breathes, how he enjoys it. I know when he comes out, how he cleans, how he chooses. If I wait longer, I risk him becoming more cautious—or someone else finding him first. Tonight I end it. I finish the cycle."
Elara looked at him silently for several long seconds.
Then a slow, proud smile appeared on her lips.
"So you're ready," she murmured. "Very good, son of the Abyss. You observed. You learned. You restrained your impulses… and now you choose the moment. You are walking the right path."
She extended a hand and touched the scar on his side.
A surge of green warmth rose—stronger than ever—filling his chest with a calm that felt both cold and dangerous.
"Rest during the day. Eat, sleep, recover your strength. When night falls… go and do what must be done."
Matt nodded slowly, feeling the decision settle into his bones like something final.
The second night was over.
Tonight would be the third.
And tonight
Vargan would die.
Matt climbed the steps of the tunnel with steady strides, neither rushing nor slowing. Behind him, the roots parted and closed again like a living curtain returning to its place. When he emerged into the hidden corner behind the altar, the emerald glow from the ceiling greeted him as it always did—soft and constant. The narrow space smelled of fresh moss and damp earth, a refuge that was already beginning to feel like his own.
He stood still for a moment, looking at the vines that formed his private curtain. The decision he had just made still echoed in his mind—heavy, but clear.
It's not just for me, he thought as he removed the loose jacket and folded it on the ground. If I wait longer, Vargan will keep pulling people out of the alleys. More women, more men, more screams no one will hear. Every night I spend watching, someone else ends up dragged in there. And I… I'd stay up there again, powerless, feeling my stomach twist and my legs tremble without being able to do anything.
He felt that cold weight in his chest again, the same one that had struck him on the rooftop. The helplessness. The knot in his throat. The cold sweat running down his back. He hadn't completely lost his morality yet. There was still something inside him that recoiled at the thought of another victim suffering ten more minutes just because he wanted to be "completely sure."
That's why I'll do it tonight. Not just to move forward on the path. Not just for the potion. Also so there won't be any more bodies.
He lay down in his usual spot, on the patch of compacted earth that had already taken the shape of his body. The moment his head touched the ground, the thick vines began to move. They slid slowly—almost affectionately—around his arms and legs, wrapping him in a warm, firm embrace, like roots protecting a seed. The green warmth from the scar spread across his torso, soothing his tired muscles.
Matt closed his eyes, his mind still turning.
Tonight… tonight I end him. For the cycle. For the Mother. And also… because I can still feel that it's wrong to let him continue.
The thought slowly faded, like smoke drifting through leaves. The vines tightened slightly, soft and protective. His breathing grew deeper, slower.
And he fell asleep.