Matt opened his eyes slowly, as if sleep were still trying to hold on to him. The vines wrapped around him in a warm, living embrace—thick, slightly damp, with that soft, fibrous texture that seemed to pulse in rhythm with his breathing. One rested across his chest, another curled gently around his left forearm, and several more coiled around his legs like roots protecting a freshly planted seed. The green warmth of the scar throbbed softly against his skin, carrying with it a strange, almost maternal peace.
For several long seconds he remained like that, unmoving. The outside world—the smog, the distant shouts, Vargan—felt far away. Only the garden existed, the underground silence, and the quiet certainty of being exactly where he was meant to be.
But the calm didn't last.
He took a deep breath and felt the weight of the decision he had made the night before settle in his chest like a heated stone. It was time.
He flexed his fingers. The vines responded immediately, sliding back with almost reluctant slowness. They withdrew toward the earthen walls with a soft, organic whisper that sounded almost like a sigh.
Matt sat up, ran both hands across his face to chase away the last traces of sleep, and stood.
He pulled on the loose jacket he had stolen, adjusted the flat cap, and stepped out of the hidden corner. The vines parted to let him pass and closed again behind him like a living door.
As he walked around the main altar, the priest on duty was placing new candles into the iron holders. The man looked up, recognized Matt, and offered him a tired but sincere smile.
"Good morning, brother. May the Mother give you strength for what lies ahead."
Matt inclined his head with genuine respect.
"You as well, Father. Thank you for everything."
The priest nodded without asking any further questions—in the Harvest Church, no one asked what they shouldn't—and Matt continued on his way.
He pushed open the main door, and the air of Backlund wrapped around him at once: dense, cold, and heavy with the eternal smell of coal, dirty river water, and fresh bread drifting from some nearby bakery. The sun hung high but pale, struggling to pierce the perpetual smog.
As he walked along the cobblestone streets, his mind drifted—almost against his will—back to the woman from the bar.
He remembered every detail with uncomfortable clarity: the jet-black hair falling in perfect waves that seemed to swallow the light, the emerald-green eyes shining with an intensity that didn't feel human, the full lips of an impossible red, the elegant curve of her neck beneath the modest neckline of the burgundy dress.
And above all, that presence.
That magnetic, almost hypnotic charm that made the air around her feel warmer, thicker—like reality itself leaned toward her. Men watched her without meaning to.
He had felt that pull himself.
What were you? he wondered silently. No normal person looks like that in a neighborhood like that. No one walks like the world was built to watch her. Too beautiful.
He shook his head sharply, as if he could physically throw the image out of his mind.
No. Not today. I can't get distracted by that.
For the third time he fixed the mental note clearly and firmly:
Tomorrow morning, as soon as I get back, I'll ask Elara. Everything. But right now… right now there's only Vargan.
His steps grew more determined.
He left the cleaner streets of the lower-middle district behind and moved into the narrow, dirtier alleys where thugs usually gathered early in the day. The atmosphere shifted quickly: chipped walls covered in old graffiti, rusted lampposts, puddles of stagnant water reflecting the gray sky. The smell of cheap tobacco and last night's alcohol still lingered in the air.
Matt turned the final corner.
And there they were.
A group of four thugs leaning against a crumbling wall, smoking and talking quietly. One of them—tall, with a thick scar running across his left cheek—looked up as Matt approached.
He recognized him instantly.
The crooked smile Matt had grown so used to curled onto his lips.
He had found them.
Matt stepped out of the alley with the metal lighter tucked into the inner pocket of the stolen jacket. The brass still held the warmth of the thug's hand who had lent it to him without asking many questions. Just a couple of exchanged looks, a casual "What do you need it for, brother?" and a simple "Just to start a small fire—nothing that'll splash back on you," had been enough. The four men knew him well enough from other nights not to pry further.
A favor between wolves from the same neighborhood.
The lighter was old, made of worn brass, with a lid that snapped open with a dry click and a wick that carried a faint smell of gasoline.
Perfect.
He walked without hurry toward the abandoned building, feeling the light weight of the object against his chest. Each step brought him closer to the third night, and his mind was already working through the details as if assembling a puzzle.
He reached the ruined building as the sun began to sink. Carefully, he climbed the rusted exterior staircase, testing each step the way he always did. When he reached the rooftop, the wind from the Tussock hit his face—cold and damp.
He knelt behind the broken chimney and retrieved what he had left there the previous night.
First the thick rope. He coiled it carefully around his forearm, feeling its rough texture scrape lightly against his skin. It was long enough to make a decent noose—or a tripwire.
Next the dark glass bottle filled with lamp oil. He gave it a gentle shake and heard the liquid slosh inside. It had just the right weight.
He slipped it into the large pocket of the jacket, beside the lighter.
If I can get Vargan to pass through the side alley… he thought while adjusting everything. I can stretch the rope at ankle height, tie one end to the bottle, and let the oil spill when he trips. One spark from the lighter and the fire will start on its own. I won't even need to be close. The Pugilist bracelet won't activate if I'm not fighting directly. I'll just… set the crime. Let the crime happen by itself.
He paused for a moment, staring at Warehouse 17 in the distance. From there it still looked harmless—just an old building beside the docks.
But Matt already knew what it hid.
He climbed down from the roof and headed toward the warehouse district. He didn't approach too closely. Instead, he circled the perimeter at a safe distance, moving between shadows and stacks of broken crates, his cap pulled low.
He examined every corner with a Criminal's eyes.
The side alley: narrow, full of puddles and discarded boxes. Perfect for a tripwire. If Vargan came out that way looking for prey, he would pass right through the center.
Matt imagined the rope stretched tight at knee height, the bottle of oil hanging from a rusted nail in the wall, the lighter tied with a thin thread that would trigger when pulled. One misstep, and the fire would ignite by itself without him ever showing his face.
The small dock behind the warehouse: that was where Vargan usually dragged his victims when returning. There was a pile of old fishing nets and several empty barrels. He could use one of those barrels to block the exit if he needed to force the monster into the side alley.
The main door: too exposed.
Better to avoid it.
Matt moved silently, memorizing distances, angles, and possible escape routes. Every few meters he stopped, crouched, and touched the ground with his palm, feeling the moisture, the texture of the stone, noting where someone might slip if the oil spread.
If I lure him with a fake shout from the alley… he'll come that way. If not, the fire will force him to move. And when he's distracted by the flames, I'll be behind him with the rope ready for his neck. No direct fight until the end. No time for him to use Slowness at will.
He stopped behind a stack of broken crates about fifty meters from the warehouse. The wind carried the smell of the river—and something else.
That faint metallic stench that always lingered after Vargan finished cleaning.
Matt tightened his grip on the lighter inside his pocket.
Tonight I won't be watching.
Tonight I close the cycle.
And for the first time in a long while, that thought didn't bring him even the slightest trace of doubt.
Only a cold, calculating calm that spread through his entire body.
The sun had almost disappeared.
Matt spent the next few hours moving like a shadow through the alleys and docks near Warehouse 17. The sun had already sunk completely, and the fog from the Tussock was beginning to thicken, turning every lamppost into a blurred halo. He didn't run. He didn't make noise. Every step was calculated, every corner examined with eyes that no longer fully belonged to the boy he had been months ago.
First, he prepared the trap in the narrow side alley.
He used the thick rope he had left on the rooftop, stretching it at knee height between two rotting crates. One end he tied to a rusted nail, the other to the bottle of lamp oil hanging precariously from a hook in the wall. One stumble and the bottle would fall, spilling the oil across the cobblestones.
The metal lighter he tied to the same rope with a thin thread. If someone pulled hard enough, the lid would snap open and the spark would ignite on its own.
Fire—without him needing to come close.
Without triggering the Pugilist bracelet.
Then he improvised two more traps.
At the small dock behind the warehouse, he placed an empty barrel tilted against a pile of old fishing nets. Inside, he stuffed dry pieces of wood and poured a little more oil from the bottle. If Vargan tried to drag someone through there, Matt would only need to kick the barrel from a distance and the fire would rise like a burning curtain between the monster and the exit.
The third trap was simpler, but effective.
Near the main door he found a loose wooden plank. He lifted it slightly with two small stones, creating a false step. If Vargan stepped there in a hurry, the board would give way and steal a crucial second of his balance.
Nothing lethal.
Just enough to steal time.
As he placed the last stone, Matt felt the cold weight of his decision settle in his stomach.
It wasn't just about the potion.
It wasn't just about advancing.
Every minute Vargan kept breathing meant another person suffering inside that warehouse.
And Matt could no longer keep watching from above.
Tonight I end him. But he has to believe he still controls everything. That I'm just another shadow. That nothing has changed.
When he finished setting the last trap, his internal clock told him midnight was close.
Matt moved silently toward the cheap motel he had noticed two nights earlier, about seventy meters from the warehouse.
The neon sign flickered with broken letters that read "Dockside Motel." The place looked neglected—peeling paint, dirty windows, rusted pipes running across the facade—but it was still inhabited.
Muted voices filtered through torn curtains.
Drunken laughter echoed from a first-floor room.
Someone was singing badly somewhere inside.
Dockworkers, passing sailors, and couples looking for privacy came and went at all hours.
No one paid attention to shadows.
Matt carefully climbed the drainage pipes running along the side of the building. The metal was cold and slick with river moisture, but his Criminal-honed hands found solid grips.
He climbed to the second floor and settled onto a narrow but sturdy ledge, partially hidden behind an old crooked sign that read:
"Rooms for rent by the hour."
From there, he had a perfect view.
The side door of Warehouse 17.
The alley.
The small dock.
Part of the main street.
The distance was ideal, and the motel's constant activity provided perfect camouflage. No one would look up expecting to find someone hiding among the pipes.
He lay flat against the cold metal and pulled out the binoculars.
From there—
he could see everything.
He took his last penny from his pocket. The copper coin was warm from his body heat. Slowly, he began spinning it between his fingers, the repetitive motion keeping his mind sharp and steady.
If he comes out through the side alley, the rope and fire will stop him.
If he goes toward the dock, the barrel will.
If he rushes back to the main door… the loose plank will give me the second I need.
I won't fight him head-on until the end.
I won't give him the chance to use Slowness whenever he wants.
This time, I choose when and how.
The penny kept spinning between his fingers.
The fog thickened.
The river lapped softly against the pilings.
Somewhere in the motel a man burst into rough laughter.
Matt didn't even blink.
The third night had begun.
And this time, the Criminal wouldn't be watching.
He would close the cycle.
Matt remained stretched out along the motel's ledge, his body pressed against the cold metal pipes as the hours stretched like worn rubber.
The wind from the Tussock carried the steady murmur of the river striking the pilings, mingling with the muffled sounds drifting from the motel rooms: a hoarse laugh from the first floor, the crying of a child behind another window, the creak of a bed somewhere nearby.
The fog had thickened into something almost tangible, turning distant lampposts into dull yellow blurs that barely illuminated the ground.
The penny continued spinning between his fingers, slower and slower, heavier with each turn.
Until Matt stopped it.
He took out the metal lighter he had "borrowed" from the thugs. The brass felt cold in his hand. With a dry click he flipped open the lid and rolled the wheel. A small bluish flame sprang to life, trembling in the wind.
Without hesitation, he brought the coin to the fire.
The copper slowly began to blacken, the metal heating between his fingers. He didn't quite know why he was doing it. Perhaps he simply needed to feel something truly burn—something other than the tight knot coiled in his stomach.
A penny. My last penny. Tomorrow I won't need it anymore.
The flame licked the edge of the coin, darkening it, bending it ever so slightly. Heat bit into the pads of his fingers, but he did not pull away.
It was a small pain. Controlled.
A reminder that he could still choose what he felt.
The hands of an invisible clock struck one.
The side door of Warehouse 17 creaked open.
Vargan stepped out.
Matt snapped the lighter shut and raised the binoculars with precise, almost mechanical movements. The intensity in his gaze was terrifying—cold, fixed eyes like those of a predator that had already chosen the exact moment of the bite.
Yet his face remained calm.
Expressionless.
Almost bored—like any street thug idly keeping watch through a dull night.
Anyone looking up from below would never suspect he was about to end a life.
Vargan paused for a moment in the doorway, sniffing the air as he always did. His dark coat shifted slightly in the wind. He seemed more alert than on previous nights, yet still confident.
Still the master of this territory.
Matt didn't breathe.
Ten minutes later, Vargan began walking east with the slow, deliberate stride Matt had already memorized.
And then he found her.
A woman.
Young, thin, wearing a worn brown coat, her hair tied into a loose, messy bun. She walked alone along the street that ran parallel to the dock, glancing back every few steps as if she sensed someone behind her.
Vargan quickened his pace slightly—not rushing, but moving with unmistakable purpose.
The woman never saw him coming.
Matt tightened his grip on the binoculars. The burnt penny was still warm in his other hand.
The trap was ready.
Matt watched everything through the binoculars, his body utterly still against the motel's narrow ledge. The fog curled around Vargan as though it belonged to him.
The Wingless Angel approached the woman with slow, steady steps—almost casual.
She halted when she heard him, turning her head with suspicion. Vargan raised his open hands in a gesture meant to appear harmless and spoke to her.
His voice reached Matt faint and warped by distance, yet a few fragments carried through: "cold night," "a little company," "no danger around here." The woman replied briefly, nervously, taking a step back.
Vargan smiled—that crooked, damp smile Matt had already come to know too well—and let out a low, hoarse chuckle, almost affectionate, as though her resistance amused him.
Then everything changed.
In one fluid, brutal motion, Vargan shot out a hand and seized her by the hair at the roots. The woman released a strangled cry that turned into a scream as he began dragging her.
He did not run. He did not hurry.
He walked with deliberate slowness, savoring every step, pulling her along like a trophy he intended to enjoy. Her heels scraped across the cobblestones, leaving uneven trails. Her screams were sharp and tearing, filled with raw terror.
Vargan only laughed more softly, tilting his head as if to hear better, as though each shriek were a melody meant solely for him.
Matt felt anger rise in his throat like hot bile.
Now.
He rose without a sound, put away the binoculars, and jumped.
From rooftop to rooftop, drawing on the Criminal strength that had already become part of him. His boots barely brushed the damp tiles. One building, then the next—moving like a shadow threading through the fog.
His heart beat hard but steady.
He was not running out of panic.
He was moving because the moment had come.
Sliding down a drainage pipe, he reached the ground in an alley parallel to the one Vargan was using. He moved crouched, swift and silent, until he reached the mouth of the narrow passage Vargan would have to cross on the way back to the warehouse.
He pulled out the bottle with the last of the oil.
Without hesitation, he tipped it and poured everything onto the ground, forming a long, gleaming puddle across the path. The liquid spread dark and viscous over the cobblestones, faintly reflecting the distant glow of a lamppost.
Matt stepped back two paces, hiding behind a pile of broken crates.
The metal lighter was already in his left hand.
The rope, prepared, in his right.
Vargan kept dragging the woman, drawing closer. Her screams were turning hoarse now, ragged with desperation.
Matt held his breath.
Come. Walk this way. Believe you still control everything.
The monster and his prey were less than fifteen meters from the alley.
The seconds stretched until they felt eternal.
Vargan advanced, dragging the woman by her hair. Her heels scraped against the cobblestones with a wet, desperate sound. Her screams were no longer sharp—they had become hoarse groans, broken and ragged, as though her soul were being torn out piece by piece. The monster smiled, his head slightly tilted, savoring every sob.
Matt felt his heart hammering against his ribs like a mallet.
Now. It has to be now.
Vargan took the step that carried him directly over the puddle of oil.
Matt flicked the lighter's wheel—
and froze.
The flame sprang up, small and blue, and at that instant his mind lit with brutal clarity.
Stupid. Damn stupid.
If he ignited the oil now, the woman would be trapped in the flames. The fire would spread too quickly. She would burn before he could pull her away. The entire plan—every careful preparation—collapsed because of a single detail he had overlooked in his rush to be perfect.
The mistake crashed over him like icy water.
There was no time for regret.
With swift, precise movements, Matt fully lit the lighter and tied it with a loose knot to a thin cord hanging from a broken pipe above the alley. The wick began burning through the rope slowly, devouring it centimeter by centimeter. He had perhaps thirty seconds—maybe less—before the lighter dropped straight onto the oil.
Thirty seconds. That's all I have.
He tore the small pouch of earth from his pocket, pulled out the Pugilist bracelet, and strapped it onto his left wrist in a sharp motion. The leather tightened against his skin as though alive. At once he felt the Giant's pride awaken—a dense, furious heat that surged up his arm, through his chest, into his throat.
An inner voice roared:
Face him. Head-on. No tricks. Like a man.
Matt clenched his teeth and leapt.
He burst from the shadows like a predator, charging straight at Vargan without caring for stealth any longer. Time was gold—and that gold was already burning.
"Hey!" he shouted, his voice rough and thick with the fury he had swallowed for three nights.
Vargan turned his head just in time to see him coming.
Matt hurled himself forward with all the Criminal strength he possessed, shoulder first, aiming to tear the woman free from the monster's grasp before the lighter fell and hell broke loose.
The bracelet burned against his wrist.
Above them, the fire continued to eat through the cord.
Matt slammed into Vargan with the full weight of his body, strengthened by the Abyss.
The impact was brutal—like two freight trains colliding in the fog.
Vargan released the woman's hair purely by instinct, staggering back with a choked grunt.
Without a second thought, Matt spun and drove a savage kick into the woman's ribs, sending her flying out of the alley like a sack of rags. She tumbled across the cobblestones, groaning—but alive.
That was the only thing that mattered.
What a damn hero you are, Matt, he mocked himself while already charging Vargan again. Save someone, then kick them away so they don't burn. Truly noble.
Seven seconds had passed since he jumped.
Twenty… maybe twenty-three remained before the lighter finished burning through the rope and dropped into the oil.
Vargan recovered in a heartbeat. His black eyes narrowed, fury and amusement glinting together within them. He opened his mouth and spoke in a low, guttural Language of Malice that seemed to scrape against the very air:
— "Slowness."
The word hooked into Matt like an invisible barb.
Instantly his body grew heavy, as if the air had thickened into sticky molasses. His muscles took forever to respond, every step dragging on for what felt like minutes. The world slowed around him.
But then the Pugilist's bracelet awakened.
A dense, proud heat surged up his left arm, spreading through his body like molten lava. The Slowness was still there, pressing down on him—but it was no longer an immovable weight. His flesh and bones resisted, dulling the supernatural force as if his very body refused to be dominated. The Giant's pride roared inside him, demanding he stand his ground, reject tricks, and charge head-on like a true warrior.
Matt bared his teeth in a grin.
To hell with you.
Without hesitation, he lunged forward. Time was still sluggish, but his will—and the bracelet—drove him onward with reckless force. He snatched up a broken brick from the ground with his right hand—heavy, jagged, perfect—and rushed straight at Vargan while the lighter above continued burning through the rope.
Less than twenty seconds remained.
And Matt had no intention of waiting any longer.
Matt charged forward with the brick in his right hand. The rough, uneven weight fit perfectly in his palm, as if the object itself recognized the Criminal who wielded it. The Pugilist's pride roared through his blood, driving him onward, refusing to let him retreat even a single inch.
Vargan reacted instantly.
His lips moved again, uttering another word in the Language of Malice, deeper and more viscous than the last:
— "Slowness."
The air thickened around Matt once more, as if every molecule had turned into cold syrup. His muscles protested, his steps grew heavy, and the brick in his hand suddenly felt twice as heavy.
But the Pugilist's bracelet answered with fury.
That dense, proud heat surged through his body again, forming something like a second skeleton of iron beneath his flesh, dulling the supernatural effect. It didn't erase it completely—he could still feel the resistance—but it made it bearable. His legs continued forward, slower than before, yet unstoppable.
Vargan smiled with that wet, black mouth of his.
"Interesting toy," he murmured.
He extended his left hand. Thick black smoke poured from his fingers—dense as living oil, carrying the stench of burnt flesh and sulfur. It spread into a toxic cloud, seeking Matt's lungs, trying to rot him from the inside.
Matt didn't retreat.
The pride wouldn't allow it.
Instead, he twisted his torso and hurled the brick with all the Criminal strength he could muster. The projectile spun through the air and slammed into Vargan's wounded shoulder with a sharp crack.
The Wingless Angel let out a grunt. The black smoke faltered for a heartbeat.
Matt used that moment to close the distance.
They collided head-on in a brutal clash of flesh and bone.
Vargan was stronger. His inhuman body absorbed the blows as if it were carved from living stone. One of his punches slammed into Matt's ribs and lifted him off the ground for a moment. Something inside Matt creaked dangerously, but the Pugilist dampened the damage enough to keep anything vital from breaking.
Matt retaliated with a vicious elbow to Vargan's neck, followed by a knee to the stomach.
The Wingless Angel staggered back—but he didn't fall.
The black smoke swallowed them both.
Matt felt it burning down his throat, trying to rot his lungs from within. Yet his body, strengthened by the artifact, resisted—turning the agony into something survivable, though still scorching.
I can't stay here much longer, he thought as they exchanged blows.
The smoke will kill me slowly. I need the trap to work.
He tried to step back half a pace, hoping to create distance and trigger the fire from afar.
But the Pugilist's pride answered with a vicious spike of pain in the muscles of his legs, as if his tendons were being burned from the inside.
Don't run. Don't rely on tricks. Fight like a warrior.
Matt growled and threw himself back into close combat. He grabbed Vargan by the throat with one hand while the other searched blindly for something to use.
His fingers found a jagged piece of broken wood on the ground.
He drove it into Vargan's wounded side like an improvised dagger.
The Wingless Angel roared and answered with a savage headbutt that split Matt's forehead open.
Blood ran down into his eyes.
Above them, the rope holding the lighter continued to burn.
Less than fifteen seconds remained.
Vargan took advantage of the blood clouding Matt's vision and unleashed another surge of black smoke straight into his face. Matt felt the poison trying to force its way in through his nose and mouth, but the Pugilist's supernatural resilience kept him conscious—though the edges of his vision were already darkening.
Come on… fall already, damn it.
Matt grabbed another brick from the ground and smashed it against Vargan's temple with every ounce of strength he had left.
The impact drew an animalistic grunt from the Wingless Angel and forced him to stagger back a step—
—right into the pool of oil Matt had prepared.
Above them, the lighter was still burning.
The rope was almost gone.
Time was running out.
Matt sensed the danger before he even saw it.
Vargan, his eyes now completely black and his smile no longer human, crouched in a smooth motion and grabbed a broken plank from the ground. It was thick and jagged, rusted nails jutting out like crooked teeth.
In his hands, it became something far worse than a simple piece of wood—a lethal weapon, an extension of his Criminal will, amplified by Sequence 8.
Matt understood instantly.
This is going to kill me.
He didn't have time to react.
Vargan spoke again, his voice rough and ancient:
— "Slowness."
The world sank into thick molasses.
Matt felt his muscles turn to molten lead, every movement dragging through eternity. At the same time, the cloud of toxic black smoke Vargan had been releasing closed around him like a rotting hand. The poison forced its way into his nose, mouth, and eyes, burning his lungs from the inside.
Every breath was liquid fire.
Without the Pugilist's bracelet, he would already be dead on the ground, drowning in his own corroded blood.
But the artifact's supernatural resilience kept him alive—
barely.
The Giant's pride roared within him, refusing to let him retreat, forcing him forward even as every cell in his body screamed for him to run.
Vargan advanced.
The plank whistled through the air.
The first blow was brutal. It smashed into Matt's left shoulder with a wet crack. The bone didn't break thanks to the Pugilist, but the pain was blinding.
The second strike came from below, driving the rusted nails into Matt's right thigh.
Hot, dark blood spilled out.
Matt growled and retaliated with the brick still clutched in his hand. The blow smashed into Vargan's jaw and forced him back half a step—
but the Wingless Angel barely seemed to feel it.
His inhuman body absorbed the damage as if it were carved from living stone.
Seven seconds.
Seven seconds before the lighter finished burning through the rope and fell.
Vargan already held the absolute advantage.
The Slowness turned every movement Matt made into slow torture, while the black smoke devoured his lungs second by second. Only the bracelet kept him standing. Without it, he would already be on his knees, vomiting black blood and dying in convulsions.
Vargan raised the plank again, the nails glistening with Matt's blood.
His black eyes shone with pure amusement.
"You're going to die slowly, little Criminal," he whispered.
The plank came down again.
Matt barely managed to raise an arm to block.
The impact drove him to his knees.
Smoke filled his lungs like acid.
Every breath was agony.
Six seconds.
Five.
Matt could feel death drawing closer.
And he still hadn't managed to make Vargan step onto the oil.
The Wingless Angel lifted the plank for the third time, ready to finish him with a final blow.
Above them, the lighter continued to burn.
The rope was almost gone.
And Matt—on his knees, lungs burning, body slowed to a crawl—knew that if he didn't do something in the next three seconds…
it would all be over.
Matt shoved a hand into his jacket pocket with a movement that was both desperate and precise. The last penny—still warm and blackened from the earlier flame—slipped between his fingers like an improvised bullet.
Vargan opened his mouth again, black lips parting as he prepared to speak another word in the Language of Malice.
The Slowness was already grinding Matt down. His muscles screamed, and the black smoke burned through his lungs like living acid. Only the Pugilist's bracelet kept him conscious.
At that exact moment, Matt twisted his torso to the side, narrowly dodging the next swing of the plank by mere millimeters.
And he threw.
The penny shot from his fingers with every ounce of Criminal precision he possessed. The coin spun through the air like a flash of silver and flew straight into Vargan's open mouth, striking the back of his throat with a muffled metallic sound.
Vargan choked.
His black eyes snapped wide open. The word he had been about to pronounce dissolved into a strangled gurgle, and the Slowness collapsed instantly. It wouldn't kill him—but it stole his voice for a few crucial seconds.
Matt didn't waste even a heartbeat.
He snatched up an uneven stone from the ground—heavy, jagged—and hurled it with the last of his strength. The rock flew straight and smashed into Vargan's temple with a sharp crack.
The Wingless Angel staggered backward, black blood spilling from the wound. His hand—ending in a ragged stump—clutched at his throat as he tried to cough the penny out.
And in that precise moment…
The rope above finally burned through.
The metal lighter fell.
It descended slowly, spinning through the air, its small flame still alive—before striking the pool of oil Matt had prepared.
Fire erupted.
A curtain of orange and blue flames burst from the ground with a hungry roar, instantly wrapping around Vargan's legs. The Wingless Angel let out a muffled howl as the black smoke pouring from his body mixed with the real fire now devouring him.
The Pugilist's pride inside Matt's chest roared in savage satisfaction.
Matt pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, lungs burning, blood running down his face—but a cold, dangerous smile spread across his lips.
"Now then," he muttered hoarsely.
"Now we play by my rules."
Matt felt the heat before he saw it.
The flame touched the pool of oil he had spilled across nearly the entire width of the alley, and the fire erupted upward with a ravenous roar. A curtain of orange and blue devoured the ground in an instant.
The flames licked at his boots.
They climbed his trousers.
They crawled up his loose jacket and wrapped around his torso and arms like living serpents.
The pain was immediate.
Brutal.
But Matt didn't scream.
He stood in the middle of the inferno, messy black hair plastered to his forehead by sweat and smoke, his eyes shining with a feverish, almost manic light. A wild—almost joyful—smile spread across his lips as the flames consumed him.
Fire licked at his skin.
Cloth blackened and curled.
The hair on his forearms burned away.
But the Pugilist endured.
The artifact turned the pain into a distant roar, dulling the supernatural damage of the smoke—and now cushioning the real flames as well. His body refused to burn completely.
Not yet.
From the other side of the flames, Vargan watched him.
And for the first time since the fight began—
the Wingless Angel hesitated.
What he saw was a man wrapped in fire.
Black hair disheveled and singed.
A pale face lit by the blaze.
And a beautiful, unhinged smile that did not belong to someone burning alive.
Matt's eyes gleamed with a calm kind of madness, as if the pain were nothing more than an insignificant detail. Flames danced across his body without fully consuming him.
And that smile…
That smile said he was enjoying this.
Vargan took a step back, the black smoke seeping from his body mixing with the real fire.
Matt let out a low, hoarse laugh that cut through the flames.
"Now we're even, you bastard."
Vargan didn't wait any longer.
He spun and ran toward Warehouse 17, limping on his injured leg, the edges of his coat already burning.
It wasn't a dignified retreat.
It was survival.
He wanted to reach his territory—his space—where he could use all of his power without restraint.
Matt followed.
He ran after him through the flames, boots splashing through burning puddles. The Pugilist's pride roared inside his chest, refusing to let him fall behind.
Every step hurt.
Every breath was fire.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
The artifact wouldn't allow it.
Vargan reached the side door of Warehouse 17 and threw it open.
Matt was only three meters behind him—his body still wrapped in flames, the smile still on his lips, the brick still clutched in his hand.
The third night had just entered its final phase.
And neither of them would leave that warehouse alive—
unless one of them died.
Vargan burst through the warehouse's side door like a wounded animal, the edges of his coat still burning and leaving a trail of sparks behind him. Matt followed less than two steps behind, fire licking across his entire body, flames dancing over his jacket and hair like an infernal crown.
Both of them shone in the darkness of the interior—two figures wrapped in orange and blue fire, illuminating the horror around them with a trembling crimson light.
The smell hit them like a physical wall.
It was pure rot—thick and wet. Rotten flesh, old blood, excrement, and something sweeter and far more revolting: the stench of organic corruption, of bodies that had been decomposing for days, perhaps weeks, in the damp air of the Tussock.
Matt felt his stomach twist violently, but the Pugilist's pride held him upright, refusing to let him retch.
The warehouse was a forgotten slaughterhouse.
The cracked concrete floor was covered with corpses in various states of decay.
To the left, three young women's bodies lay piled together like discarded garbage. One of them still had her eyes open, her mouth frozen in an eternal scream. The skin of her torso had been peeled away in long strips that hung like bloody curtains. Fat white maggots writhed inside the open cavities, spilling from empty eye sockets and the soft flesh of her abdomen.
Farther along, a naked man had been nailed to the wall with rusted spikes. His chest was caved in, his ribs exposed like a broken cage. Hundreds of tiny maggots swarmed across his face, forming a living, pulsing layer that seemed to breathe.
At the back of the warehouse stood a ruined, makeshift altar.
It was an old wooden table smeared with both dried and fresh blood, carved with crude symbols: interlocking circles, twisted roots, and a grotesque female figure with multiple arms and a gaping mouth.
Fragments of offerings lay scattered across its surface—half-devoured human organs, melted black candles, and a human skull stuffed with wilted flowers now covered in mold.
Flayed skins hung from hooks in the ceiling beams like macabre trophies.
Strips of cured human hide.
Some still bore visible tattoos.
Others showed the marks of teeth and claws.
One of them was still dripping slowly.
Fresh.
The floor crawled with maggots.
Thousands of them.
They slithered everywhere, forming white, viscous waves across puddles of blood and bodily fluids. Some climbed the walls. Others dropped from the ceiling like living rain.
The air was so thick that breathing hurt.
Vargan stopped in the center of that hell and turned toward Matt. The flames devouring their bodies cast dancing shadows across the corpses and hanging skins, making it look as if the dead themselves were shifting in the dark.
The Wingless Angel smiled, revealing blackened teeth.
"Welcome to my garden, Criminal," he rasped, still coughing around the penny Matt had forced down his throat. "This is where everything returns to nature."
Matt, wrapped in fire and still wearing that mad smile, tightened his grip on the brick in his hand.
"No," he said, his voice low and savage.
"This is where it ends."
The warehouse, illuminated only by their burning bodies, became the final stage.
And neither of them intended to leave it alive
unless they took the other with them.
Matt stepped forward among the corpses without taking his eyes off Vargan.
His boots crushed maggots beneath their soles, the creatures bursting with wet pops under the pressure. He stopped beside a nearly clean skeleton hanging from a rusted hook, its remaining flesh already reduced to dry, blackened strips.
With a sharp yank, he tore the humerus from the right arm.
The bone was heavy and long, its surface rough, one end splintered into jagged shards. In his hands, it instantly became a lethal weapon.
Vargan didn't wait.
He lunged forward with an animalistic growl, the dagger in his left hand flashing under the flames that still licked at his clothing. The Wingless Angel was faster and stronger; his inhuman body turned every step into a threat.
Matt felt the Pugilist's pride roar within him, demanding that he stand his ground and meet the attack head-on.
He didn't retreat.
Instead, he swung the humerus like a club and smashed it into Vargan's wrist at the exact moment the dagger descended.
The impact was brutal.
Bone cracked against bone, and the dagger spun away into the darkness.
But Vargan was already speaking again.
— "Slowness."
The word fell like an anvil.
The world grew heavy once more. Matt felt his muscles refuse to respond with the same speed. At the same time, the cloud of toxic black smoke Vargan had been holding back surged outward like a wave, swallowing him completely.
The poison scorched his lungs.
It clawed down his throat.
His vision blurred.
Without the bracelet, he would already be on his knees, vomiting black blood.
The Pugilist's supernatural resilience kept him standing, turning the agony into something barely manageable.
Barely.
Vargan used that second of sluggishness to close the distance and drive a punch straight into Matt's face.
The blow landed.
Matt felt his cheek split open, hot blood running down his neck. He staggered back a single step—
and the artifact's pride stabbed burning pain through his legs for daring to "retreat," even by half a meter.
I can't trust the pride… but I can't rush either.
Matt clenched his teeth and counterattacked with the humerus. He swung it like a bat and slammed it into Vargan's ribs with a dull crack.
The Wingless Angel grunted—but he didn't fall.
Instead, he answered with another surge of black smoke straight into Matt's face and a low kick that smashed into his injured knee.
Every second became a struggle against two enemies:
Vargan—
and his own artifact.
Matt knew he couldn't drag this out much longer.
The smoke was already eating away at his lungs from the inside. The flames still licking his clothes were beginning to burn for real now.
He had to finish this quickly.
But without surrendering to the Pugilist's madness—
and without fighting like a desperate animal.
Matt spun the humerus again, aiming for Vargan's throat, while his Criminal mind calculated the next move.
The warehouse had become a living hell
of fire, maggots, and corpses.
Matt tightened his grip on the humerus and made a cold decision in the middle of the chaos.
The main door. The loose plank is there. If I force him toward it, he'll stumble… and I'll get the second I need.
He said nothing.
He just charged.
The next few seconds turned into a whirlwind of brutal blows and fire. Vargan slashed with the dagger he had recovered from the floor, while Matt blocked with the bone and answered with short, precise strikes. Every impact sent sparks flying from the flames still licking their bodies.
The black smoke continued devouring Matt's lungs, but the Pugilist's resilience kept him on his feet—even though every breath burned like live embers.
Vargan was stronger.
Faster.
But Matt had something he didn't.
The bracelet forced him to fight head-on, and that made him unpredictable.
Matt feinted left, letting Vargan bite the bait. In the same motion he twisted his body and unleashed a brutal kick with his right leg.
His foot slammed straight into Vargan's chest with a dull crack.
The Wingless Angel was sent flying backward, crashing several meters away into the warehouse's main door.
The loose plank gave way under his weight.
Vargan stumbled, losing his balance for a brief instant.
But in that same desperate motion, Vargan managed to extend the dagger and carve a deep gash across Matt's left thigh.
The blade tore through flesh and muscle with a wet, rasping sound.
Blood burst out—hot and heavy—soaking the leg of Matt's trousers in seconds.
Matt felt the pain.
And something far worse.
A surge of intense, almost animalistic lust rose from the wound like burning venom. His vision tinted red. Suddenly, Vargan didn't look like just a monster anymore.
The Wingless Angel's body—covered in blood and flame—looked…
attractive.
Strong.
Desirable.
Matt's mind filled with twisted images: touching that pale skin, feeling that power, surrendering to the desire Vargan radiated like a corrupt perfume.
Naturism.
"Total freedom."
The temptation to join him.
To stop resisting.
And simply… take.
Matt staggered, breathing raggedly, his eyes unfocused.
What… what the hell is this…?
The scar on his side pulsed violently.
A toxic green heat surged through his torso like burning roots. The Mother did not approve.
The Mother rejected that corruption with violent force.
The false desire shattered like glass beneath a hammer.
The lust vanished instantly, leaving only a deep disgust—and a clean, burning rage.
Matt spat blood onto the floor and smiled through clenched teeth.
"Not tonight… you bastard."
Vargan rose from the splintered remains of the door, the dagger still in his hand and a crooked smile on his lips—as if he knew he had almost claimed him.
But Matt had already regained control.
And now there was only one thing left to do.
Finish him.
Matt hurled himself at Vargan with everything he had left.
The humerus in his left hand cut through the air like an improvised spear. Fire still licked at his clothes and skin, but the Pugilist kept him standing. Every step hurt. Every breath was liquid fire thanks to the black smoke Vargan continued to release, yet the artifact's pride drove him forward like a raging bull.
Vargan stepped back once, smiling with those blackened teeth, and flicked a rusted nail he had picked up from the floor.
The piece of metal shot straight toward Matt's right eye.
At the same time, the black smoke twisted around him like a living serpent, and Vargan spoke the word:
— "Slowness."
The world slowed again.
Matt felt his muscles turn to lead as the nail drifted toward his face in what felt like slow motion.
But the bracelet roared inside him.
That dense, proud heat surged through his body, dulling the Slowness just enough for him to twist his head at the last possible instant.
The nail tore across his left cheek, leaving a burning furrow—
but it didn't blind him.
Vargan, confident, took three steps backward with that crooked smile, certain he held absolute control.
Then the false floor gave way.
The loose plank Matt had prepared hours earlier collapsed beneath Vargan's weight with a sharp crack. The Wingless Angel fell backward toward the edge of the dock where the warehouse floor opened directly to the black, freezing waters of the Tussock.
The splash was violent.
Vargan vanished beneath the dark surface, the black smoke dispersing into the cold air.
Matt didn't waste a single second.
He rushed toward the opening, ignoring the pain in his slashed leg and the fire in his lungs. The flames on his clothes crackled as he ran.
Dropping to his knees at the edge of the dock, he plunged his right hand into the freezing water.
His fingers closed like claws around Vargan's soaked hair.
He yanked upward with brutal force.
Vargan's head burst from the water with a strangled gasp, black eyes wide with shock.
Before he could utter a single word, Matt raised the humerus with his left hand.
No mercy.
No hesitation.
He drove the sharpened bone straight into Vargan's open mouth.
The splintered end punched through the throat, tore through the soft palate, and burst out the back of the neck with a wet, sickening crack.
The tip of the humerus jutted from the back of Vargan's neck like a bloody spear.
Vargan convulsed.
His hands clawed weakly at the air.
A strangled gurgle escaped his ruined throat, mixed with black blood and river water.
Matt held the bone in place, twisting it slightly—making sure nothing remained alive inside.
The black light in Vargan's eyes faded.
His body went limp.
The Wingless Angel was dead.
Matt released the hair.
The corpse slowly sank into the dark water, leaving only a trail of red bubbles rising to the surface.
Fire still licked across Matt's body.
The Pugilist's bracelet pulsed once more—
satisfied.
Matt remained kneeling at the edge of the dock, breathing heavily, the humerus still clutched in his left hand, slick with blood and water.
It was over.
The cycle had closed.
And for the first time in a long while, the Criminal felt that he had truly acted as he should.
Matt let himself fall backward into the black, freezing waters of the Tussock without a second thought.
The cold struck him like a hammer, but the fire still licking at his clothes and skin died with a furious hiss. The flames spat and vanished, leaving only white smoke spiraling upward into the fog.
The pain of the burns dulled into a heavy throb, softened by the Pugilist's resilience.
He floated for a moment, letting the river carry him, breathing with difficulty while the icy water washed the blood and soot from his face.
For the first time that night—
he felt like he could truly breathe.
Vargan's corpse drifted nearby, face down, the humerus still lodged through his throat like a grotesque spear.
Matt reached out, grabbed him by the soaked hair, and pulled the body close, as if it were a trophy he needed to examine.
The Wingless Angel's corpse rocked gently with the current, the black smoke that had once seeped from him now dissolved into the river.
Matt waited.
He knew the Beyonder characteristic would appear soon.
It always did when a Beyonder died.
All he had to do was be patient.
As he floated in the cold water, with the corpse of his enemy swaying beside him, his mind sank into deeper thoughts—searching for the essence Elara had taught him, the truth he had unknowingly been living.
The true acting method of a Criminal was not simply committing crimes.
It was stopping seeing them as crimes.
It meant understanding, deep within one's bones, that the urge to hurt, to take, to break, was neither sin nor moral choice.
It was a biological function—no different from breathing or defecating.
The city was not a society of laws and men.
It was an endless forest where every living being was both predator and prey.
Stealing wasn't wrong.
Killing wasn't wrong.
Lying, violating, destroying…
None of it was wrong.
They were simply the most honest instincts of humanity, freed from the lie we call "conscience."
The perfect Criminal suppressed nothing.
He allowed his darkest desires to flow through his veins like blood, justifying them instantly.
He looked at me wrong.
She had what I wanted.
The world is simply like this.
And then he moved on, his heart steady, his stomach calm.
But here lay the most dangerous edge—the part Matt had just touched tonight.
You had to keep alive an impossibly thin thread of conscience.
So thin it was almost invisible.
If that thread snapped completely, you were no longer a Criminal.
You were only an empty beast, one the Abyss would devour from within.
You still had to remain yourself—
even if it was only a tiny, terrified fragment buried deep in your mind, watching with horror as the rest of you smiled calmly while doing terrible things.
Matt closed his eyes beneath the cold water and felt that thread.
That final piece of himself—the one that still wondered whether any of this was right—was still there.
Fragile.
Bleeding.
But alive.
That's why I could wait three nights.
That's why I could watch the woman melt and not join the feast.
That's why I could kill Vargan… without becoming him.
The water suddenly stirred.
From the torn chest of the corpse, something dark and viscous began to emerge, writhing like a living, corrupted heart.
The Wingless Angel's Beyonder characteristic slowly surfaced—a dark heart through which icy blue blood flowed, pulsing faintly in the current.
Waiting to be claimed.
Matt opened his eyes.
And reached out his hand.
The organ was warm—almost hot—and it twitched slightly between his fingers before going still, as if recognizing its new owner.
Matt felt no revulsion.
Only a deep, quiet calm.
He slipped the dark heart into the front pocket of his trousers—the only piece of clothing he had left intact. His jacket and shirt had been almost completely devoured by the fire, leaving his torso bare and marked with red and black burns that were already beginning to heal thanks to the Pugilist's resilience.
The charred fabric smelled of burnt flesh and river water, but Matt barely noticed.
He climbed out of the water with heavy steps, his soaked trousers clinging to his legs. The cold night air brushed against his bare skin, but he didn't care. He walked slowly, unhurried, letting water from the Tussock drip from his body and form a dark trail across the cobblestones.
Each step was deliberate, as if he were walking through a dream he no longer wished to wake from.
He reached the alley where he had left the small leather pouch filled with soil from the garden. He picked it up without bending too much, opened it, and took out the Pugilist's bracelet.
The artifact was still pulsing with that indomitable pride, but Matt carefully wrapped it in the fertile, damp soil.
The proud heat vanished instantly, as if the Giant had fallen back asleep.
He placed the sealed bracelet into the same pocket that held the dark heart.
Then he kept walking.
The night was silent. Only the distant splashing of the river could be heard, along with the occasional crackle of burnt wood still smoldering somewhere in the alley.
Matt felt something new in his chest—something he had been waiting for months without fully realizing it.
The Criminal potion had been completely digested.
There was no explosion, no flash of light.
It was a subtle, profound sensation, as if a piece that had always been loose inside him had finally clicked into place.
His desires no longer struggled against him. They flowed naturally, like blood through his veins.
Stealing, hurting, killing…
They no longer needed justification.
They were simply part of him—just as natural as breathing.
Yet that thin thread of conscience remained, small but steady, preventing him from losing himself completely.
For the first time, Matt felt that he controlled the role rather than the role controlling him.
A cold, clear calm filled his body.
His muscles no longer trembled. The pain of the burns and the cut in his leg became distant, manageable.
He walked like someone who knew exactly who he was, and exactly what he had to do.
The cycle had closed.
And he, at last
was a complete Criminal.