Matt kept walking toward the Harvest Church with his bare torso exposed, his skin marked by red and black burns that were already beginning to heal. His soaked trousers clung to his legs like a second, icy skin, and in the front pocket he could feel the warm, slow pulse of Vargan's dark heart beating faintly against his thigh.
Each step was calm, almost ceremonial.
The Criminal potion had finally been fully digested. There was no longer any internal struggle—only a cold, natural calm flowing through his entire body.
Then he suddenly stopped.
He stood in the middle of the empty street, staring at the fog drifting between the broken lampposts, and let out a low, hoarse laugh that sounded more like mockery than amusement.
"What an idiot…" he muttered to himself, running a hand through his scorched hair. "I kill a Wingless Angel, get burned alive, have my leg sliced open, get my lungs filled with poison… and I forget the damn spoils of war? Seriously, Matt? The great Criminal blessed by Mother Earth walks out of the warehouse like some tragic hero wrapped in flames and leaves behind the only thing he actually earned?"
The laugh deepened, almost painful. He shook his head, mercilessly mocking himself.
What a professional. A true master of Acting. Three whole nights planning, setting traps, controlling the Pugilist's pride…
He looked back.
Warehouse 17 could still be seen in the distance, its dark silhouette silent beneath the crimson glow of the night. His internal clock told him it was barely three in the morning.
At least I finished early, he thought with tired, ironic gratitude. If it had been like the other nights, I'd still be here until four-thirty waiting for that bastard to come out again. But today… today it's already done. I just have to go back, grab the dagger, and get out before dawn really arrives.
With a resigned sigh and the same crooked smile still on his lips, he turned around and began walking back toward the warehouse.
His soaked trousers splashed softly with each step. The burns tugged at his skin, but the weight of the dark heart in his pocket reminded him he had already won the most important prize.
Only one small detail remained.
The dagger that had almost clouded his mind.
Matt adjusted his soaked trousers and kept walking, the Tussock River murmuring to his left as if it were mocking him too.
How pathetic…
Warehouse 17 waited for him again, silent and dark, as if nothing had ever happened.
And for the first time, Matt felt completely in control of whatever came next.
---
Matt pushed open the side door of Warehouse 17 with his palm.
The charred wood was still warm. The rusty creak sounded louder in the silence of three in the morning, as if the warehouse itself were complaining about being disturbed again.
What an idiot… coming back here after everything that happened. But that dagger… I can't just leave it behind. Not after all this.
The smell hit him again—stronger now that the fire had died.
Thick rot. Old blood. Decaying flesh. And the cloying sweetness of corruption.
White maggots still crawled across the floor in slow waves, as if nothing had changed.
Matt walked slowly among the corpses, his bare feet—his boots had burned almost completely away—stepping into cold, viscous puddles. His eyes moved across the place with calm, almost clinical curiosity.
So this was his "garden"… How ironic. That son of a bitch talked about returning to nature and lived surrounded by this.
He stopped in front of the improvised altar.
The wooden table was covered in a black crust of dried and fresh blood. On top of it sat a human skull stuffed with withered flowers covered in mold, and a small glass bottle filled with a thick yellowish liquid that looked like semen mixed with blood.
To one side, tanned human skins hung from hooks. One still carried a faded anchor tattoo; another had perfectly shaped bite marks along the edge.
What a sick bastard… He kept trophies like souvenirs. How many passed through here before I arrived?
He kept moving.
In a corner, half hidden behind an overturned barrel, he found the dagger.
It was embedded in the cement floor, the blade still stained with his own blood. The handle was polished bone, carved with crude runes that resembled twisted roots.
Matt crouched and pulled it free without effort.
The metal was cold, but when he touched it he felt a faint echo of the sickening lust that had flooded his mind earlier.
This time, however, the green heat of the scar pulsed sharply and rejected it immediately.
You don't have power over me anymore.
He slipped the dagger into the back pocket of his soaked trousers, next to Vargan's dark heart.
Now his spoils were complete.
Two trophies. One for the potion… and the other to remind me how close I came to falling.
He continued exploring calmly, like someone walking through an abandoned house that no longer frightened him.
A little farther away, on a broken table, he saw the money Vargan had taken from his victims: 20 pounds scattered in wrinkled banknotes, along with 6 solis and 10 pennies.
Matt collected them without hurry and slipped them into the same pocket.
It wasn't a fortune—but for someone who had been selling bread for a penny just a few hours ago, it was more than enough.
Easy money for the next few days. At least something useful came out of this hell.
He stood for one last moment in the center of the warehouse, surrounded by corpses, maggots, and hanging skins, staring at the place that had been Vargan's personal hell.
This was his home… and I closed it.
Not bad for a Criminal who was selling bread for a penny a few hours ago.
He smiled to himself—that crooked smile that now felt completely his own.
Then he turned around and walked out of the warehouse without looking back.
The third night was truly over.
And the spoils of war were finally complete.