Matt awoke wrapped in the embrace of the vines, but this time the green warmth of the scar was not the only thing pulsing inside him.
Something else moved in his blood.
He slowly sat up. The roots withdrew with unhurried movements, almost respectfully. He looked at his hands.
His fingers had lengthened by about a centimeter. His nails were harder now, almost like thin black claws. The skin on his forearms had grown paler, tinged with a gray hue that seemed to absorb the emerald light from the ceiling rather than reflect it. His muscles appeared more defined, denser—as if his body were no longer entirely human.
Wingless Angel… he thought with a crooked smile. What a beautiful name for a monster.
He stood and walked to the small broken mirror Elara had left in a corner. He studied his reflection.
The eyes were no longer entirely his. The whites had turned a dirty gray, and the pupils were larger, swallowing most of the iris. When he smiled, his teeth looked slightly sharper.
But it wasn't the appearance that struck him the most.
It was the calm.
The internal struggle he had felt since the first sip of the potion… had vanished. The dark impulses no longer collided with his conscience. They flowed like blood. Stealing, hurting, destroying—no longer required excuses.
They were simply natural.
This is what it means to fully digest the potion, he thought, flexing his fingers. I'm no longer a Criminal who acts.
I am the Criminal.
Then he felt the two new abilities the Demonic Attribute had granted him.
The first was Slowness.
Matt immediately understood that merely thinking it was not enough. The power came from the Language of Filth, the same one Vargan had used against him. He had to speak the word.
He tried it in a low voice, almost a whisper.
"Slowness."
The word came out rough and guttural, as if his tongue had blackened for a moment. The air around him thickened.
A fly buzzing near the root-covered wall suddenly slowed, pitifully, as if it were swimming through molasses. Matt could see every individual wingbeat, each second stretched toward infinity. He could decide exactly when it would move again.
This is what Vargan made me feel… but now I'm the one controlling it. All I have to do is say the word.
A cold smile spread across his face.
The second ability manifested without asking permission:
Poisonous Flames.
Matt extended his hand. A small black-blue flame blossomed in his palm, trembling as if alive. It did not burn like normal fire. It smelled of sulfur and sweet rot.
When he brought it close to a dry leaf on the ground, the leaf did not ignite.
It rotted.
The green flesh blackened, melted into a viscous liquid, and released a toxic smoke that made the nearby roots recoil.
Perfect, Matt thought.
I don't just burn. I rot. I corrupt. I make everything return to the cycle… but in my way.
He stared at the flame for a long time.
With this, I can kill without touching. I can make a man melt from the inside while he's still breathing. I can create a hell no one will see coming.
The scar on his side pulsed strongly, reminding him it was still there.
But don't forget me, child of the Abyss.
Matt extinguished the flame with a thought. The scar calmed, but it did not disappear. The Mother was still anchored within him, like a root that could not be torn out.
Good, he thought, adjusting the brown priest's robe.
Let it stay there. It keeps me sane… or at least what remains of me.
He walked toward the exit of the hidden corner. The vines parted before him.
Now I'm stronger. Faster. Less human.
And for the first time…
I truly feel like the world is mine to take.
Matt smiled in the dim light of the main altar.
Let the next act begin.
Matt remained standing in the center of the underground garden, the brown priest's robe still hanging loosely over his body. The empty cauldron at his feet still released a faint trail of smoke. Joren's heart, Vargan's blood, and the hydrolate were gone.
Only he remained.
And something new.
He closed his eyes and allowed the new essence to settle within him. It was not simply another power.
It was a different way of existing.
Wingless Angel…
The phrase echoed in his mind like a distant whisper. He was no longer a Criminal pretending to be wicked in order to digest the potion. Now he was something purer.
Something emptier.
He knelt before the improvised altar and placed his hands upon the fertile soil. The roots beneath his palms stirred, recognizing him. The scar pulsed warmly, as it always did.
But for the first time, Matt understood that the Mother was not saving him.
She was only cultivating him.
Do not act with malice, he thought, and the realization came cold and inevitable. Act with amorality.
That was the key.
The difference between a demon and a Wingless Angel.
A demon plans evil. It enjoys suffering. It seeks to cause pain because pain gives it pleasure.
A Wingless Angel… simply is.
Like a wildfire.
Like a storm.
Like a plague.
It does not hate what it destroys.
It does not love what it destroys.
It simply does not care enough to preserve it.
Matt opened his eyes and looked at an emerald flower growing near his knees. Beautiful. Vibrant. Perfect in its cycle.
He extended his hand.
"Slowness."
The word left his throat in the Language of Filth, rough and natural, as if he had always known how to pronounce it. The flower froze in time. Each petal moved so slowly that it resembled a living statue. Matt could see every millimeter of its halted growth.
He felt no pleasure.
He felt no guilt.
He simply observed.
Then he summoned the Poisonous Flames. A small black-blue flame appeared in his palm. It was not ordinary fire. It was liquid corruption shaped into flame.
He brought it close to the slowed flower.
The flower did not burn.
It rotted.
The petals blackened, melting into a viscous liquid that released a sweet, toxic smoke. Nearby roots recoiled as if in pain.
Matt did not smile.
He did not frown.
He only watched the flower die.
This is what I am now.
He did not destroy because he wished to cause harm. He destroyed because nothing—neither beauty, nor life, nor order—mattered enough for him to preserve it.
The world was a forest.
He was the fire that cleansed it.
The scar pulsed strongly, almost like a protest. The Mother was still there, reminding him that everything must return to the cycle, that destruction should nourish what comes next.
Matt slowly stood.
I understand, he thought, staring at the black ashes of the flower. You want me to rot things so something new can grow. I… simply rot things because I can. Because nothing deserves to be preserved.
He adjusted the brown priest's robe and felt the absurdity—and the perfection—of the image: a Wingless Angel dressed as a servant of the Mother.
After choosing how he would act, he felt his potion digest a little further.
This time I will act according to my essence.
He would not seek evil.
He would not avoid evil.
He would simply be.
And everything he touched…
would rot.
Because nothing mattered enough to save it.
Matt climbed the tunnel steps with calm strides. The vines parted before him, but for the first time they seemed more fragile.
More temporary.
When he emerged in the hidden corner behind the altar, he no longer felt like the Criminal he had once been.
He felt like a wildfire that had just awakened.
And for the first time in a long time…
He did not need to pretend anything.
He only needed to be.