Matt climbed the last steps of the tunnel and emerged into the hidden corner behind the main altar. The brown priest's robe hung loosely over his body, still carrying the scent of dried herbs and clean soil. Outside, gray daylight filtered through the church's dirty stained-glass windows, tinting everything in dull, earthy tones.
The priest on duty—a thin man in his fifties with a worn robe and calloused hands—stood before the altar, arranging golden wheat stalks into a careful, symmetrical display. He looked up at the sound of footsteps and smiled with the tired calm Matt had come to recognize.
"Ah, Brother Matt. Just in time. Today's sermon is about The Cycle of Harvest and Rot. I need help preparing the altar and the symbols. Could you give me a hand?"
Matt inclined his head slightly, the faint hint of a crooked smile hidden beneath the robe.
A Wingless Angel dressed as a priest, helping prepare a sermon about rot. The Mother has a wonderfully dark sense of humor.
"Of course, Father. Just tell me what you need."
The priest nodded with relief.
"First, the wheat. Bring the ripest stalks from the niche on the left—the ones with the seeds nearly black at the tips. Place them in the center of the altar in a perfect circle. They represent fullness before the fall."
Matt walked to the niche. His fingers—slightly longer now, nails hardened—brushed against the stalks. They were heavy, golden, perfect. He lifted them carefully and carried them to the altar.
Perfect… and in a few months they'll be rotten. Just like everything else. Why spend so much effort arranging something the cycle will destroy anyway?
He placed the wheat into an exact circle. The priest watched and nodded.
"Good. Now the candles. Three green ones—one at each cardinal point of the circle. Light them with a normal flame, not with your… gift. Today's sermon is for ordinary believers, not a display of power."
Matt took the thick beeswax candles and positioned them with military precision: north, east, and south. He lit each one with a simple match. The flame flickered softly, yellow and calm.
Lighting candles like an obedient child. While inside me I can create flames that rot flesh and soul in seconds. What a delicious irony.
The priest continued.
"Now the herbs. Take a handful of dried sage and ground mandrake root. Scatter them in a thin line around the circle of wheat. It symbolizes the protection of the cycle—what grows and what rots, all beneath the Mother's gaze."
Matt obeyed. His fingers spread the herbs in slow, deliberate movements. The earthy, slightly bitter scent rose to his nose.
Protection… from what? Death? Corruption? This is theater. The Mother doesn't protect. She cultivates. And I… I'm already part of what she cultivates. Rot in the shape of a man.
As he finished the line, the priest added quietly,
"Finally, the central symbol. Bring the small skull from the back shelf—the one with living roots growing inside the eye sockets. Place it in the center of the circle."
Matt walked to the shelf. The skull was small, human. Bright green roots grew from its empty sockets as though the earth itself had chosen to grow inside death.
He placed it carefully in the center.
A skull with roots sprouting from the eyes. Exactly. The Mother does not see with human eyes. She sees with roots. And I… I don't see with human eyes anymore either.
The priest stepped back and looked at the finished altar: wheat in a circle, green candles burning, herbs tracing a boundary, the skull crowned with living roots.
"Perfect," he said with quiet satisfaction. "Today I'll speak about how rot is not the end, but the fertilizer for the next harvest. Thank you, brother. Without your help it would have taken me longer."
Matt inclined his head, the crooked smile hidden beneath the robe.
Rot as fertilizer… Yes. I am already that fertilizer. Only my rot doesn't wait for things to die. I carry it with me. And everything I touch… will rot ahead of time.
"You're welcome, Father. Anytime."
The priest returned to his final preparations. Matt stood a step behind him, watching the finished altar.
I act like the obedient priest. I place wheat, light candles, scatter herbs. Everything precise. Everything calm.
And inside… all I can think about is how this same altar, these same candles, these same roots… would burn and rot if I decided it.
Because nothing matters enough for me to preserve it.
Not even this.
Matt adjusted the brown robe and felt the weight of the bone dagger in his pocket.
Let the sermon begin.
I already know what my true sermon is.
And it isn't preached with words.
---
A few hours later, the underground garden remained wrapped in its eternal emerald glow.
Matt sat on the moss bench, still wearing the brown priest's robe. He had spent the afternoon quietly testing his new abilities: a fly, a leaf, a small mouse that had wandered between the roots.
Slowness.
Poisonous Flames.
Everything worked with cold, natural precision, as though it had always belonged to him.
He felt no pleasure.
He felt no guilt.
He simply watched things slow… and then rot.
The scar pulsed softly, reminding him it was still there.
Then the vines at the back of the garden parted with a whisper.
Elara stepped through, carrying her worn leather case and a thicker dark-green coat than usual. Her expression was calm, but something in her eyes had changed—an anticipation that was almost reverent.
Matt looked up.
He didn't stand.
"You're leaving," he said simply.
It wasn't a question.
Elara smiled with that maternal sweetness that always hid something sharp.
"Yes. I'm going to the Kingdom of Feynapotter. It's time to prepare my advancement to Sequence 4."
She paused, letting the words settle. The emerald flowers around them slowly opened and closed, as if listening.
"The Mother's Path—also known as the Planter Path. My Sequence 4 is called Ancient Alchemist. In Feynapotter, where the Church of the Earth Mother is strong and the soil remembers older cycles, I'll be able to complete the ritual. This isn't a simple advancement. It requires ingredients that only grow in the sacred gardens of the south, and a direct communion with the Goddess that cannot be performed here."
Matt watched her silently. His new Wingless Angel mind processed the information without surprise or anxiety.
Only with cold, amoral calm.
She's leaving. The one who marked me, "saved" me, cultivated me like a rare plant… is leaving to ascend. And I stay here with a lustful dagger in my pocket and flames that rot everything I touch.
"How long?" he asked.
"Months. Perhaps longer. The ritual of the Ancient Alchemist isn't completed in weeks. I'll need to remain in the hidden temples of Feynapotter."
Elara walked closer and sat across from him on the moss bench.
"While I'm gone, you'll remain here. The Church of the Harvest will protect you. But don't stay idle. Your next step is approaching. Sequence 7—Serial Killer. You can begin preparing already. Vargan's dagger, your abilities… use them. Act. Rot what must rot. But remember: everything you take must return to the cycle. Don't waste."
Matt nodded slowly.
No fear.
No emotion.
Months without her. Months alone with the Abyss and this mark binding me. Perfect. No one watching. No one reminding me to "nourish." Just me… being what I am now.
"A wildfire. A storm. Something that destroys simply because it can."
"Understood," he said at last. "Go and ascend, Elara. I'll take care of what remains here."
Elara studied him for a long moment. Then she reached out and touched the scar on his side.
The green warmth flared for an instant—like a final root pushing deeper.
"When I return… I hope to find a Wingless Angel who still knows which garden is his."
She stood gracefully. The vines at the back of the garden opened again, forming a passage Matt had never seen before—one that led directly to the outside.
"Take care, child of the Abyss."
Matt remained seated as she walked away. The vines closed behind her with a final whisper.
The underground garden fell silent.
Only him, the emerald glow, and the lustful dagger in his pocket.
Matt smiled without joy.
Months alone.
Perfect.
Now… I can truly be what I am.
No rules.
No malice.
Just… being.
And for the first time since drinking the first potion, Matt felt as though the entire world was a forest waiting for him to decide which part to burn first.