The sky had already shifted from crimson to deep black by the time the three of them stepped out of the small dockside bar. The air smelled of salt, burnt grease, and coal smoke. Sera walked two steps behind Matt, head lowered, hands folded over her abdomen. Lira walked beside him, tense, her eyes never leaving the iron bracelet.
"A carriage," Matt ordered without looking at anyone.
They found an old one at the corner of the Northern Docks. The driver, a gray-bearded man with sunken eyes, looked them up and down and grunted.
"From here to the Church of the Harvest in East Borough… forty minutes, easy. One soli for the full trip. Not a penny less."
Matt pulled a silver coin from his pocket without bargaining. The driver bit it out of habit and nodded.
The ride lasted exactly forty minutes.
Matt counted them in silence, seated between the two women, one leg crossed over the other, his mind fixed on the black jacket he had left behind. The rattling of wheels over broken cobblestones was the only sound. Lira didn't speak. Neither did Sera.
When they stepped down in front of the modest moss-covered stone building, vines crawled across its walls like living green veins. A small oxidized bronze plaque read:
Church of the Harvest
The door stood slightly ajar, and the scent of damp earth and fresh herbs drifted out, thick and sweet.
Matt pushed it open with his palm.
The interior was dim. Simple altars decorated with golden wheat stalks and pots filled with plants that seemed far too alive for an industrial city. The smell of fertile soil permeated everything.
"Lira, take Sera to the back corner. Give her a blanket. Don't touch her more than necessary," he said without emotion. "I have something to check."
Lira opened her mouth, then closed it when she saw his expression. Sera simply nodded and followed the woman of the Path of the Sun.
Matt slipped behind the main altar. He pushed aside the curtain of living vines and entered the narrow, damp space beyond. The ground was soft earth, faint emerald light from the plants dimly illuminating the walls.
There, where he had left it the night before—
The jacket was no longer just a jacket.
It was his jacket, transformed.
The fabric had turned black like the absence of light, threaded with gray veins that resembled living shadows stitched into the cloth. The Beyonder characteristic of the Shadow Ascetic had fully fused with it, turning it into an artifact.
Matt stepped closer.
He touched it.
It was cold, almost damp—and the moment his fingers brushed it, a tingling sensation ran up his arm to the back of his neck.
"Interesting…" he murmured, a crooked smile forming. "The Mother left me a gift."
He knew he didn't need a complex ritual. He was Blessed. The withered-leaf-shaped scar Elara had marked onto his chest pulsed faintly, like a direct conduit.
He sat cross-legged on the soil. Placing his right palm over the scar on his chest, he murmured in Hermes, his voice low and precise:
"The Spring of Life, the Mother of All Things;
The Supreme Home, the Sustainer of Fertile Earth;
The Symbol of Birth and Reproduction."
The ancient words echoed within his mind.
The scar glowed with a faint emerald light.
And then the knowledge came—sudden and direct, flooding his thoughts without the need for blood or offerings:
He could shape nearby shadows, turning them into weapons or creatures. These forms inflicted damage that froze blood and caused degeneration in both flesh and spirit.
He could hide within larger shadows.
He could track targets through their own shadows.
As long as the jacket remained within one meter of his body—even if he wasn't wearing it—direct sunlight or related Beyonder powers would burn his skin like acid. The pain would be constant and worsen with brightness.
Each time he used Shadow Stalking or Shadow Shaping, upon exiting the state he would feel a phantom rope tightening around his neck for several minutes. The pressure was real—it reduced his physical strength, and if ignored too long, he could faint from lack of air.
The flow of information ended.
Matt's eyes snapped open—
And he collapsed sideways, unconscious for barely eight seconds.
He slowly pushed himself up.
When he came to, his forehead was damp with cold sweat—but a slow, almost pleased smile spread across his lips. He shook off the lingering dizziness left by the goddess's direct answer.
The black jacket lay beside him on the damp earth.
He picked it up with two fingers—
And the fabric moved on its own.
As if it possessed a will, the Jacket of Degenerate Stalking slid over his shoulders, fitting perfectly to his body. The sleeves adjusted seamlessly, the collar closed without a wrinkle, and the gray shadow-veins sank into the fabric until it looked almost normal—
Except darker than night itself.
Not a seam out of place. Not a button misaligned.
It adapted to him in less than a second.
As if it had always belonged to him.
Matt ran a hand across his chest. The fabric was cold—
But alive.
He smiled calmly.
Convenient. Now… time to ask what actually matters. Even decay should have style.
He stood, brushed dirt from his trousers, and pushed aside the vine curtain.
Lira and Sera were still in the far corner of the church.
Lira sat on a bench with her arms crossed, wearing the expression of someone convinced things couldn't possibly get worse. Sera stood a step behind, hands folded, gaze lowered—obedient as a well-trained shadow.
Matt approached them without hurry. The jacket felt light, almost like a second skin.
"Lira," he said calmly, without the slightest trace of embarrassment. "When is the next new moon?"
Lira lifted her head sharply. For a brief moment, her golden eyes widened in surprise. Then she frowned.
"A new moon?" she repeated. "Why…?"
Matt didn't blink. He didn't explain.
He simply waited.
Lira sighed, resigned.
"The next new moon is in four nights. The 25th of this month, by the Loen calendar. Happy?"
Matt nodded once.
Four nights.
Enough time to prepare.
Enough time for the jacket to taste its first shadows in the underground Black Market.
"Good," he murmured, more to himself than to them.
Four nights. Not much… but enough to decide what to hunt.
He turned slightly toward Sera, who still stood with her head lowered.
"Rest. In the next few days, you'll be listening to sermons."
Then he looked at Lira, wearing that same ridiculous, cold smile from the first night.
"And you… don't worry. I'm not going to ask you to pray to the Mother. Just don't ask stupid questions when we go back there."
The church fell silent again.
Only the faint crackling of candles and the soft brushing of vines against stone could be heard.
Matt sat on the nearest bench, crossed one leg over the other, and closed his eyes.
The jacket breathed with him.
Waiting.
Four nights.