Four nights had passed since that conversation beneath the emerald glow of the church.
Time moved in silence, unhurried, as if Backlund's fog itself had decided to wrap each day in a slow, heavy veil. Matt lived exactly as a Wingless Angel should: without morality to restrain him, without remorse to weigh him down.
He stole when he was hungry.
He sold stolen bread when he needed coins.
He slept wherever the wind couldn't reach him.
And he watched the people of East Borough the way one observes insects beneath a magnifying glass.
He destroyed whatever got in his way.
He preserved only what was useful.
His amoral nature had become as natural as breathing.
---
He had used the Jacket of Degenerate Stalking several times in the shadows of alleyways—shaping dark forms to frighten drunkards, stalking potential prey from within gray-black darkness. Each time he exited that state, the invisible noose tightened around his neck for several minutes.
But he had learned to ignore it.
The flaw of sunlight burning his skin hadn't been an issue. Backlund's cloudy nights and the waxing moon shielded him well enough.
And yet…
He had noticed something.
A faint digestion.
The Sequence 8: Wingless Angel potion he had consumed nearly three weeks ago was progressing—slowly. Excruciatingly slowly. Like black molasses refusing to slide down his throat.
He could feel it at the edges of his mind:
A slight cooling of his consciousness.
An amoral impulse growing deeper with each passing night.
But it wasn't enough.
Not even close.
He still hadn't grasped the true Acting Method of the sequence. He was behaving like a Wingless Angel out of pure instinct—not true understanding.
Frustrating, Matt thought one night as he stared at the ceiling of his hideout, the cold jacket pressed against his back.
I can slow things down with a rotten word. I can rot flesh with flames that don't burn. I can stalk through shadows and shape them…
And yet I still don't understand why.
I'm not the complete monster I'm supposed to be.
Just a criminal with better tools.
He shook his head slightly, a calm, cold smile forming.
The frustration was faint—almost like a tickle. It didn't consume him. It only reminded him that the Abyss demanded more time, more actions, more erosion.
There was no need to rush.
Everything would come.
That night—the fourth since the question—the new moon hung invisible in the sky.
Matt rose from the corner where he had been sitting.
Sera slept curled beneath a blanket behind the main altar, breathing softly. The iron bracelet on her wrist glinted faintly in the emerald glow of the vines.
He didn't wake her.
"Stay here," he murmured, though he knew she would obey even without the order. "Don't leave until I return. The Mother will protect you… or at least won't devour you tonight."
He turned to Lira, who stood beside a pot of wheat stalks, arms crossed, wearing the expression of someone who had fully accepted that her life had taken a very strange turn.
"Lira," Matt said calmly, without urgency. "We're heading to the Northern Black Market, under the Old Bridge. That's where the Beyonder gathering is supposed to take place tonight. The spirit's information didn't lie."
Lira looked at him for a second longer than necessary.
Then she nodded.
Resigned.
Matt adjusted the Jacket of Degenerate Stalking over his shoulders. The fabric settled into place on its own, as always.
The Pugilist Bracelet—still sealed inside its small leather pouch—rested lightly against his wrist.
The bone dagger sat at his belt.
The withered-leaf scar on his chest remained silent.
He wasn't in a hurry.
He felt no excitement.
Only the cold calm of someone who knows the next step is inevitable.
Matt and Lira left the Church of the Harvest without any haste.
The door closed behind them with a soft creak, leaving behind the scent of fertile soil and creeping vines.
Outside—
The air smelled of coal, visible fog, and the distant river.
The night was illuminated by a faint crimson glow filtering through the clouds, casting the city in a dim, blood-tinted haze.
And without another word—
They walked forward into it.
They walked barely two streets before finding a public horse carriage at a corner lit by a flickering gas lamp. The driver, a middle-aged man with a worn coat and a crooked cap, looked up with bored eyes.
"Where to?"
"North. Near the Old Bridge," Matt replied calmly. "But drop us off eight streets before the bridge."
The driver calculated the distance with a glance.
"From here… about twelve kilometers. Twelve pence. One per kilometer, as usual. That work for you?"
Matt took out twelve pence without bargaining and handed them over. The driver nodded, pocketed the coins, and lightly urged the horse forward.
They climbed in.
Lira sat across from Matt, arms crossed. Matt leaned back against the seat, the Jacket of Degenerate Stalking hidden beneath his outer clothing. The carriage began moving with a steady, rhythmic rattling over the cobblestones.
Matt counted the minutes in silence, one by one, as the city slid past the window: the narrow streets of East Borough, factories still smoking in the night, flickering gas lamps, the occasional drunk stumbling through the fog. The Tussock River drew closer; its distant murmur blended with the sound of the wheels.
Lira stared out the window for a while before turning toward him. Her voice came out low, almost mocking, yet casual—like someone who had already accepted the absurdity of the situation.
"So… you really are a fanatic of the Mother goddess?" she said. "Always talking about her, leaving Sera at her church, asking about things like it's some sacred ritual… What is it, Matt? Did she brainwash you with wheat and fertile soil, or do you actually enjoy this whole 'nurturing the garden' thing?"
Matt slowly turned his head toward her. A simple, cold smile formed on his lips.
"I just use what's useful," he replied with the same calm simplicity. "The Mother healed me when I was dying. She gave me power. She gives me a place to sleep without getting killed at night."
He shrugged faintly.
"As long as she's useful, I call her 'Mother.' If she stops being useful… I'll stop calling her that. Simple as that."
Lira let out a short, dry laugh, shaking her head.
"You're impossible."
The conversation died there—light, weightless. Neither of them spoke again. Only the steady rattling of the carriage and the wind against the window remained.
Matt looked outside again. The scenery grew darker, more industrial.
And then, without warning, the thought surfaced:
Why do I keep moving forward? I already have power. I already have allies. I no longer feel guilt or fear. What else does the Abyss want from me? Why keep digesting this sequence so slowly if I'm already enough?
The moment the doubt fully formed—
The withered-leaf scar on his chest pulsed violently.
A toxic heat surged through his skin like burning roots drilling beneath the flesh.
And the vision came.
Thick, black, wet roots burst from dark soil, coiling around his ankles, climbing his legs, forcing themselves between his ribs, prying his mouth open. They dragged him downward into an endless, rotting garden where thousands of bodies screamed without sound as the roots "nourished" them.
His own flesh dissolved into green-black pulp—
Yet something smiled in the darkness.
Lips made of withered leaves.
"Do not waste. Nourish. Grow."
The vision lasted less than three seconds.
Matt blinked.
The scar calmed.
His expression didn't change in the slightest. He kept staring out the window with the same cold composure as before.
Interesting, he thought flatly. It seems the Mother doesn't want me to stop. How considerate.
Beside him, Lira noticed nothing.
She was still watching the distant northern lights.
The driver pulled the carriage to a halt with a soft "Whoa!"
Outside, the streets were narrower, darker. The Old Bridge loomed in the distance, its massive silhouette stretching across the river. Beneath its arches, the faint lights of the Black Market flickered.
"Eight streets before the bridge, like you asked," the driver said.
Matt and Lira stepped down.
The carriage rolled away, swallowed by the shadows, leaving behind only the fading echo of wheels. The night air was cold and damp, heavy with the scent of the nearby Tussock River.
Eight streets still separated them from the bridge, but the signs of the Black Market were already visible—makeshift stalls that by day sold dried fish or cheap fabrics, and by night offered things no one admitted buying in daylight.
They walked slowly, side by side.
The cobblestones were wet from recent fog, their footsteps soft and muted. Lira adjusted the collar of her coat absentmindedly.
"What exactly are we doing when we get there?" she asked quietly. "Do we go straight underground? Are we looking for someone specific?"
Matt answered without changing pace. His eyes scanned the dark storefronts, measuring everything without appearing to do so.
"We meet near the Old Bridge, under the third arch on the north side. That's the main entrance to the sewers tonight—new moon."
He paused briefly.
"There'll be a small gathering. People selling formulas and characteristics. We're selling a Sequence 9 Lawyer pathway. Nothing more. If something better shows up, we consider it. If not… we leave before anyone causes trouble."
Lira nodded slowly, letting out a tired, quiet laugh.
"You make it sound so simple. Like we're buying bread, not walking into a nest of heretics and desperate Beyonders."
Matt shrugged.
"It is simple. As long as we don't make noise and don't look anyone in the eyes for more than two seconds."
They walked another fifty meters.
The street narrowed further. To the left, a second-hand clothing stall with a crooked sign. To the right, a small shop selling "party and costume supplies," lit by a single oil lamp.
Matt stopped briefly, speaking as casually as if commenting on the weather.
"Let's split up here. You go to the clothing stall—buy a plain black hooded cloak. Nothing flashy. I'll go to the costume shop and get a mask."
He continued calmly:
"Then we switch. You go get a mask, I get a cloak. Different shops. No one sees us buying both. Safer that way."
Lira glanced at him but didn't argue.
"Alright. How much?"
"Six soli each. Probably a scam. Don't haggle. Pay and leave. We meet in the alley before the bridge—under the broken lamp."
She nodded and walked off.
Matt turned toward the costume shop.
Neither looked back.
The transactions were quick.
Lira bought the cloak in under two minutes.
Matt bought a simple black cloth mask for one and a half soli.
They regrouped in the alley.
The lamp above flickered weakly. The night remained quiet.
Matt handed her the mask. She gave him the cloak.
"Put them on now," he said calmly. "Under the bridge, no one knows who we are."
They dressed without hesitation.
Now they were just two more shadowed figures heading toward the Old Bridge.
The river sounded closer.
The stone arches loomed above.
And the entrance—
A narrow staircase descending into darkness, guarded by two silent men who asked no names.
They paused only a second.
Then stepped forward.
They descended.
The stone steps were slick with moisture and black moss. Each step echoed dully, as if the sewers swallowed sound itself. The smell changed instantly—from cold night air to a dense stench of sewage, mold, and something faintly metallic and sweet.
Beyonder residue.
The staircase opened into a wide tunnel lit by gas lamps fixed to old brick walls. Parts of the ceiling hung low, but ahead it widened into a larger chamber—a former maintenance hall, expanded over decades by human hands… or something close to them.
The ground was uneven stone, covered in shallow puddles reflecting dim yellow light. Above, the Tussock River murmured, leaking through cracks in slow, steady drops.
A man stopped them halfway through the tunnel.
Tall. Hooded. Gray coat.
He said nothing.
He simply lifted a lantern and inspected them—cloak, mask, posture. His gaze lingered briefly on Matt's hands, as if searching for uncontrolled spirituality.
Then he gave a short nod and stepped aside.
They entered.
The main chamber held about a dozen figures, scattered in silence.
Some sat on rotting wooden crates or stone blocks. Others leaned against damp walls, arms crossed, hands hidden in cloaks. No one spoke loudly. Only faint whispers and the constant dripping of water filled the space.
The air was heavy—
Sewage mixed with cheap incense someone had lit in a futile attempt to mask the stench.
At the center, on a raised platform of stacked boards covered in dark cloth—
Sat the figure.
A blood-red cloak draped over them completely, pooling on the ground like spilled liquid. Their face was hidden behind a smooth black iron mask with narrow eye slits.
On either side stood two motionless figures.
Black cloaks. Red embroidery at the edges.
Identical iron masks.
They did not move.
They did not speak.
They simply watched.
Matt felt a faint tingling at the back of his neck.
That red-cloaked one has presence, he thought calmly. Organizer, most likely. No one sits at the center with guards unless they run things here. Interesting… probably high Sequence. Or at least wants people to believe so.
He and Lira moved to a corner, away from direct lamplight.
They found an empty crate and sat side by side.
Matt crossed his legs calmly, hands resting on his knees.
Lira leaned back against the damp wall.
No one looked at them for more than two seconds.
No one asked names.
The meeting hadn't begun yet.
They simply waited—
In silence.
While the dripping water marked the slow passing of time…
And the red-cloaked figure remained still at the center—
Like a fresh stain of blood in the dark.