The next day, William woke up to the harsh screech of a cage door grinding open.
His eyes blinked into focus as he instinctively sat up, only to notice the twins were gone. The sight made him frown, where had they been taken? Still chained, he tilted his head in confusion, but the cultists who entered didn't bother explaining.
Considering the twins' value, William could only hope the cult knew what they were doing… and that they'd stay alive long enough for his plan to matter.
One cultist roughly yanked on his chain, "Move."
William, who had spent the entire night preparing for this moment, didn't resist. He simply nodded and followed, rising from the cage and stepping out of the tent into blinding sunlight.
The sun hung high in the sky. He must've overslept. Not surprising. After all, once he'd laid out the plan with the twins, they'd spent hours tweaking the details, like sharing the information in global chat to gain more recognition. It had drained more of his spiritual energy than he'd realized.
But now, it was time to begin.
As he was led toward whatever twisted ceremony the cult had in store, William opened the world chat and began typing.
Seraph: "Guys, the sky is very bright today, if not because I was still chained and not hearing the bird chirping in the background, I'd think today is a very good day to die…"
After he sent that, several people that didn't know him were confused by his message.
"??? Who is this mental patient?"
"Person above, what kind of meat have you eaten before? Just saying, but puffer fish can be toxic and can cause hallucinations."
But after that, several people that know him started to appear.
"Yoo, this guy is still alive. Here I am, already reciting his name more than ten times in the morning."
Zealot Mackerel: "Seraph above, you are my only true god… I on behalf of others players with unique identity, Thank you for your knowledge and wisdom you shared before."
"Another Cultist appeared, Be Careful Everyone!!"
SargotheCaptain: "Seraph thanks for the warning and the information in the night before, if not those people will truly throw me out because of fear of possession."
"What did I miss? Somebody tell me!"
"Is this the big shot that's gonna get sacrificed today? How lame…"
Zealot Mackerel: "Person above, please share your coordinate. My fists really want to talk to you one by one."
…
William exhaled through his nose, barely hiding a smile. It seemed he'd become… somewhat famous. All because of the information he'd shared the night before.
Apparently, when players finally understood how to tap into their classes, thanks to his explanation, many of them experienced a sudden System recognition, which unlocked their class powers on the spot.
Some had turned the tide of battle. Others had gone on wild monster hunts. The lucky ones scored loot. And the ones with Unique Identities? They'd made progress in their classes, which is the real gain.
As for this 'Zealot Mackerel'… William still wasn't sure how to feel about him.
The man claimed his class was Cult Leader, and apparently had real followers that always followed him throughout the day and night. He'd confessed in chat that he was "committed to the role" now as he can't run, and because of William's guidance during the monster siege, he'd declared Seraph as the divine entity his cult would now worship.
William had nearly choked when he'd read that message last night.
And even now, recalling it made his expression twitch.
"Getting followers on day one… that's definitely not normal," He muttered under his breath.
Still… it might not be a bad thing.
With that thought lingering, William closed the world chat, and allowed himself to be led toward the ritual grounds, where death, madness, or something stranger was surely waiting.
…
As the cultist dragged him along the worn dirt path, William finally caught sight of the altar in the clearing up ahead. It stood just as he remembered, ancient, weathered stone surrounded by totems carved with twisting spirals and winged symbols.
A large ritual circle had been drawn into the earth, freshly inked in black and red. It pulsed faintly, as if alive, humming with slow, ominous energy.
Around the perimeter, cultists gathered in silence, their faces obscured by feathered masks, their movements stiff and ritualistic. Behind them, the lifeless villagers are nothing more than a husk. Eyes are dead and open.
Surrounded by cages containing sea monsters, that now become part of the sacrifice by the cultists. The atmosphere had changed. It was heavier than before. Focused, yet drenched in fanaticism.
And Him... He was the centerpiece.
William's eyes narrowed. He had no doubt they were ready to begin the first phase of their ceremony the moment they dragged him to the center, then things would spiral fast.
Time to check the most important thing first.
He called out mentally, and with a soft whisper of energy, his status panel appeared before his eyes.
[Status]
Name: William Deathwill (Unique Identity) (Winged Lord Vessel)
Rank: Extraordinary Level 1
Class: Captain(27%) / Spirit Forger(3%)
Mutation: Winged One (33% And Growing)
Ship: Ordinary Fishing Boat
Pet: Open Inventory
Personal Skill: Mysterious Knowledge
Identity Exclusive Skill: Extraordinary Senses, Hunter, I'Am Here.
…
His eyes flicked toward the Mutation bar.
33%. It had progressed again.
Expected, after what happened the day before. After all, experiencing Historical Node wasn't free. Especially when it came at the cost of exposing yourself to something far beyond mortal.
Then, his gaze shifted to the class section, now with a newly added percentage beside each title. Something the system had only revealed after he exchanged knowledge with the twins. If he focuses on the class section, he will get information like this.
[Class: Captain(27%)]
[Description: A Captain will never falter… as long as you are on the ship.
Passive: When on ship you will receive bonus sense and control, Able to feel what happening on the vessel and control the ship more naturally.
Active: Your speech will negate the most basic debuff to the spirit and your crew move more easily with you on board.]
[Class: Spirit Forger(3%)]
[Description: Forge The Spirit, Forge The world.
Passive: Spirit Forger has a surging will. Able to maintain focus for a longer period of time, gain considerable bonus to spirit stats and more bonus to forging technique.
Active: Using your spirit, you can control, enhance, maintain and bring back the highest quality of extraordinary properties of materials and items. This class grows with your Spirit, the higher the spirit the higher the bonus.]
> Note For Class: The bonus depends on the progress of the classes. More progress means more bonus, active and passive skill, till it reaches 100% and gains the ultimate power of each class.
The bonuses from the class and the skill he gained may not help him much now, but honestly considering what will happen later, it's better than nothing.
Then for his personal Skill.
[Mysterious Knowledge]
Description: You possess glimpses of things others should not know. This allows you to decipher unknown rituals, see through illusions, and understand the unknown at the cost of your sanity.
Passive: Insight boost when facing the unknown.
Active: Use spiritual power as base, decipher the unknown. Gain mysterious knowledge related to the object you observe.
Remark: "Your eyes are the window of the soul, using that you've read between the lines of fate. Now let's hope you survive what's written in there."
…
"It's okay," William whispered under his breath, readying himself.
Everything was in place.
The only thing to do now is endure. Till the winged Lord descended and he gained the Mythical status.
…
The cultist dragging William came to a stop just as the chanting began.
From all directions, voices rose in unison, low and fanatic, layered with madness.
Dozens of masked figures circled the ritual site, arms raised high toward the sky, as the pulsing runes beneath William's feet flickered and then surged to life, casting eerie crimson and violet hues across the clearing.
The humming deepened. The air thickened.
William was forced onto his knees, shackles still binding his limbs. And though his body remained still, his soul began to stir.
Suddenly, he felt it.
A pulling sensation, like something crawling beneath his skin.
No, not crawling.
Ripping.
He gasped, his back arching involuntarily as a burning-hot force sank into his spine.
The Induced Mutation had begun.
His muscles tightened. His vision blurred. It felt like acid being poured through his veins, searing his nerves from the inside out. Bones shifted beneath his flesh, snapping unnaturally, reshaping in real time. His shoulder blades cracked, pressure building behind them like two coiled spears trying to force their way out.
His scream echoed through the ritual site, raw, guttural, unfiltered agony.
"AAARGHH!!"
Veins bulge beneath his skin, his body trembling violently. The cultists didn't flinch. If anything, their chanting grew louder. More fevered.
The Mutation marker in his mind surged.
42%. 47%. 50%.
Then it broke past the threshold.
The pain became transcendent.
His back burst open, spraying blood onto the dirt. From beneath his torn flesh, jagged bone began to emerge, bent, twisted, forming the base of something... unnatural. Something not human.
Two skeletal structures arched outward from his upper back, stunted wings made of bare, pale bone, jagged at the edges, twitching as if seeking purpose.
They were crude, unfinished. Yet alive.
Half the villagers collapsed on the spot. Their bodies gave out mid-chant, eyes rolling back as their lifeforce drained in tandem with the ritual. The nearby sea monsters screeched in protest, their limbs thrashing wildly, until they too fell silent, their flesh shriveled and lifeless in their cages.
William slumped forward, panting, forehead resting against the blood-soaked ground. His entire body shook, vision swimming with red and black. Every breath was shallow, ragged.
But he was still alive.
That alone was enough to stun the cultists into silence. Because of their experience before, the vessels would only die at this point.
Then without wasting time, three of the cultists stepped forward. The robed figures raised something above their head, an object veiled in crimson cloth, dripping slightly at the ends.
With a dramatic pull, the cloth was removed.
William looked up, and froze.
The Wing of the Lord.
A name that suddenly appears inside William's mind.
It was massive, larger than his own body, impossibly wide. It looked as though it had been ripped directly from a living being, its edges torn and jagged, trailing bits of blackened sinew and shredded veins that still pulsed with dying power.
The feathers were not only feathers, but tainted by strips of flesh and bone, dyed a deep, wet red, the color of freshly spilled blood. It radiated malice, pure, seething hatred, like it had been severed mid-scream.
The cultists knelt behind William and lowered the abomination.
The moment it made contact with the jagged bones protruding from William's back;
It moved.
The Wing twitched, then twisted unnaturally, as if sensing something. Its veins extended like tendrils, wrapping around the bone stubs, fusing with the half-formed mutation.
William screamed again as the fusion began.
Flesh tore and re-knitted around the wing. Muscles grew, then ripped, then grew again, trying to accommodate the new structure. It wasn't just attaching, it was becoming part of him. And not gently.
It was brutal.
Blood spilled freely down his back, pooling beneath him. His skin blistered, tore, and re-formed in frantic bursts, as though his body couldn't decide if it was healing or being destroyed.
The voices of the cultists reached a crescendo. The ritual was nearing its peak.
William couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. He could barely hold onto himself.
The Wing wasn't just a thing, it had a will, a fragment of it, and that will fight him. It clawed at his sanity, whispering alien thoughts in a voice made of wind and bone.
"Fall…"
"Break…"
"Become…"
William clenched his jaw, eyes wide with pain, as blood streamed from his mouth and nose.
He wasn't sure how long it lasted.
Seconds?
Minutes?
Time blurred beneath the agony.
But even as the Wing fused fully into his back, and the bones twisted into something almost majestic, something divine, he was still conscious.
Still alive.
Barely.
In pain.
But still William.
And the ritual was not yet finished.
Suddenly The Pain Dulled.
But only because something worse had taken its place.
William no longer felt the ground beneath him. No longer heard the cultists' chants. No longer tasted the blood in his mouth.
He was drifting, floating on a thin sheet of ice. On one side: William. On the other: something vast, ancient, and monstrous. The Winged Lord.
And the ice was cracking.
Laughter escaped his lips, unbidden.
Then came tears.
Then a scream.
Then silence.
He didn't know who he was anymore.
A kaleidoscope of emotions flooded him, rage, sorrow, triumph, despair. They weren't his. Yet they lived inside him.
He saw it all.
A throne carved from obsidian perched high in the clouds. Beneath it, thousands knelt, winged figures cloaked in silver and crimson, their heads bowed in reverence.
He raised his hand, no, not him, the Winged Lord… and the skies bent to his will.
He soared through endless storms, fought creatures of the starry sky, hunted the monster in the deep sea, his wings blotting out the sun. He tore open the rift with a single word, cast judgment with a single glare. His voice was law. His will was iron.
William felt his sense of self fray with every passing second.
The line between his thoughts and the Winged Lord's memories blurred.
He began to speak in languages he did not know. Shouted commands in voices not his own. His face twisted into expressions unfamiliar to him. He laughed like a tyrant. Wept like a fallen god. He was William. And yet… not.
"I am..."
"We are..."
"Mine..."
He was being consumed, slowly, piece by piece, until only a flicker of William remained, a dim candle struggling against a hurricane.
Then, just as he began to fade entirely…
[System Notice: Condition Met]
[Title Revocation Initiated]
[Erasing Title: Lord of the Winged People]
[Personal Title Creation Interface Unlocked]
A surge of light sliced through the darkness.
The ice cracked violently beneath his feet, but this time, it cracked in his favor.
Instinct took over.
The part of him that refused to die, the part that still bore the name William or maybe a name he chose long ago, moved.
He didn't speak.
He wrote.
In pure, desperate will, across the unseen canvas of identity:
[Title Created: The Seraph of End]
The world shifted.
The memories collapsed.
Gone were the skies, the throne and the worshipers. Gone were the wings of glory and the screams of war.
Only one remained.
The memory of a fall.
The Winged Lord, kneeling in a dark chamber, blood pouring down his back as his own people ripped the wings from his flesh. The betrayal was etched into his bones.
He looked up at them all and screamed one final word,
"TRAITORS!!"
Then silence.
And William opened his eyes.
He was lying amidst the ashes of a ritual site. The circle had faded. The air hung heavy with the scent of burnt incense and blood.
His body was different.
Taller, broader and muscles bulged unnaturally beneath his skin. His back ached from weight, the weight of fused wings, now feathery and strange, folded tight. He was over three meters tall, his once-fitted clothes now torn and stretched beyond repair. Part of his hair turned white, hung damp and matted. His arms trembled.
But he was alive.
And he was still William or maybe… Seraph.
Battered, bloodied and changed.
But still himself.
Around him, the cultists stood in stunned awe.
Then, as one, they dropped to their knees.
"Glory to the Winged Lord!"
"Lord of Sky and Flesh!"
"He has returned!"
Their voices stabbed at William's skull like needles. Every title, every word of worship made his head throb. He winced, clutching his temples. They were worshiping the wrong man.
He was not the Winged Lord.
Not anymore.
And not ever again.
Still kneeling, the Head Priest approached with reverence. In his arms, he carried a weapon, a long, blackened spear wrapped in faded cloth.
William's heart lurched.
He recognized it from the memories.
The spear once shone like starlight. Now it was dull, scratched, and worn, degraded from myth to mere relic. From Epic to Rare. A fallen echo of its former glory.
The priest knelt, offering it with both hands.
"Your weapon, my Lord."
William didn't speak. He took the spear, gripped it tightly, and walked, slowly, toward the massive stone throne at the far end of the ritual ground.
It loomed like a forgotten monument.
He sat.
The stone was cold. But Familiar, Too familiar.
He planted the spear beside him, its base scraping the stone. The cultists still chanted, crying praises, calling names he didn't want to hear.
His headache worsened.
He raised his hand, not in command, but in dismissal.
"Enough," He said. His voice is low, hoarse.
"I need time. My body… it's still adapting."
The cultists fell silent, then bowed deeply, retreating slowly into the shadows beyond the altar.
Only the Head Priest remained. He bowed again, deeper this time.
"My Lord," he said softly, "We have dressed your servants as you ordered. They await your pleasure."
At his gesture, Kei, Rei and several other girls stepped forward, no longer in chains, but robed in dark silks, adorned with silver patterns shaped like wings. They didn't speak. Their eyes met his.
Cautious.
Worried.
Afraid.
William didn't answer the priest. Didn't rise. Didn't speak.
He merely leaned back on the throne, eyes half-lidded, body trembling.
He was too tired to argue. Too tired to care.
So he closed his eyes.
And slept.
Ignoring the weight on his shoulders.
Ignoring the eyes watching.
Ignoring the titles they whispered, and the god they wanted him to become.