The concrete expanse of the basement was the only safe place for practice. Ethan spent hours there, forcing his infernal core to obey.
Control was everything. Wrath was easy a straight line of annihilating force. He could summon the thin, searing lines of Hellfire, reducing discarded materials rotted wood, rusty pipes to smoking spiritual ash. The problem wasn't ignition; it was control.
He experimented with the quieter power, Gluttony. He would focus on the residual heat of the pipes, the low drone of traffic above, the meager light filtering through grates, and force the sigil to devour them. The sensations would vanish, leaving behind an intoxicating, brief void. He consumed the world's energy to strengthen the core, and every time he did, the addiction deepened, whispering promises of ultimate, effortless power.
The internal conflict was constant: Wrath urged him to lash out and destroy; Gluttony urged him to passively consume everything, including his own humanity.
He was in the middle of a delicate containment exercise pinching a small, flickering Hellfire wick between his fingers when the disturbance arrived.
It wasn't a spiritual spike like Morian. It was a rhythmic, pathetic chant.
He extinguished the fire instantly, the residue pulling back into the sigil with a sharp, unpleasant tug. He climbed the stairs silently, his footfalls perfectly muted by his new, weightless body.
Three figures materialized in the alleyway behind the apartment. They wore coarse, sackcloth robes, stained the color of faded parchment. The Pale Choir. They hadn't found him through intelligence; they had simply been drawn by the spiritual scent he was leaking the irresistible reek of power and pain.
The center figure, a woman with bone-white skin and eyes that looked utterly exhausted, held a bundle of dried, dead flowers. Her aura was not crimson or purple, but a thin, sorrowful blue-gray the color of self-destruction and misguided devotion.
"It is true," she breathed, her voice raspy. "The Ascendant Wound walks among us."
The three dropped instantly to their knees on the grimy pavement. Their heads bowed, their reverence absolute. They were worshipping the sigil he had desperately tried to conceal beneath a dark T-shirt.
Ethan stepped out of the shadow. "Get up. I don't know who you are."
The woman, Elias, lifted her head, her exhausted eyes locking onto his sigil. "We are the Choir, Emissary. We worship the truth that Heaven denies. That salvation comes only through the suffering of a chosen few. You carry the mark of the first betrayal—the fire of the one who dared to question the Lie."
"I carry the mark of my sentence," Ethan corrected, disgusted. "I'm not a messiah. I'm a debt collector."
Elias smiled sadly. "A distinction without a difference, Lord. Your sentence is your divinity. You suffered damnation for an act of selflessness. You are the perfect mirror to Heaven's hypocrisy. You are the one who burned, yet still walks."
The sheer, uncritical adoration repelled him. Ethan activated his Sin Perception on them. He expected to see cult leaders manipulating the weak. Instead, he saw ordinary people consumed by existential hopelessness, seeking meaning in the grand cosmic scheme. Their corruption was not malice; it was pitiful misguidance. They were spiritually poor, and they had chosen Hell's glamour over Heaven's indifference.
The Wrath inside him didn't demand he destroy them; it demanded he scour the pity and weakness from them. The Gluttony suggested he simply consume their devotion and leave them empty husks.
He fought both urges, stepping closer. "What do you want?"
"To serve the inevitable order," Elias said immediately. "To be your eyes and ears among the mortals. We know this city's secrets. We know who sells their soul cheaply, who performs unauthorized rites. We can find the miracles before they alert Heaven."
Her words sliced through his moral repulsion. Information. Morian was a genuine threat. Lucien's instructions were vague. These broken souls, with their misguided faith, were the perfect, deniable asset.
"I don't accept worship," Ethan stated flatly, his voice echoing with the cold authority of the Emissary. "I accept logistics. You will act as my information conduit: sightings of celestial activity, unauthorized magic, or specific individuals who match the description of Lucien's escaped souls."
Elias's face glowed with ecstatic joy. "A task! We live to serve your purpose, Emissary."
"Then understand this: I am not your savior," Ethan warned, allowing a fraction of the Wrath to leak into the air, turning the surrounding atmosphere cold and hostile. "If you cross me, if you lie, or if you attempt to spread this… worship in my name, I will use this fire to erase you. Understand the terms, or walk away now."
The three cultists pressed their foreheads to the ground. "We understand, Lord. We are the Choir, and we will prepare the stage for the Ascendant."
Ethan turned and walked back into the gloom of the basement. The encounter had left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was now, officially, employing a cult of the damned. Yet, he also had a network.
He hadn't been saved by his selflessness. He had been chosen for his capacity for Wrath and Order. And if saving humanity meant descending into the company of those who worshipped damnation, then he would bring them the order they craved.
The Emissary had a blind enemy and, now, a terrified, fervent support structure. The bargain was sealed.