The deeper tunnels were silent now, the only sound the slow drip of groundwater and the dull hum of distant traffic, muffled by the weight of the earth. Ethan finally allowed himself to stop, resting against a damp concrete pillar. He was safe, for the moment, from Kane's blind fury and Seraphina's searing light.
He focused inward, assessing the cost of the last defensive manoeuvre. The Gluttony strike had been brilliant—a precise absorption of electromagnetic energy that neutralised the hunter's technology. But the price was immediate and severe.
The sheer, sudden drain of energy required to consume the scanner's power left his internal core momentarily depleted. The sigil didn't scream with pain, but with an echoing emptiness. For a brief, terrifying interval after the successful absorption, the fire that animated him had dimmed, leaving him feeling cold, slow, and profoundly vulnerable. Had Kane been a pure spiritual threat like Seraphina, the lapse would have been fatal.
He realised the danger wasn't just the addiction to power; it was the inevitable lull that followed. Gluttony offered maximum capability for maximum momentary spiritual debt.
And yet, the memory of that capability was intoxicating.
The Wrath was an addictive burn in his muscles, demanding destruction. Gluttony, however, was a subtle, insidious whisper in his mind, appealing to his core intellect. It offered perfection—the ability to neutralise any tactical problem, to adapt and overcome any obstacle, spiritual or technological. It was the hunger for superiority. That rationalisation made it far harder to resist than the raw, emotional fury of Wrath.
I am a better Emissary when I feed, the Gluttony whispered. I am more competent, more controlled.
He forced himself to breathe, fighting the urge to draw the ambient energy of the surrounding tunnels into himself, to refill the spiritual well. He had to learn to operate on reserve, or the addiction would consume the Emissary entirely.
The internal silence was shattered without warning.
A bolt of pure, icy dominance tore through the connection between the sigil and his mind. It wasn't a voice; it was a pressurised thought, a psychic assault that brought him to his knees.
Lucien. He wasn't pleased.
"I did not fashion you as a runner, Emissary," Lucien's cold, aristocratic voice slammed into the void of his mind, thick with condescension. "I gave you power to hunt, not to perform parlour tricks on the desperate human remnants of the Church. You spend your precious spiritual reserve evading a mortal. An utter waste."
Ethan gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to answer. The force of the connection was making his vision swim.
"Your little games have drawn undue attention, both Celestial and Exorcist," Lucien snapped, his tone hardening. "The balance is more precarious now than when I dragged you from the void. You will cease your flight and perform the task you were brought for. Immediately."
The pressure eased slightly, enough for Ethan to gasp. "I am establishing operational security," he managed to project back, his words feeling weak even in his own mind.
Lucien laughed, a dry, dismissive sound. "Operational security is success, Emissary. And success now requires a prize. A true prize."
A new burst of information, cold and searing, flooded the connection. This was not a Gluttony-soul or a simple escaped entity. This was a Celestial Failure—a high-value, highly unstable soul that had recently crashed back to Earth.
Target: Anima.
Status: Ascended Soul: Failure to Purge. Currently unstable and possessing a mortal host.
Key Trait: Generates random, spontaneous, highly destructive miracles (unauthorised reality alterations).
Location: Active in the dense civilian sector, Midtown.
"This failure is disrupting the fabric of the mortal world," Lucien demanded, his voice laced with venom. "It must be retrieved and neutralised before Heaven is forced to send another Enforcer. Your previous target, Seraphina Cross, is already en route to this anomaly, Emissary. Do you understand the urgency?"
Ethan understood perfectly. Lucien was forcing his hand. The new target was unstable, highly visible, and guaranteed to draw Seraphina. He couldn't hide any longer. He had to hunt.
The sigil pulsed, demanding the Wrath for the destruction and the Gluttony for the strategy. The addiction was suddenly a necessary survival mechanism. He needed the power to beat the Angel to the prize, neutralise the threat, and prove his utility before Lucien simply erased his existence.
He pulled himself to his feet, the tunnels' silence a crushing weight of expectation. He had two hunters behind him and a massive, unstable spiritual time-bomb ahead of him. And the woman he sacrificed himself for is rushing toward the same target.
The game had just moved from evasion to engagement.