The industrial graveyard was silent, a monument to corporate decay. Ethan found the Sloth soul's host in the centre of the vast, skeletal frame of a derelict foundry.
The sin wasn't a flare; it was a suffocating pressure of inertia. The host, a middle-aged man named Marcus Dene, sat on an overturned chemical barrel, completely inert. His eyes were open but unfocused, and his aura was a thick, grey blanket of overwhelming apathy.
Ethan approached, his footsteps muffled by the decaying environment and the spiritual static. The Sloth soul wasn't resisting; it was simply refusing to participate. This was the unique challenge of the sin: its passivity was a form of absolute defence.
Ethan knelt, extending his hand, prepared to use the Penance Chains. "I'm here to relieve you of this," he projected, not verbally, but through a cold pulse of ordered intent.
The host only blinked slowly. The apathy of the soul was so profound that it physically deadened the host's reflexes and will. The soul felt heavy, like pulling a mountain of wet sand.
Just as Ethan attempted to breach the passive aura, the silence shattered.
A massive section of the sheet metal roof near the entrance exploded inward, and Kane crashed through the debris, his kinetic sensors screaming at the sudden movement. He was covered in sweat and grime, his grey eyes blazing with focused, physical hatred.
"You're done running, demon!" Kane roared, raising his silver-laced shotgun. He didn't bother with words or spiritual taunts; he went straight to violence.
Ethan instinctively vaulted backwards, pushing a blast of Wrath into the ground to destabilise the floor beneath Kane. The ground buckled, sending the hunter staggering, but Kane unleashed his weapon.
The silver-coated buckshot didn't pierce his skin—the infernal animation was too dense—but the purifying charge in the metal exploded against his chest, sending a bolt of searing, cold pain through the sigil.
Ethan was trapped: fighting a ruthless, physical hunter, guarding a passive target, and struggling to contain the volatile Reality Warping power simmering in his core.
He retaliated with controlled bursts of Hellfire, aiming not for Kane's body, but for his weapon and the surrounding support pillars. The fire was dark, efficient, and compelled Kane to prioritise cover.
The hunter was too fast, too methodically focused. He used the cover of the decaying machinery, firing rapid, targeted bursts to keep Ethan pinned down, slowly manoeuvring to cut off the Emissary's retreat.
Ethan saw his corner closing. He needed a decisive move, but a sustained output of fire would exhaust him, and using Gluttony on Kane's non-electronic gear was useless. He was cornered, his control slipping under the intense, physical pressure.
The Glitch. The chaotic energy of the Anima flared, drawn out by the high stress, unpredictable environment.
Ethan lost the mental clampdown. His concentration, split between Wrath defence and Gluttony self-management, failed.
The Reality Warping exploded.
It wasn't a directed attack; it was a localised, destructive spasm. The entire thirty-foot section of concrete floor between Ethan and Kane suddenly reversed its density, turning into a patch of shimmering, gravity-less vapour. At the same moment, a section of the steel truss above Kane momentarily turned into a swarm of furious, solid bees, before snapping back to inert steel.
The effect was instantaneous and dizzying. Kane plunged through the floor to the vapour anomaly with a surprised yell, his shotgun clattering against the concrete on the far side. The swarm of temporary bees crashed into the truss, momentarily blinding him with the shock of the random, physical attack.
Ethan gasped, the uncontrolled power surge leaving him momentarily reeling, the terrifying instability now physically manifest. He knew he had seconds before the hunter recovered.
He moved on pure instinct, ignoring the lingering burn of the Gluttony drain. Kane was scrambling to recover his footing on the far side of the vaporous floor.
Ethan didn't waste the opportunity on the hunter. He sprinted toward the Sloth soul's host.
He slammed his hand onto Marcus Dene's chest, channelling his strength to overcome the massive apathy. The Penance Chains erupted, binding the inert soul, the Sloth fighting back with overwhelming spiritual refusal rather than force.
With a wrench, the grey, heavy soul was extracted and sucked into the sigil.
The energy was heavy, suffocating. Ethan now carried the ordered destruction of Wrath, the absolute consumption of Gluttony, the chaotic instability of Reality Warping, and the crushing inertia of Sloth. He was a walking repository of Hell's arsenal.
Kane, recovered and furious, found his footing and raised his weapon, aiming for a kill shot. "You're done, demon!"
Ethan didn't fight back. He merely raised his hand, channelling a pure burst of Wrath into the floor at his feet, cracking the concrete and creating a thick, blinding cloud of dust and steam from a broken cooling pipe.
He turned and executed a low-power Gatewalk, tearing a rift into the air and vanishing, leaving behind a baffled, enraged hunter and a zone of profound spiritual chaos. The massive, uncontrolled flare of Reality Warping, combined with the raw infernal energy, would be a beacon to Seraphina. He had to be miles away before she materialised.
Two down, eleven to go. He had survived the hunter, but he was now the walking embodiment of the disorder he was hired to contain.