Ethan found temporary refuge in a forgotten sub-basement of a historical library, a space thick with the scent of old paper and dust. But the atmosphere was poisoned by the new energy he carried.
The successful extraction of the Pride soul had not just added its power to his core; it had injected a potent, unwanted psychological serum.
He stood over a map of the city, and the only thought resonating in his mind was: I am too good for this.
An intense, corrosive arrogance settled deep into his spirit. The Gluttony core, already prone to intellectual hunger, amplified the Pride into an unshakable conviction of superiority. He looked at the chaos of the city and saw only the flaws of beings far beneath his notice: Seraphina was predictable righteousness, Kane was crude technology, and Lucien was merely a greedy investor.
The logic was flawless, but the emotion was poisonous. He had to consciously fight the urge to throw his concealment strategy aside and simply dominate the entire board.
The psychological warfare was mirrored by the physical instability. The sheer arrogance of the Pride soul power violently resisted the passive restraint of the Sloth inertia.
The atmosphere in the room was now chronically unstable. The single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered incessantly, regardless of the power source. The shadows, always deep in the basement, seemed to detach and crawl across the floor, slow-motion remnants of the Reality Warping power.
The Sloth dampener was breaking under the strain, turning the Reality Warping from spontaneous spikes into a constant, subtle, pervasive drone. He dared not attempt a Gatewalk in this state. The instability would risk scattering him across the dimensional void.
He spent three agonising hours preparing an elaborate, concealed spiritual receptacle, channelling the Pride soul into it through cold, painstaking projection. He would send the receptacle to Lucien via a long, complex, and slow logistical relay managed by the Pale Choir. It was safe, but utterly inefficient—a necessary surrender to his own volatility.
A task no mortal could accomplish, the Pride whispered. Only I am capable of such genius.
He had to get the mission done, but his own mind was becoming his most dangerous enemy.
Meanwhile, Seraphina tracked the faint, residual scent of the Pride event back to the Capitol district. She found Kane in his own hidden refuge, repairing his equipment with grim efficiency.
She had healed his injuries, a sign of mutual, if cold, respect. But she had also come with new orders.
"The mission parameters have changed, Hunter," Seraphina stated, her voice carrying the cold authority of Heaven, but softened by a calculated patience. "The Emissary will not be purged on sight."
Kane stopped, his tool hovering over a wiring harness. "You are changing the mandate? He's a Level 9 Infernal asset, Angel. The risk—"
"I am aware of the risk," she cut him off, her sky blue eyes unyielding. "The Emissary operates under a mandate of Order. He spares humans and collects specific souls. He is not a rogue fiend. There is a truth that needs to be extracted from the man before the demon is purged."
"I need him alive, unharmed, and secured."
Kane scoffed. "And you think a silver cage will hold a creature that can warp reality and absorb technology?"
"I think the human at his core will cooperate, given the correct pressure," Seraphina said, the conviction in her voice absolute. "I know his origin. I know his sacrifice. I need the man to tell me what Hell's long game is. We will hunt for containment, not execution."
To implement this plan, she needed expertise that transcended celestial zeal and technological rage. She needed theology.
She sought out Father Morian, interrupting his quiet ministry. The blind priest listened patiently to her confession—the memory of the sacrifice, the terrible psychic connection to the Emissary's pain, and the strange, orderly pattern of his hunts.
"You seek to understand the rules of your enemy's game," Morian stated simply. "A wise change in strategy. Hell's true power is not fire, but bureaucracy. They do not act randomly; they seek cosmic balance, however cruel."
Seraphina presented the Ledger—the need for 13 specific souls. Morian ran a gentle, sightless hand over the sacred texts that defined the Seven Deadly Sins.
"The Emissary has collected Lust, Gluttony, Sloth, and Pride. Four of the seven. He will seek the most exposed, highest value versions of the remaining three: Greed, Envy, and Wrath."
Morian closed the book. "Greed is the largest threat to the human system. It will be the next target. It requires enormous, specific power to contain. The Emissary must have a target that reflects that need."
Seraphina nodded, the new path cold and clear. The next target would be an anchor of Greed—a financial institution, a powerful broker, or a massive accumulator of wealth. The Emissary would need to draw on his Gluttony power to secure it.
"We will follow the money," Seraphina decided. "But we will contain him, Father. I will not kill the man who gave me salvation."
Her new strategy was set: understand the Order of the infernal, anticipate the next step on the Ledger, and capture the Emissary, hoping the human within was still salvageable. The pursuit had become a complex, agonising form of psychological warfare.