Second's beak tore through armor plating like wet paper.
The Knight screamed—not the bored aristocratic voice from before, but raw, animal terror—as talons the size of kitchen knives punched through her breastplate and *twisted*.
Sable watched from ten meters away, cradling his ruined arm. The smell of his own burned flesh mixed with gasoline and blood made his stomach lurch, but he couldn't look away.
Second was *feeding*.
The Knight's legs kicked. Weakly. Her sword clattered from nerveless fingers.
Then she moved.
Not kicked. *Moved*.
Her body *twisted*—impossible angle, spine bending ways vertebrae shouldn't allow—and her gauntleted fist connected with Second's eye socket.
The impact produced a sound like a hammer hitting a side of beef.
Second shrieked—primal, ancient—and stumbled backward.
The Knight stood.
Sable's breath caught.
Her torso armor was *gone*. Peeled away. Crumpled like aluminum foil. Her stomach was visible—pale skin, dark bruising, and a vertical wound where Second's talons had *opened* her.
Intestines spilled from the gash. Grey-pink coils slithering over her thighs, dragging on concrete as she moved.
She should have been dead.
Should have been bleeding out.
Should have been *down*.
But she was *standing*.
"Fuck—fuck—*FUCK*!" The Knight's voice cracked. High. Desperate. "I'll fucking dismember you, fucking *bird*!"
She lunged for her sword.
Second launched.
Not flying. *Falling*. Like gravity had reversed. Like the bird weighed a thousand pounds compressed into muscle and hate.
Talons extended. Beak open. Crimson eyes blazing—
The Knight *moved*.
One moment: reaching for the blade.
Next moment: six meters left, sword in hand, stance perfect.
Sable's blue eye couldn't track it. The distance was wrong. The speed violated physics.
Second's talons hit concrete where the Knight had been. The platform *cracked*. Spiderwebbed. A crater the size of a manhole appeared, edges steaming.
The Knight swung.
Horizontal. Fast. The blade whistled through air—
Second's head snapped sideways. Dodged. By *centimeters*.
The Knight grunted—raw sound of pain—and her intestines *swung* with the movement, coiling around her legs like obscene rope.
She stumbled. Caught herself. Kept moving.
Second circled. Wings spread—three meters, four, still growing—and the air around them *bent*. Distorted. Reality flinching.
The Knight's boots sank into concrete. *Crunch*. Six inches deep.
Then she *moved* again—
But this time Sable saw it.
Saw the way her body *lifted* slightly before the burst of speed. Boots rising from their concrete graves. Like she'd suddenly weighed nothing.
Like gravity had *forgotten* her.
She closed distance in half a second—blade coming up, vertical strike aimed at Second's throat—
Second's beak intercepted.
*Clang*.
The sound was wrong. Too loud. Too sharp. Metal on bone producing a note that made Sable's teeth ache.
The Knight's arms *shook*. Muscle trembling. She pushed—blade grinding against Second's beak—and her boots sank deeper. *Crack*. Eight inches. Ten.
Suddenly heavy again.
Impossibly heavy.
The platform beneath her groaned. Concrete splitting. Rebar screaming.
Second *pushed back*.
The Knight flew—not stumbled, *flew*—fifteen feet through air, hit a support pillar, and the concrete *cratered*.
She slid down. Left a red smear. Her intestines tangled around the pillar base.
Sable's mind caught up.
*Weight manipulation.*
*That's her Grace.*
*She wasn't faster than physics. She was heavier than it allowed and lighter than it demanded. Weaponized mass. Controllable gravity.*
*That's why she walked so slowly before—carrying tons. Why her strikes bisected people—swinging hundreds of pounds of force. Why she could burst into impossible speed—dropping to nothing, letting momentum do the work.*
Understanding clicked into place like a lock turning.
Second convulsed.
The transformation wasn't finished.
Sable watched—couldn't *not* watch—as Second's body *spasmed*. Ribs cracking. Reforming. The sound was wet. Organic. Like green wood snapping in fire.
*Snap.*
Second's wings *expanded*. Joints breaking. Growing. Each feather darkening from black to something *deeper*. Not color. *Absence*. Like they were carved from the spaces between stars.
*Crack.*
The chest swelled. Doubled. The beak stretched, curved, became serrated. Built for *tearing*.
*Crunch.*
Size increasing. Wolf to cow. Cow to something that didn't have a name. Head rising toward the ceiling—fifteen feet up, twenty—
The chem-strips nearest Second *died*. Not flickered. *Died*. Like the crimson light pouring from his eyes was *eating* the green glow.
The Knight saw it. Her pale green eyes widened.
She tried to stand. Failed. Tried again.
Her left leg folded wrong—knee bending inward—but she *stood* anyway. Intestines dragging. Sword raised. Body shaking.
"Come *on*," she hissed through blood-filled mouth. "Come *on* you—"
Sable moved.
Not toward safety. Toward *her*.
His legs carried him before his brain finished the command. Bare feet silent on concrete. Right arm useless, cradled against his chest. Left hand reaching—
For her intestines.
The coils were slick. Warm. Still attached. Still *functional*.
Sable grabbed them.
The Knight's head snapped toward him. "What—"
He *ran*.
Not away. *Around* her. Circling. The intestines pulled taut—anchor chain connecting them—and the Knight *screamed*.
"*Fuck*—stop—*stop*—"
She swung. Blind. Desperate. The blade carved air where Sable had been—
He ducked. Kept moving. The intestines coiled. Once around her legs. Twice.
His medical training catalogued automatically: *small intestine, approximately six meters total length, surprisingly durable, tensile strength—*
The Knight's sword came *down*.
Vertical. Fast. Aimed at his neck—
Trajectory line appeared.
Faint. Translucent. The path burned across his vision—*there*, bisecting the space his throat occupied—
Sable threw himself *left*.
The blade missed by inches. Buried itself in concrete.
The Knight *wrenched* it free. Her movements were wrong now. Not precise. Not controlled. Just desperate slashing. Survival instinct wearing a soldier's training like an ill-fitting coat.
She was *weakened*.
Sable saw it in the way her shoulders hunched. The way her legs trembled. The way each swing took visible *effort*.
Blood loss. Shock. Damage accumulating.
She was *dying*.
Just slowly.
He kept circling. Pulling intestines. Ducking under wild swings. His blue eye tracked trajectory lines—*there, there, there*—and his body obeyed.
The Knight's boots sank deeper. *Crunch*. The platform beneath her feet *caved*. Concrete crumbling. A crater forming.
*She's going heavier. Trying to anchor herself. Stop me from pulling.*
Sable felt it. The intestines went taut—not like rope anymore, like *steel cable*. His shoulder screamed. Something popped. Joint threatening to dislocate.
He dropped the coils. Stumbled backward.
The Knight turned toward him. Raised her sword. Her face was grey. Lips blue. Eyes unfocused.
But the blade was steady.
She took one step. *Thud*. The ground *shook*.
Another step. *Thud*. Closer.
Her body suddenly *lifted*—boots rising from the crater—and she *moved*—
Second hit her like a meteor.
Talons first. Drove into her back. The Knight flew forward—weightless, helpless—and *slammed* into concrete fifteen feet away.
She didn't get up.
Second landed on top of her. Pinning. Wings spread. Head lowered. Beak inches from her exposed spine.
But didn't *strike*.
Just… held her there.
Sable stared.
Second's massive head turned. Looked at him. Crimson eyes glowing.
Waiting.
*He's waiting for me.*
*Wants me to finish it.*
Understanding settled cold in Sable's chest.
"Sable!"
Ellaya's voice. Small. Terrified.
He turned.
She stood twenty feet away, pressed against the far wall. Grey dress soaked. Face wet. Brown eyes wide.
"Your—your arm," she whispered.
Sable looked down.
His right arm from elbow to fingertips was *charred*. Black. Red. Weeping clear fluid from cracks in the skin. The smell of burned rubber and cooked meat made his stomach turn.
"Yeah," he said. His voice came out flat. Empty. "It's burnt to a crisp."
The pain was *exquisite*. Not sharp. Not stabbing. Just a constant, screaming pressure that his nervous system couldn't categorize as anything except *damage damage damage fix it fix it FIX IT—*
Ellaya ran toward him. Stopped three feet away. Stared at his arm.
"I—I can share you my Grace," she said.
Sable blinked. Looked at her.
"You said my Grace is really good and important." Her voice trembled. "I can share it to you."
*Borrowed Grace. Her regeneration. The reason those men wanted to cut her.*
Sable knelt. His knees hit concrete. The impact sent fresh pain through his arm and he *welcomed* it because pain meant nerves still worked.
He glanced back at Second. The massive form towered over the Knight's broken body. Still pinning. Still waiting.
*Second's not a threat. Not to us.*
*Still Second.*
He looked at Ellaya again.
"Are you sure?" His voice was quiet. Clinical. "It hurts."
"Yes." No hesitation. "I want to repay you. You saved me. Twice."
"Okay." Sable exhaled slowly. "Okay. I'm going to cut you. Small cut. I don't have the resources or place to test blood type compatibility, so we're just going to risk it."
"Blood type?" Ellaya tilted her head. "What's that?"
"Doesn't matter." He stood. Swayed. Caught himself. "Are you sure about this?"
"Yes."
Sable walked toward the supply stacks. Ellaya followed.
His hands shook as he searched through Nash's supplies. Medical kits. Rations. Tools. There—a small metal cutter. Industrial. Sharp.
He took it. Turned. Knelt in front of Ellaya.
"This is going to hurt," he said.
'I know,' Ellaya whispered. Then, quieter: 'But you'll be careful. Right?' Her voice was steady. Small, but *steady*.
The question hit harder than the Knight's blade.
Sable pressed the cutter's edge to her forearm. Avoided major veins. Avoided arteries. His medical training guided his hand even through the tremor.
"Ready?"
Ellaya nodded.
He *pressed*.
The skin separated. Blood welled—dark red, arterial-rich, warm.
Ellaya's breath hitched. Sharp inhale through clenched teeth. But she didn't pull away. Didn't cry.
Just *took it*.
"Good," Sable whispered. "You're doing good."
He lifted his burned hand. The exposed tissue screamed at the movement. He held it steady.
Let Ellaya's blood drip onto the ruined flesh.
Drop. Drop. Drop.
Warm. Body-temperature. The heat of *life* touching the cold of *damage*.
White text burned across his vision:
**[NEW BORROWED GRACE]**
**[SHARED]**
**[REGENERATION]**
**[Heals wounds at a slow rate]**
**[Cannot heal severe injuries fully]**
**[REGENERATION: ACTIVE]**
The healing started.
And the pain *doubled*.
Sable's teeth ground together. His vision went white at the edges. Because burned nerves were *dead* and healing ones *remembered* how to scream.
New tissue forming. Cells dividing. Nerve endings *waking up* and reporting *damage damage DAMAGE—*
"It's okay," Ellaya's small hand found his shoulder. "I'm here."
Sable focused on breathing. In. Out. In. The world narrowed to sensation and the sound of his own heartbeat.
Slowly—so slowly—the pain shifted. From screaming to burning. From burning to aching.
Not healed. But *healing*.
He looked at his arm. The charred black was fading to angry red. Blisters forming, then breaking, then forming again. Skin trying to remember what it was supposed to be.
"Thank you," he said.
Ellaya just nodded. Her own cut was already sealed. Fresh pink skin where the wound had been.
Sable stood. Turned toward Second and the Knight.
Time to finish this.
He walked slowly. Each step deliberate. His right arm throbbed but *worked*. Fingers flexing. Sensation returning.
Second watched him approach. The massive head lowered slightly. Acknowledging.
The Knight was still breathing. Barely. Her back rose and fell in shallow, wet gasps.
Sable reached the pile of rubble near the collapsed support beam. Found a rock. Fist-sized. Heavy. Good weight.
He walked to the Knight. Second shifted—just enough to expose her head.
Sable knelt. Pulled off her helmet.
The seal broke with a wet *hiss*.
Her face was young. Early twenties. Freckles scattered across her nose. Blood poured from both nostrils—twin streams running over her lips, choking her on her own failure.
Her eyes were pale green. Sea glass. Spring.
*Terrified*.
She looked at Sable. Gasping. Drowning in air.
"I-I'm s—" *gasp* "—I'm sorry. Ple-please sa-vee m-me."
Her voice was different. Not the bored aristocrat. Not the soldier. Just a woman. Young. Dying. Wanting more time.
Sable stared at her.
Thought about the thirty-seven people she'd executed. Nash's severed leg. The mother and child killed for hiding. The teenager who'd died confused.
Thought about her freckles. Her sea-glass eyes. How she looked exactly like someone who deserved to live.
He lifted the rock.
The Knight's broken arms tried to move—ligaments tearing, bones grinding—trying to protect her face even though protection was minutes past possible.
"Please," she whispered. "I was just—I was just doing my—"
"I know," Sable said.
His voice was flat. Empty. Honest.
"So was I."
Her eyes widened. Pupils dilating. The final understanding that this was *it*.
Sable met her gaze. Held it.
"Good riddance."
The rock came down.
*Once.*
Nose broke. Orbital bones shattered. Blood mixed with something grey.
*Twice.*
Jaw disconnected. The resistance changed. Softer.
*Three times.*
The skull gave up. What had been a face became *geography*.
Sable kept going.
Not from rage. Not from satisfaction.
From *thoroughness*.
From the clinical precision that had carried him through six years of medical school.
From understanding that half-measures got you killed. Sable had to be sure.
*Four. Five. Six.*
Sure that this woman dies.
The rock was slippery now. Warm.
Behind him, Ellaya made a sound. Small. Broken.
Sable stopped.
Looked at his hands. At the rock. At what used to be a person.
Conflicted.. but completed
Task finished. Problem solved. Threat neutralized.
Cold text burned across his vision:
**[SINNER PASSIVE EFFECT]**
**[REDEMPTIVE WRATH : ACTIVE]**
**[YOU HAVE SLAIN A MASS MURDERER]**
**[SINS +500]**
**[SINS NEEDED FOR A FACET: 10,000]**
**[CURRENT BALANCE: 500/10,000]**
Then, slower, like something vast was turning its attention toward him:
**[THE SIN OF WRATH IS PLEASED WITH YOU]**
**[THE SIN OF PRIDE LIKES YOU]**
**[THE SIN OF SLOTH HATES SEEING BLOOD]**
**[THE SIN OF ENVY IS WATCHING]**
**[THE SIN OF GREED WANTS MORE]**
**[THE SIN OF GLUTTONY IS CURIOUS]**
**[THE SIN OF LUST IS… INTRIGUED]**
Seven notifications. Seven *entities*. Ancient. Cosmic. *Watching*.
Sable stared at the text.
At the way some Sins were *pleased* and others *hated* and others just… *waited*.
"What the fuck," he whispered.
The notifications faded.
But the sensation remained. Like spotlights made of concepts he couldn't name had found him in the dark and *measured* him.
Found him adequate.
Or interesting.
Or *useful*.
From what he'd heard, the karma system wasn't just a measure—it was a hierarchy, a divine ledger carved into two opposing truths.
Virtues for the ones who walked in the light.
Sins for those who strayed into the dark.
And once you crossed the threshold, the rain itself would choose your fate. It didn't bother with intentions, excuses, or justifications. The rain saw only what you did.
A killing was still a killing, even if you swore it was to save a life.
A kindness was still a kindness, even if your heart hid ulterior motives.
In the end, the rain judged actions—nothing more, nothing less.
And then the rain spoke its verdict: I was a sinner.
Branded, judged, and marked—
and the Sins themselves turned their gaze toward me.
Once you crossed the threshold—Sin or Virtue—the world marked you with a Facet. It wasn't a gift. It was a binding. A declaration of what you would become.
And then came the choice:
which Sin or Virtue you would let carve itself into your soul.
From that moment on, your Grace began to change.
Warping. Twisting. Evolving into something that echoed the very Sin or Virtue you claimed—
a power shaped by the darkness or the light you allowed to consume you.
Sable dropped the rock. It landed with a wet *thud*.
He turned. Looked at Ellaya. At Second, still massive, still wrong, but *present*.
At the platform littered with bodies.
At the stairs leading up to a world that would have questions he couldn't answer.
In the darkness near the maintenance tunnel—pressed against the wall, black suit soaked, perfect composure finally shattered—Malvric stood frozen.
He had watched everything.
The intestine gambit. The execution.
His hand trembled against the concrete. His black eyes were wide.
Not with fear.
With *recognition*.
He knew what he'd just witnessed.
Not a Bestowed gaining power.
A *Sinner* being born.
And in seven days, when the Rain cycle ended, when people returned to their normal lives and pretended the horrors were over—
Malvric would remember this moment.
Would remember the boy with mismatched eyes who'd stood over a knight.
Would remember the way reality itself had *noticed* him.
And would understand, with absolute certainty, that everything was about to change.
-----