William sat across from Pastor Enoch in the back office of the chapel. The old man's hands were folded on the table, a chipped ceramic mug steaming between them. The air smelled faintly of mint and wood polish. Light filtered through the blinds in narrow bands, catching dust in golden suspension.
"I see the weight in your eyes," Enoch said gently. "You've been carrying it a long time."
William didn't speak. He just nodded slightly, eyes fixed on his own hands. They looked older than he remembered. Scarred. Callused. Too familiar.
"There's many kinds of sin," the pastor went on. "Pride. Lust. Greed. Gluttony. All the old names. But those are just doors. The one most folk don't want to name is wrath."
Enoch let the word settle in the air for a moment.
"Wrath hides," he said. "It puts on a noble mask. Says it's justice. Says it's protection. But deep down, it's still fire. Still hunger. And when that fire burns long enough... it kills."
William glanced up.
"What about murder?" he asked, his voice quieter than he meant.
Enoch nodded, slow and somber.
"Murder is wrath that's finished telling lies. Even when it's righteous, it leaves a hole in the soul. Even if you kill a monster, something in you has to die with it."
William blinked slowly. Something was strange. The tea kettle's whistle that had been softly hissing a moment ago had gone silent. The air seemed too still. Too thick. He shifted in his chair and felt a wetness on his hand.
He looked down.
His fingers were coated in blood.
He froze.
He hadn't moved. Hadn't stood. But the office was gone. So was Enoch. The quiet hum of the chapel had been replaced by distant screaming and the wet slosh of torn flesh underfoot.
He was no longer seated. He was standing, chest heaving, hand buried up to the wrist in the ribcage of something huge and inhuman. A demon, half-dead, its breath ragged, its eyes glowing with hate and disbelief.
William didn't remember drawing his arm back, but he felt the resistance of tendons snapping, bone cracking as he yanked free. Blood sprayed against his chest, hot and thick, as the creature collapsed to the ground with a hideous, guttural noise.
Around him, the battlefield raged.
Bodies. Smoke. Screams. The stench of burning meat and corrupted magic filled his lungs.
He staggered back, looking at his hand like it didn't belong to him. His heart thundered. His mind was still in the pastor's office. Still hearing the words.
"Even when it's righteous, it leaves a hole…"
The demon's body slumped to the mud, twitching once before going still. William stood over it, blood dripping from his fingers in thick ropes. The heat of battle burned around him, but inside, everything felt cold.
He could still hear Pastor Enoch's voice.
"Wrath hides. Wrath lies. And when it kills something in you has to die too."
But there was no room for grief here. No time for guilt. Something in the distance shrieked a sound like metal torn in half, layered over a human scream.
He turned his eyes toward it. More of them. Crawling out of the pits, snorting foul steam, dragging their claws through the earth like it owed them pain.
They were coming.
William clenched his jaw, wiped his bloody hand across his coat, and whispered the old words the words he'd wished to forget.
"From ash... rise."
[Thralls activated]
While he could do it non verbally. If he would chant the phrase from ash… rise his thralls are summoned in mass. While he could summon a few thralls it's harder to summon more than three. Now ten Thralls roamed across the battlefield killing anything around him. The incantation got rid of the mental strain for much more mana drain.
William can feel his magic flowing through his body and leaving to fuel the existence of every Thrall. He had summoned whenever one was damaged his magic would regenerate their wounds instantly.
The drain was minimal on his massive stores of power. Focusing his mind his magic flowed down his hands as it gradually shifted and morphed. The flesh warped and bended and slowly melted and reformed as something new.
Spotted patterns bloomed across the fur, black rosettes swirling over golden hide like ink spilling over parchment. His wrists rolled with feline grace, the bones inside shifting to accommodate a hunter's gait. Claws that could slice a man's throat clean appeared. William has changed his body, turning it into a weapon…
With [Deception]!
He Started running into the crowd jumping into the air he latched onto a creature with rotten wings. It's eyes were a deep gold and it's skin a pure black its beak was gnarled and crooked. It could have resembled a pteranodon if its flesh was rotten.
That didn't matter as when his claws sinked into its flesh it tried raising into the air to throw him off. But the claws were too far in its body. Tearing a chunk off its back he swung himself seated roughly near the chunk of flesh he'd ripped out. Removing his other hand the monster screamed a ghastly hollow sound of misery.
Uncaring to its plight William slashed its eyes and dragged his claws down it's body making guts fall down to the floor as they soared across the sky. Pulling its horn up he tried to pull it off! The horn didn't come off.
He braced with one foot against the base of the horn, muscles flexing, claws digging into the creature's skull for leverage.
Rip.
The flesh split but not the bone. Not yet. The monster bucked and tilted midair, wings thrashing wildly, trying to shake him loose. Wind roared past William's ears. Blood sprayed in great arcs around them, painting the sky in thick, arterial strokes.
Then they started descending back towards land and he prepared himself to jump on the next creature.
Leaping across he ripped and tore anything that approached his position. Nothing could stand up to him; he felt empty and hollow.
Why… Why was he like this? He didn't understand he just wanted to be a normal happy person. He never wanted any of this. But the world was a cruel place. Someone like him was forced to be a killer.
Why god…
Why…
Looking up to the all consuming darkness his body was covered in blood. None of the blood was his own. It was all the Magi he slaughtered. Their bodies laid around him lifeless corpses mangled beyond recognition.
He wanted away. No he needed away. He had to get away. Away from it all. It was too much. He needed Jesus. He needed his savior more than ever.
Then he had a divine revelation: he had only used Deception to have claws. What if he could imagine himself with wings and soar out of this hell. He would fly to the tower storm to the top and leave.
Than he would meet god.
Just beyond the beautiful ray of light laid his savior in everything. His soul, mind, and body.
Wings as bright as light emerged from his back ripping through his clothes and armor. Every transformation before at least had something resembling an animal from earth but this was something completely different.
The wings had no shape outside of the horrible drawing of a ten year old. Vaguely circular at the ends but wobbled and grew and shrunk as well.
The wings launched his body into the air and he soared out of the creator leaving it all behind.