Back at the camp, Seraph sat once more on the stone throne, leaning to one side, lazily swirling threads of golden Mystic energy between his fingers. It flickered like a flame, alive and eager, whispering of untapped power.
His gaze was distant, thoughtful, as he considered all the possibilities Mystic now offered him.
After a few minutes of idle play, he opened his status panel.
[Status]
Name: William Deathwill (Unique Identity)
Race: Mythical Creature
Mythical Form: Seraphim(Self Named)
Mythical Title: Seraph Of End;
Rank: Extraordinary Level 1
Class: Captain(29%) / Spirit Forger(7%)
Mutation: Winged One (100%)
Ship: Ordinary Fishing Boat
Pet: Open Inventory
Personal Skill: Mysterious Knowledge
Identity Exclusive Skill: Extraordinary Senses, Hunter, I'Am Here.
…
Not much had changed on the surface, but his race, which was previously hidden, had shifted to Mythical Creature, and the mutation had reached full completion. His classes had grown slightly, likely from his commands during battle and the fight itself when he controlled his spiritual power.
But these weren't surprises. He'd already sensed the changes naturally through his body.
What he truly wanted to check was something more primal.
With a thought, he opened his attribute panel.
[Stats]
Physique: 5(8) (Reaching Middle and Peak of Level 1 Extraordinary simultaneously)
Spirit: 7(10) (You can easily bend your spiritual power as you want and there's nothing that can escape from your senses.)
Mystic: 7 / 9. (Destroying The Winged Lord Will's give you a massive Mystic point bonus.)
[Remark: Congratulations for reaching the Mythical status on the second day. You are now officially the strongest player in this region.]
The attribute panel revealed the true scope of his evolution.
His Physique, while sitting at 5 point in his base form, considered the middle stage of Level 1 Extraordinary, it rose to 8 in his Mythical form. That wasn't just rare… It was nearly unheard of. Most locals struggled to reach 5 points, often stopping there to consolidate strength before attempting Rank 2. Beyond that, the resource cost and training time skyrocketed.
His Spirit was even more impressive.
A raw stat of 7 point, climbing to 10 in Mythical form. For reference, Kei had mentioned that ten points in Spirit was equivalent to a solid mid-stage Rank 2 Extraordinary. Most people, especially those like Witches or Wizards, needed years of training, expensive catalysts, and rare items to reach such heights.
And he had achieved it… In two days.
Not through slow growth, but through sheer force of myth and madness.
As for Mystic, that was the most mysterious stat, appropriately so. Seraph now understood it better, thanks to the assimilation of the Winged Lord's memories. Mystic wasn't just fuel or capacity. It was a transformation. Enhancement. It was a cheat code applied to the very rules of the world.
Where Spirit was the engine, Mystic was the modification kit that rewrote how the engine functioned.
It allowed him to do more with less, break rules without breaking, and perform feats that shouldn't be possible. Even now, he could feel the potential swirling around him, waiting for a command. Waiting for purpose.
Seraph exhaled deeply, letting the golden light fade between his fingers.
The power he used during the battle with the Galuga had only been a fragment, only two points of Mystic, and even that had been enough to annihilate a monster capable of matching him physically.
Yet in hindsight, it felt… Wasteful and unrefined. Like swinging a blade that was too heavy, its potential not yet mastered.
There had to be a better way.
He sat in silence, thinking, feeling the hum of Mystic still lingering within him. The energy wasn't just raw force, it was something more. A conceptual power. A divine energy that bent rules, not just bones. If Spirit was the will to move, Mystic was the permission to shape.
Just as that thought rooted deeper in his mind, Seraph's senses tingled. He felt movement approaching from the shore, footsteps, hesitant, and cautious. The cultists.
They were returning from battle, bringing with them the spoils of victory, what few they had. But their pace was slow, uncertain. Fear trailed behind them like mist. They remembered his silence after the fight. His cold expression. His contemptuous snort that silenced their cheers.
They believed they had disappointed their "Lord."
Seraph stood slowly from the throne.
Before doing anything else, he glanced at the two Witches beside him.
"Kei, Rei. Leave for now. Find somewhere safe," He said quietly.
The twins didn't question him. They sensed it too, the pressure that built inside him, the stirrings of something new.
"What about the others?" Kei asked, nodding toward the girls who had been offered to him.
Seraph didn't answer, but typed in the group.
[Seraph: "Just go."]
With that the twin faded into the night.
While those lamb girls still lingered near the throne, watching him with a mix of awe and apprehension. He didn't move them. This experiment may not have been meant for them. But Seraph wants to know what will happen if they are exposed to that.
Now that the cultists were gathering again, their aura thick with dread, he allowed his thoughts to roam deeper.
Mystic was power… but what if it was more than just strength? During the ritual, the Winged Lord's will had tried to force submission upon him, an overwhelming presence that nearly consumed his mind.
And yet… It wasn't entirely brute force. It was an influence. Authority. A divine presence that bent others to its shape.
Could he do the same?
Even if not on that level, perhaps a seed of it?
He raised his hand slowly, feeling Mystic stir like sunlight in his palm. A small golden sphere bloomed into existence, radiant and beautiful. Like a star compressed into his grasp.
The cultists flinched, their eyes wide with a mix of awe and terror. The head priest was the first to react, falling to his knees, then pressing his forehead to the ground in a trembling prostration.
"Forgive us my Lord," He whispered, "We are unworthy."
The others followed instantly, bowing in unison, their voices quivering with reverence and fear.
Seraph looked down at them all.
Pitiful. But useful.
He took a deep breath, then spoke, not with wrath, but with cold finality.
"You are weak," he said, "And you have disappointed me."
The silence that followed was crushing. Some of them trembled. One even quietly wept.
Seraph let it hang for a moment longer, then his voice shifted, no less powerful, but now laced with something else.
"But… even ash can give birth to flame."
He raised the golden sphere higher, letting its glow bathe their bowed heads.
"As long as you accept this power, you can rise again. Just as I have."
The cultists gasped, stunned. Some looked up, their eyes shimmering with desperation.
They began to chant, louder and louder, overcome by fervor.
"Praise the Winged Lord!"
"Glory to the Lord who rose from death!"
Their voices grew, and with them, the pressure in Seraph's head began to pulse again. That name, Winged Lord. It clawed at his mind like rusted nails on glass.
"Silence," Seraph ordered, his voice cutting through their chants like a blade.
And just like that, they obeyed.
The glow in his palm faded. His eyes narrowed.
'So this is the beginning,' he thought, 'If the will can be bent. Then the name… will follow.'
Soon, they would not be praising the Winged Lord.
They would be worshiping the Seraph of End.
…
Only seventeen cultists remained.
They stood in a line before the throne, battered from battle, their robes stained with blood and seawater. Their gazes remained low, the shame of failure etched into every line of their posture. Yet still, they waited, hoping, and trembling before their "Lord."
Seraph rose to his full height, golden light faintly clinging to the edges of his form. The air around him thrummed with suppressed energy, and the faint echo of power still resonated from the battle moments before.
He raised his hand slowly.
"Close your eyes," he said, voice low, reverent, like a priest at the altar, "Feel the power I grant you."
The cultists obeyed immediately, eyes shutting, heads bowed.
Seraph narrowed his gaze. He focused.
Golden threads of Mystic energy began to rise from his palms, thin strands of radiance, soft like silk and warm like flame. Then, with a single breath, he released them. The strands dispersed, flowing toward the kneeling cultists like drifting motes of light, sinking into them, one by one.
Silence followed.
Seraph could feel it, his power brushing against their flesh, sliding beneath skin, seeping into their minds.
Then… contact.
He could feel them. Their class as cultists. Their mental frameworks, shaped by ritual and repetition. Their binding oaths. Their faith.
And then… deeper still…
The name.
Winged Lord.
Seraph's brows furrowed slightly.
'Why is that name still there? I've replaced him. I am here. I have his wings, his throne, his power. Why... does he still linger?'
He reached further, sensing the bond between himself and the cultists, their belief. It was fragile, but there. He could feel the link, a hollow vessel waiting to be rewritten. So he tried.
He didn't yell. He didn't command.
He simply willed it.
To erase the old name… and in its place, plant the truth:
Seraphim of End.
But something snapped.
The moment he forced the change, the connection shuddered violently. The Mystic threads writhed in pain. The cultists' belief convulsed, rejecting the new truth like poison. Their spirits twisted, resisting violently. Seraph felt the backlash immediately, his control slipping.
'They'll awaken,' he thought, 'And they'll know that I am not him.'
It wasn't a danger. Not truly. But it was inconvenient. A stain on the smooth path he'd hoped to walk.
So he made a decision.
Seraph took a slow breath.
Then he whispered:
"My believers… For me… Now…"
His voice became quiet, almost tender.
"Please die."
And then, with a final push, he unleashed everything.
Golden Mystic light surged from him like a tidal wave, ripping across the connection, strengthening the threads to their limit, binding their thoughts, their souls, to that final command.
The cultists gasped.
Eyes opened, wide and glassy, each locking onto Seraph as if seeing him for the last time.
And then, as one, they spoke.
"For You, My Lord… The Winged Lord…"
And they moved.
Each of them plunged their hands into their own chest.
Sickening, wet squelches filled the air.
One by one, they tore open their own bodies, digging through flesh with fanatic clarity, reaching for the still-beating heart. Blood sprayed, some of it spattering across the stone near Seraph's feet.
They smiled.
Their faces were alight with rapture. With peace. With twisted, radiant faith.
And then… silence.
They died in place. Kneeling yet still smiling. Believers to the bitter end.
Seraph stood still, the golden glow around him dimming to nothing. He didn't speak. He didn't flinch.
In the end, he can't change their belief, even if he whispers his name and title. The cultists still clung to believe that he was the Winged Lord... the one they revived.
But, he simply smiled.
Faint. Cold. Unreadable.
Around the throne, the remaining Devoted Lambs girl stirred. Their expressions shifted, some in awe, some whispering softly in words not meant for mortal tongues. Their lips moved with incantations Seraph couldn't yet understand.
But he could feel it.
Connection.
Not like before. Not fanatic or zealous. Not madness.
But something new. Something real. Like a shallow thread, stretching toward him from their souls.
It was weak.
But it was his.
And this time, it didn't bear the name of the Winged Lord.
It reached toward Seraph.
And it could be nurtured.
Become stronger. Become Something More.
…
Seraph sat back on the cold stone throne, one arm resting loosely on the armrest, the golden gleam of his Mystic energy still lingering faintly in the air around him. His towering frame cast long shadows in the flickering torchlight, his wings half-folded behind him, a silent testament to what he had become.
At his feet, the Devoted Lambs knelt.
They bowed again and again, their slender bodies trembling with each prostration, foreheads pressed to the blood-stained ground. Their ceremonial robes, thin and open at the chest, shifted with every breath, revealing pale skin, the soft rise of youthful breasts, and the smooth lines of their collarbones.
The cult hadn't bothered to clothe them properly beneath the outer robes. They were meant to be offerings, not people. Nothing more than Sacrifices, Tools, or Plaything.
But the ritual was over.
As The Seraph of End, he ended their life, the cultists who summoned their "Lord" were gone, dead by his command, and yet the Lambs remained.
Their young faces carried the fragile marks of trauma: wide eyes, stiff movements, lips trembling on the edge of silence. But deeper, under the surface, Seraph saw it. Something forming. A glimmer of a seed.
Not that of loyalty. Not a mere worship.
But Reverence.
The kind that didn't come from words or teachings, but from witnessing something beyond the natural order.
They had seen him rise. Seen him survive. Seen him change the world with a breath.
And now… They couldn't look away.
This was the beginning of Mystic Pollution, not corruption of flesh, but transformation of mind. Their understanding of reality had been bent. Shattered and reassembled around him.
Seraph leaned forward slightly, one hand raised lazily as golden threads of Mystic coiled from his fingertips. His Mystic power was low now, spent from earlier, but for this observation, it was enough.
As the golden tendrils brushed their skin, he felt it.
A resonance.
Not forced, not torn open like the cultists, but just… present. Faintly. Like a whisper clinging to the edges of their souls.
He focused deeper into their minds.
What he found was hollowness, empty spaces where certainty had once been. The cult had broken them, stripped them of family, of identity. But in that void, something had begun to grow.
It wasn't a belief in the Winged Lord.
It was a belief in him.
They had no name for him, not yet. But their instincts had chosen. In their broken innocence, they reached out toward the only being that made sense in the chaos.
The one who sat above them now.
One of the girls, the smallest and youngest, hesitated, then lifted her hand and placed her fingers against his foot. Not to plead. Not to serve. But in awe. Like a child trying to touch the sun.
Seraph didn't stop her.
He let the contact linger… Then guided a thread of Mystic into her skin.
She gasped softly, her breath hitching as something within her shifted. A faint glow appeared at the base of her throat, like an ember left behind by a fire. It wasn't magic. It wasn't visible to others. But Seraph saw it for what it was.
A brand of belief.
Still shallow and delicate. But more real.
He looked down at her, then at the others. His voice, low and even, was carried on the current of Mystic.
"You are no longer just Lambs. You are becoming something greater."
The other two looked up, eyes wide, breath held in unison. They didn't flinch nor flee.
So he reached out again, extending the same golden thread, brushing gently against their thoughts. Their reactions were different, one gasped, one shivered, but neither resisted.
No pain. No collapse. Just quiet acceptance.
This was the difference.
Where the cultists would die screaming in zealous madness, the Devoted Lambs adapted in silence.
Where faith crumbled, awe took root.
And Seraph, for the first time, understood the depth of the bond Mystic could create, not just in battle, not merely as power, but in people.
It wasn't control. It wasn't domination. It was resonance.
The Devoted Lambs at his feet were still fragile, still forming. But in time, they would not remain mere sacrifices, bowed in borrowed faith. No. One day, they would become something more.
A Chosen.
Marked by his will.
And in that quiet moment, Seraph smiled, not with cruelty, not with desire, but with the calm satisfaction of a god who had begun to gather his first true believers.
He allowed them to draw closer, allowed their trembling fingers to touch his Mythical flesh, his legs, his chest, the faint ridges of his wings. Let them bask in the warmth radiating from his body. The rhythm of his breathing, the steady pulse of a heart that now beats like thunder.
Their awe deepened with each passing second.
And soon, that awe turned to yearning.
Their hands no longer trembled from fear, but from fervent reverence. He could feel it, the shifting tides in their hearts. They didn't want to simply serve. They wanted to become one with him.
Not in worship alone, but in soul, in body, in purpose.
They would offer themselves completely, if only he gave the word.
But Seraph narrowed his eyes. He had seen this before, in the broken minds of the cultists, in the fanatics who tore out their own hearts.
He reached out with his Mystic senses and felt it.
Their minds were bending.
No longer thinking or questioning.
Just... spiraling out of control.
Their thoughts twisted into singularity of him. Their entire being compressed into one overwhelming concept: the god before them.
And he realized, if he allowed it to continue, they would collapse. Their human minds could not yet handle such absolute distortion.
So he acted.
"Calm down."
His voice rang softly but carried weight, pressing into their thoughts like a gentle tide. It wasn't a command, it was a hand reaching through the storm, pulling them back from the edge.
The Lambs froze.
Their glazed eyes blinked. One of them took a shaky breath, her hands still resting against his leg. Another lowered her gaze, clearly confused by her own actions. The third slowly drew her hands back and shivered.
They had not broken, but they had come dangerously close.
'Too soon,' Seraph thought, 'If I push too hard… I will lose them.'
They were not cultists.
They were not Witches.
They were villagers, normal girls.
And yet… He could feel it now, clearer than before.
A connection.
Unlike the shallow exchange with Kei and Rei, this was deeper. Not formed from reason or shared plans, but from complete, instinctual surrender.
The devotion of the Lambs wasn't chosen, it was born from exposure. From seeing what they should never have seen. From touching something beyond mortal comprehension.
Their existence now fed his own. As if their very presence grounded him, softened the unrelenting storm within his body. His Mystic power, once a raging torrent barely held together, had calmed, just slightly. The pressure in his flesh lessened. His thoughts grew clearer.
The burden of Myth had eased.
Seraph raised his hand and opened the group chat with Kei and Rei.
[Seraph: Bring me clothes and blankets. For the girls.]
A moment later,
[Kei: Understood. We'll come shortly.]
…
A few minutes passed in silence.
The Devoted Lambs knelt quietly at the foot of the throne, their heads bowed once more, not in madness, but in gentle reverence. They didn't speak, didn't move, simply watched him with soft, awed expressions as if afraid he would vanish.
Eventually, the tent flap parted.
Kei and Rei entered with folded clothes and fresh blankets in hand. They blinked as they saw Seraph sitting regally, the girls surrounding him in near silence.
Rei tilted her head, "Are you… sleeping like this?"
Seraph gave a soft chuckle, "It's surprisingly comfortable. And there's no house or bed large enough for me in this form, is there?"
The twins exchanged a look but said nothing. They approached, placing the items gently near the Lambs, who accepted them with subtle glances at Seraph for approval.
Kei studied the girls for a moment, then turned back, "What happened to them?"
Seraph leaned back, his voice low, "Well, I reached into their minds… marked them. The connection was shallow at first, but it's deepening fast. They almost lost themselves." He paused, "But then, I stopped it."
A brief silence followed.
Then Kei nodded, "If that's the case, they're already changing, or can be said, tainted by your Mystic will."
"I know, I can feel it," Seraph said.
Rei knelt beside one of the girls, brushing her hair gently aside, "They're not just Lambs anymore."
Seraph watched the interaction closely, then asked quietly, "You two… still wish to be my companions?"
The twins turned toward him, Kei answering first.
"We made that choice already," she said, "But…"
"We'll undergo the proper baptism," Rei added, "But only After we reach the First Rank. We're close already. As the rituals, the contact with you, and the stress we experienced, accelerated our growth."
Kei stepped closer, her gaze steady, "And don't worry about 'polluting' us. As long as you don't force your will into us, we can resist the distortion."
"It's about trust," Rei said simply, "And we will trust you."
Seraph closed his eyes for a moment.
Then nodded.
"Okay then, I'll wait."
A new foundation had formed, one of devotion, power, and dangerous understanding. The Witches stood at his side. The Devoted Lambs knelt at his feet. And within him burned the growing storm of a Myth still in its infancy.
The world didn't know it yet.
But it had already begun to change.