Seven Sins System Chapter 712. Selection Protocol
Seven Sins System Chapter 712. Selection Protocol
She whispered something then.
Too low to hear.
A name maybe.
Or a plea.
Or maybe just a sound with no meaning left.
I didn’t ask.
Didn’t press.
I just held her tighter.
And the crystals?
They stayed.
Floating.
Gleaming.
I could take them later.
Or not at all.
But the moment was gone. She’d already pulled away.
She just… let go. Quietly. Cleanly. Like she’d put her grief back in a box and sealed the lid tight.
She didn’t look at me when she stood, didn’t wipe her face, didn’t explain. She didn’t need to.
So I asked, voice low, trying not to press,
“You wanna go back now? I can keep going. Alone. You don’t have to—”
“No.”
Simple. Sharp.
“I want to know. Even if it hurts.”
I stared at her for a breath. Maybe two. Her eyes didn’t waver.
Just steady pain. The kind you carry, not the kind you run from.
I gave her a slow nod. “Okay. Just… go back if you need to, alright?”
She didn’t answer. Not right away. Then finally, a nod. Small. But real.
I hesitated. Looked at the glowing tears still floating in the space between us.
“Your tears…”
She followed my gaze. And for a second, I wondered if she'd forgotten them.
But no. She looked, saw them, and then said—
“Take them.”
And just like that, she walked away.
I whispered a quiet thanks to the air. Not sure if she heard. Not sure if it mattered.
I scooped them gently, one by one. They shimmered like frozen hope, like glass bells waiting to chime.
[7x Angel’s Tear Crystal (A+ Grade) Acquired.]
I pocketed them.
Then I followed her.
The next hallway bled into the next, each more broken and forgotten than the last. If the ruin had bones, this was its marrow—deep, twisted, half-digested.
The rooms here weren’t made for ceremony.
They were made for function.
Alchemical function.
Laboratories, maybe. Or workshops. Places with tables meant for carving, slicing, dissecting—not for knowledge’s sake but for resource extraction. Messy chaos. Broken tubes. Seals burned into the floor. Holy circles twisted into bastard symbols. Tools rusted over but still sharp in intent.
Puriel moved ahead of me now. Quiet. But slower. Her eyes darted to everything—ceilings, floors, old rusted chains—and I could feel it, the tension threading her steps tighter with every breath.
I stepped up beside her when we passed the first containment cell.
The door was gone, melted off. Inside was… hell.
Wards still etched faintly on the walls. I could smell them—old divine oil burnt into stone, still reeking of incense and ash.
The cell was designed for celestial containment. I recognized the symbols… Suppression glyphs, purification locks, resonance cages.
They weren’t built to kill.
They were built to preserve.
That was worse.
Because that meant whoever was in here wasn’t executed. They were harvested.
Bit. By. Bit.
No blood left now. Just the faint shadow of where something holy once wept.
I turned to the next one.
Then the next.
Some had infernal wards instead—twisted holy seals meant to paralyze demons. To freeze them mid-shift, mid-thought.
The kind of traps that bind your core, rip your identity apart from the inside.
And the rooms?
Empty.
Every single one.
No corpses. No bones.
Only husks.
Dry outlines.
Shells.
They took everything.
Feathers.
Wings.
Horns.
Scales.
Halos.
Claws.
Blood.
Organs.
Even their skin. Their faces.
Nothing left behind. Just surgical shadows on stone.
Puriel made a noise behind me. A soft gag. She leaned on the frame of the nearest door and doubled over, hand covering her mouth.
I didn’t move to touch her this time. I just stood nearby.
“They didn’t fight,” she muttered. “There’s… no damage. No spell burns. No struggle.”
Her voice cracked.
“They were already dying.”
“Selection protocol,” I said quietly. “They chose the weakest. Those barely hanging on. Easy to secure, easy to carve.”
Her face twisted like she might scream. But she didn’t. She just looked back into the cell.
“This wasn’t war,” she said.
“No,” I agreed. “This was harvesting.”
I stepped further in. The hallway shifted again, sloping downward. I could feel the pull of old seals—the ones deeper, layered. Buried. These weren’t just containment. They were sanctum seals. This place had levels. Built by someone who understood divine structure.
The light dimmed more. My steps echoed. Dust rose from under my boots. The air grew heavier. Holy… and not.
“I thought only demons did this,” she said behind me.
“Did what?”
“This level of cruelty.”
I paused. Let that hang.
Then I exhaled, slow.
“I used to think that too.”
And it was true.
I was a Lord of Wrath. I knew pain. I’d done unspeakable things. I'd eaten enemies—torn them apart with claws and fangs and hate.
But not like this.
Not slow.
Not to the helpless.
Not to the already dying.
I didn’t touch those who didn’t fight.
Didn’t hurt those who couldn’t hit back.
Didn’t consume anything that didn’t scream in return.
But this?
This was worse.
I turned to look at her. “Mortals did this.”
She didn’t answer.
I pushed open another door.
Inside was a chamber with split-level cages—glass containers, shattered now, where organs had likely floated. Labels written in ink faded brown. I moved closer.
One tag read.
“Sample: Celestial Ascension Core - Inactive. Remove before decay.”
I felt bile rise in my throat.
Not from disgust.
From rage.
They dissected ascension cores.
The literal divine spark that lets an angel evolve.
How did they even get that?
Answer?
They cut it out.
“What kind of bastard figures out how to cut open a soul and then puts it in a jar?” I muttered.
She didn’t laugh.
Didn’t snort.
Just stared.
“I think… I knew,” she whispered.
I turned.
“I think I always knew some of them—the higher seats, the scholars, the archivists—they stopped seeing us as immortal. A long time ago.”
That made me still.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked.
She looked at me. “Because… I thought they just wanted to understand us better.”
That stopped me.
Her voice was small. Like the truth had to shrink to be spoken.