Seven Sins System Chapter 738. Reborn Demon I

Seven Sins System Chapter 738. Reborn Demon I

I said nothing. Just kept walking.

Because I knew that pain.

I’d lived it.

And I wasn’t going to let him rot like that.

Not in my house.

Not under my name.

The bat walked beside me, his steps twitchy, wings drawn in tight like he was trying to take up less space. In Wrath territory, that posture was a death sentence. Weakness here didn’t inspire pity, it inspired challenge. Bloodshed. The moment someone smelled you were soft, they tested it with claws.

The servants knew not to challenge anyone who walked beside me. But he knew, too. The shame in his aura said it all.

We walked through the eastern wing of the palace, through hallways carved from stone blackened by infernal magic. The walls were etched in screaming reliefs, scenes of past battles, carved with blades, sealed with blood.

I didn’t speak for a while. Neither did he.

But eventually, I broke the silence.

“You remember who you are?”

He glanced up, startled. His ears twitched. “I… I think so. I mean. Maybe?”

“Give me a name.”

He blinked. His brow furrowed, the sharp crease between his eyes twitching with effort. He opened his mouth, tried to say something, then closed it.

“…Karon?” he said softly.

I stopped. Dead in my tracks.

“You sure?”

He hesitated. “No. Not really. But… it feels… familiar.”

I turned to face him. My eyes were cold.

“I saw Karon’s corpse,” I said. “In the cave. Mangled. Twisted. His demonic core was shattered. I saw the fragments. That was death. Nothing left behind.”

The bat froze. His small fingers clenched at his sides. “Then… maybe not Karon. Maybe…”

He looked to the distance like the stone walls might give him answers. His voice lowered to a near-whisper.

“Salmul? No… Kilgrel?”

I tilted my head, arms folding over my chest.

“You don’t remember,” I said flatly.

He didn’t argue. He just closed his eyes.

“No,” he admitted. “Some names… they keep repeating in my mind. Like broken echoes. But I don’t feel like any of them. I don’t feel like anyone.”

I sighed. “Yeah. Makes sense. You’ve been in that body too long. A bat doesn’t have a name. No identity. Just instinct. Fear. Hiding. It erodes you over time.”

We turned a corner, and the scent hit first.

Blood. Burned stone. Sulfur. And underneath it, something older. Something foul and holy and wrong and right at the same time.

We arrived.

The Abyss Bath Chamber.

Not some polished spa with rose petals and incense like Asmo’s tower. No. This was wrath-built. War-born.

The walls pulsed with raw demonic power. Thick veins of cursed magic ran like molten lava through the stone, glowing dull red with age and rage. The ceiling was high and lost to shadow. The air was heavy… almost wet, with spiritual weight.

At the center sat the bath.

If you could even call it that.

It was a circular pit, carved from deep black stone older than most mortal civilizations. Not smooth. Not polished. Jagged around the edges like teeth. The liquid inside bubbled like a calm hell-lava, dark, oily red with streaks of purple and violet. The steam that rose from it shimmered with thick cursed energy.

Not hot water. Not healing spring.

This was abyssal purge.

I stepped forward and gestured to it with a clawed hand.

“Dip in.”

The bat’s eyes widened. “That… that’s the Abyss Bath?”

“Yes.”

He took a step back. His ears flattened. “It’s cursed.”

“So are you.”

He looked at me like I’d just asked him to jump into a volcano.

“Will it hurt?”

“Yes,” I said honestly. “A lot.”

His wings trembled. “Will it kill me?”

“No.” I paused. “Unless you’re not meant to survive it. But you are. So it won’t.”

He looked at the bath again, breath shaky. “It smells like it’s going to flay my core…”

“It might,” I admitted. “But you need to come back. You’re a wrath demon. We don’t crawl. We rise.”

He stood there. Staring.

I let him.

Because no one could make that choice for him. Not even me.

Then finally… slowly… he walked forward.

Step by step.

And just before he reached the edge, he looked over his shoulder at me.

“Thank you,” he said. Quiet. Raw.

I didn’t respond.

He turned back.

And stepped in.

The moment his foot touched the liquid, he screamed.

Not high-pitched. Not desperate.

A wrath scream. Deep. Ripping.

The bath lit up.

The water hissed like acid. His small body convulsed. His wings snapped out, dissolving on contact. The cursed water peeled away the weak form like a dying shell.

And underneath it?

Red.

Dark red light.

A core.

His core.

The real one.

Cracked. Dim. But there.

And as he sank beneath the surface, the bath pulsed like a heartbeat.

I stood at the edge. Watching.

Silent.

He would survive.

He had to.

Because he was mine.

And then the bath reacted.

The cursed liquid didn’t just burn, it responded. Wrath wasn’t a flame you snuffed out. It was a hunger. A forge. It consumed what was weak, then remade it stronger.

His core, dim, cracked, unstable, shuddered in the depths.

And the moment that shiver ran through the cursed waters, the bath howled.

Not literally. Not a sound.

But the energy around us screamed.

That thing in his chest. It wasn’t some borrowed spark. It was a wrath core. Real. Ancient. Buried under layers of fear and bat instinct, but it was his.

The cracks…

They began to close.

Bit by bit.

Like broken glass melting into itself.

No divine light. No holy salvation.

Just raw infernal pressure crushing the fracture into something unbreakable.

And once it was whole…

The body began.

First came the nerves. Red-black threads snaking from the core like roots tearing through the dark.

Then bone, thick, jagged, asymmetrical at first before settling into something brutal and sleek. Wrath-borne. A demon’s skeleton wasn’t built for beauty. It was built for war.

Flesh followed next.

Not soft.

Muscle packed tight, layered in cords like coils of steel.