Seven Sins System Chapter 739. Reborn Demon II
Seven Sins System Chapter 739. Reborn Demon II
Wrath didn’t do lean.
Wrath didn’t do elegant.
Wrath did power.
And this guy?
Oh, he had plenty.
The skin wrapped around him slowly, twitching like it remembered violence. Spikes jutted from his shoulders, natural, curved, obsidian like ridges meant for both defense and intimidation. Horns curled from his head next, long and jagged like they’d torn their way out of his skull.
Wings spread from his back.
Not soft, not leathery.
They looked like scythes.
Each edge sharp enough to gut a wyvern mid-flight.
His face…
Yeah.
This wasn’t the bat.
This was the demon that used to be that bat.
No baby face. No innocence. Just a jaw built to bite and eyes that burned beneath sealed lids.
And still, he couldn’t scream.
But I knew he felt it.
Every layer of skin that returned.
Every tendon that snapped into place.
Every instinct he’d suppressed for survival resurfacing.
I’d been there.
More than a hundred times.
Bleeding. Burned. Broken.
Thrown into this bath.
Clawed my way out every damn time.
I knew the pain.
I respected the silence.
Time passed.
A servant crept in, careful not to look directly at the pit. She placed a tray beside me, four vials of crimson potion, still steaming.
Another brought a black chair, high-backed, solid, wrath-designed. Comfortable enough for a warlord to brood in.
I didn’t sit yet.
I just glanced at the servant. “Clothes.”
She paused. “For…?”
I nodded toward the bath.
The figure inside was about 70% finished now. Arms outstretched. Chest broad. Legs long and coiled with muscle like a predator ready to strike.
No more tiny bat frame. No more trembling limbs.
He looked like a beast.
And not just a soldier.
Not some mid-tier footstool demon.
I narrowed my eyes.
Wrath cores had flavor. Rage wasn’t just rage. There was grief. Vengeance. Wild bloodlust. Cold fury.
This one?
This one smelled like command.
Heavy. Controlled.
Like he wasn’t just built for battle, he was born to lead.
“…Get something durable,” I muttered. “Reinforced. Maybe scaled. Shoulder guards too.”
“Yes, my Lord.” The servant bowed and vanished.
I finally sat.
Elbows on knees. Hands clasped. Eyes fixed on the forming demon in the pit.
One minute.
Two.
The bath pulsed again.
His claws formed next. Thick black talons, not like mine, which were forged by combat. His were natural. Curved. Ready to tear.
And his aura?
It bled out now.
Like a scent of iron and fire.
I rolled one shoulder back.
Grinned.
“You’re no soldier,” I murmured.
“You were something bigger.”
“And when your eyes open again… I want to know what the hell you turned into before you became that pathetic bat.”
I muttered it low, more to myself than to him. But something in the cursed water must’ve heard, because the moment I finished, it stilled. Not entirely. Just enough to make the surface go glossy, like the eye of some ancient beast blinking open beneath the ripples.
Then he moved.
It wasn’t graceful. No, it was real. He shifted like someone who hadn’t used his limbs in centuries. Muscle flexed, slick with black-red water and pulsing heat. His arms braced against the jagged stone edge of the bath, claws scraping for grip. And then…
He rose.
Slow. Heavy.
Crawled out of the cursed bath just like I did the first time my father threw me into it, bleeding, cracked, screaming half my soul out, if I had any, until I clawed my way free, naked and remade.
But this?
This wasn’t just a soldier crawling out.
This was a demon reborn.
The steam hissed off his skin in waves. His chest rose and fell with each breath like a beast tasting air for the first time. The thick cords of muscle across his arms, his shoulders, his abdomen. Yeah, he looked like hell sculpted him by hand and gave up halfway through polishing.
His black scales shimmered beneath the cursed moisture, layered like living armor, etched with faint crimson runes that flickered when the bathlight hit them just right. Spikes jutted from his spine. His wings, slick and massive, hung behind him like blades folded in restraint. Every inch of him radiated a kind of pressure that even I had to admit… was impressive.
He was still on one knee, steam rising off him like smoke curling from a forge, eyes hidden under dripping bangs.
And then…
He lifted his head.
Eyes glowing ember-red. No hesitation. No fear.
And when he spoke?
His voice rumbled with power that wasn’t there before. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
“Lieutenant Algan,” he said, kneeling fully now with one fist pressed against the obsidian floor. “Reporting for duty, Your Highness.”
I blinked.
Didn’t say anything for a few seconds.
Because f*ck, I knew that name.
Algan.
I knew him. Not as some grunt or background extra in my legion.
No.
He was one of mine. Old era. One of the few who earned the Lieutenant crest before it got swallowed in the Demon War.
Everyone thought he died.
I thought he died.
His squad vanished during one of the early siege runs, high risk, high sacrifice, deep into mortal realm’s celestial territory. We never found the bodies. Just a shattered canyon, some leftover blood traces, and a crater full of rotting celestial artifacts.
But now?
He was right in front of me.
Alive.
Reborn.
“Algan…” I muttered, standing slowly from the chair. “So that’s who you are…”
He didn’t lift his head. “I didn’t remember, my Lord. Not until now. It came back to me… during the last part of the transformation. My name. My rank. My purpose.”
I stepped toward him, boots echoing over the chamber floor, the cursed energy parting slightly with each step. The closer I got, the more I could feel it, his wrath. It wasn’t chaotic. It was collected. Dangerous.
Focused fury.
“I thought you died,” I said. “Along with the whole Canyon Unit.”
“I did,” he replied. “Or close enough. We were ambushed. Celestial hunters. It wasn’t a battle. It was slaughter. Then the mortals came… they took our cores, our bodies, our blood.”
My jaw clenched.
“That was centuries ago.”
He nodded. “I know. I counted every day in the dark.”