Seven Sins System Chapter 740. Reborn Demon III
Seven Sins System Chapter 740. Reborn Demon III
I stared down at him.
Steam coiling. Power rising.
And for the first time in a long damn while… something inside me shifted.
Pride.
Not the Luci kind. Not smug bullshit.
The real thing.
Because against all odds, one of mine came back.
And not just came back, he crawled out of death.
I tossed a towel over his head. He blinked.
“Dry off. Clothes are coming. You smell like a burned corpse.”
He smirked. Smirked. “Feels like one too.”
Good.
That’s how you know the bath worked.
“You’re not just a soldier anymore, Algan,” I said as I turned. “You survived a soul-break. You crawled back with nothing but instinct. That makes you something else now.”
“Does that mean I’m promoted?”
“Don’t push it.”
He chuckled low, dark and rough, the way a wrath demon should.
The door opened behind us. A servant stood there, holding a folded stack of reinforced armor-cloth robes, shoulder guards attached, boots polished.
“I believe these should fit,” she said, glancing toward Algan with wary respect.
“Perfect,” I said. “Get dressed, Lieutenant. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
He stood.
Full height now.
Yeah. He wasn’t a lost animal anymore.
He was Wrath. Again.
I tilted my head. “Also…” I reached to the side, took one of the dark-glass vials from the table, and tossed it to him.
He caught it midair like instinct.
Nice reflex.
“Just count it as a toast for your comeback.”
His clawed fingers brushed over the vial like it was holy. The kind of reverence only someone who’d starved long enough could give to a thing that promised taste.
He nodded. We uncorked it at the same time.
The potion inside wasn’t sweet. Of course it wasn’t. This was Wrath. Not Lust. Not Gluttony. Not those smooth bastards in Greed.
It sizzled. Boiled slightly even inside the vial. And when we tipped it back?
Oh it burned.
Like swallowing fire that remembered every sin you'd ever committed.
We both hissed.
The vials vanished in a flare of infernal flame, curling off our palms like smoke from old bones.
I exhaled. “Get dressed. Meet me in the dining room.”
He bowed, one fist over his chest. “Yes, my Lord.”
Ten minutes later, give or take.
He stepped into the dining hall like he hadn’t just been reborn.
Like this was home.
And honestly?
Yeah. I could see it.
The table stretched wide. Made from the bones of war beasts, stitched with hellsteel veins that pulsed with demonic current. The chandeliers dripped with melted sigil-wax, lighting the room in this strange crimson glow that made everything look like it was bleeding, on purpose.
And the food?
Wrath cuisine wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t pretty.
But damn it was satisfying.
Thick slabs of roast beast, meat charred black on the outside and nearly raw in the center, still steaming as blood pooled into obsidian bowls. Skewers of fanged serpent tongues, twined like lovers mid-fight. Cracked bone marrow oozing down spine segments glazed in fermented hellroot. Hearts. Livers. Infernal fungi that grew on battlefield corpses. Demon peppers stuffed with souls that didn’t scream anymore because they'd been boiled until they forgot how.
He paused.
Eyes wide.
And yeah, I saw it. The way his throat worked. The way his claws twitched. The way his nose flared like it remembered.
Because this wasn’t bat food.
This was Wrath food.
I sipped from my cup.
Wine.
Dark red.
Spiced with infernal fruit aged past rot, blended with the blood of enemies that earned the title high-ranking. The flavor punched you in the chest. You didn’t drink it to enjoy. You drank it to feel alive.
My servants stood silently in line along the walls. Unmoving. Unblinking. Waiting for instruction.
I gestured lazily. “Seat. Feast with me.”
He blinked, then slowly stepped forward.
“Seriously,” I added. “Skip the manners. This is Wrath. If we wanted etiquette, we’d go to the Pride sector and let them lecture us about napkin placement.”
He huffed. Almost a laugh. Almost.
Then he sat.
The servants moved.
No utensils.
No fancy plates.
Just stacks of food laid down like we were hosting a warband reunion after slaughter. And he didn’t hesitate. He tore into it. Clawed hands ripping through meat, teeth tearing through tendon and cartilage like it was the first real meal in centuries. Which technically, it was.
And yeah, the servants kept piling.
More. More. More.
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t slow.
Didn’t pretend.
He bit into a blood-soaked rib so hard the marrow burst and sprayed his chest. He didn’t even flinch. Just kept going, gnawing the bone until it cracked.
I watched.
Not judging.
Just observing.
Wrath wasn’t about presentation.
It was about survival.
He paused once. Wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm. Looked at me across the table, eyes slightly less wild now.
“What do you want to talk about, my Lord?” he asked, voice thick with meat and ash.
I swirled my wine slowly. Let the silence stretch. Let the moment breathe.
“Eat first,” I said. “Talk later.”
He nodded and dug in again, like he understood.
Not just the words.
But the meaning behind them.
Because here?
In this palace?
You didn’t need to earn every breath by begging.
You just needed to survive long enough to be seen.
And this guy?
He was being seen.
Fifteen minutes in. Half the table ruined.
Food bones cracked and piled in makeshift graveyards.
Wine poured again.
He finally leaned back.
Chest rising and falling.
Eyes glowing slightly brighter.
His voice came quieter this time. “It’s been a long time… since I felt full.”
I raised my cup. “Then next time, don’t get stuck as a bat for two centuries.”
He chuckled. A real one this time. Rough. Rusty. But real.
We sat like that for a second. No pressure. No protocol.
Then I leaned forward. Rested my elbow on the war-bone table.
“So. Lieutenant Algan.”
His spine straightened. Reflex.
“What the hell happened to you?”
His mouth opened. Then closed.