Seven Sins System Chapter 893. Backroom?

Seven Sins System Chapter 893. Backroom?

I nodded. “Good.”

“The cult gathers after sunset.”

I glanced at the clock. “Then why are they active now?”

“Someone entered thirty minutes ago carrying two unconscious mortals.”

“I see. Coordinates.”

Algan gave them.

I memorized the location.

Then shadow gathered properly around me.

He sighed. “Should I expect you back before lunch?”

“Probably.”

“And if students come looking for you?”

“Tell them Dr. Allen had an emergency.”

“What kind?”

I smiled as the darkness climbed around my body. “Medical.”

The shadow swallowed my legs. Then I vanished.

The academy infirmary disappeared.

Morning sunlight died.

For one breath, there was only the cold pressure of folded space and the familiar drag of shadow against my skin.

Then my boots touched dirt.

I reappeared beneath a gray sky at the edge of the academy.

Then immediately disappeared again.

Shadow folded.

One jump.

A stretch of road vanished beneath me.

Another.

The academy disappeared completely, replaced by old warehouses and rusting fences.

Another.

Industrial buildings thinned into abandoned lots where weeds had grown tall enough to swallow discarded machinery.

Again.

A closed quarry flashed beneath me for barely half a second.

Then one final jump.

Space released me in front of the building.

My boots touched cracked asphalt.

I looked up.

Then down.

Tilted my head.

Nope.

Weak.

Really weak.

The demonic aura leaking out of this place was barely enough to make my skin notice. It tasted stale too, like someone had taken cheap demon residue, left it under a basement for fifty years, and then proudly called the result ancient evil.

Clearly an easy thing.

I hoped.

After yesterday’s disaster, I deserved an opponent whose greatest combat achievement was probably biting a drunk mortal behind a dumpster.

I needed something easy.

Something stupid.

Something I could tear apart without worrying that it would suddenly grow angel wings, spray poison into my bloodstream, crack Puriel’s core, and force me into another family intervention.

Puriel.

My smile faded.

Tch!

There she was again.

Inside my head.

I looked toward the cloudy sky as if the Light Realm might somehow answer from up there. “I hope your mother gives me an answer soon.”

When.

Where.

Neutral threshold chamber.

Terms.

Contract.

Her.

Mine.

The thought made something possessive curl inside my chest.

Not Wrath exactly.

Something more irritating.

I clicked my tongue.

This was why I came here.

Distraction.

I teleported directly in front of the entrance.

The old wooden door had three different locks.

I stared at them.

Then punched them.

Why negotiate with architecture?

I went inside. The interior swallowed me in darkness.

My eyes adjusted instantly.

Dust floated through stale air. Old wallpaper peeled from the walls in long strips, revealing damp plaster beneath. The place smelled like mildew, old chemicals, human sweat, dried blood, and desperation.

Interesting combination.

The hallway ahead split into three.

Then four.

Then another corridor appeared where logically there shouldn’t have been enough building for one.

I stopped.

Looked left.

Looked right.

Then upward.

“What do mortals call this nowadays? Backrooms?”

Yeah.

That thing.

An endless maze of ugly corridors where someone apparently hated interior design enough to turn architecture into psychological warfare.

I walked forward anyway.

Hands in my pockets.

Whistling.

My footsteps echoed softly.

Then another sound joined them.

Running.

Frantic.

Heavy breathing.

Something metallic scraped against the floor somewhere ahead.

I stopped whistling.

Blood.

Fresh.

Mortals.

Several.

Fear sharpened the smell.

Sweat.

Adrenaline.

One wounded.

Maybe two.

None felt remotely powerful.

No high demon presence nor ancient entity.

I rounded the corner.

A man nearly crashed straight into me.

He looked terrible.

Bare feet.

Dirty trousers.

Oversized coat.

Blood smeared across one sleeve. His beard was tangled, face hollow, eyes wide enough to expose almost all the white.

Probably one of the cult’s targets.

He froze when he saw me.

For a second, confusion replaced terror.

Then he grabbed my arm. “Dude!”

I looked down at his hand.

He didn’t notice my expression.

“What are you doing?” he hissed. “Get out of here!”

He thought he was warning me.

“There are people here,” he continued frantically. “Crazy people. They got knives! They took Mike—they—”

He looked behind himself. His whole body shook. “Just go!”

I pulled my arm free. “The exit is behind you.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Three corridors back. Left, right, left. Door with broken green sign. Go through it. Stairs lead outside.”

“How do you—”

“Go.”

Something in my voice changed.

Not threatening.

Just enough Wrath authority to punch through panic.

He moved.

Immediately.

Good mortal.

He ran past me.

I continued deeper.

Whistling again.

Poor bastard.

Mortals really were pathetic creatures.

Soft skin.

Weak bones.

Barely enough magic in most of them to light a candle.

Yet somehow they kept building religions around things that wanted to eat them.

Remarkable.

I turned another corner.

Found two cultists.

At least, I assumed they were cultists.

Because nobody wore robes like that accidentally.

Dark red fabric.

Hoods.

Black cords tied at the waist.

And machetes.

I stopped. Looked at the robes. Then at the machetes. “So horror movies really are inspired by real things.”

One of them raised his weapon. “Who are you?”

I gave him the bored face I usually reserved for patients who admitted they stopped taking medicine because a social-media post told them lemons cured everything.

The second cultist stepped forward. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’ve heard that a lot lately.”

“Grab him.”

They moved.

Slow.

Painfully slow.

I teleported.

One moment I stood in front of them.

The next… Behind.

My hands closed around both their necks.

They stiffened.

“Blood Curse,” I muttered.

Dark-red lines slipped from my palms into their skin.

They spread beneath their necks.

Down shoulders.

Across spines.

Into muscles.

Their bodies jerked violently.

Both machetes clattered onto the floor.

One man tried to scream, but his jaw locked.

Their knees buckled.

Then straightened.

Slowly.

Wrongly.

Like puppets pulled upright by invisible strings.

Their eyes remained conscious.

That was the fun part.

Fear stayed.

Control disappeared.