Chapter 127: Pseudo Apostle
The air crackled with tension as the man wearing the green-gemmed earring took a bold step forward, his smirk widening. “You’ve made a grave mistake coming here,” he sneered, his voice dripping with malice.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve walked into? You think one little artifact makes you untouchable?” His laugh was harsh and mocking.
Burt’s expression remained stoic, though his fists clenched, the bracer on his wrist glowing faintly in response to his rising determination. The green-gemmed man continued, gesturing dismissively toward the Enforcement officers.
“We have a network—real power. Families far older and deadlier than this sad little town of yours. You can’t possibly comprehend who you're messing with.” His words were venomous, layered with implied menace.
From the crumbling doorway of the abandoned shack, another figure emerged slowly, cloaked in shadow. Abel’s gaze sharpened immediately as he felt a familiar, dangerous presence—someone whose strength rivaled that of Mr. One from the Bazaar. The tension in the clearing deepened as the hooded figure walked forward with measured confidence.
Burt’s voice cut through the charged air. “This is illegal—a direct violation of Reinhart’s jurisdiction. You've been behind plenty of wrongful acts that have impacted Reinhart.” His tone was firm, backed by both authority and rising anger.
The green-gemmed man shrugged indifferently. “We don’t care about your petty laws.”
With deliberate calm, the hooded figure lowered his hood, revealing a pale, sinister face framed by a short, curly mohawk. Silver piercings glinted on his brows and lips, but it was his unnervingly wide grin that sent chills through the onlookers.
He smiled wider revealing sharp yellow teeth which gleamed as he surveyed the group, lingering briefly on Burt before locking eyes with Abel and Lena, dismissing them with practiced indifference.
“You’re out of your depth,” the man said smoothly, his voice cold and calculating.
Then, with grotesque suddenness, he opened his mouth—and instead of a tongue, a black, lifeless crow’s head extended from deep within his throat, attached to a tongue that was covered with pus and purple veins, its glassy, soulless eyes scanning the area with an unnatural twitch.
Several officers recoiled in disgust and horror, their hands instinctively gripping their swords tighter. Burt’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep control of the situation.
Abel, however, remained unmoved, observing the grotesque display with calculated calm. He had seen such extreme modifications before, remnants of dark rituals and forbidden experiments meant to transcend the limits of mundane humanity. This man was no mere artifact wielder—he was something far more twisted, a living experiment shaped by dark magic.
In that instant, Abel recognized the man’s level of power—dangerous, yes, but not invincible. He categorized him mentally, placing him at a similar strength to Recruit Abu from his early Tower expeditions, someone elevated but still far from the level of a true Apostle.
The clearing fell deathly silent as both sides prepared for what felt like an inevitable clash. The grotesque figure tilted his head ever so slightly, the unnatural crow’s head retracting back into his throat with a sickening slither. “You should’ve stayed in town,” he whispered darkly. “Now... you’ll never leave and instead you'll serve a greater purpose, and that is allowing me to further progress in my experiments by becoming my lab rats.”
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Burt’s grip tightened on his bracer as he assessed the grotesque man standing before them. His earlier confidence was now tinged with apprehension, a stark reminder of just how far behind the town's enforcers were in confronting magical threats.
The strange man’s twisted appearance and bizarre powers exceeded anything Burt had ever encountered.
The other Offices were the same. Although they had experienced many things in their field of work, witnessing such a strange sight made their stomachs turn. The presence that the strange man with the mohawk gave them was vile and full of malice.
They had protocols and specific trained reactions for many instances, but when faced with these strange magical anomalies, they were stuck, unable to process what was occurring and react to it appropriately, as they knew they were indeed out of their depth.
Burts gaze shifted to Abel—a silent plea for help—though pride kept him from voicing it aloud. Memories of Elliot’s warnings echoed in his mind: “Magic will reshape this town faster than you can imagine.” Burt finally understood.
Abel stepped forward calmly, lowering his hood as he locked eyes with the mutated man. His tone was casual, almost amused. “Quite the... transformation,” he commented, studying the man's grotesque crow-headed tongue. “Tell me—where did you learn the transplant technique?”
The man let out a grating, humorless laugh. “You could never comprehend the depths of what I’ve achieved,” he sneered. “I am a Pseudo Apostle!" He puffed his chest with twisted pride, expecting awe or fear.
Abel inwardly smirked. Pseudo Apostle? He’d heard many pretentious titles from those dabbling in forbidden magical enhancements, but this was new.
To the mundanes, it likely sounded impressive. But compared to an Apostle, this self-proclaimed title was laughable—a hollow claim born from ignorance.
The crow head on the man’s tongue popped out of its mouth wasting no time and let out a chilling screech, echoing through the clearing like the death knell of some forgotten beast. His eyes rolled back leaving nothing but white as black ooze and pus began to flow out of his nose.
His back writhed grotesquely as decayed, almost featherless wings emerged—jagged, broken, and still oozing dark ichor. The sight was equal parts horrifying and pathetic, a symbol of flawed ambition. Deformed and broken feathers began to grow throughout his body in no particular pattern. Sharp black claws grew on his hand as the crow head that was once in his mouth now moved back and forth above him like a snake watching its prey.
His strength had indeed risen a bit and his current presence was enough to make the other enforcement officers to shake in their boots. Even Lena took a step back watching this scene. It truly was beyond her understanding. She looked towards Abel as if wondering what he would do.
Burt shuddered, revolted by the abomination before him. He had never imagined such twisted magic could exist, much less be wielded by someone human—or formerly human.
Abel’s voice remained steady. “Impressive theatrics.” He dismissed the transformation with ease. “But it looks... incomplete.” He tilted his head. “Unstable, even.”
The mutated man snarled, his pride clearly wounded. His diseased wings twitched as though preparing for an attack, but Abel stood his ground with an air of quiet dominance.
“Burt,” Abel said evenly, never breaking eye contact. “I’ll handle this one.”
Burt hesitated, still coming to terms with how far out of his depth he was. Then, with a curt nod, he turned toward the three brothers and barked, “Form up! Handle the smugglers!”
The Enforcement officers formed a tight line behind him, their grips on their short swords tightening with renewed determination despite the growing sense of dread. Burt’s leadership remained unwavering despite the creeping realization that this mission was far more dangerous than they’d been prepared for.
Lena stepped forward, lowering her hood to reveal her sharp, determined gaze. In a swift motion, she pulled the magical glove from her robe and slipped it on. Her arm immediately bulged with ferocious, pulsating energy, its appearance primal and beast-like, veins glowing faintly with a green hue and red claws ready to tear things apart.
Burt stared, momentarily stunned by the transformation. His eyes darted from her monstrous arm back to Abel, the weight of realization sinking in: They were playing a different game entirely.
His jaw tightened with grim acceptance. He needed to adapt—and fast—or Reinhart's fragile peace would shatter beyond repair.