Across all the worlds Rowan Mercer had experienced, none treated those who wielded supernatural power quite as cruelly as this one.
Here, gaining strength meant living with a constant countdown.
One mistake.
One misstep.
And you became a monster.
Power was not a blessing.
It was a loaded gun pressed against your own skull.
Sometimes, Rowan felt that ordinary people had it better.
They lived.
They aged.
They died.
Simple.
Clean.
No inevitable descent into madness.
"An enforcer who's lost control…"
The thought sparked.
If Rowan could save the man below instead of letting him be executed, several things would happen at once.
He would earn a significant reward.
He would establish goodwill with the Storm Church.
And, more importantly, he would send a message.
That he was not some malicious anomaly.
Not a lurking calamity.
If any higher powers were quietly watching, they would see restraint.
They would see intent.
The Storm Church's practitioners specialized in physical reinforcement early in their progression.
Their entry-level operatives were known as Sailors.
Greatly enhanced strength.
Exceptional balance.
The kind of stability that let them walk freely on a ship during a raging storm.
Beneath their skin formed faint, scale-like layers that provided extra defense and made their bodies slippery, hard to grab.
They could also move underwater and hold their breath for extended periods.
The next stage produced Berserkers.
All previous abilities intensified.
And they gained access to short bursts of overwhelming power.
Everything Rowan knew about this came from the clown killer's memories.
Every independent group gathered intelligence on the major churches.
Not out of curiosity.
Out of survival.
Cross a church the wrong way, and you disappeared.
Interrogated.
Imprisoned.
Or quietly erased.
The real danger when dealing with church operatives was not just their personal strength.
It was their equipment.
Sealed artifacts.
Objects with strange, specialized effects.
Powerful.
Unstable.
Often dangerous even to the user.
Rowan had seen one in action at the warehouse.
A small puppet that caused nearby targets to freeze in both thought and movement.
Fail to escape quickly enough, and you became an empty shell.
The clown killer's memories were clear.
Storm Church enforcers were nightmares in close combat.
Especially for practitioners whose early abilities focused on perception and divination rather than raw durability.
On paper, a single Sailor could overpower several low-level diviners in a straight fight.
But diviners rarely allowed things to reach that point.
Every path had strengths.
Every path had weaknesses.
The man below had once been a Sailor.
Now he was something worse.
After losing control, his physical resilience had skyrocketed.
Bullets barely slowed him.
Which was why it took Swain, now a Berserker, and another Sailor working together just to keep him contained.
The battle on the cargo ship had reached a critical point.
The scaled creature roared and suddenly broke through the encirclement.
It sprinted toward the edge of the deck.
Toward the river.
If it escaped, civilians would die.
"Night."
A calm, elderly voice cut through the chaos.
One of the Night Church operatives finally moved.
A silver charm flew through the air and struck the creature's back.
Its body jerked.
Its eyes drooped.
It nearly collapsed into sleep.
Swain seized the opening and slammed into it, forcing it back.
His muscles swelled.
Veins bulged.
The power of a Berserker surge ignited.
At the same time, the younger Night Church operative hurled a second silver charm.
The creature stiffened again.
Swain leapt.
All his strength gathered into a single punch.
A blow meant to shatter the creature's skull.
Rowan stepped in.
Boom.
Swain's fist stopped midair.
Blocked by a small hand.
Shock rippled across the deck.
The creature snapped awake and twisted toward the river again.
"Did I say you could leave?"
Rowan snapped his fingers.
Blue fire erupted.
It coiled outward like a living serpent, forming a ring around the creature.
The moment it brushed against the flames, the monster recoiled with a howl.
Instinct screamed at it.
Touch that fire, and you die.
Rowan turned to the stunned group.
His voice was calm.
Steady.
"Relax. I'm not your enemy."
Swain stared at him, pupils tight.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "What do you want?"
He had every reason to be wary.
That punch.
Even a close-combat specialist at a high level shouldn't have been able to catch it so casually.
Anyone who could do that was operating far above them.
Which meant two possibilities.
Either this strange, small figure was extremely high-ranked…
Or something far worse.
Sweat formed on the faces of the other four.
If Rowan turned hostile, they would die here.
Rowan pointed toward the roaring creature trapped in blue fire.
"Who I am doesn't matter," he said.
"What matters is this."
"I can bring him back."
Silence fell across the deck.
"Do you want to try?"