"What?"
Swain and the others stared at Rowan Mercer as if they had misheard him.
In their understanding of the world, loss of control was irreversible.
Once a supernatural practitioner crossed that line and became a monster, their humanity was gone forever.
The only solution was execution.
That truth was drilled into every church operative from the moment they entered training.
Long before they ever set foot on a battlefield.
Rowan's claim sounded no different from saying he could resurrect the dead.
Absurd.
Blasphemous.
Impossible.
Yes, some supernatural paths were known for healing.
Others dealt with necromancy.
But none had ever demonstrated a method to restore someone who had already lost control.
"Is… is that true?"
Swain asked despite himself.
The words escaped before reason could stop them.
That man had followed him for nearly thirty years.
They had hunted drowned revenants together.
Tracked cultists through flooded tunnels.
Retired at the same time.
Opened a bar together.
He was the last surviving member of Swain's original squad.
Not family by blood.
Family by life.
If there was even a one-in-a-million chance…
Swain wanted to believe.
"Swain. Calm yourself."
The elderly Night Church operative spoke quietly, but firmly.
Swain's eyes wavered.
Then cleared.
His shoulders sagged, as if something heavy had settled onto them.
He knew the truth.
If restoration were possible, the churches would already know.
They would not hide it.
They could not hide it.
Promises like this were the language of cultists and false prophets.
Bait for desperation.
The same old lies.
Revive your loved ones.
Grant eternal life.
Give you everything you ever wanted.
Every one of those roads ended in madness.
"Seems I've grown foolish with age," Swain said hoarsely.
He looked at Rowan again, wariness replacing hope.
"If you're trying to lure me into worshipping some unknown god, you're wasting your time. State your identity and come with us to the church for questioning."
"I don't expect you to believe me."
Rowan lifted a hand.
The ring of blue flame vanished.
In the same motion, he leapt upward and landed on top of the monster's head.
The deck buckled.
The creature was forced to its knees.
"Since you don't believe words…"
"I'll start with results."
A pale, ghostlike flame seeped from Rowan's foot and sank into the creature's skull.
Not burning flesh.
Not scorching bone.
It burned the soul.
Inside the monster, the corrupted essence that had warped its mind began to loosen.
Peel.
Separate.
At the same time, Rowan guided a stream of power into the creature's body.
Using a refined form of the Magician's damage-transfer ability, he began pulling every fragment of foreign essence toward a single point.
Ordinary practitioners could only move wounds.
Shift a bullet hole from the chest to the arm.
Turn a fatal injury into a survivable one.
What Rowan was doing was something else entirely.
He was reorganizing what made the creature supernatural in the first place.
Because Rowan did not think like a Magician.
He thought like someone who understood how worlds were built.
Minutes passed.
The creature's howls weakened.
The scales dulled.
Cracked.
Fell away.
"Done."
Rowan clenched his hand.
A mass of shimmering substance tore free from the creature's body and hovered in his palm.
The monster collapsed.
Its twisted frame shrank.
Bones realigned.
Flesh smoothed.
A moment later, a muscular, gray-haired man in his fifties lay unconscious on the deck.
Alive.
Breathing.
Human.
Rowan glanced at the glowing mass in his hand.
"He's fine," Rowan said calmly. "With rest, he'll recover."
He paused.
"One thing you should know. I removed everything that made him supernatural. He won't ever use those powers again. From now on, he's just a normal man."
Silence swallowed the deck.
No one spoke.
No one breathed.
Swain's knees almost gave out.
Rowan studied the extracted essence.
It was no different from what remained after a supernatural died.
The only difference was that this man was still alive.
Which confirmed Rowan's theory.
Becoming supernatural was, at its core, grafting fragments of something inhuman onto a human framework.
If you could remove those fragments…
You could reverse the process.
At least at lower stages.
Rowan already knew his current capacity had limits.
He could likely only treat cases no stronger than a Magician.
Anything beyond that would require greater internal reserves.
Or further refinement of his conversion methods.
That was fine.
It gave him leverage.
If someone wanted a miracle, they would first need to help him grow stronger.
Which suited Rowan perfectly.
He had never done this for money.
If he wanted wealth, he could acquire it easily.
What he wanted was access.
Knowledge.
Paths forward.
And tonight, he had just proven his value.