He was also absolutely, positively, terrified of him.
Michael stood over the spot where the Alchemist had been, his body trembling, the dark energy receding, leaving him feeling hollowed out and sick.
[SOUL CORRUPTION: 3.0%]
The number glowed on his HUD, a quiet, damning verdict.
A new voice had joined the choir in his head.
It was a cold, calculating whisper. A whisper that knew the secrets of mutation, of alchemy, of twisting life into something new and terrible.
It was a voice that felt… useful.
He pushed it down, disgusted with himself.
Just as he was about to collapse from the sheer psychic exhaustion, one final notification flashed.
It wasn't a warning.
It wasn't a debuff.
It was the prize.
It was the memory.
He saw it. A flash of the Alchemist's final moments, a memory not of this place, but of another.
A sterile, white lab.
The prick of a needle in its own arm.
