Strongest Incubus System

The sound of hooves and metal mingled with the low murmur of the knights, but the silence between Damon and Harn weighed like steel about to break.

The blond man had already passed the group, and his horse was beginning to resume its trot when he heard the distinct sound of a sword being unsheathed.

The sound echoed like contained thunder.

”Repeat what you said.”

Harn’s voice carried a cold, almost offended fury—the kind of anger that stems more from wounded pride than from duty.

Damon didn’t turn immediately. He simply pulled on the reins and let his horse turn slowly. The look he gave the knight was one of provocative tranquility.

”I said you ask too many questions.”

A murmur ran through the soldiers. Some took a step back. The veteran, who was still watching the carriage, raised his face with a sigh—he already knew what was coming, and he also knew it was too late to stop it.

Harn advanced, sword in hand.

”Do you think you can insult a knight of the royal guard and simply ride away?”

Damon dismounted calmly. The sound of his boots sinking into the mud echoed like an answer.

”If you were really of the royal guard,” he said, taking off his cloak and throwing it over the saddle, ”you wouldn’t need to tell me that.”

Harn’s face turned red. The blade gleamed, rising in a perfect arc of training—the blow of someone who had trained for years to fight with elegance. Damon blocked it.

The metallic sound of the impact resonated sharp and clean.

But what came next was not training.

Damon twisted his wrist and pushed Harn’s sword aside, deflecting the blow with the naturalness of someone who moves between attack and counterattack as if it were a single gesture. Harn took two steps back, surprised by the force. The veteran began to approach, but another knight held him by the arm—no one dared interrupt now.

”So you know how to use that,” Harn hissed, taking half a step back and returning to his guard. ”Good. That way they won’t say I killed a peasant by mistake.”

”If you can,” Damon replied.

The new attack came diagonally, fast and precise. Damon moved almost effortlessly, blocking again—and this time, a thin layer of ice spread across the blade the instant of impact. The sound changed: the clang of metal was replaced by a dry crackle, like glass shattering.

Harn recoiled, perplexed. ”What—?”

Damon advanced. One, two steps, and his sword described an icy arc in the air. Harn blocked, but the shock froze his right hand; the cold penetrated the glove, burning his skin. He cried out and instinctively dropped the sword.

Damon stopped the blade a few centimeters from his neck.

Silence.

The wind whispered through the trees. The distant sound of the river was the only noise to mingle with the icy air.

”It’s over,” Damon said, low and firm.

But Harn, driven by shame and anger, tried to draw the dagger strapped to his waist. Damon simply twisted his wrist. The ice shattered and the sword blow knocked him to his knees. The tip of the blade dug into the ground, half a centimeter from the knight’s shoulder.

”I said,” Damon repeated, looking down at him, ”it’s over.”

The veteran finally approached, with an expression between relief and disgust. ”Harn, enough!” he shouted. ”You’ve already lost.”

The knight, gasping, looked at him, his face contorted with humiliation. ”But he—!”

”Be quiet.” The veteran’s voice cut through the air like a blade. ”If the Duke finds out you drew a sword against a guest of the academy, you’ll be mucking out stables until the end of the year.”

Harn gritted his teeth and lowered his head.

Damon wiped his sword on his cloak and sheathed it silently. The ice was melting slowly, evaporating into thin wisps of mist.

He turned to the veteran.

”I apologize for the trouble,” he said calmly. ”I don’t usually retaliate with words.”

The veteran stared at him for a moment before responding with a weary half-smile. ”Perhaps you should. That idiot needed a lesson.”

Some of the soldiers chuckled softly, easing the tension. Harn’s body trembled, not from the cold, but from shame.

Damon mounted his horse again, adjusting his hood. ”I intend to continue my journey. Arven shouldn’t be far.”

”He’s not,” the veteran replied. ”Go through the east gate. Say you came on recommendation. They’ll let you in.”

Damon nodded. ”Thank you.”

Before Damon could give the command for his horse to move forward, a soft, unexpected sound rose above the murmur of the soldiers—the discreet creaking of old hinges.

Everyone turned.

The window of the overturned carriage opened with a crack, and a wine-colored velvet curtain was pulled aside. A woman appeared there, leaning lightly against the cracked wooden frame.

Even covered in dust and with her hair partially loose, she radiated an almost unsettling elegance. Her eyes—a deep blue, as cold as the very winter that enveloped the road—met Damon’s gaze with curiosity and a slight hint of command.

Silence once again fell over the group. Even the veteran straightened his posture, crossing his fist over his chest in respect.

”Who is he?” she asked, her voice firm, melodious, and authoritative, carrying an unmistakable aristocratic accent.

Harn flinched, still kneeling. The veteran hesitated, but Damon was the first to answer.

”Damon of Mirath,” he said, without emotion, standing tall before her. ”A traveler. An aspiring knight.”

”Mirath?” the woman repeated, raising a delicate eyebrow. ”I see, it’s that woman. The former Princess Consort...”

Damon held her gaze without flinching. ”Yes, it is the domain of my lady, Elizabeth Wykes.”

Before Damon could give the command for the horse to move forward, a soft, unexpected sound rose above the murmur of the soldiers—the discreet creaking of old hinges.

Everyone turned.

The window of the overturned carriage opened with a crack, and a velvet curtain of wine color was pulled aside. A woman appeared there, leaning lightly against the cracked wooden frame.

Even covered in dust and with her hair partially loose, she radiated an almost unsettling elegance. Her eyes—a deep blue, as cold as the very winter that enveloped the road—met Damon’s gaze with curiosity and a slight hint of command.

Silence once again fell over the group. Even the veteran straightened his posture, crossing his fist over his chest in respect.

”Who is he?” She asked, her voice firm, melodious, and authoritative, carrying an unmistakable aristocratic accent.

Harn flinched, still kneeling. The veteran hesitated, but Damon was the first to answer.

”Damon of Mirath,” he said, without emotion, standing erect before her. ”A traveler. An aspiring knight.”

”Mirath?” the woman repeated, raising a delicate eyebrow. ”I don’t recall any ’of Mirath’ among the known houses.”

Damon met her gaze without flinching. ”That’s because there aren’t any. I was simply born there.”

A curious glint crossed her eyes—not disdain, but genuine interest. She observed him for long seconds, her eyes scanning his simple armor, his worn sword, down to the spear attached to his saddle. Then, she returned to the young man’s face.

”You fight well,” she said finally. ”And you seem... different from the other aspiring knights I see around.”

Damon didn’t answer. The way she studied him bothered him a little—not out of shame, but from a strange feeling, as if he were being measured not only in strength, but in soul.

The woman tilted her head slightly. ”Are you going to Arven?”

”Yes.”

She nodded, thoughtfully. ”Then it’s the same path as mine. Why don’t you join us? The road hasn’t been safe.”

The veteran immediately turned, surprised. ”Milady, perhaps it’s not—”

She silenced him with an elegant gesture. ”I didn’t ask if it was appropriate, captain. I asked him.”

Everyone looked at Damon. The blond man maintained a steady gaze, but there was a slight discomfort in his expression—not fear, but prudence.

”I appreciate the kindness, milady,” he said, bowing slightly. ”But I fear my company might be a burden.”

”A burden?” ”I’ve already made enemies on this road. It wouldn’t be wise to approach someone... important.”

For a moment, the corner of her mouth lifted in a small, almost imperceptible smile. ”Important, is it?”

”So it seems,” Damon replied.

The woman studied him once more, and then seemed amused by the answer. ”I see you have a sharp tongue for a man without a title.”

”I’ve learned that it’s more dangerous to remain silent.”

She laughed, a low, restrained sound, before leaning more comfortably against the window frame. ”As you wish, Damon of Mirath. May the winds of Arven not blow against you.”

Damon nodded respectfully. ”And may your road remain free of beasts, my lady.”

”Ingrivid Leviathan,” she replied, with a slight touch of irony. ”In case you change your mind about refusing invitations from someone who can decide your future.”

The name seemed to cut through the air like a subtle blade. The knights immediately bowed, some kneeling in reverence. Damon, however, only lowered his head out of politeness—without any show of surprise.

”Even so,” he said, ”I will go alone.”

For a brief moment, Elizabeth’s gaze narrowed, and a trace of genuine respect flickered there—rare, almost imperceptible. ”Brave or foolish,” she murmured. ”I haven’t decided which yet.”

Damon replaced his hood, mounted his horse, and pulled on the reins. ”Perhaps both.”

The woman watched him go, her eyes following the blond man until his figure dissolved into the mist that covered the road.

The veteran, still near the carriage, let out a heavy sigh. ”My lady... perhaps you were a little too intrusive...”

Ingrid still looked at the empty road. ”No. He’s not the type to take that as an insult.”

Harn, with his bandaged hand and wounded pride, also looked at the road, his gaze full of resentment.

”Whoever he is,” he muttered, ”I don’t want to see him inside the walls of Arven.”

Ingrid glanced at him, and a cutting chill passed through the air. ”Then pray,” she said calmly, ”that he doesn’t want to see you first.”

She closed the carriage window with a smooth movement.