Strongest Incubus System

The sun was beginning to set slowly, painting the sky in golden and orange hues. The training center courtyard was almost empty now, except for a few instructors collecting weapons and sweeping the dry dust from the ground. Damon remained there, standing, feeling the weight of the sword still in his hand, the distant echo of the combat reverberating in his mind.

The cold of the blade had disappeared, but the memory of the ice was still present—as if something inside him remained frozen.

Renn approached, wiping his sweaty face with his forearm.

”You really are something else,” he said, trying to sound casual, but the nervousness betrayed his admiration. ”That thing you did... the ice... that was mana, wasn’t it?”

Damon glanced sideways, not answering immediately. ”Something like that.”

Renn chuckled awkwardly. ”Something like that? If I could do that, I’d be showing it off to the whole city.”

”Then you’d die before you reached the wall,” Damon replied dryly.

Renn blinked, confused, before letting out an uneasy laugh. ”Yeah... I guess you’re right.”

Lyra, who had been silent until then, was cleaning her own blade with methodical movements. Her gaze was cold, almost clinical. ”Control of that level doesn’t come from luck. You trained under harsh conditions. You can see it in your eyes.”

”You speak like someone who understands this,” Damon replied, crossing his arms.

”I understand enough to recognize someone who survived their own master.”

For a moment, the silence between them seemed heavy. Damon looked away at the ground. ”Yeah. Something like that.”

The distant sound of the retreat horns broke the air. Renn stretched his arms and began to walk away. ”Well... I guess we’ll find out tomorrow if we’re still going to be here. Until then, I need a bed.” Lyra watched him until he disappeared around the corner before sheathing her sword and taking a step towards Damon. ”I don’t like debts.”

”Debts?”

”You held off three opponents alone. If it weren’t for that, I would have been hit.”

”I didn’t do it for you.”

”I know. But I was part of your group. So, it stays between us.” She turned and walked towards the gate. ”See you at dawn, Mirath.”

When she disappeared between the stone arches, Damon finally relaxed his shoulders. Exhaustion hit him all at once. He felt his muscles throbbing under his skin, the familiar pain of someone who survives by their own body.

He walked to the stable, retrieved his horse, and led it to the small inn where he had been staying since his arrival. The stable hand recognized him from afar.

”You came back in one piece. That’s a good sign,” the old man said, laughing.

Damon simply nodded, taking the saddle off the animal. ”Tomorrow I might need to leave early.”

”Training?”

”Something like that.”

The old man didn’t press the matter. He handed him some bread and a glass of water, and Damon went upstairs to his room.

The room was simple—a narrow bed, a table with a candle, and a small window overlooking the main street. Outside, the city was still alive. The sounds of the night forges and patrols mingled with the distant murmur of bells.

Damon sat on the edge of the bed, removed his sword, and rested it across his legs. He ran his thumb along the blade, watching the reflection of the flame dance on the metal. For a moment, Caerth’s face flashed in his mind—the cold gaze, the stern tone, the sarcastic laugh after each well-blocked blow.

”You still hesitate. The sword feels it.”

”I don’t hesitate.”

”Then why do you still recoil when you win?”

Damon took a deep breath, resting his elbow on his knee.

Refusing glory, refusing satisfaction. Caerth always said that true victory was one in which nothing remained—neither pride, nor hatred, only understanding. Damon didn’t know if he believed that. But he knew he had learned to survive that way.

There was a knock at the door. A light, hesitant sound. Damon stood up, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. When he opened it, he found Renn with an awkward smile, holding a bottle.

”I couldn’t sleep,” he said. ”I thought maybe you couldn’t either.”

Damon raised an eyebrow. ”Are you trying to get me drunk?”

”Maybe. Or just sharing some of the anxiety. Tomorrow is the oath, and... well, it’s the first time I’ve gotten this far in anything.”

He entered without waiting for an invitation and sat down on the floor, resting the bottle against his leg. ”I heard the instructors talking... it seems Commander Roderic will be present. That never happens. Maybe he’s keeping an eye on you.”

”Not on me. On Caerth.”

Renn turned, curious. ”You really knew him, didn’t you?”

Damon nodded, still looking out the window. ”I knew him. And I trained with him.”

”So is it true what they say? That he killed his own disciple once?”

Silence was the answer.

Renn shifted uncomfortably. ”Sorry... I shouldn’t have asked.”

”He didn’t kill anyone who didn’t ask to die,” Damon said, finally. ”And most... asked.”

Renn was silent for long seconds. Then he let out a nervous laugh. ”You know, you have a natural talent for making people uncomfortable.”

”It’s a habit.”

The conversation died there. Renn left half the bottle with Damon and withdrew shortly after, still stumbling over his parting words. When the room fell silent again, Damon extinguished the candle and lay down.

But sleep did not come.

The ceiling seemed distant, the sound of the wind in the eaves reminded him of Caerth’s whistle in the woods—the same sound that summoned the mana beasts. He closed his eyes, and for an instant, the smell of blood and wet earth invaded him again. The weight of the forest, the roar of the beasts, the pain of the ice burning within.

He opened his eyes again.

The candle had already gone out completely, and only the moonlight entered through the window. He got up and went to it. Outside, the towers of Arven shone under the moon, imposing and silent.

”You said I would be tested...,” he murmured, looking at the horizon. ”So let’s see if it was worth it.”

Dawn arrived before the bell. The sound of boots in the main courtyard echoed throughout the city. Damon put on his ceremonial tunic—simple, made of dark fabric, with the symbol of the Order sewn in silver on the shoulder—and tied his hair back.

When he went down, Renn was already waiting for him at the door. ”You look like you’re about to go to an execution.”

”Perhaps I am.”

Arven’s central courtyard was crowded. Candidates formed lines aligned before the main banner, where Commander Roderic awaited. The banner of the Leviathan Order fluttered behind him—the winged serpent encircling the silver sword.

When the bell rang, the murmuring ceased.

Roderic stepped forward. ”From this moment on, you cease to be aspirants and begin to serve under the watchful eye of the Order. Not for glory, nor for honor, but for the protection of the kingdom and for the blood you will shed in its name.”

One by one, the oaths were taken. Each candidate knelt, touching their sword to the ground and repeating the ancient words.

When it was Damon’s turn, the silence seemed even greater. He knelt before the commander, and Roderic observed him for a long time.

”Damon of Mirath. There is something about you that I cannot name—and perhaps that is what the world needs most now. But remember: power untamed by purpose is only destruction.”

”Understood.”

”Then rise, knight in training of the Leviathan Order.”

Damon rose. The light of the rising sun struck him full in the face, reflecting off the blade he held.

Roderic took a step back and raised his voice. ”From today, you no longer belong to yourselves. You belong to Arven.”

’Belong to Arven my ass. I belong to myself, you old bastard.’ Damon thought as he waited for all that nonsense to end.

...

Elizabeth sat at the head of the long oak table. Before her, a letter sealed with the emblem of the Leviathan Order lay untouched—the blue seal still gleaming in the firelight.

Her eyes, cold and precise, fixed on that seal as if they could pierce it.

Aria, standing near the window, observed the fortress courtyard.

”Did it come from Arven?” she asked, without turning her head.

Elizabeth nodded, without touching the letter. ”It arrived an hour ago. Sent directly by Commander Roderic.”

The sound of creaking wood echoed as she finally broke the seal. The silence grew heavier with each line her eyes scanned.

Finally, she closed the parchment with an almost imperceptible sigh.

”So he succeeded,” she said in a low voice.

Aria turned, surprised. ”Damon?”

Elizabeth looked up—there was no emotion there, only a strange mixture of calculation and resignation. ”He has been accepted into the Order. Knight in training, under the seal of Arven.”

The young woman frowned. ”That’s... good, isn’t it?”

”It depends on who answers that question.” Elizabeth slowly rose, walking to the window. The firelight cast long shadows on her face. ”Arven doesn’t train knights, Aria. It trains weapons. And Damon has just become one of them.”

”But anyway, there’s not much we can discuss about this. I sent him there after all.” She said, crossing her legs, ”Anyway, he must be tired of pretending to be someone he’s not. And he must also be very hungry. Pack your things, and call Ester too. Go and keep him company until he betrays the order of knights and comes back here.” Elizabeth said, smiling.

’Well, now he’s useful for creating the chaos I want to create.’ Elizabeth thought.