Strongest Incubus System

Damon didn’t immediately react to the subtle shift in the hall’s atmosphere as Morgana descended the stairs, but his eyes, alert even when his body appeared relaxed, caught every detail transforming around him, from the way the guests adjusted their postures to how the flow of conversation rearranged itself to receive her. He didn’t look directly at her at that first moment, knowing that drawing unnecessary attention would be a fundamental mistake in an environment where glances signified intentions, and intentions, in that place, could easily become invisible weapons. Instead, he remained where he was, holding a glass of wine he had taken from a servant a few minutes earlier, moving with calculated naturalness among small groups of nobles discussing trivialities, but whose positions in the hall offered strategic angles for observation.

His focus, however, was far beyond the superficial conversations and rehearsed smiles that filled the room. He was looking for patterns. Small inconsistencies. Any detail that didn’t fit perfectly into the carefully constructed image of that gathering. His eyes finally turned, indirectly, to the man who stood out at the center of it all: Morgana’s father. The first impression, to any ordinary observer, would be that of a respectable nobleman, conducting a reception with the authority and presence expected of his position. But Damon was not an ordinary observer. He didn’t just see gestures, he saw intentions behind them. He didn’t just hear words, he perceived the weight, or lack thereof, in each sentence.

Something was wrong.

It wasn’t obvious.

It wasn’t grotesque.

It was... too subtle.

And that’s precisely why it was dangerous.

Damon took a few more steps closer, feigning interest in a nearby conversation, tilting his head slightly as if attentively listening to a merchant talking about trade routes, while in reality his focus was completely directed at the behavior of the man in front of him. He observed the rhythm of his breathing, the frequency with which he blinked, the way his eyes took a little longer than natural to focus on the person speaking directly to him. Small delays. Small flaws. Nothing a stranger would notice. But enough for someone like Damon to realize it wasn’t just tiredness or distraction.

”External control... or internal interference,” he thought, swirling the wine in his glass without even looking at it.

The hypothesis of magical manipulation began to form more clearly in his mind, but he didn’t allow himself to jump to conclusions. He needed more evidence. He needed to understand the mechanism. Control spells were rarely perfect, especially in social environments where multiple stimuli demanded quick and natural responses. There were always flaws. There were always moments when the mask slipped.

And then he saw it.

It was quick.

Almost imperceptible.

But it was there.

Someone said something that should have provoked a more intense reaction, perhaps a laugh or a more elaborate comment, but Morgana’s father only smiled... too late. As if the reaction had been pulled from within him belatedly. As if someone were deciding for him, but not perfectly.

Damon narrowed his eyes slightly.

”Interesting...”

But the father wasn’t the only point of interest.

In fact, he was just a piece.

The real question was who was moving the pieces.

And that led him to her.

The stepmother.

Damon didn’t look directly at her immediately. Instead, he subtly shifted his position in the hall, passing behind a larger group of guests until he reached a point where he could observe her through the reflection of a decorative mirror on the side wall. It was a simple but effective trick. It allowed him to study her without risking direct eye contact.

She was... perfect.

Too perfect.

Smooth movements, impeccable posture, smiles at the right time, reactions calibrated with almost artificial social precision. To anyone else, she would be the ideal portrait of a refined noblewoman. But Damon saw beyond that.

Excessive perfection was, in itself, a form of imperfection.

No one was that consistent all the time.

Except for someone who was constantly... monitoring every detail.

”You’re trying too hard,” he thought, observing how she tilted her head slightly when listening to someone, how her fingers always rested in the same position when holding the glass, how her gaze swept around the room at regular intervals, disguised as casual distraction, but in reality too systematic to be natural.

She was monitoring.

Everything.

Everyone.

And that included...

Morgana.

Damon finally allowed his eyes to move directly to his stepmother for a brief instant, just enough to catch the direction of her gaze. And there it was. For a fraction of a second, her focus wasn’t on the group she was talking to, but rather... on Morgana’s father.

No.

More specifically...

On his reaction.

As if she were evaluating.

Testing.

Adjusting.

Damon felt a slight smile appear on his lips, discreet, almost invisible.

”So this is how you do it...”

The confirmation came like a piece falling into place.

She wasn’t just manipulating.

She was maintaining.

Sustaining something active.

Which meant that any interference...

Any disturbance...

Could expose everything.

But that also meant risk.

If she were directly pressured, she might react.

And a desperate reaction in an environment full of important nobles could quickly escalate into chaos.

Damon brought the glass to his lips, taking a small sip while mentally organizing his next steps.

He needed to create a situation.

Something that would force a break.

Something that would compel Morgana’s father to act outside the script.

And more importantly...

Something that would force the stepmother to respond.

Without realizing she was being watched.

His eyes then moved around the hall once more, analyzing possibilities, evaluating people, positions, routes, interactions. Every element there could be used. Every detail could be transformed into a piece within the plan.

And then he found it.

A specific group.

Influential.

Noisy.

And... easily manipulated.

Damon let out a soft sigh, as if simply bored with the party, and began to move toward them, already adjusting his expression, his tone, his posture. The game had begun, and now he would cease to be merely an observer.

He would be the catalyst.

And, if everything went as planned...

That woman’s mask...

Won’t last much longer.

Damon approached the group with the naturalness of someone who belonged in that environment, adjusting the pace of his steps and softening his expression to the exact point between interest and nonchalance, as if he were simply seeking distraction amidst the monotony of repetitive conversations. The group in question consisted of three middle-aged nobles and a merchant clearly wealthy enough to frequent that circle, all engaged in a heated discussion about regional taxes and trade routes that, although tedious at first glance, carried enough potential to be exploited with surgical precision. Damon didn’t interrupt immediately, simply positioning himself to the side, listening for a few seconds, absorbing the tone, the rhythm, and, most importantly, the personalities involved, because in games like this, understanding who reacted out of pride and who reacted out of self-interest made all the difference.

”If I may,” he finally said, with a slight nod and a polite smile that betrayed absolutely nothing of his true intentions, ”I believe you are ignoring an important factor in the equation.” The group immediately turned their attention to him, as expected, and Damon seized the moment of curiosity to fully insert himself into the conversation, beginning to weave an argument that mixed plausible information with carefully placed little provocations, enough to generate internal disagreement among them. He wasn’t seeking to convince them, but rather to destabilize them, create friction, gradually raise the tone of the discussion until it inevitably caught the attention of other important figures in the room.

And it worked.

It didn’t take long for voices to rise, first subtly, then more intensely, until the initial topic completely distorted, transforming into a heated debate that began to attract glances from all around. Damon remained at the center of it all, fueling the conflict with pointed comments, never exaggerating, never exposing himself too much, just enough to keep the flame burning. His eyes, however, were far away. He observed in passing, gauging reactions, waiting.

And then, as predicted, the echo of the discussion reached the center of the hall.

Morgana’s father turned his face towards the group.

Damon noticed immediately.

The delay.

Again.

This time more evident.

The reaction came... too late.

As if he had been ”called” to react.

And hadn’t decided for himself.

Damon didn’t look away this time. On the contrary, he paused for a brief moment, just long enough to analyze the microexpression that crossed the man’s face before he resumed his proper social posture. It was quick, but not enough to go unnoticed. There was confusion there. A small void. A moment where he simply... wasn’t fully present.

”Definitely active control,” Damon concluded internally, feeling the confirmation solidify.

But the most important point was yet to come.

He moved his eyes.

Slowly.

Until he found her again.

The stepmother.

And this time, he didn’t need reflexes or tricks.

She was looking directly at the group.

More specifically...

At Morgana’s father.

And there was something different now.

Subtle.

But undeniable.

Her fingers had tightened slightly on the glass.

Her smile... wavered.

For less than a second.

But it wavered.

Damon felt the corner of her lips curve slightly.

”I found you...”

She had reacted.

Not to the argument itself.

But to the effect it had on the man.

This meant that she not only maintained control...

She constantly monitored his condition.

And any unexpected variation required adjustment.

Which also meant that she wasn’t as untouchable as she seemed.

Damon decided to press a little harder.

”So tell me,” he continued, raising his voice slightly within the discussion, now focusing more clearly, ”if economic decisions are being made based on external influences or... administrative inconsistencies, who is really in control of the current trade routes?”

The question was like throwing oil on a fire.

The nobles reacted immediately, some interpreting it as an indirect accusation, others as intellectual provocation, and the debate intensified even further. Louder voices. More abrupt gestures. Growing attention all around.

And again—

Morgana’s father was drawn into it.

This time, someone from the group called him directly, soliciting his opinion.

The hall fell partially silent.

Expectation.

Gazes.

Pressure.

And then—

The failure.

Damon saw it clearly.

For a second too long, the man simply... didn’t answer.

His gaze went blank.

His posture... froze.

And then, almost as if an invisible string were pulled—

He spoke.

But not naturally.

The answer came correctly.

Polite.

Coherent.

But... empty.

Weightless.

Without presence.

It was a constructed answer.

Not lived.

And at that exact moment—

Damon didn’t look at him.

He looked at her.

The stepmother.

And he saw.

For the first time.

Something real.

Something behind the mask.

Her eyes had narrowed slightly.

Her breathing changed.

And for a fraction of a second...

Irritation.

Control being forced.

Real-time adjustment.

Damon let out an almost imperceptible sigh, averting his gaze as if he were simply losing interest in the discussion, taking a step back and allowing the social chaos he had created to continue without his direct intervention.

He already had what he needed.

Confirmation.

Pattern.

Reaction.

Now it wasn’t about finding out if something was wrong anymore.

It was about proving it.

Exposing it.

And, above all...

Breaking it.

His eyes then moved around the hall once more, this time searching for Morgana.

He found her.

And, for a brief instant—

Their eyes met.

No words.

No explicit gestures.

But the message was there.

Clear.

Direct.

All set.

Damon then turned his face away again, as if nothing had happened, taking another glass of wine from a passing servant, once more assuming the role of an ordinary guest.

But inside—

The next move was already being planned.

And this time...

It wouldn’t be subtle.

It would be decisive.