Chapter 3: Chasing Moon
Damon chuckled softly, bowing to his grandfather with exaggerated flair. "May Madness lead!" he declared, voice ringing with unrestrained delight. A wild, almost feral grin split his youthful face as he turned and strode from the grand hall, leaving behind a heavy silence broken only by the echo of his footsteps.
The training grounds of the Void Mansion lay beyond the inner courtyard, a vast expanse of blackened stone scarred by countless battles, ringed by towering obsidian walls that seemed to drink in both light and sound. Ancient weapon racks lined the edges, holding relics that had tasted the blood of generations. The air here was thick with lingering Void Energy, cold and oppressive, as though the territory itself resented weakness.
Damon stepped into the open field alone, his black robes fluttering faintly in the unnatural breeze. His crimson eyes swept the grounds with predatory calm.
This body is a ruined temple, he thought, voice echoing only in his mind. Veins ruptured beyond mortal repair. Primordial bones shattered into dust. Pathways sealed forever. It can no longer refine the Qi of this world… yet it still remembers divinity. It can still drink from the firmament itself.
A faint, mad smile touched his lips as he flexed his fingers. Traces of ancient, forbidden power stirred beneath his skin, remnants of something far older than Avalonia, older than Val Tempest's legacy.
No matter. Even a broken vessel can be reforged through pain.
His gaze settled on the far edge of the field, where a colossal mace lay chained to an iron post. Three hundred tons of void-forged black iron, its surface etched with runes that pulsed faintly with suppressed malice. Few in the entire territory could lift it even an inch. Most baptism Walkers would strain to drag it across the ground.
Damon walked to it slowly, deliberately, as though greeting an old friend.
He grasped the hilt.
The chains snapped like dry twigs.
He hoisted the weapon onto his shoulder as casually as a woodsman might carry an axe.
"Even without a core," he murmured aloud, voice low and reverent, "the flesh remains the truest vessel. It was made to contain power… and to endure agony."
He dropped into an ancient stance, feet wide, knees bent, spine aligned like a drawn bow.
Then he swung.
The first strike tore through his body like lightning through dead wood. Joints dislocated with audible pops. Muscles tore. Fractured bones ground against one another. Blood surged up his throat, metallic and hot.
Damon laughed, a deep, genuine sound of pure, unadulterated joy.
The second swing was faster. The third heavier still.
Each impact sent shockwaves through his frame, but he did not falter. Sweat mixed with blood on his pale skin. His long spiked hair came loose, framing his beautiful, terrible face in wild black strands. His crimson eyes burned brighter with every strike, as though the pain itself fed the madness within.
"It has been eons," he whispered between swings, voice trembling with ecstasy, "since I last felt this sweetness. The burn in the marrow. The scream of tendons. The glorious moment when flesh remembers its limits… and shatters them."
He moved like a storm, fluid, primal, utterly unlike any technique taught in Avalonia. Flip, spin, pivot. The mace became an extension of his will.
Then, with a sudden explosive burst, he hurled it skyward.
The massive weapon soared higher than the mansion spires, blotting towards the sky in a heartbeat.
Damon leaped after it, far higher than any body unity practitioner should, higher even than most baptism experts. In mid-air, he twisted, caught the falling hilt, and spun downward in a violent spiral of death.
Chasing Devil.
The mace struck the reinforced stone with a cataclysmic boom.
No visible damage marred the ground, no cracks, no craters, but the impact reverberated through the earth like the heartbeat of an awakening titan. Dust and debris erupted in a blinding cloud, sweeping across the entire training field in a choking gray tempest.
Far off, trainees staggered mid-form. Guards on the walls clutched their posts as the very air trembled. Shouts of alarm rose as dozens rushed toward the epicenter.
"What in the nine voids was that?!"
"Sound the alert !"
As the dust slowly settled, an eerie silence descended.
At the center stood Damon.
Hair wild and unbound. Robes torn at the sleeves, revealing pale arms streaked with blood. The colossal mace rested casually across his shoulder as though it weighed nothing. His chest rose and fell steadily, and a thin trail of crimson dripped from the corner of his smiling mouth.
Madness had sharpened his already divine features into something both beautiful and terrifying.
From above, a powerful aura descended.
A scarred, muscular figure landed heavily before him, Gilgamesh, Fourth Platoon Leader, the one known across the territory as the Crazed Voidant. His eyes glinted with deranged amusement as he took in the scene.
Damon tilted his head slightly, lips curving into a knowing smile.
"Ah… Gilgamesh. I knew the noise would draw you."
Gilgamesh laughed, a rough, mocking sound. "Boy, I am not some beast to be baited by mere racket. But since you've disturbed my peace…" He stepped forward, reaching out as if to grab Damon by the collar. "I suppose I'll teach you the price of arrogance."
In that instant, Damon moved.
The mace whipped horizontally in a blur aimed straight at Gilgamesh's skull.
Gilgamesh's eyes widened, real surprise flashing across his face for the first time. He jerked backward, the wind pressure slicing a shallow cut across his cheek.
Damon did not pause. Using the weapon's momentum, he vaulted forward, heel arcing toward Gilgamesh's temple in a strike that carried the weight of mountains.
The watching crowd, now two dozen strong, froze in collective shock.
"The young lord… attacked a platoon leader?"
Gilgamesh's rage ignited like a void flame. Mid-stage Kai Walker cultivation erupted unchecked, pressing down on the field like an invisible mountain. "Insolent whelp! Today, your bones will learn respect!"
Damon's voice cut through the pressure, soft and almost tender.
"Respect? No, Gilgamesh. All I desire… is endless battle. Will you grant me that gift?"
Gilgamesh snarled, drawing his sword in a flash of dark void-light. The blade slashed toward Damon's ribs, fast enough to sever life from legend.
Damon answered with raw, overwhelming force. The mace descended like heavenly judgment.
"Break for me!"
Steel and iron met,then froze.
A shadow had appeared between them, faster than sight.
Anki, First Platoon Leader, Commander of Defense, the living fortress of the Void Territory, stood calmly in the center. One hand gripped Gilgamesh's sword edge. The other held the mace's hilt. Neither weapon had moved another inch.
His thick beard and gentle eyes radiated ancient, unfathomable depth.
"Young Lord," Anki said quietly, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips, "the Ancestor decreed you may only issue true challenge in one year's time."
Damon's gaze locked onto him, ignoring Gilgamesh entirely. For the first time since awakening, genuine surprise flickered across his mad features.
Such overwhelming vitality… like an endless ocean hiding ancient dragons.
Anki released both weapons and stepped back with graceful ease.
"Join the Fourth Platoon, Young Lord," he advised. "Gilgamesh will satisfy your heart's desires."
Gilgamesh scoffed, sword still humming with unsatisfied killing intent.
Damon's faint smile returned, but his crimson eyes never left Anki.
This man… he is truly strong. The pillar that keeps the Void Territory standing against our enemies.
The field remained silent, all present sensing that something profound, and dangerous, had just begun.