The sea roared below the bridge.
Waves crashed against stone, endless and indifferent. The wind tugged at Damian's green coat, brushing strands of black-and-white hair across his forehead.
He stared at the horizon.
"Sophie," he said quietly, "right now I'm resisting the urge to rip these people's throats out."
His tone was calm. Observational. As if he were commenting on the weather.
Sophie stood beside him, her form flickering faintly in the sunlight. She studied him carefully.
"If you're not near them," she replied, "it's easier for you."
Damian's fingers tightened slightly against the stone railing.
"You know what I'm going to do right now?" he continued. "I'm going to slide on those ones who sold me."
His voice lowered.
"I'm going to kill them all. The betrayers. The ones who watched and did nothing."
A pause.
"And everything in sight."
His lips curved faintly.
"Yeah. That sounds fantastic. I should have their heads hung at the gate. Or laid out on platters. An example should be made."
He covered his face with one hand.
For a moment, silence stretched between them.
Sophie didn't flinch.
"If you want to go on a killing spree," she said evenly, "just say so."
Damian exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Before all that fun," he said, lowering his hand, "where can I find spirits like the Spirit of Resentment?"
Now his eyes held something else.
Not anger.
Hunger.
Sophie's gaze sharpened.
"I know a few places. Luckily, one is near this continent."
Damian turned his head slightly toward her.
"Bet."
She pointed east.
"A few hours by foot. It's called the Great Ruins. Long ago, it was a ritual site. Demonic beings once influenced the land there. That corruption never fully faded."
Her voice grew quieter.
"The place is filled with the dead. Monsters. Humans. Spiritualists who failed their trials. Their resentment lingers. You'll find spirits similar to what you faced."
A faint pause.
"And stronger ones."
Damian smiled.
It wasn't warm.
It wasn't joyful.
It was predatory.
"Perfect."
They left the bridge.
The city of Strell bustled behind them, unaware of the void walking among them.
Damian's hands slipped into his coat pockets as he moved through the streets. His posture relaxed. His presence unassuming.
But the air within a hundred and fifty meters subtly warped.
Perception bent.
Sound thinned.
The crowd flowed around him without understanding why they felt uneasy.
Then—
A drunk man staggered out of an alley and collided with Damian's shoulder.
The impact was light.
But the man stumbled backward, slurring curses.
"Watch where you're going, you—!"
He swung clumsily.
Damian didn't move.
The man's fist cut through empty air.
He blinked.
Swung again.
Missed.
His surroundings shifted without him realizing. The street dissolved. The crowd vanished. Shadows deepened.
He was no longer on the road.
In his perception, he stood alone in a vast black corridor.
Damian stood a few meters away, silent.
The drunk man charged again, screaming incoherently.
He punched.
Kicked.
Fell.
Scrambled up and attacked nothing.
To any onlooker in the real world, he was simply flailing at the air.
Damian continued walking.
Didn't look back.
Didn't change pace.
The man's screams grew frantic inside the illusion. Walls closed in. The corridor twisted. Footsteps echoed from unseen pursuers.
Damian spoke softly.
"You know what?"
His voice reached the man as if whispered directly into his mind.
"Die."
Inside the illusion, the corridor collapsed inward.
Darkness consumed the drunk man whole.
In reality—
He dropped.
Still.
No visible wound.
No external mark.
Just lifeless.
The crowd screamed.
Chaos erupted.
Damian did not turn around.
Hands still in his pockets, coat swaying lightly behind him, he walked toward the eastern horizon.
Toward the Great Ruins.
Toward something stronger.
And somewhere far to the north—
On the continent of Kian—
Orders were already being whispered in the shadows.
But Damian did not care.
He only felt the hunger growing.
And soon—
It would be fed.