Strongest Incubus System-Chapter 242: Blame

The day did not dawn golden.

It dawned gray.

A thin mist covered the ancient tombstones of Mirath’ Cemetery, snaking between the rows of stone like a silent veil. The twisted trees surrounding the grounds swayed slightly in a cold, steady wind, making the dry leaves scratch the ground with a low, persistent sound—like whispers that never ended.

Damon was alone.

The shovel stuck in the damp earth.

The tie loose around his neck.

The shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, now stained with dark mud mixed with dried blood that he hadn’t yet completely washed away.

Before him, seven newly closed mounds of earth lined up side by side.

Seven.

But that was only one section.

Others lay further in, where the trees grew denser.

He had spent the entire night there.

Without magic.

Without help.

Just digging.

The shovel sank into the earth one last time, and Damon left it stuck beside the last grave. He stood there, staring at the small, makeshift wooden marker he’d planted in the ground.

There were no speeches.

No formal prayers.

Just handwritten names.

Mabel.

Henrik.

Lysa.

Tomas.

And others who, until two days ago, were only concerned with food supplies, household bills, garden flowers, and organizing the library.

Yesterday they were laughing.

Today they were under the earth.

Damon’s gaze didn’t blink.

There were no tears.

There was no trembling.

There was something worse.

Emptiness.

He walked slowly between the newly closed graves, his shoes sinking slightly into the mud. He stopped before Mabel’s—the cook who always complained about the excess sugar in the desserts, but secretly added more when she thought no one was looking.

He remembered her laughter.

He remembered the smell of freshly baked bread.

Now there was only earth.

"I’m sorry," he murmured, his voice almost inaudible in the wind.

It wasn’t a formal apology.

It was raw.

Direct.

He didn’t kneel.

He didn’t touch the gravestone.

He just stood there, staring at the stark reality before him.

His eyes were dead.

Not because he didn’t feel.

But because he felt too much.

The weight of every decision made in recent years seemed to press down on his shoulders at that moment. The choice to live in that world. The choice to stay by Elizabeth’s side. The choice to accept that war and peace were merely intervals between inevitabilities.

They knew they had enemies.

They always knew.

But knowing didn’t stop the open graves before him.

A raven landed on a distant tombstone, watching him with dark, motionless eyes. Damon didn’t react.

He ran a hand over his face, feeling the roughness of the stubble that was beginning to grow after a sleepless night.

The breeze carried the scent of damp earth and withered flowers left by someone days before.

He walked to the end of the row and stopped before the last grave.

The smallest one.

A young stable boy.

Seventeen years old.

Damon closed his eyes for a moment.

The image of the boy running across the yard with a carefree smile flashed through his mind—too vivid, too recent.

When he opened his eyes again, they were the same.

Empty.

There was no anger there.

Not at that moment.

The anger had been yesterday.

Yesterday there had been heads scattered across the mansion floor.

Yesterday there was blood.

Today there was earth.

And responsibility.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cold morning air, and exhaled slowly.

"I failed," he said, not to the tombstones—but to himself.

The wind didn’t answer.

The silence of the cemetery was absolute.

There were no visitors.

There were no guards.

Only Damon and the dead.

He knew Elizabeth would have offered dignified funerals. Formal ceremonies. Honors. Speeches.

But he needed this.

He needed to dig.

He needed to feel the physical weight of what had happened.

Because while his hands ached, while his back burned, while the mud clung under his fingernails—this was real.

It wasn’t strategy.

It wasn’t underworld politics.

It was consequence.

He walked to the shovel and lifted it from the ground. He wiped it on the damp grass, observing the dirty metal.

"This isn’t over," he murmured.

But it wasn’t a threat.

It was a statement of fact.

He knew the Black Union had retreated.

He knew Elizabeth had sent a message.

He knew the underworld now spoke her name with renewed caution.

None of that brought Mabel back.

None of that returned the stable boy.

None of that erased the look of terror he had seen on the survivors’ faces the previous night.

Damon looked at the horizon.

The sun was beginning to break through the mist, casting a pale light over the cemetery.

The day was beginning.

The world continued.

Indifferent.

He turned to leave, but stopped halfway. Something in his chest tightened.

It wasn’t physical pain.

It was the belated echo of what he had repressed since the invasion.

The wall he had punched.

The scream with Lily.

The emptiness in his eyes when he heard about the dead.

He clenched his fists.

For a second, it felt like he was going to break.

But he didn’t.

Because someone needed to remain standing.

He straightened his shoulders.

He ran a hand through his hair.

And began to walk back towards the exit of Mirath’ Cemetery.

Each step heavy.

Each breath controlled.

His gaze still dead.

But beneath that empty surface, something was beginning to form.

It wasn’t fury.

It wasn’t revenge.

It was a decision.

If their world demanded blood to maintain balance...

Then he would learn to exact the price before others paid for him.

And as the sun finally pierced the mist and illuminated the newly closed graves, Damon left the cemetery without looking back.

But the silence of the tombstones followed him.

Damon had already crossed half the stone path leading to the iron gate of Mirath’ Cemetery when he heard light footsteps behind him.

He didn’t turn around.

He recognized the rhythm.

Even tired.

Even empty.

Lily.

The footsteps slowed until they stopped a few meters from him. There was a brief silence—as if she were gathering courage—and then she took the last few steps that separated them.

Her arms wrapped around his waist from behind.

Not forcefully.

But needily.

Her face rested against his back, between his shoulder blades, and for a moment the only sound was the wind passing through the ancient trees.

"It’s not your fault." Her voice came out muffled against the fabric of his shirt.

Damon closed his eyes.

The hug didn’t surprise him.

But the weight of those words did.

He remained still for a few seconds before answering.

"I know," he finally said, his voice low, hoarse from exhaustion and the sleepless night.

Lily tightened her embrace a little more.

"Then stop blaming yourself."

He let out a slow breath, almost a sigh.

"Not being to blame..." He paused, choosing his words carefully, as if each one had real weight. "And being able to prevent it are different things."

Lily remained silent.

He continued:

"I know I wasn’t the one who sent assassins. I know I wasn’t the one who gave the order." His jaw tensed slightly. "But I was there. I’m part of it. I’m part of what attracts this kind of war."

She shook her head against his back.

"No," she said immediately. "You didn’t attract anything."

Damon turned his face slightly, just enough for his voice to come out clearer in the cold air.

"In the end..." he murmured, "I was the target."

Lily released him slowly.

He turned to face her.

Her eyes were red, but there was no hysteria there—just deep sadness and something harder to name.

Determination, perhaps.

"No," she repeated, firm this time.

Damon frowned slightly.

"Elizabeth mentioned it," Lily continued, swallowing hard before going on. "They weren’t after you."

The wind seemed to lessen for a moment.

"They were after the stolen goods," she said.

The word hung between them.

Goods.

Damon felt something tighten in his chest.

"Lily..." he began, but she raised her hand slightly, interrupting him.

"They were tracking the succubus stolen at the underworld auction." Her voice trembled slightly, but she didn’t look away. "The aura they found... was mine."

Silence fell again, but now it was different.

Heavier.

More personal.

"Then no," she concluded, with a small, sad smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "You weren’t the target."

She lowered her gaze for a moment, staring at the damp stone floor.

"I was."

Damon took a step forward, as if to physically deny the idea.

"You’re not a commodity," he said firmly.

Lily let out a small, weak laugh.

"Not for you," she replied. "Not for Elizabeth. Not for Esther or Aria." She looked up again. "But for them? I was exactly that."

The word seemed to sting in her mouth.

"A stolen asset," she continued, her voice lower now. "An accounting error. A financial loss. Property taken without payment."

Her fingers closed slightly on the hem of her dress.

"I always knew this could happen," she confessed. "From the day I was taken from that auction. From the moment Elizabeth took me away."

Damon remembered.

The underground room.

The enchanted chains.

The smell of dirty magic mixed with desire and money.

He remembered Lily’s look that day—not submissive, but resigned.

Like someone who had already accepted being treated as an object.

"You didn’t choose this," Damon said, his voice harder now.

"No," she agreed. "But it was because of me that they came."

The sentence wasn’t accusatory.

It was a statement of fact.

Damon took another step, stopping just inches from her.

"They chose to invade," he retorted. "They chose to kill employees. They chose to escalate."

"Because I was valuable," Lily replied, and there was bitterness there. "Not as a person. But as a thing."

The wind lifted a strand of her hair, and Damon realized she was trembling—not from cold.

From a broken identity.

"When you look at me..." she murmured, "...you see someone who is part of this house."

He didn’t hesitate.

"Yes."

She took a deep breath.

"But in the underworld, I’m still registered as a missing item."

The simplicity of that sentence was worse than any scream.

Damon felt his jaw clench again.

"Then let’s change that," he said.