Damon walked through the streets of Arven without haste, but also without distraction, like someone who didn’t need to look around to know exactly where he was and who was nearby. The city remained alive around him, people passing by, distant voices, commerce functioning normally, but none of that really entered his field of attention. His focus was direct. Objective. He had walked this path before, and his body moved almost automatically, each step firm, steady, without hesitation or unnecessary deviation.

The door was exactly where it should be.

Discreet.

Hidden among ordinary structures, ignored by those who didn’t know what to look for. To anyone else, it was just another unimportant secondary access. To Damon, it was a specific point. A direct access to what really mattered below the surface.

He didn’t stop.

He just opened it.

As soon as he crossed the threshold of the door—

The attack came.

Fast.

Direct.

Without warning.

A short blade emerged from a blind angle, aimed at his neck with the clear intention to kill in a single movement. There was no hesitation in the strike, no amateurism. It was a trained, precise attack, designed to finish before there was any reaction.

Damon didn’t flinch.

He didn’t recoil.

He didn’t twist his body.

None of that.

His hand simply moved.

A single hand.

And stopped the blade.

Without apparent effort.

His fingers closed around the attacker’s arm before the blow completed its arc, completely interrupting the movement as if he had grasped something too light to pose a real threat.

Silence.

For a full second.

Damon turned his face slightly, looking at the man for the first time, his eyes completely devoid of urgency, like someone who had just been interrupted by something irrelevant.

"...what the hell is this?" he asked, his tone low, without irritation, but also without any patience.

The attacker didn’t answer.

He didn’t even try to speak.

His body reacted immediately, attempting to pull his arm back, failing, and using his other hand to draw a second blade, attacking again, this time aiming at Damon’s torso with more force, more desperation, more speed.

Damon’s expression didn’t change.

Nor his posture.

His free hand moved.

A simple movement.

Short.

Without elaborate technique.

Without visible preparation.

Just a wave of his hand.

The impact happened instantly.

There was no exchange of blows.

There was no sequence.

It was a single contact.

The attacker’s body simply... stopped.

For a moment, it seemed like nothing had happened.

Then—

It tore.

Not cleanly.

Not elegantly.

The force applied wasn’t calibrated for precision.

It was brute excess.

The man’s torso gave way at the point of impact, his internal structure collapsing before his brain even had time to process the damage. The sound was dry, unpleasant, accompanied by a damp crack that echoed through the narrow entrance space.

Blood exploded.

It didn’t trickle.

It didn’t drip.

It exploded.

Directly onto Damon’s face, his hair, his clothes, splattering the nearby walls with enough force to leave jagged marks.

The attacker’s body fell immediately afterward, without any resistance, like something that simply stopped working.

Silence.

Damon remained standing exactly where he was.

His hand still slightly outstretched.

No hurry to wipe it away.

No emotional reaction.

The blood trickled down his face slowly, across his forehead, down his nose, over his lips, completely staining his straw-colored hair, now heavy and dark with the liquid.

He blinked once.

Slowly. Then he looked down at the body on the floor.

Without interest.

Without curiosity.

Nothing.

Then he looked up.

Straight to the boy who was at the door.

The one responsible for the entrance.

The same one who should ensure that this kind of thing didn’t happen.

"...what the hell is this?" Damon repeated, now more directly, without changing his tone, but making it clear that the question wasn’t rhetorical.

The boy looked at the body on the floor.

Then at Damon.

Then at the spilled blood.

And shrugged.

Without surprise.

Without urgency.

"A lot of people have been doing a lot of stupid things lately," he replied, as if he were talking about something commonplace, something that wasn’t worth more than a casual comment.

He took a step aside, avoiding the blood on the floor.

"I’ll get someone to clean this up."

Damon stared at him for a second.

His expression didn’t change.

But the silence carried something different now.

It wasn’t anger.

It was assessment.

And dismissal.

"...you’re letting things get out of hand," he said finally, without raising his voice, just stating the truth.

The boy shrugged again.

"It’s not my problem."

Damon didn’t answer.

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t insist.

He just looked away.

He walked past the body on the floor without even looking again.

Without care to avoid stepping in the blood.

Without interest in avoiding the mess.

And he started down the stairs.

Each step was firm.

Heavy.

Not because of the difficulty—

But because of the presence.

The sound of footsteps echoed through the narrow corridor leading to the basement, creating a steady cadence that uncomfortably filled the space.

Blood still trickled slowly from his hair, a few drops falling to the floor behind him as he descended, leaving an uneven trail.

He didn’t wipe it away.

He wasn’t bothered.

He didn’t quicken his pace.

Nothing about him indicated that this had been a significant event.

For him—

It wasn’t.

It was just too small an obstacle to require any real effort.

And that—

It was clear.

In the way he moved.

In the complete absence of tension in his body.

In the lack of any altered breathing.

In the way the environment seemed... smaller around him.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs—

He didn’t stop.

Nor did he look back.

He just kept walking.

As if nothing had happened.

But let me make one thing absolutely clear to anyone nearby:

That—

That wasn’t a fight.

It was an interruption.

And he—

Didn’t even need to try.

Damon continued descending without changing his pace, each solid step echoing down the narrow corridor until the space began to open. The air changed first—denser, heavy with the smell of alcohol, smoke, and too many people concentrated in one place. Then came the sound. Overlapping conversations, laughter, coins clinking, muffled music. The kind of constant noise that defines a place where nobody really wants to be seen.

When he emerged on the black market level—

People saw.

Not all at once.

But fast enough.

The blood was still on him. On his face. On his neck. In his hair, now completely darkened by the dry, fresh red mixed together. Parts of his clothes were also marked, uneven, heavy where the liquid had accumulated. He hadn’t cleaned anything. He hadn’t tried to disguise it.

And that—

It drew attention.

Conversations began to dwindle in small blocks as he moved forward. Eyes turned, some quick, others lingering too long. People accustomed to violence recognize when something is out of the ordinary—and this wasn’t an ordinary fight. It wasn’t a wounded man trying to crawl to a corner.

It was someone who had traversed violence—

And kept walking as if nothing had happened.

Damon didn’t look at anyone.

He didn’t need to.

He knew they were looking.

But it didn’t matter.

He just kept going.

Straight ahead.

Without deviating.

Without slowing down.

That’s when someone stepped into his path.

A large, broad man, with an inflated posture, relying more on the presence of the place than on his own ability. He took two steps forward, blocking Damon’s path with a slightly extended arm, as if that were enough.

"Hey."

Damon didn’t stop immediately. He took another step.

The man didn’t back down.

"This place isn’t for wounded beggars," he continued, his tone laden with easy contempt, typical of someone who speaks without considering the consequences.

Silence.

Damon stopped.

Slowly.

He turned his face.

And looked at him.

Expressionless.

No anger.

No warning.

He just looked.

The man held his gaze for a second.

Maybe two.

Enough time to realize—

But too late to act.

Damon sighed.

A low sound.

Almost tired.

And then—

He moved.

There was no preparation.

No exchange.

No threat.

His hand closed.

His arm advanced.

A single punch.

Short.

Direct.

Brutal. The impact wasn’t just force.

It was an absolute excess of force concentrated at one point.

The man’s face didn’t deform.

It didn’t break.

It exploded.

The structure simply couldn’t withstand it.

The skull gave way instantly, the internal pressure released violently, scattering fragments and blood in an irregular arc that hit the floor, nearby tables, and some of the people around.

The body fell a second later.

No functional head.

No reaction.

Nothing.

Silence.

This time—

Heavier.

Clearer.

More definitive.

Damon lowered his arm slowly.

He looked around once.

And spoke.

"Don’t get in my way."

His tone wasn’t loud.

But no one failed to hear.

And no one answered.

No one tried.

No one moved.

The path opened.

Naturally.

He started walking again.

As if nothing had happened.

He passed the body on the ground, the splashes, the people now completely quiet. The atmosphere still had sound—but more distant, more contained, as if a part of it had been torn away.

Damon didn’t slow down.

The casino was ahead.

The entrance was marked by two guards positioned on either side, both armed, with firm posture, trained to prevent exactly the kind of situation that was happening now.

They saw him approaching.

They saw the blood.

They saw what he had just done.

And most importantly—

They felt it.

Damon didn’t need to say anything.

Nor threaten.

Nor speed up.

He just kept walking towards them.

The two exchanged a quick glance.

And opened the door.

Without a word.

Without questioning.

Without trying.

Because at that moment—

They knew.

If they tried—

They would die before completing the movement.

Damon passed between them.

He entered.

The casino’s interior was more organized, more controlled, but the tension that came with him swept through the space like a silent wave. Some employees looked, some players noticed, but no one interfered. There wasn’t time.

A butler appeared almost immediately.

Quick movement.

Impeccable posture.

But the eyes—

Alert.

"Sir," he said, keeping his voice steady despite Damon’s evident state. "Please, this way."

Damon didn’t answer.

But he followed.

The butler turned, guiding him through the inner corridors, past more restricted areas, away from the main hall. The pace was quick, but controlled, like someone who knew exactly where he needed to take him and didn’t want to delay even a second.

They reached a double door.

The butler opened it.

"She’s waiting," he said, making room.

Damon entered.

Cherry was there.

Seated.

Calm.

But not relaxed.

Her eyes went directly to him the instant he crossed the threshold.

And what she saw—

It wasn’t ordinary. She analyzed quickly.

The blood.

The posture.

The absence of tension.

And then she asked:

"What happened?"

Damon stopped a few steps ahead.

He looked at her.

And then—

He laughed.

Shortly.

Without real humor.

"I went in and got attacked," he said, bluntly, as if recounting something banal. "I went downstairs and was called a beggar."

He tilted his head slightly.

"Then I killed the idiot."

Silence.

He took another step forward.

Now closer.

"My day is shit," he continued, his voice still controlled, but carrying something heavier beneath. "So it’s good that you have some information."