The sky was still an ink stain when Damián got out of bed. The silence in the house pressed on his shoulders like a dead body. He slipped on his boots, strapped on his holster, and headed straight to the stables.
The black horse, always restless, gave a low whinny when it saw him. Damián didn't offer a pat — he was restless too. He mounted in a single, dry motion and set off eastward, where the hills rose tallest.
The wind cut like a blade. He let it burn his face, dry his eyes — any pain was better than the one that burned inside.
At the top of the hill, he pulled the reins. The sun was beginning to crack open the horizon.
From up there, Benjamin's estate spread like a kingdom: vineyards, pastures, workers' houses — everything painted with the gold of a rich morning.
An empire.
Damián yanked the reins so hard the horse reared, its front hooves slashing the air like knives. For a moment, they hovered between sky and earth — a perfect moment of suspension.
Damián closed his eyes. The real La-Heri had lost everything: father, friends, an entire life — all because of Beatrice Phillips. He couldn't pretend anymore.
He didn't want justice.
He wanted revenge.
The horse shifted beneath him. Damián opened his eyes and looked at his own hands — hands that had never sworn loyalty to anyone. And he wanted not to care, but...
He wanted... No, something inside him demanded it: Beatrice Phillips on her knees.
He was beginning to want her to feel, in her own skin, everything she had caused.
He didn't care. He wouldn't spare a single Phillips. Someone in that family was tied to the damned Tetsu.
But it wasn't just about eliminating Tetsu. It was about what he represented.
It wasn't the danger — Damián knew he could kill him ten times over.
It was the absurdity of his presence in this world.
As if nightmares from the past could cross dimensions.
As if something old and dark had torn through the fabric of a reality, Damián, despite everything, still wanted to protect.
The sun was rising, gilding the dust kicked up by the horses below. The workers were already starting their day.
Damián turned the horse.
And rode downhill.
The sun was already blazing when Damián returned from his ride. The horse, soaked in sweat, panted heavily. In the stable, Benjamin was waiting, leaning against the wooden gate with a lit cigar between his fingers.
— Good morning, son — he said in a calm voice.
Damián dismounted with a light motion.
— Good morning, Mr. Benjamin.
He handed the reins to one of the workers, who promptly led the horse away. Benjamin observed him with quiet attention, as if each of his son's gestures revealed something.
— You remind me of your younger brother. He used to go out riding before dawn, too — Benjamin said with a faint smile. — Good to know you two have that in common.
Damián raised an eyebrow, with a half-smile:
— Just don't say we're the same. Unless you mean I'm insufferable, too.
Benjamin let out a muffled laugh, taking the cigar from his mouth and waving the smoke away with his hand:
— Come have breakfast. The housekeeper made fresh bread.
— I'll take a quick shower and be right back.
Damián entered the house. A little later, he reappeared with damp hair, wearing a clean shirt and dark trousers. He sat at the already set table, where a cup of coffee awaited him. The smell of fresh bread filled the air.
They were finishing breakfast when the housekeeper appeared at the door.
— Mr. Damián, there's a phone call for you. It's Mrs. Elizabeth Kadman.
Damián looked up, surprised. He got up immediately and went to the office. He answered in a soft tone:
— Mrs. Elizabeth.
Her voice came warm, comforting, with that subtle melancholy of someone who misses a loved one:
— Damián, my dear. How are things over there? I miss you terribly.
He smiled, sincerely:
— I miss you, too, Elizabeth.
— Your clothes and the jewelry for the tournament arrived yesterday. They're beautiful. When will you arrive? I want us to go together, like a family.
There was a brief silence. He hesitated before replying:
— Two days. And... I'm sorry, but I'll be going with my father and my brother. He raised the energy in his voice slightly. We'll meet there.
Elizabeth paused a moment, trying to hide her disappointment.
— Ah… I see. And well, Mr. Cecil will be joining us. He's helping with the preparations at Castle Campbell. And… he wants to apologize personally to Mason and his family.
Damián took a deep breath, held it, and kept his tone even:
— That's... unexpected. But apologies are a good start. Seems like a decent gesture.
— Taylor is devastated and full of regret too. She said she'll talk to Mason and apologize. He really wants to fix things.
Damián stayed silent, his fingers tightening around the phone.
— Alright — he said at last. — See you in two days.
Her voice softened even more, but held tight to the thread:
— Don't forget you're a Kadman too, Damián. We miss you. Adam misses you.
Damián gave a crooked smile, without humor:
— I haven't forgotten, Mrs. Elizabeth. See you soon — it's just two days...
He hung up and stared at the receiver for a few seconds. When he returned to the kitchen, Benjamin was waiting for him, watching with calm curiosity and no urgency.
— Everything okay?
Damián picked up his cup:
— Perfectly. I really like Mrs. Elizabeth. She said Mr. Cecil wants to apologize to Mason. And Taylor also realizes she was wrong and wants to apologize.
Benjamin only nodded. The silence between them was easy, almost comfortable.
After a minute, Benjamin broke it, slowly turning the cup between his fingers:
— Are you excited for the tournament?
Damián looked up, intrigued:
— I am. It should be good to see all the competitors together.
Then he rolled his eyes at his father, who was watching him, and continued:
— A bunch of people competing to prove they've got the best genes.
Benjamin leaned forward slightly, like he was preparing to share a secret:
— I competed in several. Years before politics took over my life. I was a champion three times.
He paused briefly, as if savoring the memory.
— The last time, I beat a Kadman. Malcolm Kadman — he said, smiling with the pride and certainty of someone who knew that name still carried weight.
Damián's eyes widened, amused:
— You're kidding! Tell me the full story.
Benjamin leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the moment, eyes alive, gestures growing more animated as he spoke:
— We fought with blood in our eyes. And for honor, of course — he added, raising his cup in a silent toast. — Maybe both. Or maybe more than that. I won't pretend vanity had nothing to do with it.
He paused for a moment, then began to recall:
The combat ring was a circle of coarse sand, surrounded by red and black flags. The stands were trembling with excitement. The midday sun was merciless, and my name echoed like that of some ancient hero.
Across from me stood Malcolm Kadman. Upright posture, tight gauntlets, dark elegance. He looked like he was going to a ballroom, not into a fight. And then it began...
He struck with a low spin—fast, treacherous. Almost got me. But I answered with full body weight and threw him into the sand. The crowd exploded. I locked his arm and won with a clean hold.
The judge didn't even hesitate. White flag. Fight over.
Benjamin let out a long, nostalgic laugh. Damián laughed along, impressed:
— I can still picture the look on his face in that moment.
— Closed off. And proud, wounded pride — said Benjamin, laughing louder. — But solid.
Benjamin rested his elbows on the table, now more serious:
— I'll talk to your brother later. He's forbidden to lose in this tournament. Williams only competes to win.
He looked at Damián for a moment, his voice lower, loaded with intent:
— And you, son, listen to me: games reveal both the worst and the best in people. Stay alert. Don't drift from your family. Something that lives in the deepest, darkest parts of the self — invisible to most — can rise to the surface. But that dark side paradoxically fuels and shapes the ABO world, acting as its engine. It's not about moral purity. It's an intrinsic right, a birthright. Ancient traditions.
Damián nodded, thoughtful. A soft smile still played on his lips, but his eyes had grown deeper. His father's words hung in the air, heavy like the scent of coffee still lingering in the kitchen.
Damián set his empty coffee cup on the table and stood.
— I need to talk to Mason — he said to Benjamin, who simply nodded, still lost in the memories of the tournament.
He went up the stairs quickly and knocked on his brother's door. No answer. He opened it — empty. The bed was neatly made, like a museum display.
— Where's Mason? — he asked the housekeeper who was passing by in the hallway.
— In Mr. Andrews' studio, sir. They've been there since early this morning.
Damián frowned. He knew Mason had been glued to Andrews, but he hadn't realized they were skipping real life together this often.
He made his way to the west wing, where Andrews kept his studio. Before he even reached the door, he heard excited voices and the high-pitched scrape of chalk on a board. He pushed the door open casually — like he was walking into his own living room.
He stopped at the threshold.
Mason stood in front of a blackboard filled with equations that looked like graffiti by an obsessed mathematician. He gestured like he was conducting an invisible orchestra. Andrews and three others — two men and a woman, two of them looking like they'd been born wearing glasses — watched in reverent silence. On the floor, scribbled papers formed a kind of genius nest.
"…and if we apply the simplification of this singularity in an infinite series right here," Mason was saying, scribbling furiously, "we arrive at the perfect analogy between rate of variation and quantum essence by perceks…"
Andrews noticed Damián first:
— Ah! Damián! — he said, his excitement stripping away some of the usual reserve around the two of them. He spoke like a reporter presenting a discovery. — You have to see this. Your friend is challenging the laws of physics like they're just suggestions!
Mason turned, his eyes still glowing — until he saw who it was. His expression shifted: from inspired genius to someone caught in the middle of the final boss fight.
— I need to talk to you — Damián said bluntly.
Mason hesitated, but Andrews jumped in with both feet:
— Just a little longer, right, Mason? We're in the middle of a critical derivation!
Damián smiled — without sympathy — at their exchange:
— I'll return him later, promise. Today, he'll have to deal with my inferior company. After all, I'm his friend. Right? — He aimed the line squarely at Mason, loud enough for the whole room.
The scientists exchanged glances as if Damián had insulted their equations. Mason let out a dramatic sigh, but didn't overact.
— One minute. Just finishing this part.
Damián folded his arms and stayed silent. Mason dove back into the blackboard like stepping through a portal. His hand moved like it was dancing. Even Damián had to admit: it was beautiful to watch.
— If we treat quantum essence as a conserved quantity in closed systems, even ignoring Noether's formalism…
— Mason. — Damián's voice hit the air like a rock thrown into still water.
Mason couldn't ignore it. With a flourish, he finished the equation. The physicists murmured, impressed.
— That's brilliant — one of them said, pushing up his glasses with one finger.
Damián approached slowly, like someone climbing a tree to rescue a stubborn cat.
Mason froze. The chalk in his hand snapped in half, leaving a white trail across the floor — as if his enchanted world were literally crumbling.
He looked at Damián like he had just yanked the console cable seconds before winning the game.
A thick silence fell over the room.
Then, with a resigned sigh and a half-laugh, Mason tossed the chalk onto the table.
— Fine. I already solved the part that mattered. The rest is just boring math.
Andrews stepped forward:
— But Mason…
— Relax, Mason. If you stay one more minute, I'll start thinking you want to marry that board — Damián cut in, dryly.
He held the door open for him.
— Oh, and your father wants to talk to you, Andrews.
— Me? — Andrews blinked, startled.
— About the tournaments you'll be in. He said you're not allowed to lose.
Damián looked at Andrews with a gleam of mockery in his eye:
— You need to train your body. Not just the universe and numbers.
Mason made a reflexive grimace, without thinking:
— Math is physical training. For the brain. But you wouldn't understand that, you brute.
Damián rolled his eyes with pleasure. The physicists chuckled, easing the tension.
Mason shoved Damián through the door with one hand on his shoulder and the other on his back, like pulling a kid out of a bakery.
— Let's go. Before I relapse and feel like finishing the metric derivation.
Damián followed, satisfied. Behind them, they heard Andrews complain with genuine indignation:
— "Can't lose," as if I were some amateur… I'm already a winner!
The morning sun bathed the stables in gold. The air smelled of hay and leather, and the tension between Damián and Mason was as thick as the dust in the air.
At the stable, Damián tightened the saddle strap with unnecessary force and spoke without looking:
— My advice? Stop now before you start liking him.
Mason paused, his hand still on the tack. When he turned around, he wore that arrogant, defiant expression he used as a shield:
— I'm a genius. I like smart people. That's all.
Damián let out a dry laugh.
— Funny. Two months ago, you wanted to disappear. Go back to another dimension, pay for your sins, redeem yourself — remember?
Mason sighed. He tapped his fingers on the saddle like he was doing mental math to plan an escape.
When he finally spoke, the pose dropped:
— What are the rules, Damián? Is suffering a bonus? I'm tired of standing still inside pain. And there's no other way out.
He raised his hands, like holding something invisible:
— Love is bullshit. Sometimes the person doesn't love you the way you need. And me... I always choose wrong. Always people who break me. This time I thought it was real. And it hurt like hell.
I learned early, back in the dimension we came from, that there's a lot of envy in the world. Social media brought that out — since no one posts disasters or failures, everyone shows off their perfect dinners, glamorous lives, pristine families. It creates this illusion that everyone's happy. Honestly, to me, that's one of the cheesiest things about the modern world.
We're all obligated to be happy — like we're walking into Shangri-La. But worse, because it hides the tragic dimension of existence.
He stayed in that tragic tone:
— I get that people might be happy just… I wonder if I could be happy alone?
Maybe. Or maybe not. Odds aren't great. Because being with yourself is like looking into a mirror that reflects Medusa. And Medusa, the Gorgon, stares back and petrifies you. The presence of others distracts us from ourselves — from thoughts, calculations, people, music, data. And when I multiply all that, I'm no longer seeing anything clearly.
Damián:
— So that's it? You're still tied up in this knot? You have to relate to someone else just to distract yourself from yourself?
Damián stopped. The tension in his shoulders dropped.
Mason continued, now in a confession that felt almost unaware of Damián's presence:
— I wanted to test if this world was real. And it kicked me back hard.
Mason ran a hand through his hair. His voice wavered.
— I'm a mess, Damián. A bundle of unresolved issues pretending to know what it's doing. I just wanted to come back because I was scared.
The wind tousled his hair. For a moment, his eyes vanished behind a loose strand. When he spoke again, it was barely a whisper:
— Scared of being alone again.
The silence was filled with noise — the clop of hooves, a horse's breath, the creak of leather.
Then Damián stepped closer and gripped Mason's shoulder firmly. It hurt a little. Maybe that was the point.
— Then stop choosing wrong, idiot. I spent years pretending to be stupid, just so the idiots would listen. Just to keep the cycle of my existential crises going.
I can't explain a lot of things, but I'm sorry if you didn't get a polished, safe life with toothless wisdom and frictionless insights.
The deeper truth about life is this: sometimes we're broken inside. Don't seek validation. Be your own rise.
Mason blinked, surprised. Damián was already mounting his horse. Facing away from him, he said with no emotion:
— We're not fixing the past. But we can do better from here.
He paused.
— First, you help me bring down the Phillips. Then… you can go back to playing Einstein.
Mason mounted too, a smile slipping in — half relief, half provocation:
— Only if you admit you didn't understand my calculations.
Damián gave a short laugh.
— I understood everything. Singularities applied to refine the result.
He spurred the horse and rode off.
Mason laughed and followed.
They vanished into the golden dust — a genius and a vigilante, finally on the same side of the equation.