Clarity returned only after the searing pain—like a molten iron rod boring through his skull—finally subsided. Even then, several long moments passed before Damien could truly think straight.
He gasped for air, the lingering sting behind his eyes still pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Sweat trickled down his temples, but he barely noticed.
"So this is the Imperial Fist," he muttered under his breath.
He threw a casual punch into the air.
Whoosh!
The force behind the motion stirred the air itself, releasing a sharp gust that whipped through the small room. The curtain hanging beside him fluttered violently, flailing like a banner in a storm.
Damien lowered his hand slowly.
As expected—nothing had changed.
The world remained silent. The dust still drifted lazily in the air, the old curtain still fluttered, and the wooden walls stood as unmoved as ever.
But within him, something was different.
