A burst of red aura exploded from the Khaibet, tearing through the air. Blades of scarlet energy shot forth, slicing through the ogres like paper. The ice ogre at the forefront was cut in two. Its torso slid off its legs, its intestines spilling onto the ground in a steaming heap.
Blood sprayed in arcs, painting the walls. A second ogre's arm was torn off, the bone snapped clean, flesh dangling in tatters. A third was gutted, its organs splattering the mana stones. The bodies collapsed, their severed limbs twitching in pools of blood. The acrid stench of viscera saturated the room.
The dungeon shook violently. The mana stones, overloaded by the attack, exploded in flashes of light, releasing waves of raw mana. The residual aura of Nefertoum, contained within the Khaibet, unleashed itself, cracking the walls.
The ground split open, stone blocks crashing around Daemon. The unstable pocket dimension began to collapse. A deafening roar filled the air as the cave was wracked by tectonic spasms.
*Crack*
The pocket world fractured.
Daemon, at the end of his strength, leaned on the sword. Blood flowed from his shredded arm, his mouth, his broken ribs. His vision darkened, black spots invading his eyes.
He faintly heard cries outside, familiar voices. Erwan? The knights? He wasn't sure. His legs gave way, and he collapsed, the Khaibet falling beside him. The ground trembled one last time, then everything went dark.
A week later, Indivar Estate
In the archduke's office, Darian stood tall, hands behind his back, his solemn face contrasting with the stern expression of his father, Klaüs Indivar. The room, with walls draped in scarlet velvet and adorned with portraits of ancestors, smelled of parchment and ink. Klaüs, seated behind a massive mahogany desk, flipped through files, his aged fingers drumming on the wood.
"What you're asking is utterly absurd, Darian," Klaüs said, barely looking up. "The Khaibet must stay with Daemon."
Darian frowned, his jaw clenched. "It's not absurd, Father. It's logical. Why leave a weapon like the Khaibet with someone outside the Indivar bloodline? He's not of our blood."
Klaüs sighed, snapping a file shut. "Are you going to suggest Raven or her son again? Stop it, Darian. I'm starting to doubt your allegiance to our domain. Your son, Daemon, is the face, the future of our territory. He's proven his worth by finding the Khaibet."
Darian clicked his tongue, turning halfway, his boots creaking on the parquet floor. "All pride, huh? You'd rather have an outsider than your own blood."
"Darian!" Klaüs's voice boomed, his
"What is it, Archduke?"
Klaüs softened, his eyes scrutinizing his son. "Is there something your mother and I don't know?"
Darian shrugged, uncomfortable. "What do you mean?"
"Never mind, son. Just a thought." Klaüs fell silent, pensive. Darian's disgust toward Daemon was unusual, almost visceral, unlike his attitude toward anyone else. He decided to discreetly investigate the origins of Darian's late wife, Daemon's mother.
Darian opened the door and bumped into Adlar, the butler, who bowed. "Lord Darian, the young master is finally awake."
"Yeah, yeah…" Darian waved off the remark, pulling out his phone to dial a number as he walked down the hallway.
...
In a chamber with silk curtains, Daemon blinked, an infernal headache pulsing in his temples. "Fuck…" He coughed, the raspy sound echoing in his dry throat. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain tore through his chest, brutally bringing him back to reality. "What the hell…?"
His bloodshot eyes scanned his body. He was covered in bandages from neck to ankles, every movement triggering a sensation of torn muscles. His arms, barely mobile, trembled with effort. A mature voice interrupted him.
"Calm yourself, young master. Your body is still very weak."
Daemon turned his head, grimacing. A man in his fifties, wearing a white coat under a noble tunic with golden embroidery, stood by the bed. His gray hair was pulled back, and his round glasses slipped down his nose.
"I'm Doctor Jonathan," he said, sitting on a carved wooden chair. "Healing you required more than high-quality potions. Your physique is surprisingly fragile… You've overtaxed yourself."
Daemon sighed, the pain in his ribs making him wince. He had brushed with death, fighting like a madman, inflicting poison on himself, facing fear and stress. He had grasped the Khaibet, but at what cost? He was bedridden, pathetic, unable to move. After all that, I can't even use the Khaibet? What a shitty life…
"How do you feel?" Jonathan asked.
"Like shit…" Daemon corrected himself. "Well, pretty bad."
"That's normal. Your muscles are torn due to overexposure to aura. You've used too much. Your lungs were punctured, but they'll heal." Jonathan held up a vial of green liquid. "This will help your lungs."
Daemon opened his mouth reflexively, but Jonathan shook his head with a disturbing smile. "No, it's nasal. It can be painful. Breathe deeply, it'll speed up the healing."
Before Daemon could protest, Jonathan inserted the vial into his nostril and poured the liquid. An excruciating burn invaded his nose, as if liquid fire flowed into his sinuses. Daemon screamed, his hands gripping the sheets, his nails digging into the fabric. "Fuck, that hurts!"
"Breathe, young master," Jonathan repeated, impassive. "It's almost over."
Daemon inhaled reluctantly, the pain slowly subsiding. He gasped, his face red, when the door opened.
Yulda, the archduchess, entered, her face marked with worry. Her silver hair, pulled into a bun, framed her red eyes, glowing with a supernatural light. Her purple gown, adorned with pearls, rustled with each step. "Daemon," she whispered, approaching the bed.
"Archduchess," Jonathan greeted. "The young master will recover in a few days. His wounds are severe, but he's resilient."
Yulda nodded. "Thank you, Jonathan." The doctor bowed and left the room.
Yulda sat down, her hands folded on her lap. "I heard you killed an S-rank ogre. That's… impossible, Daemon. How did you do it?"
Daemon managed a smile, despite the pain. "Nothing's impossible, Grandmother."
She frowned, unconvinced. "That was the last time you put yourself in such danger. You should have warned me you were clearing a dungeon!"
"I told you about it, though," he retorted, his voice weak.
Yulda sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, her red eyes glinting. "I thought you were going to hunt two or three wolves with your knights, not face ogres!" She paused. "How did you know about the Khaibet-Nefertoum?"
Daemon swallowed, his mind racing. He had to lie, and fast. "I bought the information, Grandmother."
"Bought?" Yulda raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "Who would sell such information instead of using it?"
Daemon weighed his options. If he lost Yulda's trust, his current weakness would leave him vulnerable. All or nothing. "The Hyls Sisters,"