Chapter 191: So they were... Knights of Arven?
The knight’s body hit the ground with enough force to knock the air from his lungs and silence the courtyard for a single, precious second.
It was the only warning.
Damon’s scream echoed like thunder between the mansion walls, laden with a fury too controlled to be empty.
For an instant, no one moved.
Then chaos erupted.
The escorting knights reacted instinctively—not as individuals, but as a unit trained to crush threats before they beca real. Swords were drawn in sequence, spears lowered, shields raised. The tallic sound echoed like a war bell.
"Kill him!" soone shouted.
Thirty n advanced.
Damon did not retreat.
He swung his spear forcefully, the shaft describing a brutal arc that struck the jaw of the first attacker before his sword could even descend. The man was thrown aside, colliding with another knight and knocking them both down in a tangle of tal and screams.
The second ca from the left. Damon took a short, almost lazy step, dodging the blade and driving the base of his spear into the enemy’s sternum. It wasn’t a piercing thrust—it was a sharp impact, calculated to break the rhythm, tear the air away, and throw the body backward.
There was no pause.
A shield ca from the front, trying to crush him. Damon slid down, his spear passing under the edge of the shield, and twisted his wrist violently. The knight lost his balance. Damon seized the mont and spun, using the man’s own body as an obstacle, throwing him against the companions who were coming right behind.
The courtyard beca a whirlwind.
Swords cut through the air where Damon had been a second before. Spears thrust shadows. He moved among them like sothing too fluid to be human—not fast in the raw sense, but precise, always in the exact place where he shouldn’t be.
Each blow had purpose.
Knees were broken with sharp impacts. Shoulders dislocated with brutal twists. Helts struck from below, throwing n back in a state of confusion.
"SURROUND HIM!" shouted an officer.
They tried.
Damon felt the circle close and smiled—not for amusent, but for recognition. They were finally doing sothing right.
He planted his spear in the ground, used the montum to leap, spinning his body in the air. His foot struck a knight’s face with enough force to knock him unconscious before he touched the ground. Damon fell rolling, pulled his spear back, and charged straight for the weakest point in the formation.
Their mistake was hesitating.
Damon entered like a blade.
The training field, once organized, was now a jumble of bodies, scattered weapons, cries of pain, and contradictory orders. The sll of sweat, dust, and light blood—still contained, but growing—perated the air.
Esther appeared at the edge of the courtyard, her eyes wide.
"DAMON!" she shouted. "STOP!"
He didn’t hear.
Or he heard... and ignored it.
A knight tried to grab him from behind. Damon released his lance for a mont, trapped the man’s arm, twisted his body, and threw him over his shoulder with enough force to send him sliding several ters across the ground.
Another ca with a broadsword, a downward strike. Damon picked up the weapon from the ground—a fallen spear—and intercepted the attack, not blocking, but deflecting the blade to the side and entering the enemy’s space. A short blow to the chin. A second to the throat. The man fell, suffocated, unable to continue.
"Kill him!" "— soone yelled, their voice already thick with panic.
They advanced together now, desperate.
Damon felt the impact of a shield slam in his ribs and slid backward, the pain exploding—but he ignored it. He used his own recoil to spin, sweeping across the legs of two n at once. Before they touched the ground, he was already on the third, striking his helt with the base of his spear until the tal sank slightly.
The pace didn’t slow.
It was as if Damon were in another state—an absolute focus where there was no hesitation, only movent and consequence. Each of their attempts to overpower him only exposed more flaws. Broken formation. Overconfidence. Reliance on numbers.
Numbers ant nothing when they didn’t know how to fight alone.
A group tried to flank him. Damon rushed straight at them, which made them hesitate for a microsecond—enough." He slipped between two n, used one as a human shield, deflecting blows ant for him, and then released him with a violent shove against his own allies.
Bodies fell.
Weapons were dropped.
Screams of pain mingled with increasingly desperate orders.
— DAMON, STOP! — Esther shouted again, now running towards him.
He passed her without even turning his face.
A knight tried to hit him from behind. Damon ducked, spun, and struck the man’s knee with a sharp crack that echoed through the courtyard. Another tried to take advantage of the opening. Damon advanced, slamd his shoulder into the enemy’s chest, and threw him against a pile of weapons.
There were fewer than fifteen left now.
And they knew it.
The fear was visible.
Their hands trembled. Their steps were less firm. The circle dissolved before it even ford.
Damon advanced nonetheless.
He grabbed a knight by the collar of his armor and lifted him off the ground with a strength that didn’t match his slender physique. The man tried to resist. He couldn’t. Damon threw him violently against another, knocking them both down.
— You... you’re a monster! — soone shouted.
Damon turned slowly.
"No," he said, his voice cold. "I just train every day."
The last knights retreated.
Then the sound of firm footsteps echoed through the courtyard.
Silence fell like a heavy cloak.
Elizabeth erged from the main entrance, her expression tired, but absolute control in every feature. Beside her, a tall man, enveloped in dark noble robes, observed the scene with eyes too attentive to belong to an ordinary aristocrat.
Bodies scattered. Knights groaning. Weapons on the ground.
Elizabeth sighed.
A long, deep sigh, from soone who had foreseen exactly this.
"Damon," she called, with deadly calm. "What did you do?"
He released the knight he still held by the collar, letting him fall to the ground like a sack of grain.
"They started it," he replied bluntly. "They attacked
because they decided I looked weak."
Elizabeth closed her eyes for a brief second.
"Of course they did..."
She then turned her gaze to the man beside her.
"Duke," she said. "I’m afraid that wasn’t the ideal reception."
The man took a step forward.
It was at that mont that Damon truly looked at him.
The shape of his face. The dark hair. The gaze that was too old.
Sothing clicked violently in his mind.
"...Arven?" he asked, his voice changing for the first ti.
The duke raised an eyebrow.
Damon didn’t even wait for an answer.
"Damn it..." he murmured, running a hand over his face. "The Duke of Arven of all people."
He completely released the last knight, who fell groaning to the ground, and took a few steps back, breathing deeply, as if only now had the world reached its true weight.
Elizabeth watched him, arms crossed, clearly torn between irritation and an almost amused exhaustion.
"Do you two know each other?" she asked.
Damon let out a short, humorless laugh.
"His daughter, Morgana."
The silence still hung heavy when an out-of-place sound broke the tension.
Cracking tal.
A muffled groan.
One of the knights—one of those who had been felled earlier—forced himself to his feet. His helt was crooked, his gaze bloodshot with hatred and humiliation. He trembled, not from pain, but from sothing far worse: wounded pride.
No one noticed imdiately.
No one... except Damon.
The knight lunged forward in a suicidal impulse, sword raised, aid at his back.
"DIE!"
The blow never materialized.
Damon spun instantly, as if he had eyes in the back of his head. His hand released the spear and lunged straight ahead, his fingers closing around the man’s neck with absurd force. The impact stopped the attack mid-swing.
There was a dry crack.
The knight was lifted off the ground as if he weighed nothing, his legs kicking the air uselessly. His eyes widened in pure terror when he realized, too late, that there was no more fighting.
Only consequence.
Damon showed no anger.
Nor haste.
Nor pleasure.
Only absolute coldness.
With a brutal and direct movent—raw, primitive—he twisted the man’s body against his own hand.
The sound was short.
Definitive.
When Damon released the body, it fell lifeless to the ground, and the entire courtyard seed to hold its breath at the sa ti.
For a second, no one dared to move.
Then Damon turned slowly, holding what remained of the knight in one hand. His gaze swept over the surrounding faces—pale soldiers, so on the verge of panic, others unable to look away.
His voice echoed firm, low, but laden with sothing that chilled the blood.
"I am a knight of Arven."
The duke looked up imdiately.
"I was trained at your academy," Damon continued, taking a few steps forward. "I learned the sa codes. The sa beautiful words about honor, discipline, and rit."
He stopped a few ters from the duke.
"Then I’ll say one thing clearly."
Damon glanced at the knights scattered on the ground.
"You disgust ." The silence was absolute now. Not even the wind seed to dare to blow.
Damon took another step forward and released what he was holding, letting it fall at the duke’s feet with a dry, heavy sound.
"Sorry," he said, without any sign of regret. "But as a knight... your escort disgusts ."
The Duke of Arven remained motionless, his face rigid, his eyes fixed ahead. There was no shock. No imdiate fury.
There was calculation.
Elizabeth, on the other hand, sighed.
But it wasn’t a sigh of irritation.
It was... satisfaction.
She crossed her arms, watching Damon with a dangerous glint in her eye—the kind of expression that appeared when sothing turned out exactly as she predicted, even if it was a political disaster.
"Damon..." she said, with an almost indulgent calm. "You really don’t know how to do anything halfway, do you?"
He ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath, as if only now feeling the weight of what had just happened.
"I warned you," he replied. "They started."
Elizabeth smiled.
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