Strongest Incubus System

Elizabeth's office was silent when Damon entered. The sound of the door closing behind him seemed to blot out the world outside. The air inside was thick, smelling of ink, parchment, and iron—a curious combination that perfectly reflected the woman sitting at the desk.

Elizabeth was focused, her fingers gliding over a pile of documents and reports piled haphazardly. The early morning light filtered through the half-open curtains, painting the strands of her dark hair golden. She didn't look up immediately, only raising her hand in a quick gesture, indicating for him to wait.

But it was the man beside her who caught Damon's attention.

Leaning against the wall, half-hidden by the shadows, he seemed a part of the room itself—still, silent, and yet filling every inch of the space with a presence that made the air vibrate.

Damon's gaze narrowed.

The man had long, silvery, almost white hair that fell in heavy strands over his shoulders. A scar ran across his face, a crooked line that began above his left eyebrow and descended to near his mouth—a cut that, for some reason, didn't diminish his imposing presence. On the contrary, it made him more regal. More dangerous.

His expression was cold, exhausted perhaps, but there was something in his eyes—a gray, cutting glint, like the reflection of a polished blade—that betrayed the kind of man who saw the world not as a place of beauty, but as a constant battlefield.

The black leather armor he wore seemed tailored, fitting his body like a second skin. The reinforced plates on his chest and shoulders had simple but solid-looking metal clasps, made to withstand more than just blade blows. Every part of the garment served a functional purpose, without excess, without adornment. The collar was high and closed, protected by a dark steel ring, and a small blue circle glowed there—subtle, almost mystical—perhaps a symbol or a focus of mana.

The gloves and boots, equally black, were marked with use. The short cloak that fell over one shoulder was torn at the edges, stained by time and battles. He exuded experience—and weariness.

Damon sensed something strange in the air. It was as if an invisible pressure enveloped him, a dense, silent force that seemed to want to test his very presence. He took a step forward, his gaze steady, and felt that same weight grow, as if the man were silently measuring him—one beast sizing up another.

Elizabeth finally looked up. "Damon." Her voice broke the silence like a thin blade. "I'm glad you came quickly."

Damon looked away from the stranger and nodded. "Ester said you wanted to speak with me."

"Yes." Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, her fingers intertwined on the table. "And I also wanted you to meet someone."

The man pushed away from the wall, and the mere sound of his boots against the wooden floor seemed to echo louder than it should have. He walked with a silent but heavy, controlled stride—the kind of movement that betrayed a veteran warrior, accustomed to gauging distance and terrain even in silence.

Elizabeth gestured toward him. "This is Caerth."

The name sounded familiar and yet not. Damon held his gaze steadily. "Is he one of the new knights?"

Elizabeth let out a soft, humorless laugh. "New? Not exactly. Let's just say he's... old enough to have buried all the others who called themselves knights."

Caerth's gaze remained fixed on Damon. There was no arrogance there—just a kind of calm that bordered on danger. A warrior who needed nothing to prove.

"You're the boy she talks about so much," Caerth said finally, his voice husky, low, like the distant sound of suppressed thunder.

Damon lifted his chin. "And what's she saying?"

"That you're promising," the man replied. "But still raw."

A muscle ticked in Damon's jaw, but he kept his tone firm. "And what do you think?"

Caerth took a step closer. The height difference between them wasn't great, but it felt as if Damon were standing before a mountain. "I think she's being generous."

Elizabeth stood slowly, a half-smile appearing. "And that's why you'll be training with him."

Damon blinked. "What?"

"Caerth will be your instructor," she said, rounding the table. "He was once the strongest knight in the Order of the Moonlight before... well, before it disintegrated."

"I don't train anyone else," Caerth interrupted, his eyes never leaving Damon's. "I've made that clear."

Elizabeth stopped beside him, crossing her arms. "You also made it clear that you owed no one anything. And yet, here you are, in my house, eating my bread and sleeping under my roof."

He sighed, looking away for a moment. "You know how to use debts well, Elizabeth."

"Only when necessary." She smiled coldly. "And in this case, it is."

Damon watched the two of them, trying to understand what was really happening. "So he's going to make me a knight?"

"No," Caerth replied, turning back to face him. "I'll try to make you something that won't die on the first battlefield."

Damon took a deep breath, never looking away. "I've survived worse."

A brief silence stretched. Then, to his surprise, Caerth gave a small smile—a dry, almost imperceptible smile. "That's what everyone says. Until the first scar."

Elizabeth moved back to her desk. "Good." Then it's decided. You begin tomorrow at sunrise.

Caerth turned, the sound of his cloak moving softly behind him. Damon watched him until he stopped at the door, and for a moment, the old warrior glanced over his shoulder.

"Sleep well, boy," he said. "Tomorrow, you'll wish you hadn't woken up."

And he left, leaving only the heavy sound of his footsteps disappearing into the hallway.

Silence returned, and Damon inhaled slowly, his blood boiling with a mixture of defiance and curiosity.

"What do you plan?" Damon asked.

Elizabeth didn't answer immediately. She just stared at Damon—that look that always made him feel as if she were dissecting him from the inside, calculating every word, every breath.

She leaned her elbows on the table, lacing her fingers together in front of her face. "What do I plan?" she repeated, her tone calm, but with something dangerous lurking behind her voice. "I plan to pull you off the ground where they threw you and see if you can stand on your own."

Damon narrowed his gaze, but didn't answer. Elizabeth continued:

"You're strong, Damon. Strong enough to scare self-important people." She paused briefly, her eyes dropping to a parchment spread before her. "But strength without a position, without a name, is useless in this place."

"I never needed a name to fight," he countered.

Elizabeth smiled faintly. "Yes, and that's precisely why you remain a nobody."

The sentence cut through the air like a blade. Damon frowned, but she didn't flinch.

"The social status of an incubus without origin is lower than that of a commoner," she explained, her voice now colder, more pragmatic. "Commoners, at least, belong to some fiefdom. They have a lord who speaks for them, laws that protect them, however minimally." You?" She stared at him. "You belong to nothing. You're a loose dog."

Damon clenched his fist, but remained silent. Elizabeth stood and slowly walked around the table, approaching until she was face to face with him.

"I could use you like that, of course," she continued quietly. "Order you to fight, kill, protect, even die for me. And you would do that, wouldn't you?"

"If necessary," he replied dryly.

Elizabeth tilted her head slightly, studying him. "Precisely the problem. You do what's necessary. But never what's smart."

The silence between them was thick, almost palpable. The morning light streamed through the curtains and outlined her face—beautiful and hard, like a statue carved from ice.

She stepped forward, close enough for Damon to smell the subtle scent of ink and paper. "Want to be useful?" she asked. "Do you want to be more than a weapon I can discard when it rusts?"

"I do," he replied without hesitation.

Elizabeth smiled, satisfied. "Then you'll need a title."

Damon arched an eyebrow. "A title?"

"Nobility," he explained. "On Pandora, power doesn't come only from strength. It comes from the name you bear. From an oath. From recognition. And the only way a man like you can achieve that is by being knighted."

Damon was silent for a moment. There was a bitter irony in that thought—he, who despised the pomp of nobles, now needing a title to be taken seriously.

"So that's it," he said slowly. "You want to turn me into one of them."

"No." Elizabeth crossed her arms. "I want to turn you into something that can step on them without being hanged later."

Damon stared at her seriously. "And this Caerth... is he the one who's going to make that happen?"

"If you survive him, maybe," she replied. "He trained men who became legends. And killed others who thought they already were."

Damon let out a brief, crooked smile. "Sounds fun."

"It's not," Elizabeth said, returning to the table. "But it's necessary. And if you pass this, when I present your name to the council as a knight, no one will question it. Not even the dukes."

She sat back down and began signing some papers, as if the matter were already settled. "And if I succeed, you will have what you've never had before: power and purpose."

Damon stood still for a moment, watching her. There was something almost strange in the way Elizabeth spoke of him—not as a piece on the board, but as a gamble. A gamble.

He finally asked, in a lower tone, "And if I fail?"

Elizabeth stopped writing. She looked up, and for a moment, the cold glare softened. "Then Caerth will bury you with honor." A brief pause. "But knowing you, I don't think that will happen." She resumed writing, and the sound of her quill scratching paper filled the silence. Damon took one last look at the room, at the woman commanding him, and at the name echoing in his mind—Caerth—before turning to leave.

When the door closed behind him, Elizabeth let out a soft sigh and rested her head on her hand, her eyes drifting back into space.

"Nobility…" she murmured. "How ironic."