Strongest Incubus System

The mansion's hallway was silent, lit only by torches set into the polished stone walls. Damon followed the silver-haired man a few steps behind, the rhythmic sound of their boots echoing in cadence.

There was something strange about Caerth.

Not just the way he walked—upright, calm, like someone who had seen death up close too many times—but the air around him. A heavy, cold, almost suffocating presence. Damon had faced beasts, soldiers, and even corrupted mages, but he had never felt anything like this.

Every step he took behind the man made his chest tighten—not with fear, but with a deep, instinctive tension, as if his body recognized danger before his mind.

"Where are we going?" he asked finally, breaking the silence that had seemed to last for hours.

Caerth didn't look back. "I want to see what you're capable of."

"Elizabeth has seen me fight."

"I don't trust her judgment." The answer came dryly, without hesitation.

Damon frowned. "That sounds like an insult to Lady Elizabeth."

Caerth stopped. He turned slowly, his gaze boring into him like a blade. The dim light of the corridor highlighted the trace of his scar and the silvery glint in his eyes—there was no hatred there, but something even more uncomfortable: controlled contempt.

"Do you like to rely on other people's names, boy?" His voice was hoarse, deep, like the sound of stone scraping against stone. "Elizabeth won't fight for you. Nor will Aria. Nor will Ester."

The names of the last two made him hesitate for a moment. Caerth noticed.

"They spoke highly of you." The man tilted his head slightly, studying him. "And believe me, it's not something they do often."

Damon remained silent, but his gaze hardened.

"Aria said you have a talent with a sword." That you taught yourself and have good field reading. Ester…" Caerth gave a humorless half-smile, "…said that with luck, you might not die before you're thirty."

Damon clenched his fists.

"But I," Caerth continued, "don't like luck. Or empty praise. I want to see if all this strength they're praising is real… or just another illusion fed by pious women."

Damon took a deep breath, controlling the urge to respond. "So that's it. You want to test me."

"No." Caerth turned and continued walking. "I want to see if you're worth breaking."

They walked down a long corridor until they emerged through a side door. Beyond, the training yard opened up, bathed in cold morning light. The wind blew from the north, biting, raising small clouds of dust and dry leaves.

The uneven stone floor was marked by years of combat—cracks, chips, old bloodstains. The space was empty except for a few weapons leaning against iron stands.

Caerth walked to the center and turned, his black cloak shifting in the wind. "Take a weapon."

Damon looked around. Swords, spears, maces, axes. He chose the one he always carried—the spear. The handle was new, polished, but the metal at the tip still bore scratches from the last battle.

"Spear, hm." Caerth raised an eyebrow. "Not a common choice for someone your age."

"I'm not common."

"We'll see."

Damon turned the weapon over in his hands, assuming a firm stance. Caerth, on the other hand, didn't move. He simply watched, as if studying every detail—the weight of his foot, the position of his shoulders, the way he breathed.

"Attack," Caerth said.

Damon hesitated for a moment. "Without warning?"

"Enemies don't warn either." The blond lunged forward.

The spear sliced ​​through the air with a sharp whistle, aiming for the man's chest. Caerth moved just a step to the side, deflecting the blow with a slight twist. Damon stepped back, twisted the handle, and attempted a diagonal strike—quick, precise.

Again, Caerth dodged, effortlessly.

It was infuriating.

The veteran didn't even wield a weapon. He simply dodged, his hands clasped behind his back, watching like a teacher facing a clumsy student.

"Your base is weak," he said, dodging another attack. "Too much strength in the shoulder, not enough in the hip."

"I'm just warming up," Damon growled.

"You're justifying yourself."

The spear sliced ​​through the air again, faster, more ferocious. Caerth stepped back, dodged, and before Damon knew it, the man's hand gripped the weapon's hilt.

A yank.

Damon felt the weight of the other man's entire body in one movement—sharp, technical. He was thrown sideways, the hard ground catching him with a dull impact. The spear spun in the air and landed a few feet away.

He stood up, spitting blood. "This isn't training."

"Of course it is." Caerth crossed his arms. "You're just not used to losing."

Damon raised his hand, and the air around him began to freeze. Ice crystals appeared in the air, growing on the spear's shaft as he recalled it. The metal glowed deep blue, a cold mist emanating from the tip.

Caerth watched closely. "Ah... so that's it. The boy with the icy mana."

"Is there a problem?" Damon twirled the weapon, the air trembling around him.

"Nothing." Caerth uncrossed his arms, and for the first time, moved to assume a stance. "I just want to see how far you can go before you freeze yourself."

The ground covered in frost. Damon advanced. This time, Caerth didn't flinch.

The metallic sound of impact echoed loudly as the spear met the man's forearm—and stopped. Damon felt the resistance. Caerth's arm was coated in a thin layer of gray mana, dense, vibrant.

Before he could retreat, the veteran grabbed the hilt and shoved him back, disarming him again. Damon backed away, but Caerth was already upon him. A direct punch struck his stomach—hard, fast, like a hammer.

The air rushed from his lungs.

He fell to his knees, gasping, his vision blurring for a moment.

Caerth stood before him, motionless. "Your mana is unstable. You force the flow instead of guiding it."

"I control it well enough," Damon growled, struggling to his feet.

"Controlling it 'well enough' is the same as dying slowly." Caerth stepped back, collecting a short sword from the nearby rack. "Again."

Damon took a deep breath. The cold around him responded to his command, rising in swirls of icy air. The ground cracked, small flowers of ice appearing between the stones.

He advanced again—fast, unpredictable, the spear spinning in sweeping arcs, the air whistling with each thrust. Caerth dodged, blocked, sometimes only moved a step, letting the tip pass inches from his body.

It was like fighting a living wall.

Damon's every move was strength and speed. Caerth's every move was calculation and experience.

Until, for an instant, Damon saw an opening.

He twisted, ducked, and thrust the spear in a direct thrust—all the force concentrated in the tip.

Caerth raised his forearm to block—and the impact shook the ground.

The icy tip split the air, piercing the layer of gray mana and opening a thin gash in the veteran's skin. Damon recoiled in surprise.

Caerth looked at his arm—the blood trickling slowly. Then he smiled. A brief, tired smile… and satisfied.

"Finally."

Damon, panting, kept his spear raised. "Is that enough to prove anything?"

"Yes," the man replied, wiping the blood away with his thumb. "That you're stubborn enough not to give up. That's better than most."

Damon lowered his weapon, taking a deep breath. The chill in the air began to dissipate.

Caerth watched him for a moment longer, then turned toward the courtyard exit. "Tomorrow, same time."

"What are we going to do tomorrow?" Damon asked, still panting.

"Teach you to stop fighting like someone who wants to prove something," Caerth replied, without looking back. "And start fighting like someone who wants to live."

Caerth disappeared through the stone archway, and the sound of his boots faded into the corridor.

Silence returned, broken only by the wind that passed between the columns and made the ice on the floor crack like thin glass.

Damon stood there, alone, breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling heavily. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from the tension that still vibrated in every muscle. He looked at the spear. The ice around the blade was cracked, melting slowly, and small drops trickled down the shaft.

"Fight like someone who wants to live…"

The words echoed in his head, uncomfortably.

It was a taunt. And Caerth knew it.

Damon twirled the spear between his fingers, still panting. The cold wind beat against his face, mixing with sweat. He thought of Elizabeth, her words about becoming a knight. He thought of Ester—how she never showed anything, but always watched him, assessing.

And of Aria… that woman who watched him as if he were something between a spark and a bomb about to explode.

A weak laugh escaped his teeth.

"You all want to see me bleed, don't you?" he murmured, staring up at the gray sky.

The ice beneath his feet cracked again. Damon twirled the spear one last time and rested it on his shoulder.

The training was over, but his body still screamed for more.

He wanted to understand how Caerth had managed to stop him so easily. How that man could seem immobile and yet always be one step ahead.

And, most of all… what he meant by "worth breaking you."