There was no dramatic punch, no drawn-out conflict.
Damien simply twisted, grabbed the mercenary by the collar, and slammed him into the ground fast enough to knock him unconscious in a single strike.
Bang!
The other mercenaries jumped back.
"L-let's go," one whispered.
They scattered without a word.
Seliah stared. "That… was unnecessary."
"I warned him by walking away," Damien said calmly. "He ignored it."
Fenrir chuffed in agreement.
He had bigger concerns—his journey tonight, the island waiting in the distant seas, the demons beginning to spread more aggressively, the unseen group creating variants, and the constant pull of the unknown waiting ahead.
But for now, he had a quiet afternoon left. A final moment of peace before plunging into whatever awaited him beyond the northern continent.
He glanced at the sky.
Evening wasn't far.
Tonight, he would leave.
And the world—already whispering his names—would either forget him or remember him for something far larger.
