It was dark and cold in the desert, but that didn't stop the exhausted trio from trudging east toward the thrashing white beacon stabbing through the sky. The grey monk carried Jenna in his arms, still limp, barely conscious.
Damien, too, felt the weight of fatigue. After staying awake through the endless day and night, fighting his mimic, and enduring that soul-rending agony… sleep was clawing at him like a beast.
He scoffed softly to himself.
Of course, I'm the one carrying the tent, the last bottle of water, and what's left of the bread… if only Jenna weren't so useless and hadn't devoured all three fruits.
The dunes were silent but for Jenna's ragged, uneven breaths, each one scraping his patience thinner and thinner. Luckily, his mind drifted elsewhere, away from her pathetic wheezing, toward something that actually mattered.
His mimic.
No way to figure out what that thing was… or why it left behind pain so deep it still feels etched in my bones.
He scratched idly at his scalp.
But… I remember something. Just faintly. The system's voice… echoing…
His brows knit in irritation. Whatever words it had spoken slipped through his thoughts like smoke. He shook his head once, then tugged back the torn right sleeve of his jacket and pressed a thumb hard against his mark.
The runes burned faintly as the panel flared in his vision:
Damien Veyne: Hellbound
◆ Trial Stage / Physical Enhancement: First Circle / ★☆☆☆☆☆☆ (1 / 7 Stars)
◆ First Circle XP: 3017
◆ Weapons:• Common Dagger (1/7 Stars)
◆ Starting Sin: Deception
◆ Sin Ability: Deceptive Gamble — Your lies become 70% more likely to succeed; however, there is a 1% chance that your deception will rebound upon you, ensnaring you in its web.
◆ Starting Shackle: The Veil of Lies — When you embrace deception, the Veil encircles your body and soul, inflicting searing pain with every falsehood.– Error: Without a magical virtue, the Veil's effect cannot diminish your spellcasting power.
◆ Starting Virtue: None
◆ Virtue Ability: None
◆ Corruption Ratio:100%
His eyes widened slightly, and an incredulous chuckle escaped his throat despite himself.
3017?
He coughed once, shaking his head.
I'd have had to slaughter over six thousand of those pathetic half-star beasts to reach that much XP. Impossible.
As he kept walking, the sand crunching underfoot, his mind churned, dissecting possibilities.
Did my mimic roam the Circle, tearing through monsters? Or... I don't truly understand how the XP system works for higher stared beasts. Could it have been one capable of copying organisms?
He shook his head again, jaw tight.
No. No, none of those feel right. None of that explains the familiarity… that thing felt like more than just a reflection.
Suddenly, a sharp, blinding pain lanced through his skull. He winced and pressed a palm to his forehead, biting back a curse.
That's right. What did it leave me? I could feel it, something carved into me, something more than just pain…
The sun was still down in the desert, and the light was almost nonexistent. Unfortunately, he would have to wait until morning to see his reflection.
...
The end of their three-day journey was approaching.
Dawn was breaking in the dunes, and weirdly, nothing had happened. Jenna, who the Grey monk was still carrying, had tried asking him a couple of questions, but he only shook his head and repeated the same phrase.
"Shortly..You'll see."
Jenna no longer looked like a charred piece of meat; her pale color had returned, her breaths steadier, her voice no longer rasping like death. Still, her legs were too weak to carry her.
Inwardly, Damien seethed.
Those fruits were incredible… and Stick wasted them all.
With the sun still barely peeking above the horizon, Damien flexed his fingers and summoned his silver dagger. A faint yellow light flared to life in his palm, and the blade materialized clean and gleaming—as it always did, no matter how many times he buried it in something.
He angled the blade to catch his reflection. The rising sun flashed off its edge, momentarily blinding him, and he hissed in annoyance. Tilting it again, he finally caught sight of something that stopped him cold.
The crown of thorns.
It was burned into the skin of his forehead, black as pitch. The brand wrapped around his head, disappearing under his hairline like a cruel halo. Moving his head left and right, he watched it catch shadows, stark against his pale skin.
The crown was cold, colder than the rest of his body.
He'd had enough of questioning the mimic. Unanswered questions had haunted every step toward the beacon, and it disgusted him to dwell on it.
So instead, he did something he despised.
He ran his hands through his hair and let it fall haphazardly over his forehead, covering the mark. His perfectly messy, deliberate style was ruined. Rage simmered beneath his ribs.
Damn it. Fuck that mimic. I don't care if you gave me all that XP.
He caught more of his reflection in the blade, and the sight only stoked his anger. His pristine black dress shirt was riddled with holes, wrinkled, and streaked with sand.
He clenched his jaw until it ached.
Then he looked up at the monk and Jenna, eyes narrowing, his fury searching for something to burn. He didn't care if he needed them alive. At that moment, they were simply… convenient targets.
His dagger raised slightly in his hand, the weight of it reassuring. They didn't even notice—both of them staring dead ahead.
But then, the monk stopped.
And so did Damien.
"We made it," the monk murmured, voice low, pointing ahead.
Damien's gaze snapped to where his finger aimed. He slid the dagger back into nothingness, and his eyes narrowed.
Not far off, still a short walk away, stood a small camp of tents. Figures moved about, Hellbounds by the look of them, busy packing supplies and tearing down their shelters.
They hadn't noticed the trio yet. By the looks of their tidy camp and the organized piles of food and water, they'd been far more fortunate with their spawn than Damien's group.
His eyes swept over them, cataloging every detail.
Several women—most bland and forgettable—milled about, except for one who caught his attention. A woman with long, wavy purple hair wearing a simple white sundress that fell to her knees. Something about her tugged at him, but the memory eluded him.
Then the tent flap nearest her stirred, and out stepped a man.
Damien's lip curled.
The brown-haired slob.
Still wearing that disheveled mess of a shirt, beard like a rat's nest, the very same worthless fool who'd bumped into Damien before, wrinkling his clothes.
A smile spread across Damien's face, slow and wide. His fingers twitched in anticipation, curling slightly.
Finally.