The silence between them was thick. Moonlight slanted across the bed, cutting Damien's small room into stripes of silver and shadow.
Virelius Dreadmore didn't move, didn't blink—just stood at the foot of the bed like some phantom that had stepped out of the darkness itself.
Damien's breath slowed. His instincts screamed danger, yet his body refused to move. Something about the man's gaze felt like standing on the edge of a bottomless pit.
Finally, Virelius spoke.
"Damien." His tone was level, almost casual—yet every syllable seemed to weigh on the air. "I want to know… what shaped you."
Damien's brow furrowed. "Shaped me?"
"What life you've lived. What you've endured. What drives you forward." The professor took a step closer, boots whispering against the floorboards. "And what you truly want."
"I don't see why—"
"You don't have to see why." The words cut cleanly across Damien's protest. "You only have to answer. Or… I'll find out for myself."
Before Damien could react, Virelius raised his hand. Something cold and invisible slammed into Damien's mind—a pressure like icy fingers prying at the edges of his thoughts.
It wasn't a physical blow, but Damien's head snapped back as pain exploded behind his eyes. He gasped, clutching his temples.
"W-What are you—"
"Searching." Virelius' voice was almost calm, but his eyes gleamed with an unreadable light. "Your memories are an open book to those who know how to turn the pages."
The pressure deepened. Damien felt it—the sensation of someone rifling through the drawers of his mind, dragging memories into the light without care. His only happy memories of the orphanage. The streets of Asher City. The small, fragile moments of joy he had guarded without knowing why.
And then… the nightmares. The ones that had plagued him since he was small. Twisted shapes in the dark. Whispers that followed him even in waking moments.
He hadn't remembered them clearly before—only fragments. But now, under Virelius' probing, they came alive. The walls of his mind warped, becoming long corridors of shadow. Shapes moved at the edges of his sight. The whispers became voices, pressing close to his ear.
"...ill... Kill... Kill... Kill!"
His chest tightened. No one had ever seen those. Not even him—not clearly. Yet Virelius' presence seemed to scrape them raw, as if trying to dissect the fear itself.
The pain grew sharper. It wasn't just the invasion—it was the way his mind resisted, like nerves being ripped out one by one. Every heartbeat came with a spike of agony. Damien's breaths turned ragged, his vision blurring at the edges.
"S-stop…!" His voice cracked, and a tremor ran through him. "Please—"
"Pathetic." The word was quiet, but it landed heavier than the pain. "Is this all you are? A child who cowered from shadows in his sleep?"
Virelius didn't relent. His will pressed harder, grinding against Damien's thoughts until even the memory of warmth began to feel distant. He ignored the boy's fists clenching in the bedsheets, the sheen of sweat gathering at his temples.
"Where is your ambition?" The question came like a lash. "You have received a chance to reach the highest rank in this continent… and your goal?" His tone turned mocking. "To start a family? Live in peace? Do you think that's achievable here? In this continent?"
Damien's teeth clenched. "Why… do you care?"
"Because," Virelius stepped closer, his voice low and sharp, "I've seen too many fools cling to pretty dreams, only to be crushed under the boot of reality. Whole houses being eradicated! Generations snuffed out in a single night. Peace is a lie. And those who chase it… die first."
The words bit deep—but it was the relentless assault on his mind that broke him. Damien's knees hit the floor. His hands went to his head, as if he could claw out the pain.
"I—I can't—! Please stop—" His voice fractured, almost a sob. His body shook with every word.
Virelius didn't stop. "Look at you," he said coldly. "You think just by gaining some power you can carve out a safe corner for yourself in this world and live your days happily with your family? There is no 'safe' in this world. There is no corner no one can touch. A dream that depends on the mercy of others… is not a dream. It's a leash."
The pain surged again—shadows coiled in Damien's mind, whispering, tugging. He could feel parts of himself being laid bare and judged. The memories of his few victories were dismissed, the moments of fear magnified, held up like evidence in some trial only Virelius understood.
Damien could barely hear him now. The pain blurred into noise, the sound of blood rushing in his ears.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the pressure lifted. The air in the room felt lighter—though Damien's lungs still burned as if he'd been drowning.
Virelius straightened, expression unreadable. "Disappointing," he murmured. "You've survived in this world… with nothing worth noting that can help you in your Path. You're soft. No scars on the soul, no hunger to climb higher. And you think you can survive here?"
Damien stayed on the floor, head lowered, shoulders shaking. He didn't answer.
Virelius turned slightly, his voice carrying like the toll of a bell.
"Get ambition, Damien. Or you will spend your life as a stepping stone beneath the feet of those who do."
A faint, bitter smile touched his lips. "Men without ambition pray for peace. Men with ambition… make the world too afraid to deny it to them."
Without another word, he walked toward the door. The moonlight caught on his robes as he stepped out—and then he was gone, leaving the faint echo of his boots in the corridor.
The silence returned. Damien stayed where he was, breath still uneven, his hands covering his face. The tremors in his shoulders seemed to worsen.
A long moment passed.
Then… the shaking stopped. Slowly, Damien lowered his hands. His expression was no longer twisted in pain or fear—it was flat. Indifferent.
The tear tracks on his cheeks caught the moonlight, but his eyes were still. Cold.
Miss Beckar's voice echoed in his memory: Never show them your real face, Damien. Hide it. Even from yourself, if you must.
He exhaled slowly, letting the last ghost of the pain fade. Maybe he himself didn't know how he truly felt right now—whether it was anger, humiliation, or just emptiness. But he knew one thing.
This would not be forgotten. No one liked being treated like a toy for someone else's amusement. And he would not forgive it.
He leaned back against the bedframe, eyes fixed on the slice of moonlight across the floor. Virelius hadn't learned about the system—he was certain of it. That had to be Albert's doing, shielding what mattered the most. But the man's strange fixation on his ambition… that was something Damien didn't understand.
Not yet.
What he did understand was this: if his ambition was only to start a family and live in peace, then he would always be at someone else's mercy. And mercy, in this world, was rare.
His fingers curled into fists. He didn't realize it at this moment, but something had shifted. That fragile dream of peace had been cracked—replaced by the faint, dangerous spark of something else.
Ambition.
And for the first time, he felt its weight.