The door closed softly behind Isabelle Veyra, her final words lingering in the air like faint echoes. Damien's smile remained plastered across his face, but it was hollow, brittle, and more a mask than anything else. The corners of his lips twitched, faltering as the weight of her revelations pressed down on him. Slowly, that forced expression drained away until nothing was left—not warmth, not calm—only the cold silence of his own thoughts.
He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floorboards without seeing them. A sharp inhale broke through the stillness.
"System," he said, his voice low and controlled. "Unmute Albert."
There was a faint chime, and the familiar presence stirred within him. Albert didn't leap in with his usual quips or mocking tones. He remained silent, waiting—solemn, almost heavy. He seemed to understand that now wasn't the time for games.
Damien leaned back against the wall, eyes shadowed. "Tell me," he said quietly, "how can I heal my soul completely… before Sunday? Before I have to answer her." His voice trembled just faintly on that last word, but he forced it steady again. "I want my memories back. All of them. Even the massacre."
Albert did not answer immediately. Damien could feel the entity's hesitation, as if even he—so often untouchable, so often sardonic—was measuring his words carefully.
At last, Albert spoke, his tone stripped of sarcasm."There's no need to doubt her words, Damien. That woman, Isabelle… she was not lying. I could feel her sincerity through every pause, every break in her voice. And more importantly—your soul. The damage etched into it isn't natural. It's the kind of scar only a high-rank cultivator could inflict."
Damien closed his eyes. His breath was steady, but his jaw clenched. "It wasn't because I doubted her," he murmured. "I just… want to see it. With my own eyes. Only then can I believe."
A pause. Albert seemed to sigh, though it was only a weight in Damien's head."There are two ways to heal. Two ways you already hold in your grasp. One: by reaching Rank Two. The soul naturally fortifies as the vessel grows in strength. Two: by deepening the Mind Castle. Each layer you construct will make your soul more resilient, each wall more capable of sealing away the fractures. Do both, and you will not only heal—you will become far harder to break again."
Damien listened without interrupting, his obsidian eyes opening slowly, the dim light reflecting a cold, calculating gleam. For a long time he said nothing. Then, finally, he spoke, each word deliberate.
"Do not disturb me when I'm training," he said. "Not unless I call for you. If you interrupt again, I'll mute you permanently."
Albert did not argue. His reply came soft, almost somber:"…Agreed. No more distractions. I'll stay quiet. You'll need every ounce of focus for what's to come. And truthfully—" he hesitated, "—even I want to recover my energy soon now. Looking at your face, Damien, I can feel it. Trouble is coming. Many situations will soon demand my help. And I won't fail you then."
Damien didn't respond. He stood, his movements deliberate, his mind set. The room felt too small, too suffocating for what churned inside him. Without a glance back, he left.
****
The academy grounds were quiet, swallowed in the silence of night. Torches glowed faintly along the stone paths, their light flickering as shadows stretched long across the cobblestones. It was well past curfew. Any student found wandering now would face punishment—not by professors, but by the Student Council.
Unlike ordinary monitors in school, the Student Council held true power. They patrolled the grounds each night, enforcing order with an authority nearly equal to the faculty's. And they weren't ordinary students either. Not a single member was below Rank Four. They were already far beyond elementary cultivators, individuals who had stepped firmly into the middle stages of strength.
It was said no first-year had ever joined their ranks. Not because no one was talented, but because talent alone wasn't enough. Even those prodigies who clawed their way into the middle ranks by the end of their first year had to wait. The Council would only extend invitations once they proved themselves in their second.
At least—almost no one. Damien remembered the whispers from the great hall earlier that day. There had been a precedent. A genius girl who, defying all tradition, had earned her place in the Council during her very first year. Now, in her second, she was already a legend whispered about in every corridor.
Damien thought about that only briefly. It didn't matter. If the Council caught him tonight, they could punish him however they wanted. He didn't care.
His steps were steady, unhurried, as he made his way across the grounds. Past the dorms, past the eastern wing, until the tall silhouettes of the training facilities rose against the night sky.
When he reached the old caretaker's table outside the practice halls, he began to search for a key—specifically for Private Room Five, where he had trained before. His fingers brushed across cold metal when an old voice rasped behind him.
"You won't need that, boy. Go to Private Room One."
Damien froze, turning slowly. The caretaker sat in his usual spot, a crooked figure hunched in his chair, his eyes dim but sharp.
"There is no key for that room," the old man continued. "But no one will disturb you there. It is reserved. You can use it."
Damien blinked, studying him. No reprimand. No mention of curfew. No punishment. Just… permission.
Why?
He did not ask. He only inclined his head. "Thank you," he said softly, and went.
****
Private Room One was unlike anything Damien had expected.
The moment he stepped inside, his breath caught. It was enormous, easily three times larger than Room Five. The air was crisp, clean, humming faintly with enchantments woven into the walls. The equipment gleamed—new, advanced, every piece polished as if freshly installed. It was clear this room was maintained with a care bordering on reverence.
And then—he noticed it.
A uniform. Hanging neatly inside one of the lockers. The blue fabric marked with the crest of the Student Council.
His brows drew together. Slowly, he turned.
And saw her.
A girl was running the vast circular track at the edge of the room, her steps light, almost soundless despite the speed. Her uniform had been set aside; she wore only her training clothes, her figure lean and sharp with athletic discipline. He was not able to see her features clearly as she was far away.
Damien's eyes narrowed at the emblem of the Council on her discarded jacket confirmed what he already suspected.
This room was hers. Reserved for her alone.
And now, he was trespassing.
Damien's first instinct was caution. If she chose, she could detain him immediately for breaking curfew, and who knew what punishment would follow. But he didn't stop. He turned from her, walked to the equipment, and began to train.
Weights, resistance, stretches—every machine, every movement. His muscles burned, but he pushed through, his mind elsewhere. Every lift, every pull, every stretch was accompanied not by thought of his body, but by echoes of Isabelle's words.
The massacre. The gathering. His family. His birth. His mother.
Each repetition struck against his mind like a hammer, ringing louder, deeper, until his focus blurred into raw endurance. Pain no longer registered. He ignored the trembling of his arms, the fire in his legs, the tearing ache of his chest. His body moved until it could move no more.
And then it gave out.
With a dull crash, Damien fell to the ground. His limbs refused to obey. His breath tore ragged from his lungs, his vision dimming. He lay there, numb, powerless—when a shadow fell across him.
He looked up.
The girl stood above him now, her pale face lit with something unexpected. Not coldness, not disdain—but surprise. And then… delight.
A smile broke across her lips as her white eyes gleamed.
"We're a perfect contrast!" she exclaimed, almost laughing with joy.
Damien stared at her, confusion clouding his exhausted gaze. What?
Then he saw it—the white of her hair, the white of her eyes.
And thought of his own. The black of his hair. The black of his eyes.
Opposites. Mirrors. A perfect contrast.