Damian opened his eyes.
The Valley of Regret was silent.
The miasma that once clawed at his mind now recoiled from him. It did not dare approach. The air bent slightly around his body, subtle distortions rippling outward like invisible waves.
He rose to his feet.
He was taller.
His posture straighter. His skin smoother, almost unnaturally refined. His black hair now carried thin white stripes running through it like cracks in obsidian. Six feet tall. Slim, athletic. Every movement economical. Controlled.
And his eyes…
Empty.
But not weak.
He flexed his fingers slowly. Strength hummed beneath his skin—coiled and obedient.
"I feel it," Damian said calmly.
Sophie appeared beside him, more defined than before. Less translucent. Her presence carried weight now.
"You've reached Stage Three," she replied. "Your body has been rewritten. You can now devour spirits and raw energy to strengthen yourself."
Damian said nothing.
"You can manipulate perception within a one-hundred-and-fifty-meter radius," Sophie continued. "All five senses. Sight, sound, smell, taste, touch. Even the sixth sense—intuition. Anyone within that range will struggle to differentiate reality from illusion if you will it."
Damian's gaze shifted slightly as if testing the world itself.
"Superhuman strength. All abilities of Stage Two. And…" Sophie smirked faintly. "I can now interact with the living world for short periods."
Damian examined his tattered clothing, soaked in dried blood and dust.
"I need new clothes," he said flatly.
Sophie stepped forward and tapped her finger lightly against his forehead.
Energy pulsed.
The torn garments dissolved.
In their place formed a fitted green-and-black shirt, matching pants, black shoes, and a long green coat lined with black cotton along the collar and sleeves. The coat fell perfectly over his shoulders, swaying gently as he moved.
He glanced down once.
Acceptable.
"How do we get out of this valley, Sophie?"
"When we reach the end," she answered, "there is an ancient magic chamber. If it still works, it can teleport us out."
They walked.
The valley no longer whispered to him. The ghosts that once clawed at his sanity avoided him entirely. Some hid beneath the fog. Others dissolved upon sensing him.
Eventually, Damian stopped.
A skeleton leaned against a rock, long dead. In its bony hand rested a book marked with a black star. A ring glinted on one finger.
Damian crouched.
He removed the ring and the book.
"Hm," he murmured. "A storage ring? I've only heard about them."
He bit his thumb and let a drop of blood fall onto the ring.
It absorbed instantly.
A connection formed.
His consciousness slipped inside.
Space—vast and organized—unfolded before him. Piles of gold. Scrolls. Weapons. Strange artifacts pulsing with faint energy.
His eyes did not widen.
He simply withdrew his awareness.
Useful.
Without another glance at the skeleton, Damian rose and continued walking toward the valley's end.
The magic chamber stood embedded into a cliffside—ancient, cracked, and covered in moss and dried residue. The runes were faded. It clearly hadn't been used for decades.
Damian stepped inside the circular formation.
Nothing happened.
He stared at the dim runes.
Then casually smacked one of the stone pillars.
Energy jolted through the structure.
The runes flickered to life.
The chamber hummed.
Sophie looked at him.
"It's only just beginning, Damian. At Stage Six, you'd still be considered low-tier among elites. Compared to that… you're basically Stage One."
He stared ahead.
"Don't have to tell me."
Light engulfed them.
The teleportation ended in a forest clearing.
Warm air.
Different scent.
Different energy density.
Strell.
A continent known for its abundance of Spiritualists.
Damian stepped out from the trees and onto a road.
People walked past—laughing, talking, bargaining, arguing. Merchants shouted prices. Children ran between stalls. Spiritualists carried weapons openly.
Life.
Normal life.
Damian observed them quietly.
He felt nothing.
No longing. No curiosity. No attachment.
Just assessment.
He walked away from the crowded streets until he reached a long stone bridge stretching over a vast sea. The ocean waves crashed below, endless and rhythmic.
He rested his hands on the railing.
Stared at the horizon.
Wind tugged gently at his green coat.
Still nothing.
Northern Continent — Kian
Far to the north.
In a towering palace carved from dark stone, banners of silver and blue hung from high ceilings.
A Spiritual Knight knelt before a throne.
"My lord," the knight said, head bowed, "it seems the chamber in the Valley of Regret has been used."
Silence filled the throne room.
The man seated upon the throne leaned forward slightly. His presence alone made the air heavy.
"So," he murmured, voice calm yet sharp as steel, "someone survived."
The knight did not dare lift his head.
The man's fingers tapped lightly against the armrest.
"Find out who."
The atmosphere darkened.
"And bring me their name."
Back on Strell, Damian stood alone at the bridge, staring at the sea.
Unaware—or perhaps unconcerned—that the continent of his birth had begun to stir.
And somewhere deep within him…
The power he swallowed pulsed faintly.
Hungry.