The Forest of Twin Disasters did not sleep.
It breathed.
Mist clung low to the ground, curling around roots and broken stone, drifting between ancient trunks that had witnessed too many deaths to bother reacting anymore.
The deeper one went, the thicker the air became, laden with mana so dense it pressed against the skin like invisible fog.
Damien welcomed it.
He rolled his shoulders once, loosening muscles still sore from the previous battles, and stepped forward without summoning Fenrir, without calling Skylar, without even letting Aquila take to the skies.
Only Luton remained.
The slime hovered beside him, its translucent body pulsing softly, eager but restrained. It understood its role today.
Storage and consumption. Nothing more.
"This time," Damien murmured, eyes narrowing as he sensed movement ahead, "I do it myself."
The mana beasts responded to his presence almost immediately.
They always did.
