The silence between Damien and Professor Veyra stretched longer than either seemed comfortable with. Her golden eyes lingered on him, sharp and unblinking, as if weighing the cost of what she was about to say. Damien's breathing slowed, the remnants of pain from the Mind Castle practice still thrumming inside his skull, but he kept his gaze steady.
Finally, she spoke.
"From this moment forward," her voice was firm, deliberate, "no professor will step foot inside your quarters without your permission. Not Dreadmore, not myself, not anyone. Whatever lines were crossed last night will not be repeated."
Her words were almost an oath. The faint tremor in them hinted at anger barely leashed.
"I made that clear to Dreadmore," she continued, her tone sharpening. "He has been warned. No more mind-reading, no more violations. He will not touch your thoughts again—not while I draw breath."
Damien said nothing. He simply listened, studying her with the same unreadable calm he wore like a second skin. Inside, his emotions swirled, but he kept them under a cold surface. He wanted to trust her—but trust was not something given lightly, not after what had already been stolen from him.
Professor Veyra inhaled, the tension leaving her shoulders as though she had rehearsed these words before coming. Then, slowly, almost hesitantly, she reached into her robes.
"I know you don't owe me your trust," she said. "But I could not stand by and do nothing. So I brought this."
She extended a thin scroll toward him. Its bindings bore the mark of the Librarium—reserved access. "A cultivation technique. Not a common one. I… persuaded the Librarian to lend it out. For you."
Damien's brows rose slightly. He stared at the scroll, then back at her. He could feel the weight of her gesture, the quiet effort behind it. For someone like her to offer this—someone bound by rules, by reputation—it was more than generosity. It was risk.
Still, Damien shook his head.
"I appreciate it," he said, his voice even, polite. "But it isn't necessary."
Her eyes narrowed faintly. "Not necessary?"
"I already have a technique," Damien explained. "And I've already begun cultivating it."
He raised his hand. With a faint exertion of will, aura seeped into the air around him, swirling faintly, visible to any trained eye. For an instant, the dim light of the room bent around the current of force.
Professor Veyra's expression cracked—shock breaking through her mask of composure. Her lips parted, but no words came. She had expected many things from him—defiance, stubborn pride, perhaps even suspicion—but not this. Not progress. Not aura already tamed at his age, and with no guidance.
"You—" She cut herself off. Slowly, she steadied her breath, forced her features back under control. But her gaze on Damien shifted, carrying something more cautious now, more weighted.
He didn't gloat. He didn't elaborate. He merely let the silence linger, sparing her the humiliation of prying. She understood well enough what he was saying between the lines: you don't need to save me.
And she didn't press.
For a long time, they sat with that silence. Until, suddenly, Veyra spoke again—her voice quieter, almost as if she had wrestled with whether to say it at all.
"Damien… do you know the true weight of a name in this world?"
His brows knit slightly. "A name?"
She nodded, her gaze growing distant, as if she were pulling memories from places she rarely touched.
"A person's name is not just a sound. Not here in this cultivation world. Names are tied to the soul itself. To speak a name is to affirm a lineage, to anchor one's blood, talent, and heritage. In noble families, the name is more than inheritance—it is the vessel through which techniques, affinities, even ancestral spells are carried forward. If a name is erased from a family tree, the person loses their connection to those gifts. Their talents can fade. Their cultivation path can fracture."
Damien's eyes narrowed, his mind working through the implications.
"It goes deeper," Veyra said. "Saints can hear when their name is spoken. Not with ears, but with the soul. Speak their name carelessly, and they will sense it, sometimes even glimpse your location. That is the kind of power a name holds. That is why…" She hesitated, before looking directly into his black eyes. "That is why I must ask again, Damien. Why do you use only one name?"
Damien's jaw tightened. He had been asked this before, by others, again and again. A single name—always raising eyebrows, always drawing curiosity that felt like needles under the skin. His patience had worn thin.
He leaned forward slightly, voice low. "And why does everyone care so much? Why is it so important to you what I call myself? And tell me this—why is it that I don't see anyone else in this cultivation world with my hair, my eyes? Why is it only me… and Dreadmore?"
The question hung heavy in the air, more accusation than inquiry.
Isabelle Veyra did not answer immediately. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her golden eyes shadowed with something like grief. She held his gaze for a long time, as if measuring whether he was ready for what she was about to say.
Finally, she whispered:
"Because… sixteen years ago, everyone who bore black hair and black eyes in this world of cultivation was exterminated."
The words struck Damien harder than any blade could. He went rigid, as if his very breath had been stolen. His mind stuttered, unable to immediately grasp the enormity of what she had just said.
Exterminated.
Not banished. Not scattered. Wiped out.
"Why…" His voice was raw, choked. "…why would anyone do that?"
Her eyes dimmed. "Because someone was capable of it. And because someone willed it."
Damien's heart thudded painfully in his chest. He forced words past his lips. "…Then why is Dreadmore alive?"
"The Headmaster," Isabelle said softly. "He protected him. Hid him away. That is the only reason he survived."
Damien's thoughts spun. The ground beneath him felt unsteady, as if the very fabric of his world was shifting underfoot.
Veyra continued, her voice steadier now, though laced with sorrow. "There were seven noble families spread across the continent. Each bore black hair and black eyes, bound by blood though separated by distance. Even after centuries apart, they shared one name—Dreadmore. Each line inheriting similar talents, their affinity for the dark element stronger than any other. Shadows, silence, assassins unmatched in their art. If united, they would have been among the most formidable powers this continent had ever seen."
Her gaze hardened. "And so, one night, they were destroyed."
Damien's breath caught.
Isabelle did not soften the words. She painted them in raw, merciless strokes. "An organization—one I will not name—descended on the seven families. In one night, every house was butchered. Women, children, elders—it did not matter. All were hunted. They were not killed cleanly. They were… broken. Violated. Slaughtered."
Damien's stomach clenched, bile rising in his throat.
"I heard," Isabelle whispered, her voice trembling now, "that some mothers offered themselves—ripped their own clothes apart—to buy a moment, a chance for their children to escape. But even that failed. Not one child survived. Not one life was spared."
Her eyes glistened, though no tears fell. "The Dreadmore families became ash in a single night."
The silence that followed was unbearable. Damien's chest felt crushed under the weight of invisible stone. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. His soul itself seemed to writhe, pain blooming like fire through his mind. He clutched his head, teeth gritted, trying to smother the agony that rose with the memories he did not have.
Veyra took a step forward, reaching instinctively—but he recoiled, forcing space between them.
"Continue," Damien rasped, his voice raw.
Her lips trembled, but she obeyed.
"Virelius was late that night. He would have gone, but the Headmaster stopped him—rendered him unconscious. When he awoke, he went to the Dreadmore castle. He walked through corpses, Damien. Every loved one he had—gone. He found his brother's body. But not his sister-in-law's. Not Ciara's. She was nine months pregnant at the time."
The words pierced Damien's chest. Something unspoken twisted deep in his core.
"Virelius stayed there for a week," Isabelle said hoarsely. "He counted every body. Saw what had been done to them. And then… he burned it all."