(Damien POV)
The northern wilds gave way to older land—crumbling hills, forgotten roads overgrown with frost and thorn. The air tasted of ancient magic and decay, thick enough to coat the tongue. I walked with purpose now—no hesitation, no inner voice pleading for mercy. The blackouts were rare; control was nearly complete. Shadows flowed around me like a living cloak, horns caught moonlight, claws gleamed. The demon king spoke rarely—only when needed. Today it was silent. The silence was approval.
I felt the pull of power—not just destruction, but accumulation. Strength. Artifacts. Tools to make the ruin permanent. The bond tugged—Nova, distant, alive—but it was weaker, easier to ignore. I no longer fought it; I simply walked past it.
