A vast estate unfolded before Damon, its architecture unmistakably different from anything within the Valecrest domain, carrying the unmistakable imprint of another reality entirely. The air felt lighter, warmer, familiar yet unfamiliar, filled with a quiet life that did not press down but instead embraced, and within that space stood three figures.

A middle-aged man stood at the center, his brown hair neatly styled with faint streaks of white that spoke not of age, but of experience, his posture upright yet relaxed, his presence steady and reassuring in a way that felt almost foreign to Damon’s senses.

Beside him stood a woman, her grey eyes soft, filled with a warmth so profound it seemed to radiate outward, her expression gentle, her smile carrying a kind of affection that did not need words to be understood.

On the other side stood a young man, close in age to Damon, his brown hair slightly tousled, his grey eyes gleaming with a teasing light, a faint smirk playing at his lips as though he had just said something amusing.

"Hahahah..hehehe!"

"Ohh...shut up honey!"

"But am I wrong?"

All three of them were laughing.

The sound was soft and distant.

Yet filled with a sincerity that made the scene feel unbearably real.

Then—

Their laughter faded as their eyes shifted.

And all three of them looked at him.

A calm smile spread across their faces, not forced, not measured, but natural, as though his presence there was the most expected thing in the world.

The woman spoke first, her voice gentle, filled with an affection that seemed to wrap around him without effort.

"Come here... son."

The middle-aged man nodded in quiet agreement, lifting his hand slightly in a simple gesture that invited him forward, his expression composed yet unmistakably warm.

The young man let out a soft chuckle, tilting his head slightly as he spoke with light teasing.

"What are you waiting for, brother?"

Damon stood still.

For a moment, he did not move, his mind unable to reconcile what he was seeing, what he was hearing, what he was feeling, as a faint, confused sound escaped him.

"...Huh?"

His gaze shifted.

First around him.

Then downward.

And what he saw made his breath hitch.

This was not his body.

The proportions were different, the presence lighter, unfamiliar yet not entirely unknown, as though he had stepped into a reflection of something he had once been, or perhaps something he had lost.

A voice called out again.

Familiar.

Yet warmer and gentler.

"We are waiting for you... Alexander."

The name struck him.

Not as something new.

But as something remembered.

"T-this!..how c-can this be...m-mom...d-dad?"

Damon inhaled slowly, his chest rising unevenly as his gaze returned to the middle-aged man, something within him responding before thought could intervene. His body moved—hesitantly at first, as though testing the reality of the moment—before he began to take a step forward.

And then—

Everything shattered.

The warmth vanished.

The light collapsed.

The scene dissolved instantly, as though it had never existed, replaced once again by the cold, grounded reality of the Valecrest Manor.

Damon found himself kneeling exactly where he had been before, Cecelia still standing before him, her small hand resting gently on his head as though nothing had changed, as though no time had passed at all.

But Damon had changed.

His eyes were wide.

His breathing uneven.

A faint tremor lingered in his body as a single tear formed at the corner of his eye, clinging there without falling, as though even that small release had been halted midway.

He stared at Cecelia.

At the girl who could not see him—

Yet had just shown him something he could not explain.

His voice came out strained and unsteady.

"W-what... did you do...?"

Cecelia flinched the moment Damon’s voice reached her, her small hand withdrawing quickly from his head as though she had touched something she was not meant to, her shoulders drawing in slightly as she lowered her gaze.

For a brief moment, she seemed uncertain whether she had done something wrong, her fingers curling faintly as she spoke in a soft, hesitant voice that trembled with both confusion and caution.

"Y-young m-master... c-color... l-looked g-grey... b-black... not m-mixed..."

Her words were fragmented, struggling to form a clear explanation, as though she herself could not fully understand what she had just experienced, only that something had been different.

Damon did not respond.

He stood up slowly, his movements controlled despite the faint instability that lingered within him, his hand lifting just enough to brush away the tear that had formed at the edge of his eye before it could fall.

His gaze turned away from her, his expression settling back into its usual calm, though something beneath it had clearly shifted.

"Sahira," he said without looking back, his tone steady, almost distant, "prepare some sweets for her."

There was a brief pause before he added,

"And do not let anyone disturb me for the time being."

Without waiting for acknowledgment, Damon turned and walked away, his steps unhurried yet purposeful as he left the hall behind, not once glancing back at the child who remained standing there.

He exited the grand mansion soon after, stepping into the open courtyard where the warmth of the afternoon greeted him, the sunlight spreading across the vast space and casting long, defined shadows across the stone ground.

The air felt different outside—lighter, freer—and as he inhaled deeply, the faint tension within him eased just slightly, though his thoughts remained unsettled.

Then—

"Hyaa!"

"Hyaah!"

The sharp, rhythmic sounds cut through the stillness, drawing his attention almost immediately as they echoed across the courtyard with a disciplined cadence. Damon’s gaze shifted toward the source, his steps gradually aligning in that direction as he followed the sound.

The guards of the Valecrest Manor were gathered there, moving in precise formation as they practiced their swordsmanship in unison, their movements synchronized with almost mechanical consistency.

Blades sliced through the air with controlled force, each strike measured, each step deliberate, as the repeated motion created a steady rhythm that filled the space.

"Hyaa!"

"Hyaah!"

The sound of steel cutting through the air blended with the unified exhale of effort, their forms shifting seamlessly from one motion to the next, demonstrating not just training, but discipline ingrained through repetition.

Damon approached.

And the moment they noticed him—

The sequence halted.

Every blade stilled.

Every movement ceased.

The guards straightened instantly, lowering their weapons as they bowed in unison, their voices firm yet respectful.

"Young master."

Damon observed them quietly.

And for the first time since arriving at the manor—

He noticed something different.

Their eyes.

They were not filled with fear.

Not with hesitation.

Not with the same guarded tension he had seen in the servants.

They met his gaze directly.

Fearless.

Steady.

Damon stood there for a moment longer, taking it in as a faint thought surfaced within him, quiet yet clear.

...Maybe this will help clear my head.

Damon stood amidst the courtyard, his gaze moving deliberately from one guard to another, observing not just their posture but the subtle discipline in their stance, the steadiness in their eyes, and the cohesion of their formation. For a moment, he said nothing, allowing the silence to stretch just enough before he finally spoke, his tone calm yet carrying a quiet authority that drew their full attention.

"I want someone to spar with me."

The words landed, and although no one outright refused, a subtle hesitation passed through the group, their eyes briefly shifting toward one another as though silently confirming what should be done. One of them stepped forward slightly, his voice respectful yet cautious.

"Young master... sparring is not something we can take lightly..."

Another added, choosing his words carefully, "If we were to accidentally harm you, it would not be acceptable..."

Damon’s expression did not change.

"I said I want someone to spar with me," he repeated, his voice even, yet firmer this time, leaving little room for further deliberation.

The guards exchanged one more glance before the one who appeared to be their leader stepped forward, his posture straight as he inclined his head slightly.

"Very well," he said, his tone measured. "We will do it this way... the match will continue until one side is disarmed. No unnecessary injuries... is that acceptable, young master?"

Damon exhaled faintly, his gaze lowering for a brief moment before returning to the man.

...Looking down on me, huh.

"Fine," he replied simply.

At that, one of the guards stepped forward, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword as the others moved aside, forming a wide, open space within the courtyard. The air shifted subtly, the earlier rhythm of practice replaced by a focused stillness as all attention settled upon the two figures now facing each other.

Damon stood at ease.

He rolled his shoulders slightly, cracking the stiffness from his body, his fingers flexing as he loosened himself, his movements casual, almost indifferent, as though this was nothing more than a passing exercise.

Across from him, the guard raised his stance, his grip steady as he spoke.

"Please take out your weapon, young master."

Damon, still flexing his fingers, did not even look toward the weapon racks.

"There is no need for me to use any weapon."

A faint shift passed through the guard’s expression.

"...Hmm?"

Damon lifted his gaze fully now, his voice calm, almost dismissive.

"Just come at me."

That—

Did not sit well.

Though the guard did not show anger openly, the subtle tightening of his jaw and the slight shift in his stance made it clear enough, as he inclined his head once more.

"Then... forgive me for being impolite, young master."

He moved.

A swift, controlled lunge forward, his blade cutting through the air with practiced precision as he closed the distance in a single step, his strike aimed cleanly and efficiently.

Around them, the other guards watched intently, their voices low as murmurs passed quietly between them.

"His stance... is too open..."

"He is not even holding a weapon..."

"This might end quickly..."

The implication was clear.

Yet— 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

Before the strike could land—Damon moved forward.

In a single, fluid motion, his body shifted just enough to avoid the blade by the smallest margin, his hand intercepting the guard’s wrist with precise timing while his other arm moved in coordination, redirecting the force of the strike rather than opposing it. The movement was clean, controlled, and executed with such efficiency that there was no wasted motion, no unnecessary effort—only intent.

A twist.

A shift of balance.

And—

"CLANG!"

The sword left the guard’s hand and fell.

Clattering against the stone floor with a sharp, final sound that echoed across the courtyard.

Silence followed as even the wind seemed to pause.

The guards stood still, their expressions frozen in a moment of quiet disbelief, their eyes fixed on the scene before them as though trying to process what had just occurred.

Damon released the guard’s wrist.

Stepped back and spoke, his voice cutting through the stillness without raising in volume.

"The guards of the Valecrest Duchy..."

A faint pause.

"...just amount to this much, huh."