The Lymhurst border simmered under a sunset streaked with violets and yellows, the sky glowing amber at its edges. Towers of merchant guilds gleamed like golden bones, their wealth clashing with the storm raging in Damon's veins. He had paid the spirit stones. He had signed the contract. Now he stalked through the marketplace, his obsidian armor swallowing the fading light, leaving trails of shadow behind him. The air reeked of saffron, sweat, and fear. People flinched as he passed, their whispers cutting through the twilight: *"Void Clan… but they're gone…"* *"Look at his eyes—like a starless grave…"* Damon's lips twitched. Let them stare. Let their fear poison the ground.
A woman appeared before him, her figure blurred at the edges. Elsa. Her dress hung like wilted paper, her hands cracked like dry earth, clutching a basket of herbs that smelled of rot and desperation. "Young man," she rasped, her voice trembling like a spider's thread, "where are you going with death at your heels?"
Damon stopped. Turned. His gaze pinned her—cold and endless, his pupils spreading like ink spilled on ice. Elsa's breath caught; her pulse raced, frantic as a moth trapped against glass.
"To the demon continent," he rumbled, his voice heavy with menace.
The crowd erupted.
"*Filth!*" A butcher waved his cleaver, the blade glinting with grease and old blood.
A young man in blue robes pushed forward, the emblem of the Azura Tiger Sect—a golden beast baring its fangs—stitched over his heart. His sword trembled, its untested steel catching the last rays of sunlight. "You dare walk the righteous path?" he sneered, circling Damon like prey. "You're a *stain*! A hollow shell with no spiritual energy!"
Damon's smile split his face, his fangs glinting like shards of bone. "Hollow?" he purred, low and deadly. "Step closer. I'll carve the truth into your bones."
The man lunged forward . As Damon's gauntlet snapped up, catching the blade mid-swing. The steel screamed, then shattered—shards raining onto the cobblestones.
"No—!" The youth stumbled back, clutching his wrist. "The Tiger Sect will *destroy you—*"
Damon's hand closed around his throat. A wet *snap* echoed. The man's scream died as Damon ripped out his vocal cords, holding the glistening sinew aloft like a trophy. "Your sect," Damon hissed, his voice dripping with venom, "is carrion for the Wastes. I'll burn your halls, grind your heirs to dust. Not even the *ants* will mourn."
---
Chaos erupted.
Damon's axe avalonia materialized—a jagged obsidian nightmare, its runes pulsing like a diseased heart. He swung.
A melon cart exploded, pulp and rind mixing with the butcher's severed arm. Blood splashed across stalls; a mother's scream was cut short as Damon's blade severed her arms, then silenced her with a final strike.
Two guards charged, their phoenix-crested armor clanking. The first swung a halberd. Which Damon caught the shaft, twisted, and snapped the man's neck with a sharp *crack*. The second thrust his spear; Damon sidestepped, as he grabbed the weapon, and drove it through the man's stomach. The guard choked, blood frothing at his lips.
"P-Please…" he gurgled.
Damon leaned in, his breath cold against the man's ear. "Begging is a song for crows," he whispered. "*Sing louder.*"
He yanked the spear free.
---
Silence fell, thick and heavy.
Elsa stood frozen, her dress drenched in blood. Damon turned, his axe dripping crimson. The square had become a slaughterhouse, the cobblestones slick with gore.
He stepped toward her, his boots squelching. "Scream," he murmured, tilting his head almost gently. "It's kinder than silence."
Her lips parted—no sound came out.
"Who… *are* you?"
Damon's grin widened, stretching his face into a grotesque mask. "Should I lie? Whisper sweet words as you die?" His claw grazed her throat, drawing a bead of blood. "Or should I let your corpse rot with the truth?"
Tears cut through the blood on Elsa's cheeks.
"I am Damon Rim." His voice deepened, resonating with the weight of ages. "The Unforgiving. Heir of the Void Dragon Clan. I've toppled thrones and fed kings to the dogs that licked their boots." His claw pressed deeper. "When Death kneels at *your* door… he'll weep for catching my gaze." His eyes burned, black flames devouring the light. "This world is mine. I'll break its bones, drain its rivers. Every crown will shatter—every heir *scream* as I erase their bloodline."
Elsa collapsed, her forehead pressed to the stone. "P-Please…"
Damon crouched, gripping her chin. "Rejoice," he crooned, smearing blood across her lips. "I shall spare you. A witness to the dawn… *of ruin.*" He stood, his strides slow and deliberate, leaving bloody footprints behind him.
---
Elsa crumpled. The phoenix kings and king of crows would kill her for surviving. For hearing the cursed name:
*Rim.*
But worse than death was the memory of his eyes—endless voids where hope died.
A crow cawed. The wind hissed through the square, carrying a whisper:
"*Rim…*"
It clung like a curse.
---
Damon strode into the inn, his armor crusted with blood. Patrons recoiled, ale spilling, their breaths caught in their throats. A serving girl retched into her apron.
"Room. Wine. Meat," he growled at the barkeep, tossing a bloodstained coin onto the counter.
He slouched at a corner table, tearing into charred lamb with savage grace. Blood streaked the bread; the wine swirled like diluted gore. A hooded man watched from the shadows, as he looked like he had no hands nor feet as they where wrapped in bandage .
*Killing intent*, Damon thought, licking grease from his fingers. Thick enough to choke on. He smirked, raising his goblet in a mocking toast.
"How can beauty hide such rot?" a drunk slurred.
Damon's smile sharpened. Let them whisper. Let them *burn*.
He climbed to his room, stripped off his armor, and sank into a copper tub. The water hissed where his skin touched it, steam curling like ghostly hands. His fingers brushed the scar over his heart—a jagged mark where Vivi's power slept.
"Vivi…" he whispered, his voice fraying. No answer. Only the drip of water and the creak of timber.
Then—a flicker. A shadow pooled in the rafters.
Damon stilled. His reflection rippled, his eyes lifting to the ceiling.
*There.*
A man clung to the beams, his breath stifled, a needle-thin blade gleaming between his teeth.
Damon's lips curled. "Come down," he purred, his voice velvet and venom. "Or must I *drag* you from the shadows?"
The assassin dropped, silent as a spider.
The night held its breath.
And the dance began.