23.I Who Smiled at Death
The bathroom was a small, enclosed space, tiled from floor to ceiling in a mosaic of deep emerald green and gold. Steam coiled through the air, rising from the black marble bathtub filled to the brim with shimmering water. A single ornate lantern swayed overhead, casting flickering shadows that danced like restless specters. The cracked mirror above the porcelain sink was fogged with condensation, obscuring the reflection of the tension thickening in the room.
Damon lounged in the bath, his muscular frame submerged, head tilted back as he hummed a soft tune. His eyes remained closed, but his senses stretched outward, attuned to the faintest shift in the air.
Above him, the assassin clung to the ceiling, his mantis-like hands gripping the tiles with unnatural precision.the assassin's breath was shallow, controlled. His body, coiled like a predator ready to strike. The scent of blood and iron clung to him—a sharp contrast to the floral oils perfuming the bathwater.
The first move was soundless.
The assassin dropped from the ceiling, his severed hand—now a grotesque, blade-like appendage—slicing downward in a blur of motion.
Damon's eyes snapped open.
With a barely perceptible tilt of his head, the blade grazed past his neck, close enough to part the steam, but it drew no blood.
The assassin landed lightly on the bathtub's edge, his balance flawless, his gaze locked onto Damon—hatred and purpose burning behind his eyes.
Damon smirked, voice smooth as silk. "Such a cruel man. Couldn't even wait for me to put on clothes?"
He rose from the water in one unhurried motion, droplets cascading off his skin. With deliberate ease, he plucked a towel from the rack, wrapping it loosely around his waist.
The assassin didn't flinch, his blade-hand twitching as he assessed the room. A small, enclosed space. No room for wide movements. A death trap—for Damon.
Or so he thought.
With a blur of motion, the assassin attacked.
He bounced off the walls, his strikes weaving through the air in unpredictable arcs, his mantis-like hands slashing with terrifying speed. His movements weren't human—darting, twisting, a streak of lethal precision.
Damon moved with lazy elegance, his body slipping between the strikes with an almost arrogant ease. Every deadly slash met nothing but empty air.
The assassin's blade arced toward Damon's throat. A perfect strike.
Damon only tilted his head. The blade sliced through steam—nothing more.
A counter. Damon's fist lashed out, glowing with faint spiritual energy. As the assassin twisted mid-air, narrowly avoiding it.
The assassin laughed, his voice jagged. "Hahaha, Damon! I am not the same man you used to know!"
Damon's smirk faded slightly, his expression sharpening. Recognition flickered across his features.
"I smelled something familiar…" Damon murmured, exhaling slowly. His purple eyes burned as they fixed onto the assassin. "The child that cried and begged for his life seven years ago… Lin Feng."
A name. A weight.
Lin Feng hesitated. A flicker. A fatal mistake.
Damon struck.
His foot connected with Lin Feng's chest—a devastating, sickening crunch. Lin Feng's body slammed into the wall, tiles shattering on impact. Blood spewed from his lips.
Yet his single eye still burned with defiance.
Damon tilted his head. "Is this how you plan to kill me?" His voice was almost bored.
Before Lin Feng could move, Damon was already in front of him. A blur of motion, faster than thought.
A hand around his throat.
Lin Feng's eye widened. His blade-hand lashed out desperately, but Damon batted it aside with ease.
Then, pain. A sudden, grotesque pop as Damon plunged his fingers into Lin Feng's left eye socket.
Lin Feng screamed. Blood poured down his face, a crimson river staining the floor.
Desperate, he unleashed everything.
A final, reckless burst of spiritual energy exploded from his body, the raw force slicing through everything—walls, mirrors, stone.
Damon stepped back, watching. Silent. Studying.
Then, he felt it. The Void Energy. His family's stolen power.
Time slowed.
A voice, soft and melodic, echoed in Damon's mind.
"Master, the Undying Rejuvenation Body is ready. Would you like to merge it with your very soul?"
Vivi. The Willow Tree of Imagination. A whisper of eternity in his mind.
Damon smiled, anticipation flickering behind his golden gaze. "Yes, Vivi. You know I'm always ready."
"Then, Master, you have to... die."
The words hung, thick with finality.
Damon chuckled, tilting his head back. "Why not, Vivi? Let's proceed. This shall be thrilling."
Time resumed.
Lin Feng's blade whistled through the air.
Damon didn't move.
A clean, perfect slice.
Damon's head separated from his body.
It tumbled, weightless, through the thick, humid air. Landing with a dull, wet thud.
Silence.
Lin Feng stood frozen, his chest heaving, his remaining eye wide.
Then—he laughed. A raw, trembling sound.
"Hahaha… that fool is finally dead!" His voice echoed into the night. Yet, as the words left his lips, a chill slithered through his spine.
The bathroom was in ruins. Fractured tiles, shattered mirrors, and the thick scent of blood hung in the air. The lantern overhead flickered weakly, casting erratic shadows across the wreckage.
Lin Feng stood amidst the destruction. His single eye was locked onto the severed head in his grasp.
Damon's head.
A twisted, victorious grin spread across Lin Feng's bloodstained face. His fingers clenched around the sack as he hurriedly stuffed the head inside. His heart pounded, not from fear—but from the unshakable feeling that something wasn't right.
He bolted.
Bursting through the shattered door, Lin Feng moved like a phantom through the corridors, his mantis-like hands gripping the walls as he launched himself forward with unnatural speed.
The inn was eerily silent. The usual murmurs of drunken patrons and the creaking of old wooden floors were absent, as if the entire building had fallen into a hushed reverence for what had just occurred.
Lin Feng didn't care. He sprinted through the dimly lit hallways, his boots barely making a sound. The moment he reached the exit, the cold night air hit him like a slap, clearing his thoughts.
Lymhrst was alive.
The streets pulsed with the usual nightlife—traders haggling under paper lanterns, mercenaries nursing drinks outside taverns, and carriages rattling over cobblestone roads. Yet, none of them knew. None of them realized that just moments ago, a god had fallen.
Lin Feng gritted his teeth. He needed to move—fast.
His target: the Lin family mansion.
South. That was where safety lay.
With the sack secured tightly to his side, he weaved through the streets, his movements swift but controlled. He took alleyways instead of main roads, vanishing between the flickering torches of watchmen. Every few steps, he glanced over his shoulder.
Nothing.
Yet, unease gnawed at him.
His fingers curled tighter around the sack. It felt heavier than it should. As if something inside it still held weight beyond mere flesh.
It was done, wasn't it? Damon was dead.
So why did it feel… unfinished?
The thought clung to him like a curse, a whisper at the edge of his mind that no amount of running could silence.