Damein silently returned to his bed that night, the scent of crushed Ravenleaf still lingering on his fingertips. He layed motionless, eyes half-closed, waiting. Three days. That was all it would take.
The next morning, the door creaked open, and a brute of a man stomped into the room. He was one of the orphanage's enforcers, a towering figure with a permanent scowl and a voice like grinding stone.
"Breakfast."
The same bland, odorless porridge was dumped into their bowls. A lifeless, gray sludge—barely food, barely warm, barely enough to survive.
Like most morning, Lukas approached Damein. But this time demian didn't show any resistance, and handed over his portion.
But this time, he wasn't handing over his food. He had a different plan.
Lukas ate, as he always did, unknowingly consuming the herb-laced porridge.
Days passed. Three days to be exact.
Damein was patient.
On the fourth day, Lukas reached for Damein's food again, but this time, Damein refused.
Lukas blinked, confused. Then frowned.
"Give it."
Damein simply stared at him, unmoving. A single second stretched too long.
Lukas grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the bed frame. The impact sent a jolt of pain through Damein's ribs.
The others barely glanced up.
But Damein noticed something. Lukas' grip wasn't as strong as before. His strikes, not as fast. His movements lacked their usual force.
Damein allowed himself a small, internal smile. It was working.
That night, Lukas was brooding on his bed, his face twisted with frustration.
Something was wrong with him.
With silent steps Demian approached him.
"You're getting weaker," Damein said flatly.
Lukas froze, staring at him. "What did you say you b#tch?"
"I know what's happening."
Lukas looked confused. "What's happening?"
Damein stepped closer, his voice calm. "You're sick."
Lukas blinked, his expression shifting from confusion to a flicker of fear. "Sick?"
Damein nodded. "I know the cure."
Lukas was silent, his gaze narrowing. After a long moment, his voice came out strained. "What do you want?"
Damein didn't flinch. His voice was cold, calculating.
"Your blood."
"Are you out of your mind"
Demian said nothing just a plain stare.
Lukas hesitated, but fear and panic overtook him. The Awakening Test was drawing closer, and his throne, his strength, he knew it was slipping away.
"…Fine. This better work or you're dead"
Damein pulled out a small, rusted knife, the same one he had used before. Lukas winced as Damein made a small incision, collecting his blood with methodical precision.
Then, Damein gave him the herb, a concoction that was bitter enough to make Lukas think it was doing something. In reality, it was nothing more than a distraction.
Lukas swallowed it down, though not convinced it was the cure he needed, but he didn't have much option
Late that night Damein sat hunched in the farthest corner of the dormitory, the dim glow of moonlight barely reaching him. The others were asleep—most of them, at least. A few stirred in their beds, muttering in restless dreams, but no one paid attention to him.
Good.
The small, cracked bowl in his hands held a dark, almost black liquid. Thick. Oily. The smell was sharp and metallic, like rusted iron mixed with something acrid. Even with his dull human senses, it was overpowering.
It was a crude mix—demihuman blood, a stabilizing herb to keep it from clotting, and a harsh acidic agent to break it down for human absorption. It was the closest he could get to replicating the potion with the limited things he could get his hands on.
He hesitated, staring at the bowl. It wasn't hesitation in the human sense—he didn't fear drinking blood, nor did he care about the ethical implications. But this body… it would react. He had never felt such pain before. He had calculated it, understood it, but never experienced it.
"Well. No better time than now."
Damein tilted his head back and downed the potion in one go.
The first few seconds were deceiving. The liquid slid down his throat, thick and bitter, but nothing happened.
Then it hit.
A surge of raw, burning agony tore through his body. Every muscle locked up, his nerves igniting as if someone had set his blood on fire. His stomach clenched violently, his vision blurred, and a choked sound escaped his throat before he could stop it.
His fingers dug into the rough wooden floor, scraping against splinters as his body spasmed. He couldn't breathe. His veins felt like they were being pulled apart, then stitched back together in ways they weren't meant to be. Every single nerve in his body screamed.
He had processed data on torture before—electrocution, nerve toxins, physical mutilation. The information was clear. Theories on pain thresholds, endurance levels, nerve overloads.
But no amount of data could have prepared him for this.
The pain was overwhelming. It was like the body was on fire from the inside out. Every nerve screamed, every muscle burned.
And yet… beneath all of it, beneath the overwhelming, suffocating torment, there was something else. Something deeper.
He could feel his body changing.
The burning sensation wasn't just pain—it was reconstruction. His muscles tore and reformed, his bones groaned under the strain, his blood thickened with something stronger. The weak, malnourished body he had inherited was adapting.
Seconds dragged into eternity.
Then, suddenly, the pain ebbed. Not entirely gone, but dulled—like cooling embers instead of a raging fire. Damein sucked in a shaky breath. His body still trembled, but his fingers no longer felt fragile. His limbs no longer ached from simple movement.
He flexed his hand, clenching and unclenching his fist.
Stronger.
Slowly, he pushed himself up, careful not to wake anyone. He needed to test this.
His eyes scanned the room before settling on a wooden bedpost near him. It was old, sturdy. He curled his fingers into a fist and swung—not at full strength, just a test.
Crack.
The wood splintered beneath his knuckles. Not a full break, but deep enough to make his point.
Damein exhaled, a slow smirk forming on his lips.
It worked.
The pain was unbearable, but it didn't matter. It was temporary. The strength was permanent.
And this was only the first dose.
He rolled his shoulders, feeling the subtle shift in his body. He would need another dose in a week. More blood. More refinement.