"Well, allow to show you inside," was what Damon had said, and Waton stupidly followed.
The inside was exactly as he rembered. This was definitely Abellona’s war tent.
The chandeliers, the golden aesthetic, the ornate design, even the weapons used as decoration everything was Abellona’s.
Then the question arose. How did Damon Grey co to obtain them, and why was he acting like this belonged to him?
Waton followed Damon as he relaxed in the large throne at the center of the tent, pulling out a few potions and drinking them one after another.
’My sister wouldn’t give this to anyone....’
Without realizing it, Waton was burning with curiosity.
"Why... I an, how did you make an exact replica of Abellona’s war tent?"
His question seed to confuse Damon, who looked at him as if he were crazy.
"A replica? This is Abellona’s war tent, you know, the original one."
Waton’s eyes widened. His hand lifted slightly but froze in midair, unable to form words as he tried to regain himself.
"How did you get it?"
Damon placed his hand on his chin, closing his eyes as the floating magic orbs adjusted their focus toward him.
He raised his head dramatically, like a tragic and poetic protagonist forced to relive his trauma.
"Sigh... sigh... it’s a long and traumatic story. But the long and short of it is... she’s aware that I have it."
Waton’s hands trembled. He recalled how this bastard seed close to Lilith Astranova, the Princess of the Moon Glades, and even spoke playfully to The Seras Blade.
Now even his sister was giving her treasures to him....
"Sir... ehrm... how... how did you do it?"
Damon looked genuinely confused.
"How did I do what? It’s not a big deal really. The princess was awed by my talents and mannerisms, calling an honorable and noble champion of the goddess race. That’s why I have this tent."
Waton blinked in confusion.
"Ooh... I see. I understand now."
He didn’t understand shit.
Damon smiled teasingly.
"And she’s sort of a few billion zeni in debt, so this is kind of collateral interest."
"Huh!!!" Waton gasped in disbelief.
"What? I said it was a long story. If anything happens to her, her family pays. I have it in writing."
Damon’s lips curved into a wicked grin. When the war gas ended, he would be a billionaire. His plans were beginning to take shape.
"Go get so rest."
Damon leaned back into the throne while Waton moved to a sofa and sank into it with a sigh, clearly exhausted.
He glanced at the young prince, finding him slightly amusing now that he wasn’t annoying.
"Now... back to my third class. What is it?"
Damon rested his elbow on the armrest, his expression turning thoughtful. He kept trying to figure out how to reach the third class, but nothing ca to mind. For his other classes, he had always gone through a ntal or emotional upheaval, a deep shift in his state of mind before achieving them.
His first class had co in the Duhu Mountains, when he decided to stop running and slay the War Trolls. That resolve had earned him the Death Dealer class.
For his second class, he had watched Matia die, letting her fall into the deep chasm in Lysithara so he could kill the Face Stealer and save Sylvia.
His mindset then had been one of guilt, which fueled a self-destructive desire to die. That desire had earned him the Death Seeker class.
All his classes had co from philosophical change each a reflection of his evolving will.
Which made him think of his most recent opponent, Kashi the Necromancer.
He had earned the rciful Necromancer class from his desire to bring his family back.
’First he was a corpse collector, gathering their remains. Then, for his second class, he was a grave keeper, guarding their graves....’
Damon wondered what would define his third class.
"Hmm... he accepted their deaths, and so he tried bringing them back as a necromancer."
He gazed into the distance, dazed.
"Acceptance...."
’What is it that I need to accept? Or do I have to change sothing?’
This was difficult. Damon might use Kashi as a reference, but his experience could never be the sa.
Therefore, while Kashi chose acceptance, that might not be the path for Damon.
"What is my path... what is it that I’m on the cusp of achieving...."
He didn’t know how long he sat there pondering, but he knew he was going in circles trying to touch sothing that felt so close yet so far away.
At so point, Damon realized Waton wasn’t wrong. He really did need to ditate on his choices to find the right answer.
He turned to the young prince, only to realize Waton was already fast asleep, likely from exhaustion.
Damon closed his eyes and began to reflect on his most recent endeavors.
The na that ca to mind most was Ashcroft. That was who haunted his thoughts.
Just as he felt like he was reaching sothing, a sound broke the silence. Soone was outside the tent.
Damon’s eyes snapped open, his irritation flaring. His aura surged, and a thin stream of blood trickled from his nose.
Outside, his shadow perception picked up a lone figure.
The figure wore tattered fabric, mixed with monster hides woven into makeshift garnts that covered the whole body.
It appeared to be a woman. She had small antlers growing from her head, marking her as a beast-kin from so distant tribe. Though she gave off no aura, Damon could tell she was at the peak of the third class.
Her hair was dark, long, and unkempt like strands of wet seaweed. In her hand, she held a bone blade.
The woman’s eyes were dark like Damon’s, her gaze unreadable. Without waiting to be invited, she pushed open the tent flap and stepped inside, standing silently at the entrance.
When her eyes t Damon’s, they flickered with sothing familiar too familiar.
This woman was... well-endowed, in ways that were impossible not to notice. Even beneath those rough hides, Damon could tell she was a walking honey trap, her figure defying reason.
She opened her mouth, revealing two sharp fangs, and spoke in a slow, almost incoherent way, as if she was not used to speaking.
"I se... e... see you...."
Then Damon heard a familiar squirrel’s squeal from within her large makeshift clothes.
"Huh? Who... why do you have my squirrel?"
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