SSS-Ranked Awakening: I Can Only Summon Mythical Beasts-Chapter 293: Facing Off Lord Raegon
Damien passed silently through the side entrance of the main castle building, slipping between gaps in the patrol routes like smoke filtering through cracks.
The air within was noticeably warmer than the cold stillness of the stone courtyard, filled with the heat of torches and the dull murmur of celebration.
Music floated up from the lower levels—a slow string composition played by a live quartet, masking the occasional bursts of laughter and clinking glasses from the grand hall beneath.
The birthday celebration was in full swing. Damien didn't need to look; he could hear it. The noble class toasted over wine, danced beneath crystal chandeliers, and smiled with masks of porcelain civility.
He imagined them—rich, blissfully unaware that the man who had almost led their country to civil war now sat above them, crippled but unrepentant.
Lord Raegon.
None of them knew he'd lost an arm as he'd only returned a day earlier and refused to see anyone.
Damien crept up a narrow servants' staircase tucked behind a tapestry, stepping soundlessly. His movements were practiced and precise, refined by dozens and dozens of missions carried out in darkness. He passed no one.
Even the few guards assigned to inner rooms were already downstairs, pulled by the promise of food, drink, or celebration.
He reached the upper floor, the corridor dimly lit by wall sconces that cast flickering shadows on velvet-red wallpaper. Doors lined the hallway—private chambers, storage rooms, studies—but Damien knew exactly where to go.
The room at the far end.
Inside that chamber, Lord Raegon sat alone.
He rested against the velvet headboard of a large bed, his left sleeve pinned and empty, folded neatly across his lap where his arm used to be. The fire crackled quietly in the hearth beside him, casting long, sullen shadows across the room.
He was not dressed for the party. No jewels, no fine silks. Only a dark brown robe cinched at the waist, the color of dried blood.
His face was gaunt, more than Damien remembered. The lines were deeper. The arrogance remained, but it was bruised now, tempered by pain and humiliation.
He stared at nothing, lost in thought, lips moving faintly as though speaking to someone who wasn't there. His mind turned over the same question again and again.
Why?
Why had he wanted Westmont so badly?
Once, it had seemed obvious. A fertile city, strategically placed. A gem waiting to be polished and claimed. But now? Now that it had cost him soldiers, allies, his arm… the hunger had twisted into something darker.
Raegon gritted his teeth.
His pride flickered back into life like a fire fanned by memory. He sat upright, furious. "They'll pay," he muttered to himself. "That cursed city, its mongrel lord, the mercenary filth—all of them." He rose from the bed, slowly, half-limping toward the desk at the side of the room.
He didn't notice the faint shift in the shadows until a voice answered him.
"They won't get the chance to."
Raegon froze mid-step.
The voice was calm, cold, and carried with it a stillness that seemed to suck the heat from the room. He turned sharply, eyes scanning the darkness.
"Who's there?" he barked.
No reply.
He moved toward the table near the foot of the bed, fingers brushing against the familiar shape of the oil lamp. Without hesitation, he struck the flint and lit the wick.
The flame burst to life and Damien stood there, arms crossed, body half-wreathed in shadows, the silver trim of his outfit gleaming like the edge of a blade.
His gaze was unreadable, cold, and patient, as though he'd been waiting in that exact spot for hours.
Raegon's blood turned to ice.
He knew that face. That posture. That presence.
"You—"
"The man who almost ended you on the battlefield," Damien said, his voice low and steady. "Back then, I should've finished it."
Raegon's face twisted in fury. He shouted toward the door. "Guards! Intruder! To me! Guards!"
Damien's smirk didn't waver. "They're not going to get here fast enough, Raegon. But I'll give you this moment. We should talk before I kill you."
Raegon stepped backward, hand instinctively reaching toward a drawer in the desk behind him.
"I have nothing to say to a lowborn killer," he spat. "You think words will spare your life? Guards!!"
The doors burst open.
Half a dozen armored men stormed into the room—elite guards in blackplate, their swords already drawn. Without needing orders, they began to move in formation, encircling Damien.
Damien sighed, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. "I didn't want it this way," he murmured. "But you never were one for diplomacy."
The room burst into violence.
Damien moved.
In the space between heartbeats, he slipped forward like a gust of black wind, and before the first guard could blink, Damien's blade sang once.
A head flew.
Splat!
Blood sprayed in an arc across the wall.
Another guard lunged, his longsword aimed at Damien's ribs. But Damien wasn't there. He spun around the thrust and drove his dagger through the man's armpit, sliding it up to sever the arteries. The man crumpled with a scream.
The others hesitated. That was all Damien needed.
He struck low, sweeping the legs out from one, then rolled beneath another's swing and slashed across both ankles, crippling him. The final two attempted to flank him, one aiming high, the other low.
Damien flipped backward, using the wall as leverage, kicking off and spinning mid-air. His sword flashed once, then twice—two perfect arcs.
Both men froze.
Their heads tumbled to the floor a breath later.
The silence returned. Only the dripping of blood echoed in the chamber.
Raegon, breath ragged, had retrieved a small, metallic orb from the drawer. It pulsed faintly with runic light—red and violet hues swirling within. He held it in a clenched fist, sweat pouring from his brow.
Damien turned to him slowly.
"Now," he said calmly, stepping over a corpse, "let's talk."
"Die!" Raegon roared, throwing the orb with all his might.
Damien's eyes widened slightly.
Magic Essence Bomb.
Time seemed to slow.
The orb spun through the air, glowing brighter, pulsating wildly.
He recognized the markings—high-explosive, delayed detonation, Class 5 volatile essence. The kind outlawed in every kingdom except Raegon's.
It hit the floor between them.
And it began to glow.
