Damon stood in front of the mirror, his bare form reflected clearly against the polished surface, while the familiar white and navy-blue interior of the Duke's manor bedroom stretched behind him exactly as he remembered it, every detail so vivid and precise that for a moment his mind failed to question it, as though he had simply returned to a place he had never truly left.
His gaze lingered on his own reflection, golden eyes meeting golden eyes, before his brows drew together slightly and he muttered under his breath, almost absentmindedly, "Huh… isn't this the moment right after I transmigrated…?"
A faint unease crept in as he stepped closer.
Slowly, cautiously, Damon raised his hand and reached toward the mirror, intending to confirm the illusion, but just before his fingers could touch the surface, something felt wrong, something subtle yet deeply unsettling, because the reflection did not follow.
It did not move.
His hand hung mid-air.
And the figure in the mirror remained perfectly still, staring at him with those same familiar golden eyes that now felt entirely unfamiliar.
Then—
A smirk spread across its face, one that Damon had not made.
"What… did you really think life is a fairytale?"
The voice came from the mirror, identical to his own yet colder, sharper, carrying a weight that made his chest tighten involuntarily.
"After dying once… do you think you could just take over another body?"
Damon's pupils trembled as the words sank in, his mind stuttering as thoughts collided chaotically, and he found himself whispering, almost to himself, "W-was that all a dream…? The academy… everything…?"
The reflection's expression twisted.
"You…"
Its gaze hardened, pressing into him.
"You killed me."
The accusation landed like a blow.
"Because of you… I died."
Damon's breathing grew uneven, his throat tightening as if the air itself had thickened around him.
"And you took over my body."
The voice rose, no longer mocking but openly hostile now, each word digging deeper than the last.
"You are always crying about how you faced assassination attempts… always getting what you don't deserve…"
Its smirk widened unnaturally.
"Then what about this now?"
Damon's eyes widened slightly.
"You killed me… just to take over my body."
The words echoed.
Again.
And again.
"Is this what I deserved…?" the reflection demanded, its voice growing more unhinged with each repetition. "Hah? Is this what I deserved? Tell me… tell me… tell me!"
Damon shut his eyes tightly, his head lowering slightly as if trying to block it out, his voice breaking as he muttered under his breath, "N-no… I didn't… I—I don't know…"
"Tell me."
"Tell me!"
"TELL ME!"
The voice grew louder, sharper, filling every corner of his mind until it felt unbearable, until even his own thoughts were drowned beneath it, until—
Damon's eyes snapped open.
An unfamiliar ceiling came into view above him.
Damon's breath came out ragged and uneven as his eyes snapped open, his chest rising and falling sharply while his entire body glistened faintly with sweat, the lingering weight of the nightmare still clinging to him like something that refused to let go, his mind taking a few seconds longer than it should have to separate what was real from what wasn't.
He closed his eyes once and opened them again.
The unfamiliar ceiling remained as it is.
Lined with faint golden patterns that shimmered subtly where thin streams of mana flowed through embedded glass panels, casting a soft ambient glow across the space in a way that felt both clinical and unnaturally pristine.
So it was a nightmar—
"You okay, boy?"
The voice cut through his thoughts abruptly.
Damon flinched.
His head turned sharply to the side, only to find Brakkar seated on a reinforced stool beside the bed, the sheer size of his frame making even the solid structure beneath him creak faintly, his presence filling the otherwise calm infirmary with a quiet, grounded weight.
For a moment, Damon simply stared.
Then his brows furrowed slightly.
"What… you here to continue the fight, old man?"
His voice came out rough, still recovering from both the dream and the earlier beating.
Brakkar didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he lifted one of his massive hands and waved it slowly in front of Damon's face, his thick fingers passing across his line of sight with deliberate care as he leaned slightly forward.
"Can ya see clearly, boy?"
Damon's expression flattened instantly.
He clicked his tongue in irritation.
"Tch… you didn't think of that before poking my eye, did you?"
His tone carried clear annoyance, though his gaze remained sharp as he adjusted slightly against the bed, becoming more aware of his surroundings.
The infirmary stretched out around him in quiet elegance, its design following the same refined aesthetic as the rest of the academy, with pristine white walls accented by gold-lined seams that pulsed faintly with mana, while large glass panels separated sections of the room without fully enclosing them, allowing soft light to flow freely through the space; sleek, modern equipment hovered or rested along the sides, emitting low hums as they operated, their surfaces glowing faintly with arcane symbols that shifted in real time as they monitored patients.
It was less like a hospital—
And more like a controlled magical environment built for precision.
Damon's gaze returned to Brakkar.
"You're not here just to make sure I can see, right?"
Brakkar nodded once, slow and firm.
"Gave everyone some pointers… after watchin' 'em today…"
His voice rolled out steadily, thick with that heavy beastman accent.
"…but ya got dragged here before Ah could do it with ya."
Damon blinked.
Once.
Then again.
He stared at the beastman in front of him, his lips twitching slightly as the realization settled in.
Wasn't he fighting me the whole time…?
Did he observe others… while fighting me?
Damon's eyes narrowed just a fraction as he took another look at Brakkar.
Brakkar leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees as his gaze settled on Damon with a level of focus that felt entirely different from the one he had shown during the fight, as though he were no longer looking at an opponent, but at something he was trying to shape.
"Yer technique…" he began slowly, his voice carrying that same heavy, rolling accent, "…it's good. Clean. Efficient."
He nodded once.
"Every strike ya throw has purpose… no wasted movement… no hesitation… ya hit where it matters."
For a brief moment, there was silence.
Then his tone shifted.
"But that's the problem too."
Damon's eyes narrowed slightly.
"It's too clean… too efficient," Brakkar continued, his thick fingers tapping once against his arm as he spoke. "Against someone inexperienced, ya'll crush 'em easily… they won't even understand what hit 'em."
His gaze hardened just a little.
"But against someone who's been fightin' for years… five years… ten years… more…"
He tilted his head slightly.
"They'll see it."
Damon didn't interrupt.
"They'll see the pattern in yer movement… the way yer shoulders shift before ya strike… the way yer hips turn… the path yer punch is gonna take before it even lands."
His voice lowered slightly, more deliberate now.
"They'll know what's comin' next… where yer attack will land… and what ya'll follow it up with."
The words sank in.
Damon remained still, but his mind moved quickly, replaying his own movements, the sequences he had drilled into himself over years of training, the precision he had taken pride in—
—and the predictability that came with it.
He's not wrong.
His gaze lowered slightly.
I've trained these movements so much that they've become perfect… but also rigid…
A faint breath escaped him.
Too clean… leaves no room for deviation… no room for instinct to break the pattern.
Brakkar watched him for a moment, then nodded faintly, as if he could already tell Damon had understood.
"There's one more thing."
Damon's attention returned to him.
"Yer body…" Brakkar continued, his tone shifting again as he straightened slightly, "…it's strong. Real strong."
His eyes sharpened.
"But ya ain't usin' it right."
Damon's brows furrowed just a fraction.
"The power in yer body… it's scattered," Brakkar said, raising a hand and clenching it slowly as if demonstrating something invisible. "When ya strike, ya gotta gather it… pull it together… focus it in one place…"
His fist tightened.
"…then release it all at once."
Damon stared at him.
Clueless.
What does that even mean…?
Before he could ask—Brakkar stood.
No further explanation.
No elaboration.
He simply turned and began walking away, his heavy footsteps echoing faintly against the polished floor of the infirmary as if the conversation had already reached its natural conclusion in his mind.
Damon followed his back with his eyes, his expression flattening slightly as a familiar irritation surfaced.
"Why do teachers in this academy all have the habit of leaving without fully explaining anything…?"
Damon nodded, and then—
His gaze shifted.
"Who–?"
The voice had come from the other side of the bed.
"That's what you were thinking, right… boss?"