NOVGO.NET Chapter 399: Training Lyone On The Way
Chapter 399: Training Lyone On The Way
Arielle approached, brushing ash from her cloak. “Yes. It wasn’t just a beast. It was tainted.”
Damien’s eyes narrowed. In all his time in the Forest of Twin Disasters, he had never seen a beast tainted in such a way.
He had fought creatures that devoured demons, even Cerbe, his own three-headed hound, who consumed demonic cores as though they were candy. But none of them bore this corruption. None of them were twisted by it.
That left only one explanation.
“This wasn’t natural,” Damien said quietly. His hand pressed against the corpse, feeling the lingering traces of its corrupted aura. “It was forced. Someone—or something—infused this beast with demonic essence.”
His gaze hardened, a flicker of unease buried deep beneath his calm exterior.
Experiments. Someone was running experiments.
And this was only the first they had encountered.
The corpse of the demonic beast lay charred and still, its hulking form sagging against the dirt. Damien crouched low beside it, his hand brushing aside layers of ash until the faint crimson veins beneath were visible once more. Up close, he could feel it clearly—demonic essence, but not raw or natural. It pulsed in jagged intervals, like a disease forced into unwilling veins.
He drew a dagger from his belt and cut into the beast’s hide. The flesh peeled back to reveal marks burned deep into its skin, not scars of battle, but etched sigils, crude and irregular. Damien’s frown deepened.
“Ritual work,” he muttered. “And sloppy at that. Whoever did this wasn’t refining the beast—they were torturing it into submission.”
Arielle knelt beside him, her violet eyes narrowing as she traced a fingertip near one of the marks. “I’ve seen something similar before. Demon-worshiping groups sometimes brand their acolytes with seals like this to bind essence into them. But for a beast…” She shook her head. “It’s unnatural.”
Lyone stood back, still catching her breath, her sword planted into the dirt. She had listened silently, but the thought of someone turning beasts into monsters gnawed at her. “So… there could be more of these?”
Damien wiped his blade clean and sheathed it. “Not could be. There will be. This one was a test run, nothing more.” He rose to his feet, his expression unreadable. “And tests always mean more trials are coming.”
The thought lingered over them as they resumed their journey.
The next morning, after hours of travel, Damien called for Fenrir to stop. They had reached a clearing beside a narrow stream. The sun pierced the canopy above, scattering golden light across the grass.
“Out,” Damien ordered, stepping down from the carriage. “We’re taking a break. Lyone, sword out.”
Lyone blinked, startled. “Here? Now?”
“Yes.” Damien’s tone left no room for debate. “Yesterday, you swung your blade like a desperate animal. That’s not how you survive the next fight. You’ll learn control.”
He drew his own sword, the steel gleaming faintly. Standing opposite Lyone, he pointed the tip toward him. “Come. Attack me.”
Lyone hesitated only a moment before charging. His strikes were quick, but sloppy—driven by adrenaline more than form. Damien parried with ease, each deflection ringing sharp in the quiet clearing.
“Too wide,” he said, batting his blade aside.
“Too shallow,” as another strike glanced off his guard.
“Better, but predictable,” when he lunged, only to be sidestepped.
Lyone gritted his teeth, sweat pouring down his brow. His arms burned from the repeated swings, but he pressed harder, desperate to land a single blow.
Arielle watched from the side, leaning against Fenrir’s flank. She said nothing, but her sharp gaze followed every movement, every mistake.
Finally, after an hour of repetition, Damien called a halt. “Enough for now. We’ll resume later.”
Lyone dropped his blade, panting, but nodded firmly. Even in failure, he burned with determination.
The following day, they stopped again for training. Damien sparred with Lyone in the clearing, their blades clashing rhythmically. But midway through, as he corrected his footwork, something flickered across his mind.
A memory.
His twin brother, Damon, standing tall with blade in hand, guiding his stance. Damon’s strikes had always been sharper, his teaching more natural. Where Damien wielded weapons as tools, Damon had breathed them as extensions of his very soul.
He would’ve been better at this, Damien thought, a pang of regret settling deep in his chest. Better at teaching Lyone. Better at—
The distraction cost him.
Steel grazed his side, and he snapped back to the present to see Lyone staring wide-eyed, his sword pressed against him.
Lyone had struck him.
For a moment, silence hung. Then Damien chuckled softly, stepping back. “Well done.”
Lyone’s face lit with pride, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
Damien reached into his satchel and withdrew a small crystalline orb pulsing faintly with golden light. An essence core, its glow subdued but unmistakable.
Lyone gasped. “That’s—”
“A Grade Seven core,” Damien said calmly, placing it into his hand. “The weakest of its tier, but still stronger than what you’ve handled before.”
His fingers trembled around it. “For me?”
“You’ve earned it,” Damien replied. “But listen carefully. This isn’t just a trinket. You’ll learn to siphon its essence, little by little, until you make it your own. Force too much, and it will tear you apart. Patience will decide if you live to grow stronger.”
Damien placed a steadying hand on his, pressing the orb gently back against his chest. “Sit. Breathe. Feel its rhythm, and match it with your own.”
Lyone obeyed, closing his eyes. Slowly, he extended his senses toward the core. Faint tendrils of essence brushed against his spirit, hesitant, dangerous. He coaxed them carefully, remembering Damien’s warning.
A faint glow began to seep into his veins, and his body shivered under its weight. It was heavier than his own essence, wild and untamed, but for the first time he felt the rush of true power sliding into his grasp.
Damien watched closely, his arms folded. Arielle had stepped nearer too, her expression softened by something unreadable—approval, perhaps, or faint envy.
By nightfall, Lyone had only managed to draw the faintest trickle of essence before his body shook with exhaustion. Damien called a halt before he pushed too far.
“Enough. Progress comes slow. Remember that,” he told Lyone as he collapsed back, clutching the core to his chest.
As they returned to the carriage, Damien lingered one moment longer, staring up at the stars.
Damon’s face rose in his memory again, smiling with that same easy confidence he could never quite imitate. His twin. His better half in so many ways.
If you were here, you’d have made him stronger in the way of the sword already.
But Damien shook his head, clearing the thought. He hadn’t chosen this path but he’d threaded it regardless, and now so had Lyone. Together, they would face what came next.
And from the charred corpse of the beast to the trembling light of a Grade Seven core, Damien knew one thing for certain: their enemies were not merely humans or demons.
They were something in between—something willing to twist nature itself into weapons.