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The moon had hidden itself behind the clouds, leaving the night cloaked in pitch-black darkness. Damian slipped out of the side palace and headed towards the forest within the imperial grounds.
He pushed through the dense underbrush, relying on his lantern’s faint light. Soon, a decrepit tower emerged before him, standing like a shadow against the night sky.
Squeezing through the broken, tilted doorway, he found himself in a dusty, abandoned interior.
‘It should be somewhere around here.’ Tap, tap.
Damian used a wooden stick to tap along the ground. A distinct, hollow sound echoed from one of the bricks.
Pressing down on the brick with his foot, the floor rumbled, revealing a hidden staircase leading down into the earth.
The air was thick with humidity, and the steps were slippery from years of accumulated moisture. Damian descended slowly, careful not to lose his footing.
The damp, musty smell of mold filled his nostrils, but as he reached the bottom, the atmosphere abruptly shifted.
This underground chamber existed long before the Empire itself. The tower above was merely a decoy, hiding what lay beneath.
The Book of Hell—the key to forming a contract with a demon.
At the base of the stairs stood a massive stone door, waiting for Damian’s arrival.
Behind this door lay the most cursed artifact in existence. Yet the door bore no carvings, no symbols of demonic influence.
“Still intact,” Damian muttered.
In his previous life, the stone door had been shattered, leaving just enough space for a person to squeeze through.
He had first discovered this place while fleeing during the palace attack—the same incident where Anna and Felix had perished.
Seeking refuge beneath the ruined tower, he had stumbled upon this chamber.
The stone door must have been damaged during that attack. But he couldn’t afford to wait for those same events to play out again.
“Hm…”
Damian approached the stone door. Back then, he hadn’t realized that it wasn’t made of ordinary stone.
Chamarite—a rare mineral that completely blocks mana. The door required pure physical strength to open, unaided by aura or magic.
“Grrraaah!”
He pushed with all his might, his muscles straining, but the only sound was the grinding of stone dust. The door didn’t budge an inch.
There was no one he could ask for help. Even if people couldn’t recognize the presence of black magic, revealing a place like this would undoubtedly spark dangerous rumors.
Moreover, Damian had no intention of relying on anyone. The road to revenge was one he had to walk with his own two feet.
‘This door itself is a kind of test.’ Black magic is unlike typical sorcery.
While conventional magic relies purely on mana, black magic demands immense physical stamina. The power borrowed from the demons comes at a steep price, placing severe constraints on the caster’s body.
In other words, without a strong physical foundation, one cannot wield black magic for long.
This ancient relic was designed to highlight a flaw often overlooked by black magicians. In a way, it was almost considerate—a lesson carved in stone.
Why would anyone bother building stamina when they could gain overwhelming power from the Book of Hell through a simple contract?
Stamina. This had always been one of Damian’s biggest weaknesses.
Before he delved into black magic, he had lived a life of drunken apathy, his body weakened and far below average.
While his explosive firepower was enough to challenge the Legitimists, his new opponents were Mikhail and Rubia—the Empire's Greatest Sword and the Great Mage.
To defeat them, he couldn’t afford even a single flaw.
Fortunately, Damian now had time. With consistent training from this moment onward, he could overcome this obstacle.
More importantly, he knew just the right person to help him.
“What did you just say?”
The stable master, One-Eyed Derek, frowned, clearly taken aback by Damian’s request.
“I’m asking you to train my stamina and physical strength, old man Derek.”
Derek was bewildered. He was just a stable master, tending to worn-out workhorses, not a trainer.
“There are plenty of other qualified trainers, like the imperial knights… Ah, my apologies. I’ve spoken out of turn.”
Derek knew all too well about Damian’s infamy. The young master had once trained directly under the knight captain, only for the captain to threaten resignation within a week.
“There’s nothing I can learn from them.”
The knights’ training relied heavily on aura—a talent Damian neither possessed nor needed.
“Physical strength, you say? But why come to a mere stable master? I can muck out stalls and change horseshoes, but this…”
“Because you, old man Derek, are the expert I need.”
The Iron Wolf Mercenary Corps.
At Damian’s words, Derek froze mid-step.
“Did that loose-lipped Felix tell you? Damn that man. He’d better buy me a drink next time.”
Grumbling, Derek sat down on a wooden crate.
His face was weathered, his limbs frail—nothing like the legendary mercenary he once was. But his single eye still held a sharp, piercing gaze. The Iron Wolf—a name feared on the battlefield.
Derek had become a legend through sheer physical prowess and skill, even without relying on aura.
Felix used to share stories of the Iron Wolf, hoping to comfort Damian, to show that greatness could be achieved without aura.
‘It didn’t help much back then, though.’
Now, however, Damian needed Derek more than anyone. When it came to training physical strength and stamina, there was no one better.
“Yes, I once swung a sword in my youth. Are you planning to blackmail me with that knowledge?”
Derek had made many enemies as a mercenary. If his true identity were exposed, he could be assassinated on the street.
“No. I’m offering you a deal.”
Damian pulled out a thick bundle of gold coins. The clinking sound alone hinted at several years’ worth of wages.
“Your contract here ends soon, doesn’t it? This should be more than enough for your retirement.”
“Ha… What exactly do you want me to train you for?”
Damian pointed to a massive boulder near the stables.
“To the point where I can push that boulder without breaking a sweat.”
Derek looked between Damian and the boulder, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“But I have a condition.”
“If it’s within my power, name it.”
“Start running.”
Derek gestured to the open space in front of the stables.
“That’s all?”
“You must keep running until I tell you to stop. If you can’t manage even this, then there’s no point in me teaching you. And if anything happens to you, I’ll be the one losing my head.”
Damian nodded and took off immediately.
Running was simple. His body hadn’t yet been ruined by alcohol, so he thought it would be easy.
‘Damn it…’
An hour later, Damian realized his mistake.
“Huff, huff… Am I done yet, old man Derek?”
“Focus on your running. Your pace is slowing.”
His body was far weaker than he had anticipated. Just running this short distance had left him gasping for air.
Derek’s expression remained unchanged, simply watching Damian in silence.
‘Was he never planning to teach me?’
Doubt crept in, but there was no turning back now.
Damian pushed all other thoughts aside, focusing solely on moving his arms and legs.
“Haaah…”
Derek sighed as he watched.
Why does he keep fighting? It would be easier if he just gave up.
He had seen it countless times before—those without talent who fought desperately, only to hit an unbreakable wall.
Strength and skill are meaningless before the power of aura.
But Damian’s eyes burned with an intense desire he had never seen before.
“All right, that’s enough. You’ve done well.”
At Derek’s words, Damian finally collapsed. Anna and Felix rushed to his side.
“Water… give me water…”
Anna pressed a soaked handkerchief to his lips.
“Old man Derek… You’re a mercenary. You honor your contracts, don’t you?”
His throat burned, his heart pounded, but he felt a strange satisfaction.
Damian had always run away when things got tough. But this time, he had faced it head-on.
“Take tomorrow off. Training resumes the day after.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it.”
With that promise, Damian allowed himself to rest.
His path of revenge had begun today.
