The sun was already high when Damon opened his eyes again.

Light filtered through the curtains, stronger now, marking the floor with golden streaks. The room was silent except for the distant sounds of the waking mansion—footsteps, voices, the creak of gates opening. Aria slept curled up in the blankets, her face serene and her hair strewn in disarray. He lay there for a few moments, watching her, until the weight of duty pulled him back to reality.

Carefully, he removed her arm from his chest. Aria mumbled something incoherent, rolled over, and continued sleeping. Damon stood, his bare feet touching the cold floor. The temperature woke him completely.

The full-length mirror next to the window reflected a different man from the one who had left for Paraphal—his hair longer, his eyes lined with deep shadows, and an expression that blended weariness and determination. There were new scars on his body, thin, pale lines that told stories no one else would need to hear.

He pulled on his trousers, tied the bandages around his wrists, and put on his dark coat. The chilly morning air greeted him like an old acquaintance as he opened the door and left the room.

The corridors of Wykes Manor were livelier than usual. Servants hurried, officials came and went with stacks of documents, and the smell of fresh bread and polished iron mingled in the air. The war might be distant, but Mirath never slept.

Damon passed unnoticed—or perhaps everyone just pretended not to see him. This was a house accustomed to men like him: broken soldiers, weary spies, hunters who returned with the gaze of someone who had seen the abyss.

As he crossed the inner courtyard, the cold hit him hard. The wind came from the hills, sharp and clean, carrying the scent of melting snow. In the center, the training arena remained covered in frost, the stone floor whitened, and the metallic sound echoed in the distance—a few guards were practicing swords, spears, and control spells.

Damon walked there, his step firm and silent. As he passed through the iron gate, the sounds faded. Some recognized him, exchanging quick glances. There was a quiet respect around him, the kind that is neither asked nor demanded—it simply arises from the right scars.

[Name: Damon]

[Age: 19]

[Cultivation: Beginner]

[Race: Incubus]

[Talent: Low]

[Level: 15]

[HP: 1000/1000]

[STR: 56]

[AGL: 52]

[VIT: 56]

[STM: 50]

[INT: 52]

[DEF: 52]

[Blank Points: 20]

[Mana: Cold (Lv.1)]

[Skills: Asmodeus' Touch, Emperor's Impaling Strike (Lv. 1)]

[Traits: Battle Focus, Tamer, Asmodeus's Lust]

[Martial Skill (Swords): Novice]

[Martial Skill (Spears): Novice]

[Cultivation Technique: Crimson Night Devourer (Lv. 1)]

"I earned 10 Blank Points... funny that I didn't get any more, absolutely no greater rewards..." Damon muttered, reading the Status window...

"I'm not going to spend it now... probably best to save it for a moment of desperation... or rather, save it to use as a triumph."

He stopped in front of the weapons rack and picked up the spear. It was a simple piece, dark wood with a silver blade, unadorned. Ester had managed to recover it after that incident with the ice gorilla. Although it was a little different... the ice had removed much of the rust.

The weight was familiar, yet strange at the same time.

He turned the weapon between his fingers, testing its balance. The sound cut through the air, clean and precise. "It still works," he muttered to himself.

The first hour passed in silence, only the sound of footsteps and the moving of metal. Damon trained with the precision of someone seeking not victory, but control. Every strike, every movement, was a reminder of his body getting back into rhythm. The spear spun, descended, rose, piercing the air with the gentle whistle of the wind. Sweat began to trickle down the back of his neck, the cold mixing with the heat of exertion.

But his mind wasn't content with simply repeating.

Deep inside, something pulsed—a remnant of power, something he'd felt on Paraphal, when the ice had responded to his desperation.

Elizabeth had said the gift lying dormant within him was "frozen mana," a rare, ancient affinity, closer to nature than to ordinary magic. Only he'd never learned to use it.

Now, standing in the middle of the arena, he decided it was time to try.

Damon drove the spearhead into the ground and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes.

The first lesson any spellcaster learned—mana follows intention.

His intention, however, had always been to survive, not to control.

He tried to feel.

The cold was everywhere—in the air, in the stone, in the frost that covered the ground. He tried to pull it, to invite it in. The first response was only the wind, swirling around, indifferent.

Then came the shiver—a chill running up his spine, the air growing dense, heavy, as if the world were holding its breath.

The spearhead trembled.

A thread of pale blue vapor rose from the metal, thin, hesitant. Damon focused, his jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on the blade. Ice began to form around the hilt, growing like crystal webs.

And then... it cracked.

The spear vibrated violently, and the ice shattered with a crack, scattering shards and vapor.

Damon exhaled in frustration.

"Where's the mistake?" he asked himself.

The mana was there, he could feel it—cold, alive, but rebellious. It didn't respond to command, only to emotion.

And emotion was what he feared using most.

He closed his eyes again, taking a deep breath. He tried to remember what he had felt in Paraphal, the moment the ice had first appeared—the fear, the anger, the helplessness. Garrick's frozen body, Ester's gaze amidst the chaos. And then something clicked.

The temperature dropped sharply.

The ground beneath his feet began to crackle, a thin layer of ice spreading in circles. Damon opened his eyes—the air around him vibrated with a blue mist, and his breath came out in thick clouds.

The spear in his hand was now covered in crystals, pulsing with living energy. The ice seemed to breathe with him, adapting to his movements, not opposing him, but guiding him.

For an instant, everything made sense.

He swung the weapon, and the energy followed him—each strike left a trail of frost in the air, like lines drawn by his own will. The cold was no longer an enemy; it was an extension of him.

The spear moved like a liquid shadow, cutting through the wind, scattering sparks of ice that fell like tiny stars.

The sound echoed through the arena.

A few guards stopped to watch. The man who had returned from Paraphal now seemed different—his expression focused, his body firm, the air around him vibrating with contained power. Snow began to fall lightly, only on the circle where he trained. It was as if winter had answered the call.

But the power took its toll.

At a certain point, the cold became too much.

The energy began to spiral out of control—like a wounded, furious animal. Ice crept up the shaft of the spear, oozing like crystalline serpents, trying to reach his skin. Damon recoiled, his teeth clenched, a hoarse growl escaping his lips. The veins in his arm began to glow blue—a deep, pulsing blue that seemed to come from his heart itself.

The next sound was a dry crack.

The wood of the spear twisted, the blade trembling as if resisting its very existence.

And then, in a single instant, everything exploded.

A white flash swept across the arena, followed by a wave of icy air so dense the ground screamed in protest. Damon was thrown backward, his body slamming against the frozen stone. The impact knocked the air from his lungs.

The silence that followed was deathly.

The cold permeated everything—the ground, the air, the blood.

He breathed heavily, each exhalation turning into a white cloud. The world around him was covered in a thin, perfect layer of frost, like glass.

"What the—" he began, but his voice was cut off.

The air vibrated.

And a metallic voice, cold and ancient, echoed within his mind:

[You have awakened the slumbering form of "Winterstar."]

[Rank: Legendary.]

Time seemed to stand still.

The spear before him—or what was left of it—began to reform.

The shards of ice hung in the air, slowly swirling around the broken hilt, drawn by an invisible core. Each shard reflected the light like tiny blue suns, until they fused together, melting and solidifying simultaneously.

A deep sound—almost a whisper—echoed from the newly formed blade.

And then the voice returned, grave, relentless:

[Demonic Spear of the Winter Star]

Class: Legendary

Origin: Forged by a Snow Demon in the depths of the Frozen Abyss, created to rend flesh and soul with the touch of eternal winter.

Background: For centuries, its demonic essence lay dormant, drained of power and reduced to a common weapon. However, the blood of the new wielder—marked by the primordial cold—rekindled its lost glory.

Awakened Effect: Channels the wielder's icy mana, amplifying their power and granting mastery over absolute cold. Warning: The spear recognizes only one master. Betrayal results in the wielder's complete freezing.

The description faded, leaving only the faint sound of the wind.

Damon stared at the weapon before him, now completely restored.

The blade was a translucent silver, with blue veins that pulsed softly like breath. The hilt, black and cold to the touch, exhaled icy vapor. As he reached out, the spear vibrated—and snowflakes began to swirl around it, forming a small whirlwind.

He held it.

The cold slashed through him like a blade, but this time, there was no pain.

The sensation was… alive. The ice recognized his touch, molded itself to his will. It was as if the weapon breathed with him—a natural extension, meant to be there from the beginning.

The wind died, and Damon stood there, surrounded by a circle of frost and silence.

His eyes reflected the blue light of the blade, intense, relentless.

The cold was no longer a burden.

"My reward was this, then… Legendary Rank… How fun."

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