Crossworld Swordplay

One Day Later

The bell for dusk tolled low through the academy halls.

Damon stepped out of the infirmary alone, slinging a frilled jacket—one Lina had brought in a hurry—over his shoulder. His ribs still ached with every step, but his body moved with returning strength. The dizziness was gone. The tightness in his throat had faded to a dull echo. A day of sleep, silence, and bitter medicine had brought him back from the edge.

He walked the halls with the same cold detachment as before—though now, heads turned for different reasons. Whispers trailed behind him. Looks of pity. A few smirks. One second-year even muttered something he didn't catch—but the tone said enough.

He didn't stop. His muscles tensed.

Thorne.

He climbed the stairs back to the first-year dormitories, passed the green banners fluttering in the corridor, and turned down the hall to his room.

The door was slightly ajar.

He pushed it open fully, eyes narrowing.

The room was trashed.

Drawers overturned. His wardrobe ransacked. Books torn from the shelves—some ripped, some missing entirely. His mattress flipped. The basin shattered across the floor. Even the mirror above the desk was cracked, a long jagged fracture running through his reflection.

Someone had pissed on his broken dueling sword.

And carved into the wood of the wall above his bed—crude, jagged, and fresh—was a single phrase:

"Filth knows its place."

Damon stood in silence, staring.

His eyes slowly dragged over the damage. The basin. The bed. The bloodstain where someone had slit open a live chicken's chest and left its straw-colored guts spilling out.

And then—the wrapping of his Sigil Stone.

His breath left him like steam in winter.

Not fury.

Not sorrow.

Just something sharp and cold, crawling quietly through his chest.

"So this is how you repay defeat," he murmured to no one.

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him without a sound.

He didn't touch the sash. He didn't shout. He simply crossed the floor, picked up a shard of the broken mirror from the desk, and turned it toward himself.

His face was filled with cold fury.

And in that moment, he had never felt such an urge to end someone's life.

Hahaha. 

Laughter bled into the room.

"Make sure you get his reaction," a boy's voice echoed.

The door slammed open with a sharp crack.

Damon turned—and the source of his fury stood framed in the doorway.

Thorne Veras.

A vintage camera clicked in his hands, the flash burning white.

"Oh no," Thorne said, feigning concern, "looks like you've got a bit of a mess to clean up." 

Another flash. Another picture.

"We—"

He didn't finish.

Damon had already moved.

A shard of broken mirror whistled through the air, spinning end over end toward Thorne's face.

Clang!

Thorne deflected it with a quick flick of his training sword, wood taking the object's momentum as the glass shattered against the blade.

He lowered the weapon slowly, eyes narrowing.

Damon stepped forward, barefoot on the broken glass. 

"Did you steal my stone?"

Thorne smiled.

"Stone?" he mocked, stepping further into the room. "Hmm… maybe~"

His eyes glinted with amusement.

"Why're you asking?" Thorne's smirk twisted into a grin. "Was it some precious heirloom? Or did your little servant girl give it to you as a love token?"

Damon's eyes locked with his.

A slow chuckle escaped his lips.

"Yes," he said smoothly. "Your mother gifted it to me—for being such a good partner in bed."

Thorne's expression faltered.

Damon tilted his head, voice bright and cruel now.

"She told me not to show it to you… said you'd get jealous. Something about how your father hasn't satisfied her in years."

He watched with satisfaction as Thorne's grin melted into something darker.

"Valtair," Thorne growled.

"Veras," Damon said smoothly, not missing a beat.

"Why don't you give back what you stole?"

Thorne laughed. "Make me," he murmured, pressing his forehead against Damon's.

The two of them stood locked in place, eyes filled with nothing but pure hatred.

Damon's pupils didn't dilate—they contracted, then stretched unnaturally, widening sideways like those of a wild horse.

Thorne flinched, instinct pulling him back.

"The courtyard. Right now," Damon said coldly.

"Or… don't tell me you're scared~"

He stepped forward. Thorne stepped back. Damon matched every retreat with a stride, closing the distance again—like a predator scenting blood.

He trembled—and not just him. Even the goons he brought with him began to shake.

"Valtair," a slightly older voice called out.

A second-year boy stepped into view and tossed something through the air.

"Catch," he said.

Damon's hand closed around it instinctively. A blackened emerald, streaked with crimson veins, landed in his palm—still faintly warm.

"Sorry for the trouble," the second-year boy said, stepping forward. His tone was quiet, even polite—but carried a firmness that made the other onlookers shift back instinctively.

He looked nothing like Thorne, save for the silver tint in their eyes. 

"My brother has always been… childish," he said simply. "I'll make sure you're compensated for the mess. No one should have touched your things."

Damon looked at the older Veras for a long moment.

Then laughed.

"Compensation?" he said, his lips curling. "You think a little gold makes this right?"

He tossed the Sigil Stone lightly in his hand.

"Thanks for returning my property," he said. "But this won't be settled with apologies."

His eyes sharpened, cold and bright. "I want a duel."

Thorne took a breath, clearly about to protest—but his brother raised a hand.

"I thought you might," the second-year replied.

Then his pupils shifted.

From round to vertical slits.

Like a predator awakened.

The moment the change took hold, a hush fell across the room. Even Thorne backed a step, eyes darting between Damon and his brother—his confusion clear.

"W-What...?" Thorne started.

But his brother didn't turn to him.

He only kept his eyes on Damon.

"Then duel me instead."