Strongest Incubus System

Damon ran his hand over his face to shake off the last vestiges of sleep, his skin feeling cool beneath his fingers. The night in the stable hadn’t been exactly uncomfortable—he’d slept in far worse places—but the early morning chill weighed heavily on his bones.

The black stallion still watched him, as if expecting some kind of revenge or prank. Damon merely snorted, pulled up the collar of his cloak, and opened the small side door of the stable.

The morning air hit him like a cold slap. Outside, Yindhar was already awake and alive. Merchants were dismantling the tarps of makeshift stalls, delivery men pushed carts laden with fresh bread and barrels of ale, and steam from the street kitchens rose in thin columns, carrying the scents of hot broth, smoked meat, and freshly baked bread.

Damon took a deep breath. This was unlike any city he’d visited in months. Even in winter, Yindhar was alive with movement, color... and an almost palpable energy.

He adjusted the bag containing the ”trophy” on his shoulder, making sure the leather was securely fastened. His head was still frozen enough to not smell—and he preferred it to stay that way until he found the bounty collection point.

As he crossed the courtyard, he saw Garrick and Caelan on the other side, talking to a man in simple armor, a scroll in his hands. They seemed to be discussing travel matters, perhaps arranging an escort to Ester’s final destination.

Garrick noticed Damon and raised his hand in a brief greeting, with that tired half-smile. Damon waved back and continued walking. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation—at least not until he’d settled the matter of the bounty.

The narrow streets of Yindhar opened up before him as he walked. The sound of horseshoes mingled with the clanging of hammers in the forges and the cries of fish and spice vendors. At every turn, he felt the weight of the sack swing against his hip.

He passed a group of city guards, who looked at him curiously. Perhaps because of the leather sack, perhaps because of his posture, too relaxed for someone carrying something suspicious. But no one stopped him.

Finally, he found the building he was looking for: a stone building with a coat of arms painted above the door—a fist holding a scale. The Bounty and Hunt Registry Office.

He entered, feeling the warmer, drier air of the interior. There were shelves of parchments and metal plaques engraved with names and values. A man behind a high counter looked up from the book he was writing. He had a short beard, broad shoulders, and a scar running from the corner of his mouth to his chin.

”Early business?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Damon nodded, setting the bag down on the counter with a heavy thud. The man raised an eyebrow.

”Is that what I think it is?”

Damon untied the straps and opened the leather, revealing the frozen head of the Hounds’ leader. The glassy eyes and the ice that still covered part of his beard formed such a grotesque image that the man behind the counter let out a low whistle.

”Well... looks like someone had a good night.”

The clerk pulled out a pair of leather gloves and examined the ”trophy” closely. He quickly confirmed its identity, comparing it to a painted portrait attached to a clipboard.

”It’s him. Five hundred silver pieces.”

As the man disappeared into the back to retrieve payment, Damon leaned his elbow on the counter, staring at the plaques on the wall. Many names scratched out... but others still visible. Smiling faces, others cold and menacing. Part of him wondered how many of them he could face... and how many would resemble Esther in the way they killed.

The man returned, handing him a heavy pouch of coins. The clink was satisfying, almost musical. Damon hefted it in his hand, feeling it had been worth the discomfort of the stable.

”Signature here.” The clerk pushed a parchment over.

Damon signed with quick letters and left, his cloak flapping behind him.

Damon left the bounty station with the pouch of coins tucked tightly around his waist. The city was busier now, the sun still weak, but already bright enough to draw metallic glints from the weapons displayed in the forge doors. He followed the sharper sound of constant hammering, echoing down a side street where the smell of hot iron and burning coal was almost suffocating.

The smithy he found wasn’t the most elegant—in fact, it looked decades old. The walls were blackened with soot, and heat escaped through the open door, forming warm waves that contrasted with the cold morning air.

Inside, a man with arms like tree trunks hammered a blade on an anvil. His face was covered in sweat, despite the winter, and his short beard bore traces of ash and charcoal.

”Can I help you?” he said, his voice steady and steady.

”I need a spear,” Damon replied, stepping inside and letting his gaze wander over the weapons propped up on the shelves and hanging on the walls.

The blacksmith dropped the hammer, dipped the glowing blade into the water with a hiss, and pointed with his chin to a corner where a set of new spears stood, made of pale wood, their tips polished and shiny.

Damon ran his fingers over one, then another. They were good, balanced... but something about them seemed too ”clean.” Too new. That wasn’t what he wanted.

It was then, on a stand further away, that he saw something different. An older spear, its shaft darkened with age and the marks of years of use, but the blade... oh, the blade was razor-sharp, reflecting the light with a cold sheen.

Damon picked it up in one hand—and immediately felt the weight. It wasn’t excessive, but it was dense. A weapon that required strength and endurance, not just technique.

”This one...” he twirled the spear, examining the tip and the joint with the wood. ”...how long has it been here?”

The blacksmith looked at it, wiped the sweat with his forearm, and approached.

”This one? An old man left it here a few months ago. He traded it for a new one.”

”Why?” Damon raised an eyebrow.

”Said he was getting too weak for it.” The blacksmith gave a half-smile. ”Not everyone can handle this spear. It’s good, strong... but heavy. Most who pick it up can’t use it properly, or complain after an hour of training.”

Damon tested the weight once more, swinging it as if it were an extension of his arm. The weight required strength, yes, but it also brought a sense of brutal impact. A well-aimed blow with it could fell not just a man... but an entire knight.

”And how much do you want for it?” he asked, keeping his gaze on the blade.

[You found a 3-star weapon]

’Hehe... a new companion...’