Strongest Incubus System

The clearing was prepared for combat.

It wasn’t a pretty or symbolic space—it was functional. Fallen logs served as cover, moving targets hung from ropes between the trees, and markings on the ground indicated varying distances. Everything there existed for a single purpose: to teach someone how to survive when nothing goes according to plan.

Damon stood in the center of the clearing, bow in hand, breathing controlled.

The arrows had no points. Instead, they ended in hardened leather capsules, wide enough not to pierce, but heavy enough to hurt. A lot.

He had already been hit three times.

Twice in the shoulder.

Once in the ribs.

”You’re dead,” Aria said calmly, as she nocked another arrow. ”Three times.”

”I noticed,” Damon growled, rolling back and standing behind a log. ”You don’t need to narrate.”

An arrow grazed the spot where his head had been a second before and struck the tree behind him with a dry thump.

”I do need to,” she replied. ”Because in the real field, you wouldn’t have time to complain.”

She moved.

Quickly. Silently. Shifting position while he was still trying to locate her.

Damon closed his eyes for a moment.

Stop searching with your eyes.

He took a deep breath.

The sounds of the forest returned—leaves, wind, almost imperceptible footsteps. He turned and fired.

The arrow hit.

The impact struck Aria’s forearm, eliciting a low grunt from her.

”Good,” she said, without any irony. ”But not good.”

She replied immediately.

Damon felt the blow to his abdomen before he even saw the arrow. The air escaped his lungs in a short, ugly sound, and he fell to his knees. ”Shit...” he muttered.

”If that were a real point, you’d be bleeding right now,” Aria said, already repositioning herself. ”Get up.”

He forced himself to his feet, the bow trembling slightly in his hands.

”You don’t give space,” he commented, panting.

”Combat doesn’t give space,” she replied. ”Do you think anyone will stop because you ’need a second’?”

She advanced.

Not running—hunting.

Damon fired two arrows in quick succession. The first missed. The second passed close enough to force Aria to change direction.

She smiled. ”You’re learning.”

She leaped over a log and fired almost simultaneously.

The two arrows collided in mid-air.

Damon’s eyes widened.

”That was...” he began.

”Luck,” Aria finished. ”Don’t rely on it.”

She spun her body and fired from an impossible angle.

The impact struck Damon in the right shoulder, sending him spinning with the blow.

”Argh!”

”In real combat, you wouldn’t survive in one piece,” she said coldly. ”The bow isn’t just about distance. It’s about constant pressure.”

She moved closer.

Much closer than he expected.

”What do you do now?” she asked.

Damon instinctively raised his bow, trying to create space.

Mistake.

Aria stepped into the line of fire and slammed his bow to the side, pinning their bodies together for a second. Then, she pressed an arrow against his sternum.

”Dead,” she said softly.

Damon breathed heavily.

”You just used the bow... like a short spear.”

”Yes,” she replied, stepping back. ”Because combat doesn’t respect categories.”

She took two steps back and lowered her bow.

”Again.”

”Do you want to kill me?” he asked, half seriously.

”No,” she said. ”I want to make sure no one else can.”

They resumed their positions.

Damon adjusted his feet, remembering the instructions. Not stiffness. Attention. Movement.

Aria shot first.

He rolled to the side, feeling the wind of the arrow pass too close. He responded with a quick shot, not to hit—to force movement.

It worked.

She moved.

He moved with her.

Another of his arrows hit the ground near her feet, kicking up leaves and dirt.

”Pressure,” Aria murmured, satisfied.

She fired twice in quick succession.

One hit the trunk behind him.

The other struck his thigh.

Damon fell with a growl, but fired anyway, from below.

The arrow struck Aria in the flank.

She paused.

For a split second.

Enough time to recognize it.

”That,” she said. ”Was real combat.”

She lowered the bow completely.

Damon lay there for a moment, breathing heavily, then began to laugh.

”It hurts,” he commented.

”It’ll hurt more when I put real tips on it,” she replied.

He sat up, resting the bow on the ground.

”I still hate this weapon.”

Aria approached and extended her hand to help him up.

”You don’t have to love it,” she said. ”You just have to respect it.”

He accepted the help.

”You fight differently with it,” he commented.

”Everyone fights,” Aria replied. ”The bow doesn’t give you mastery. It demands awareness.”

She looked at him intently. ”And you’re starting to have that.”

Aria still held her hand outstretched when the hurried sound of footsteps broke the rhythm of the clearing.

They weren’t stealthy steps.

Nor careful ones.

They were decidedly out of place in that training.

”Mr. Damon!” called a female voice, slightly breathless.

Damon and Aria turned almost simultaneously.

The maid stopped at the edge of the clearing, holding her skirt in one hand and an envelope in the other. She was young, clearly uncomfortable intruding on something that seemed... too intense to be interrupted.

”Excuse me for interrupting,” she said, tilting her head slightly. ”But a letter arrived. For you, sir.”

Damon frowned.

”Now?”

”They said it was... important.”

She carefully extended the envelope, as if it were something she could bite.

Aria was the first to notice.

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

”This stamp...” she murmured, taking a step closer. ”This is wax from the Dukedom of Arven.”

Damon let out a slow sigh.

Not of surprise.

Of anticipated weariness.

”Of course it is.”

He wiped his dirt-stained hand on the side of his trousers before picking up the envelope. The seal was intact: the Arven coat of arms pressed deep into the dark red wax. Ancient. Authoritative. All too familiar.

”You can go,” he said to the maid, without curtness.

She nodded quickly and almost ran out, visibly relieved.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

The wind swept through the clearing, gently swaying the hanging targets, making the arrows clatter against each other with a dry sound.

”You don’t seem surprised,” Aria commented.

”Because I’m not,” Damon replied, twirling the envelope between his fingers. ”I just expected it to take a little longer.”

He broke the seal with his thumb.

The crack of the wax breaking sounded too loud in the silence.

Damon opened the letter and began to read.

Aria didn’t approach.

She respected his space—but she was also attentive enough to notice when his body stiffened.

The first line made his jaw clench.

The second made him let out a short, humorless laugh.

”She started by cursing,” he said, without taking his eyes off the paper.

”Morgana?” Aria asked, though she already knew the answer.

”Who else?”

He read in a low voice at first, more to himself than to Aria.

”You’re a reckless idiot.” Damon sighed. ”Classic.”

He continued.

Morgana’s words seemed to leap off the page with the same intensity as when she spoke in person.

She accused him of leaving without warning.

Of abandoning the academy.

To have disappeared as if none of it had mattered.

”She’s offended,” Damon commented, in an almost neutral tone. ”And rightly so.”

Aria crossed her arms.

”She’s always been straightforward.”

”Not straightforward.” He shook his head. ”Brutally honest.”

He continued reading, his expression gradually darkening.

”This is where it gets interesting...” he murmured.

He took a deep breath before continuing, now reading aloud, almost without realizing he was doing so.

”My father saw the complete report. Saw the details. Thirty knights. One dead. No unnecessary mistakes.”

Aria felt a pang in her stomach.

”He’s obsessed,” Damon continued. ”Literally that word.”

He lowered the letter for a moment and rubbed his face with his free hand.

”The Duke of Arven wants her to come here personally.”

”To recruit you,” Aria finished.

”To measure me,” Damon corrected. ”People like him don’t recruit without first trying to understand if they can control them.”

He returned to the letter. ”I managed to buy some time. I said I needed to assess the terrain, the alliances, Elizabeth Wykes’ influence.”

Aria let out a short laugh. ”Clever.”

”Morgana always was,” Damon replied. ”She never made a move without knowing the board.”

He read the last part, his eyes lingering a little longer on the final words.

”Think of a plan. Because he won’t give up.”

Silence.

Damon carefully folded the letter and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket, as if filing away a known threat.

Aria watched him for a few seconds before speaking.

”You knew this was going to happen from the moment you stepped out of Arven.”

”I expected it,” he replied. ”Knowing is different.” She approached, stopping in front of him.

”What are you going to do?”

Damon looked around the clearing.

At the tree trunks used as cover.

At the hanging targets.

At the bow still firm in his hands, now full of marks from recent use.

”I don’t know yet,” he admitted. ”But I know what I’m not going to do.”

”Which would be?”

”Return as an obedient knight,” he replied without hesitation. ”Not as a mistake to be corrected.”

Aria nodded slowly.

”Morgana wouldn’t write if she thought you were in immediate danger.”

”No,” Damon agreed. ”She would write if she thought you would be.”

He took a deep breath.

”That means the game has begun.”

”It means you’re no longer invisible,” Aria said.

”I never was,” he replied. ”Just out of reach.”

She watched him intently. ”Do you trust her?”

Damon thought for a moment.

”I trust she won’t lie to me,” he replied. ”What she wants... that’s another story.”

Aria tilted her head slightly.

”She cared about you.”

”She still cares,” he corrected. ”In her own way.”

He ran his hand along the wood of the bow, distractedly.

”Elizabeth needs to know this.”

”She probably already suspects,” Aria replied. ”Nothing happens in this world without her feeling the change in the wind.”

Damon let out a heavy sigh. ”Then we’ll have to train faster.”

Aria raised an eyebrow. ”Faster?”

”Real combat with a bow,” he said, looking up at her. ”Armed diplomacy demands options.”

A short smile appeared at the corner of her mouth.

”Great,” Aria said. ”Because I’m not done taking you down today.”

He returned the smile, tense but determined.

”Then make it count.”

She took two steps back and nocked another arrow.

”Positions,” she ordered.

Damon stepped back, returning to the center of the clearing.

The training resumed.

But now, each shot carried a new weight.

It wasn’t just about survival.

It was preparation for something that came from Arven — with a wax seal, an ancient name... and dangerous intentions.