Strongest Incubus System

Damon crossed the threshold of the side passage with the same ease with which he had traversed dozens of groups in the main hall, but the difference was immediate as the muffled sound of the party began to dissolve behind him, replaced by a denser, more controlled silence, typical of the inner areas of a mansion where only those with a real purpose usually circulated. The change of atmosphere was almost palpable, as if he had crossed an invisible border between the carefully orchestrated social chaos and the structural heart of the property, where every detail existed not to impress, but to function. He didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate, just continued walking down the narrow corridor with firm, silent steps, allowing his senses to adjust to the new reality around him, while his mind quickly reorganized priorities, discarding the noise of the party and focusing exclusively on the main objective.

The walls were simpler there, less decorated, with more restrained and functional lighting, coming from lanterns fixed at regular intervals, creating soft shadows that stretched across the dark wood floor. The air was also different, less perfumed, more neutral, carrying only the faint scent of wax and polished wood, which made it easier to perceive any unusual changes in the environment. Damon slightly slowed his pace, not out of excessive caution, but out of precision, adjusting his steps to coincide with the least possible noise, exploring the structure of the floor with almost instinctive sensitivity, avoiding points that might creak or betray his presence. He was no longer among distracted nobles, but in a space where any movement out of the ordinary could be noticed.

As he advanced, his eyes scanned every detail of the corridor, not only looking for immediate threats, but patterns, alternative routes, possible entry and exit points that could be useful if the situation became complicated. He mentally counted the doors he passed, memorized the distance between intersections, assessed the width of the corridors and even the height of the windows, constructing an internal map of the mansion with the same naturalness with which he had read the hall previously. This type of preparation wasn’t optional; it was essential, because once inside, there was no guarantee of a clean exit if something went wrong.

After a few meters, the corridor forked, offering two distinct directions. Damon didn’t choose immediately. He stopped for a brief moment, no more than two seconds, tilting his head slightly as if listening to something distant, allowing his senses to pick up any sign of activity in either direction. To the left, absolute silence. To the right, a very faint sound, almost imperceptible, something like fabric moving or distant footsteps muffled by carpets. He chose the right, not because it was safer, but because it was more promising. Where there was movement, there were answers.

He continued forward, now even more alert, staying close to the wall whenever possible, using the shadows created by the uneven lighting as natural cover. The sound he had perceived became slightly clearer as he approached, confirming the presence of at least one person further ahead, although still outside his field of vision. Damon slowed even further, controlling his breathing, adjusting his body weight with each step, until he finally reached an intersection where the corridor opened into a slightly wider area.

He didn’t enter directly. Instead, he approached the wall and leaned in just enough to observe without fully exposing himself. On the other side, a servant arranged trays on a side table, apparently preparing some kind of service to be taken to the main hall. Nothing out of the ordinary at first glance, but Damon didn’t ignore the detail. Servants were often the best sources of information, especially in environments where hierarchy demanded they see everything but never be noticed. Still, he didn’t interact. Not yet. Information without immediate need was an unnecessary risk.

He waited. He observed. He calculated the exact moment the servant would move away. When that happened, Damon crossed the space with controlled speed, without haste but without hesitation, crossing the open area and entering the next corridor before any new movement could emerge. The path continued to deepen into the mansion’s structure, and with it, the feeling of isolation increased, as if one were moving further and further away from the outside world and closer to something carefully hidden.

That’s where the real investigation began.

Damon knew he couldn’t just wander around indefinitely hoping to find something obvious. The Duke’s manipulation wasn’t something that would be left in plain sight, especially by someone as meticulous as Morgana’s stepmother. This meant he needed to think like her. If she were controlling someone in that way, where would she keep the spell’s focus? Where would she hide the anchor point? Would it be an object? An isolated space? An ongoing ritual? Every possibility raced through his mind as he progressed, eliminating improbable hypotheses and prioritizing those that required constant proximity to the target.

Active control required maintenance.

And maintenance required access.

This significantly reduced the options.

The location would have to be relatively close to the Duke’s quarters or areas the stepmother could access frequently without raising suspicion. This meant Damon needed to get close to the more private wings of the mansion, where access was naturally more restricted. And that, in itself, increased the risk exponentially.

He turned down another corridor, this time wider and better decorated, with long carpets covering the floor and elaborate paintings on the walls. The change of scenery was clear. He was entering a more important area of ​​the mansion. This also meant a greater likelihood of surveillance. Damon immediately adjusted his posture, completely abandoning any trace of overt stealth and assuming a more neutral presence, like someone who simply belonged in that space. Sometimes, the best disguise wasn’t hiding, but acting as if there was no reason to hide.

Even so, his attention remained absolute. He listened to every sound, every variation in the environment, ready to react to any unexpected change. It was then that he noticed something. A small detail, but out of the ordinary. A slightly ajar door in a corridor where all the others were closed.

He didn’t go directly to it. Instead, he continued walking, passing the door as if he hadn’t noticed anything, keeping his gaze ahead, his pace steady. Only when he was a few meters ahead did he stop, as if he had remembered something, and then turned back, now with a plausible justification for his movement.

As he approached the door, he tilted his body slightly, allowing his field of vision to capture the interior without completely exposing himself. What he saw wasn’t immediately revealing, but it was definitely not ordinary.

The room was dark, except for a faint light source in the back, something like lit candles on a table. There were symbols drawn on the floor. Not decorative. Functional. Precise.

Ritualistic.

Damon didn’t enter. Not yet. He only observed for a few seconds, absorbing every visible detail, analyzing the arrangement of the elements, trying to identify the type of magic involved. It wasn’t simple. It wasn’t improvised. It was continuous work.

Which confirmed everything.

The duke wasn’t just being influenced.

He was being kept under active control.

And that place...

It was one of the anchors.

Damon slowly stepped away from the door, resuming his neutral posture as his mind leaped several steps ahead, connecting everything he had seen up to that point. This changed the plan. It was no longer just about exposing. It was about interrupting. And interruption, in this kind of magic, was rarely silent.

He took a deep breath, adjusting his focus.

Now, he was no longer just observing.

He was inside.

And from there...

Every movement needed to be perfect.

Damon waited a few more seconds after stepping away from the door, just long enough to ensure that no unexpected sounds would arise in the corridor or that no servants would cross that specific stretch at that moment, and then returned with the same silent precision, this time allowing himself to cross the threshold of the room without hesitation. The difference in atmosphere was immediate, almost oppressive, as if the air inside carried an invisible, dense weight, impregnated with something that did not belong to the natural flow of the mansion. The candlelight flickered softly, casting irregular shadows on the walls and on the symbols drawn on the floor, which, seen more closely, revealed even more complex features than they had appeared from a distance—lines interwoven with obsessive precision, forming patterns that clearly had no aesthetic function, but rather a structural one within some kind of ongoing arcane practice.

He didn’t waste time analyzing it in depth at that moment. Not yet. There would be time to understand the mechanism, but first he needed to gather concrete evidence, something that could be used not only to confirm his suspicions, but to support any future action on a solid basis. His eyes then moved to the table where the candles were arranged, partially illuminating a series of papers organized in seemingly chaotic piles, but which, upon closer inspection, revealed a type of functional organization, grouped by theme or importance, not by aesthetics. Damon approached with light steps, always keeping part of his attention focused on the door, ensuring he wouldn’t be surprised while examining the material.

He started at the top, sliding his fingers along the edges of the documents before pulling the first one closer to the light, his eyes moving quickly across the lines with the efficiency of someone accustomed to filtering relevant information amidst an excess of data. The content was, at first glance, administrative. Transaction records, contracts, acquisition lists. Nothing unusual for a noble house... until he began to actually read.

The first discrepancy came in the form of names. These weren’t the names of known merchants.

They were... codes.

Or deliberate substitutions.

He turned the page, then another, and another, until he found something that left no room for interpretation. A list. Not of common goods, but of people. Ages. Origin. Physical condition. Assigned values. Damon remained completely still for a moment as he absorbed it, the silence of the room now even heavier, as if the walls themselves were aware of what was being revealed there.

”Slave purchases,” he thought, without any apparent emotion on his face, but with an even more pronounced coldness in his eyes.

That, in itself, would be enough to compromise any noble house if it came to light, but it didn’t stop there. He continued leafing through, advancing through the documents with more speed now, knowing that what he was seeing was only a part of something bigger. And then came the records of weaponry. Not common weapons for property defense or personal guard. These were excessive quantities. Specific types. Reinforced blades, long-range crossbows, supplies that indicated preparation for something far beyond domestic protection.

He put that document aside and pulled out another.

Potions.

Detailed lists of alchemical compounds, some recognizable, others... less so. Substances with neurological effects. Mixtures that altered perception, muscle control, state of consciousness. These weren’t items acquired by chance. There was clear intent there. Direction. A pattern began to form, piece by piece, revealing something that went far beyond isolated manipulation.

That was structure.

Planning.

Something systematic.

Damon continued, his expression remaining unchanged as his mind precisely organized everything, connecting the dots slowly but flawlessly. Slaves. Weapons. Potions. Control. Everything converged in a single direction. Domination. Expansion. Perhaps even something bigger than the mansion itself.

And then he found it.

It wasn’t at the top.

Not even in the middle.

It was partially hidden under other documents, as if someone had deliberately tried to keep it out of casual sight, but not completely concealed. Damon carefully pulled out the paper, his eyes already fixed on the contents even before fully positioning it under the candlelight.

It was a letter.

Different from the others.

Less formal.

More... direct.

The handwriting was precise, but not ornamental. Functional. And the content... eliminated any remaining doubt.

He read silently, each word absorbed with absolute attention.

Clear references to a method.

Not just control...

But continuous mental submission.

The text described something like a ”sustained bond,” a technique that required constant maintenance through a specific focus, possibly anchored in an object or ritual, exactly as he had suspected. There was mention of initial resistance from the target, followed by progressive adaptation, until the original will was completely suppressed, replaced by conditioned responses that could be triggered as needed. But what really caught his attention...

Was the last part.

An observation.

Almost a warning.

Something about instability.

About the need for constant monitoring.

And, most importantly...

About the risk of collapse.

Damon remained silent for a few seconds after finishing reading, his eyes still fixed on the letter while his mind worked at full speed, reorganizing everything in light of this new information. This wasn’t just a plan. It was a system in operation. And like any system... it had flaws.

He folded the paper carefully, not exactly as it had been before, but close enough not to raise immediate suspicion, and placed it back under the other documents, keeping the overall appearance of the table intact. He didn’t need to take anything with him. The information was already where it needed to be. In his mind.

Now he knew.

He knew what was being done.

He knew how it was being kept.

And, most importantly...

He knew that it could be broken.

Damon took a step back, his eyes scanning the room one last time, now no longer as a curious observer, but as someone who had found exactly what he was looking for. The symbols on the floor were no longer just strange. They were part of something bigger. A mechanism. An anchor.

And anchors...

Can be destroyed.

He turned toward the door, his expression returning to absolute neutrality as he regained full control of his presence, ready to leave with the same precision with which he had entered, knowing that the next phase of the plan would not be about doubt, nor about observation.

It would be about action.