CHAPTER 124: LITTLE WHITE

To go or not to go?

Damien stood still, eyes narrowed in deep contemplation. The invitation to explore the Strength Dimension echoed in his mind like a tempting call from the unknown. Yet, the very uniqueness of his current situation made him wary. He had always preferred to act on his own terms, not get swept into the flow of something he didn’t control.

The excitement bubbling inside him—the curiosity, the thrill—was undeniable. But instinct whispered caution.

So, with a calm breath, he pushed down the urge and made his decision.

Raising his voice, he called out, "Can I push the exploring of the dimension to a later date?"

A moment passed in silence. Then, the mysterious voice answered—not with the previous cold indifference, but now with a gentle softness, as if acknowledging his newfound status with quiet reverence.

"As you wish, respected disciple. Now that you do not wish to visit the Strength Dimension, we shall proceed with selecting your first skill. However, before that... you must first pay respect to your teacher."

Damien’s eyes widened in surprise.

Without warning, the atmosphere shifted. A faint glow shimmered in the distance, like moonlight weaving through morning mist. The scattered light converged, slow and graceful, until it took shape.

A woman now stood at the center of the room.

She was dressed in a flowing white gown that trailed along the luminous floor, every thread shimmering with a silken sheen. It clung to her slender form like divine mist, fluttering with each invisible breeze. The very air around her seemed to soften, as if it too bowed in reverence to her presence.

Damien’s breath caught in his throat.

As someone who had spent countless hours behind a screen in his past life—and as a prince now surrounded by elegance and courtly grace—he’d encountered beauty in many forms.

But none could compare to her.

Her eyes, the color of spring-fed lakes, held an ethereal clarity that made it hard to look away. They scanned him slowly, curiously, as though trying to decipher something hidden beneath the surface of his soul.

Damien shifted awkwardly. The silence stretched just a bit too long.

To break the moment, he raised his hand in a casual wave.

That seemed to snap her out of whatever trance she was in. She blinked, as if awakening from a pleasant dream, and finally spoke. When she smiled, two delicate dimples formed at the corners of her lips—softening her divine aura just enough to make her feel... human.

Damien’s daze lasted only a fleeting moment. In the next breath, his expression returned to calm, his gaze steady once more. No matter how enchanting her appearance was—regal like a moon goddess descending from the heavens—it was, after all, just beauty. And beauty alone had never been enough to sway him.

He straightened his posture and asked his question in a plain, level tone. Yet beneath the surface of his calm voice, there was a barely concealed sharpness, like a blade sheathed but ready.

The woman—no, the spirit—tilted her head slightly, her serene smile deepening. A subtle glow danced across her face, making her already ethereal beauty seem even more surreal. The moment lingered as she stared at Damien, her gaze sharp, intelligent, and assessing.

Then her cherry-pink lips parted.

What followed was a voice colder than the silence of ancient glaciers. The sudden chill of it made Damien’s spine stiffen instinctively.

"Oh, how rude of me to not introduce myself. I am the spiritual spirit of this inheritance space. Master used to call me Little White. You can call me whatever you want."

"Little White..." Damien echoed the name under his breath, his lips moving slowly as if tasting the familiarity. And then—there it was. A strange, creeping feeling curled around his bones, a sense of déjà vu that clawed its way up from some forgotten depth of memory. It made his heartbeat falter for just a moment.

But then he shook his head with force, banishing the thought with a grimace. No. This wasn’t the time to be distracted by strange feelings or lingering illusions. He had just inherited something immense, something sacred. Now was not the moment to drift.

He exhaled slowly. The situation had changed—he had changed. Whether he wanted it or not, he was now the direct disciple of the Divine Strength Saint. And standing before him was the spirit that had once served that great being.

He glanced up at her, more composed now.

This was the perfect chance.

A chance to learn.

A chance to ask.

A chance to prepare.

His mind sharpened as he locked eyes with Little White, who was now watching him with calm curiosity.

"Disciple, huh," he muttered under his breath. The words felt surreal, but oddly satisfying. He’d always forged his own path—but this... this was something new entirely.

And for once, he didn’t mind.

A crooked smirk curled at the corners of his mouth.

The conversation between them began to flow more naturally after that. Though Little White’s voice retained its icy edge, there was an unmistakable warmth buried underneath, one that revealed itself the more she spoke. It was the tone of someone who hadn’t spoken to another soul in ages.

Whenever Damien asked about the Strength Dimension or hinted at the outside world, her demeanor brightened with surprising enthusiasm. She would lean forward slightly, eyes lighting up like stars, her usually calm tone gaining momentum.

Damien listened carefully, not just to her words, but to the undertones—her pauses, her phrasing, the way she described the Divine Strength Saint. Through her, he started to piece together the faint outline of a godlike figure—an entity who had stood alone at the peak of power.

The more she talked, the more Damien realized that this inheritance was more than just a skill or a title.

It was a key to something far greater.

And he had just unlocked the first door.

Meanwhile, Arctic’s mind was in complete disarray.

He stood a few steps away, frowning deeply as he watched Damien muttering to himself, gesturing to empty air with a disturbingly focused expression.

From his point of view, Damien looked like a lunatic, lost in his own delusions.

A giant, invisible question mark might as well have hovered over Arctic’s head.

"...What the hell is happening?"

He scratched one of his curved horns, utterly perplexed. Then, all of a sudden, his eyes widened. As if lightning had struck his brain, realization dawned.

His pupils gleamed like twin lanterns in the dark.

"Wait... could this be the side effect of a forbidden skill?" Arctic muttered under his breath, still uncertain.

In the twisted archives of the Infernal Realm, there were forbidden techniques—dangerous arts that promised fleeting power in exchange for sanity, life force, or one’s soul. They were barely tolerated even in Hell, used only by desperate, low-level humans or fringe lunatics.

The Hell Descent Technique was one such example. It could temporarily amplify one’s strength—but at a steep cost.

To Arctic, the signs were aligning too well. Damien’s surge in power... his bizarre behavior... it all pointed to a single conclusion.

"He used some unstable forbidden technique... and now he’s paying the price."

He folded his arms, his vigilant eyes never leaving Damien. A strange pressure began to build in the air as Arctic’s stance shifted ever so subtly.

Watching Damien continue to "speak to himself," Arctic couldn’t take it anymore. His patience, never abundant to begin with, wore thin.

He took a step forward, and his tone, though polite on the surface, carried a subtle edge sharp enough to draw blood.

"Crown Prince Damien," he called out, "are you... okay?"

There was no warmth in his voice. No genuine concern.

Only cold calculation.

His stance screamed one thing: if Damien showed even the slightest crack in composure—if he seemed even remotely unstable—Arctic would strike. Without hesitation. Without mercy.

Because in this new, chaotic world... madness was more dangerous than any weapon.

Damien let out a soft sigh and paused mid-conversation, turning his head slightly to glance at Arctic.

His eyes narrowed subtly, one brow arching with a silent question.

Really?

His entire posture radiated restrained irritation—his arms loose but not relaxed, his gaze cool and faintly amused.

It was the look of a man wondering if the other person was a complete idiot.

Though Damien didn’t say a word, the message in his expression was loud and clear:

Can’t you see I’m busy with something important, you horned lunatic?

Arctic, of course, could see it. He wasn’t blind. But he chose to ignore all the strange details—the faint fluctuations in Amma around Damien, the mysterious stillness of the spiritual space—as if ignoring them made him right.

Instead, he doubled down on his suspicions, focusing only on the scene he could understand. In his mind, Damien was a ticking time bomb. If he didn’t press his concerns now, he might lose control of the situation.

Just as Arctic opened his mouth again, intent on pushing his warning further—

A voice interrupted.

It was calm.

Measured.

But carried with it a solemnity that cut through the air like a blade.

"Are you ready?"

The voice belonged to Little White.

Though she spoke from within Damien’s mindscape, her words resonated in his bones—as if echoing from some ancient truth hidden deep within the spiritual space.

Damien blinked.

The air around him subtly shifted, like a breeze stirring just before a thunderstorm. His gaze turned serious. The trace of a smile from earlier faded completely.

He could feel it.

Whatever was about to happen... wasn’t ordinary.