CHAPTER 131: CHARGING

He would have all the answers eventually. But for now, it was time to focus on what truly mattered.

With that thought anchoring his mind, Damien turned his attention back to Little White.

She stood quietly before him, her crane-like neck held high, an air of calm nobility surrounding her like a veil of mist. Compared to her, Damien was a full head taller. Naturally, when he glanced downward—just for a moment—his gaze landed somewhere it probably shouldn’t have.

White. Round. Plump.

A silent beat passed.

The realization hit like a slap. Damien coughed lightly and forced his eyes upward, redirecting his gaze to more appropriate territory.

Only to lock eyes with a pair of icy orbs glaring back at him, sharp enough to slice through steel. There was a flicker of killing intent hidden within those depths, brief but unmistakable—like a coiled serpent that had just been stirred from its slumber.

The corners of Damien’s lips twitched. So, she noticed. Well... that was unfortunate.

But not exactly his fault.

It wasn’t as if he’d stared on purpose. He’d only taken a tiny glance, barely a second’s worth, and purely accidental. His intentions were pure—like a monk in training, unswayed by worldly temptations. Mostly.

Besides, those twin "rabbits" of hers were far too large to be called subtle. Little White, it seemed, was only "little" in name.

And anyway, he was no longer some lust-driven teenager who’d get excited at a flash of exposed skin. He was above all that now. Mature. Composed.

Still, Little White’s eyes widened slightly, radiating a mix of fury and disbelief. Her expression screamed: How shameless can you be!

Damien, however, didn’t waver.

In fact, he felt the urge to roll his eyes. Seriously? How old are you? Can’t you take a harmless accident in stride?

He sighed internally. Act your age, woman.

Of course, he kept all these thoughts to himself. No need to fan the flames.

After all, her hand was still resting on his forehead. It wouldn’t take much of a shift for that delicate-looking palm to close around his neck like a vice.

The mental image almost made him laugh, and for a fleeting second, he had to bite his inner cheek to suppress the chuckle threatening to escape.

The situation was ridiculous, really.

Two powerhouses standing inches apart—one trying to explain a secret dimension, the other trying not to get throttled for an honest mistake involving a pair of very conspicuous assets.

All in a day’s work for Damien.

Little White turned her head away, no longer meeting his gaze, as if dismissing him entirely. But Damien could tell—it wasn’t out of embarrassment. She was focusing on something far more important.

A soft murmur escaped her lips, ancient and unintelligible. The words didn’t belong to any language Damien had ever heard, each syllable laced with strange reverberations that tickled the edge of his soul. It was as if the air itself bent in deference to her voice.

The magic circle floating above them began to pulse, shrinking gradually with every word she uttered. Its runes spun and folded into one another like a collapsing galaxy, their luminous glow dimming as the intricate design spiraled inward.

And then—nothing.

The moment the last syllable left her mouth, the magic circle vanished with a soundless flicker, leaving behind only an oppressive stillness.

Damien flinched as a sudden pang shot through his chest, brief but sharp, like a spiritual needle had pricked his heart. Before he could react, Little White’s hand left his forehead.

He was about to ask what she had done when her body shimmered.

Like mist caught in sunlight, she dissolved into countless fragments of white light, drifting upward and vanishing into the ether.

A cold, emotionless voice echoed in the empty space she left behind:

"Leave. I don’t want to see your face for now."

The voice struck him harder than it should have. Damien’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. He stood there, stunned, as if a sudden gust of wind had knocked the breath from his lungs.

This woman... or rather, this spirit...

He remained frozen for a long moment, his eyes lingering on the spot where she had stood. Then, slowly, he shook his head—and to his own surprise, realized there was a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"Tch," he clicked his tongue, annoyed by the expression he was making, and turned away.

He needed to find a way out of here.

He wasn’t the only one with that thought in mind.

High above, near the vaulted ceiling of the vast hall, a strange pink form hovered—shifting and expanding in odd ways. Arctic had transformed into what looked like an enormous, grotesque gas mask, bobbing lazily in the air like some surreal, floating sentinel.

Damien glanced at him and muttered under his breath, "Did you find an exit yet?"

For a moment, there was no response—only the faint, steady hum of whatever lingering energy still remained in the chamber. Then Arctic’s voice echoed from above, soaked in his usual smugness.

"There’s no place in this world that can stop me if I want to leave. I found the exit long ago."

His tone curled like smoke—mocking, self-satisfied.

"But why," he continued, "should I help you?"

Damien’s eyes narrowed. "Why wouldn’t you help me?" he shot back, his voice calm but biting. "Did you already forget our deal? Don’t you want to grow stronger and return to Hell? Or did you somehow stumble upon a miraculous way to evolve on your own?"

Damien narrowed his eyes. He was genuinely curious now.

The awkward silence said more than words ever could.

And then it clicked.

Arctic had forgotten. Completely. Not even a trace of their agreement remained in his head—only a vague sense of déjà vu, like recalling the smell of something burned long ago.

In truth, this kind of forgetfulness was expected.

Every creature from Hell knew the dangers of staying too long in the human realm. Prolonged exposure would begin to erase their very existence, fragmenting their minds and memories. That’s why they almost always relied on proxies—humans who could carry out their will in exchange for power.

Arctic was no exception. His time here had already taken its toll. To make matters worse, the Blue Hammer King had shamelessly exploited him more than once.

Now, with Damien looking at him so intently, suspicion flickering in his eyes, Arctic began to panic internally.

It wouldn’t be long before Damien discovered the full extent of his "amnesia."

An eerie stillness fell over the hall.

Damien simply stared, watching the poor genie’s face flicker like a disco ball—an entire spectrum of emotions rolling across his surface.

Confusion. Shame. Fear. Panic. Denial.

It was almost entertaining.

Almost.

Suddenly, Damien’s perception shifted.

The grand, ancient hall vanished like a mirage, and in its place stood the familiar, worn-down Lineage Hall of the Blue Hammer Kingdom—frozen in time, quiet and still, as if untouched by the chaos that had engulfed the kingdom.

A soft creak echoed under his boots as he stepped forward on the dusty marble floor. The dim light leaking through the shattered stained glass windows painted fractured rainbows across the cracked stone walls, where old royal banners still clung, barely fluttering. Faint traces of mana lingered in the air, stagnant but ancient, like ghosts unwilling to leave.

Damien’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"So... back here again," he muttered, already guessing what this place represented.

It didn’t take long before he checked the time and realized it—the day of the ceremony.

There wasn’t much point lingering. After all, the path he’d chosen had already deviated from what the world expected of him.

With a brief glance toward the dusty throne at the end of the hall, Damien turned on his heel and retraced his steps. The echo of his movements reverberated through the silent structure.

He’d already explored the library once. Whatever mattered, whatever held weight, was already in his hands. Scrolls, forbidden techniques, old scriptures—they were meaningless if the true inheritance had already passed to him.

The most precious thing this kingdom had hidden... he had taken it.

Still, his thoughts drifted toward something even more enigmatic—the so-called Primordial Dimension.

A place spoken of in fragments, hinted at in vague records and obscure carvings. A place that felt less like a location and more like a boundary—a layer beneath the world, untouched and ancient.

His lips curled into a faint smirk as he began to piece together the connection.

He already knew how to get there.

Deep within his spiritual space—a swirling, luminous void that housed the core of his cultivation—his Accretion Marble and spiritual weapon floated silently. But now, nestled beside them, something new had emerged.

A strange gate.

It loomed there, dark and monolithic, its structure carved from unknown obsidian-like material. The edges shimmered with faint ethereal runes, constantly shifting like they were alive. The gate seemed dormant at first glance, but it was breathing—absorbing the ambient mana within his spiritual space with each passing moment.

Faint pulses of light flickered across its frame, like veins slowly awakening after a deep slumber.