CHAPTER 149: RETURNING TO GIVE CHANGE.

The room froze for a few seconds.

The air seemed so heavy that even the recording crystal lost its shine for an instant.

The council members stood motionless—not because of the explicit content of what Damon had insinuated, but because of his audacity in saying it in the Council Chamber, in front of six academic authorities, without blinking.

The mustachioed council member was the first to react.

He slammed both hands on the table, as if he had just heard a blasphemy.

"This is outrageous!" he roared. "You’re mocking this council, young man!"

Damon tilted his head, serene, as if observing an angry bird.

"I’m just answering your questions," he said. "You insist so much on knowing where I was... I’m just repeating myself."

The gray-haired council member rubbed her temples, exhausted.

"Damon... nobody is interested in your... intimate details."

"Great," he replied calmly. "Then we can skip this question, because my answer won’t change."

The central advisor—the coldest and most patient—finally raised his hand, asking for silence. His voice was calculated, almost surgical:

"Damon. Understand that we are trying to get to the truth."

"I already have," Damon retorted. "I wasn’t at the Arven mansion. I didn’t attack Valdeiron’s heir. I have nothing to do with the hysteria of a spoiled brat who heard noises in the dark."

A murmur ran around the table. The thin man, always so composed, frowned and quickly consulted a parchment in front of him.

"The heir claimed that the attacker was his height, his posture, and had a silent fighting style..."

Damon raised an eyebrow with an almost lazy smile.

"So he was attacked by someone with good taste. What a coincidence."

"And he described a type of movement that..." the counselor searched for the words, "resembles oriental infiltration techniques."

Damon shrugged. "I don’t even know what the hell oriental infiltration is. I’m seventeen, man."

The gray-haired counselor leaned forward:

"Are you categorically denying it?"

"I’m denying it for the tenth time," he replied impatiently. "What part didn’t you understand? The verb conjugation or the pathetic insistence on a baseless accusation?"

The mustachioed counselor exploded:

"Could you show a little respect!"

Damon smiled, that lazy, irritating smile that seemed designed to ignite hatred in arrogant people.

"I’m trying. I swear. But you’re making it very difficult."

Silence fell heavily. Even the most composed counselor had to rest her hands on the table and take a deep breath.

It was evident that Damon was deliberately provoking, but it was also true that:

They had nothing.

No proof.

No additional testimony.

No marks, injuries, or guard reports.

No magical witnesses.

Nothing.

Only the word of a noble heir—and, ironically, that wasn’t enough within the Academy, where order was "just," at least on the surface.

After a few long seconds, the central advisor resumed his rigid posture.

"Very well, Damon... let’s try another approach. Any reason for you to be falsely accused?"

Damon took a deep breath, crossed his legs, and rested his elbow on the back of his chair.

His entire posture screamed elegant insolence.

"Yes," he replied directly. "Because the Valdeiron heir is an insecure coward, and because deep down he knows he doesn’t have the slightest chance of controlling the woman he wants to marry. So he invents monsters in the dark to blame someone."

Some of the advisors’ eyes widened.

It was rare to see a student speak like that about a future duke.

Damon continued, relentlessly:

"He feels threatened by everything. By any shadow. Any noise. Anyone who looks at him the wrong way. And, honestly... I can’t blame him. I would be afraid too if I had been born weak."

The thin advisor slammed his fist on the table:

"Enough. Damon... you’re treading on dangerous ground."

"Not today," Damon replied. "Today, you can’t do anything to me. Because you have absolutely no proof, no witnesses, and no plausible reason to blame me."

The gray-haired advisor closed the book in front of her—a clear sign that she had reached the conclusion of the session.

"Gentlemen," she said, looking at her colleagues, "there is nothing here that justifies sanction. He was summoned because there was suspicion. But suspicion without evidence cannot override the regulations."

The central advisor took a deep breath.

He seemed to hate it.

"I agree," he replied. "There’s no basis for punishment."

The mustachioed man protested:

"But he’s insolent! Disrespectful! A risk—!"

"And none of that is a crime," interrupted the gray-haired counselor. "Unfortunately for you."

The mustachioed man clenched his teeth so tightly it almost seemed like he was breaking a molar.

Damon chuckled softly.

The central advisor straightened up and decreed in an official voice:

"The session is adjourned. Damon, you are dismissed. However, consider this formal warning: any new reports involving incidents with nobles will be rigorously investigated."

Damon stood slowly, as if he had just woken from a pleasant nap.

"Of course," he said with a calm smile. "I’m happy to cooperate. As long as you stop wasting my time with the whining of incompetent fiancés."

The mustachioed man almost lunged at him.

The gray-haired advisor discreetly but firmly grasped his arm.

Damon turned his back, walking calmly to the door.

Before leaving, he paused for a moment, glancing over his shoulder.

"Oh, and... if the Valdeiron heir has another panic attack, tell him to sleep with the light on. It might help."

He opened the door.

He left.

The corridor was silent.

So silent that each of Damon’s steps echoed like a hammer against stone. The insolent smile he’d worn inside the council room vanished as soon as the door closed behind him. The mask slipped. His gaze narrowed. His jaw clenched.

He took a deep breath, but it was no use—his blood still boiled.

"That son of a bitch really didn’t waste any time..." he growled under his breath, only to himself.

He walked quickly, almost marching, completely ignoring the students who moved out of the way when they saw his grim expression.

Damon kicked the double doors leading to the Academy’s side courtyard. They slammed against the wall with a bang that startled two students.

The cold air hit his face.

But it didn’t cool him down at all.

"I gave him a chance," he whispered, his eyes fixed on the stone floor. "I gave that little shit a chance to shut up. To forget. To pretend nothing happened. And to get away from Morgana."

His fingers clenched so tightly that the knuckles turned white.

"But of course... of course not." A crooked, furious smile appeared. "He ran to his dad, crying. Obviously."

He lifted his face.

The sky was gray, heavy, and the wind lifted the fringes of his uniform as if reacting to anger.

"Always like this." Damon took a deep breath, but his voice still came out hot. "There’s always someone who thinks they can play games with me and then hide behind the last name."

He ran a hand through his hair, pulling it back impatiently.

His whole body seemed to vibrate with restlessness—like a beast wanting to tear the bars off its cage.

"Okay then..." he murmured, taking a step forward. "If he wants to play on his dad’s property... I’ll pay him a visit."

His gaze grew cold, calculated—much more so than it had been during the interrogation.

"A rather... educational visit."

A slow smile appeared, but it wasn’t a smile of humor. It was the kind of smile that should worry anyone who saw it.

Eduard’s room was a chaotic mess of nervousness.

The young nobleman paced back and forth like a rat trapped in a box, his cloak slightly crooked, his hair disheveled, his breath short. He grumbled, complained, huffed. Sometimes he stamped his foot. Sometimes he ran his hands over his face, almost tearing his own hair out in frustration.

"How could they not find him?!" he growled. "The council should have stopped that damned commoner! He was there! I know he was! I felt it... I saw it..."

He punched the table, but even that seemed weak.

The room was silent, except for the sound of his angry footsteps.

And it was in that silence that an almost nonexistent sound occurred.

A soft click.

So low that no one would notice.

No one, except whoever was waiting.

Eduard froze for a second, his instinct telling him something... but nothing came. He shook his head, started walking again, muttering:

"Those incompetents... if my father were here, they would have already extracted the truth from that idiot!"

And then the door behind him—the one he swore he had locked—moved just an inch.

Silently.

As if the air had moved on its own.

A shadow slid inside, clinging to the wall, without making a sound.

Damon.

He was dressed in black from head to toe, with his short cloak fastened at the shoulders to avoid making noise. The hood cast a shadow, and the black mask covered his face from mouth to nose—revealing only his eyes.

And those eyes... they were calm.

Too calm.

He closed the door with the same slowness, without haste, as if he were entering his own room.

Eduard continued walking, not noticing anything.

"Tomorrow... tomorrow I will demand another investigation! I am the Valdeiron heir! They can’t simply ignore my word! I was attacked! I was—!"

"You talk too much."

The voice came from behind him.

Cold. Controlled. Low.

Eduard stopped. His whole body stiffened immediately, his eyes widening even before he turned around.

Slowly, almost mechanically, he turned his neck.

And saw him.

Damon was standing in the center of the room.

As if he had been there forever.

Immobile, hands in his pockets, mask covering half his face—and yet giving the impression of smiling.

Eduard couldn’t even scream.

His voice came out in a whisper:

"Y-you... can’t... how...?"

Damon tilted his head slightly.

"Funny. You said the same thing yesterday."

Eduard tried to move away, tripped on his own rug and fell sitting on the floor, sliding backward until he hit the foot of the bed.

His breathing quickened.

"G-Guar... guar—!"

"Try." Damon took a step. "Let’s see if they get here before I get bored."

The heir gasped for air.

Damon walked towards him with the tranquility of someone strolling in the garden, observing the room as if it were the first time he had seen it.

"You know, Eduard..." he began, adjusting his gloves, "you really had a choice."

Another step.

"You could have stayed quiet."

One more.

"You could have accepted that I have nothing to do with your nightmares."

Eduard flinched.

"P-Please... my father... my father will—!"

Damon stopped in front of him.

He crouched down.

He took Eduard’s chin in his hand and lifted his face, forcing him to look into his eyes.

"Your father isn’t here."

The silence that followed weighed like lead.

Damon lowered his hand and stood up slowly.

"You accused me. You made things up. You put on a show worthy of a coward." He paused. "And that’s why I came to clear something up with you."

Eduard swallowed hard.

Damon leaned forward slightly, his mask casting a shadow over half his face, his voice low like a whisper that hurt the ear.

"You’re not authorized to speak." His aura seemed to weigh heavily. "Let’s see if your daddy won’t abandon you when he loses both his eyes."