Damon Bloodborn’s POV

I shrugged, basking in a newfound warmth that blanketed my body. It was as if the weight of exhaustion had been lifted, replaced by a revitalizing energy that coursed through me. A low growl rumbled from my stomach, primal and insistent, dragging me from my cocoon of comfort.

The bed beneath me was carved from stone, its intricate designs both austere and mesmerizing. The room itself was a simple, confined box, a stark contrast to the extravagance of home. Without the faint glow of the light artifacts on the walls, the darkness would have consumed every corner.

Laughter echoed from the tunnel beyond the arched doorway. Drawn by the sound, I stepped out to find a gathering of familiar faces. Galen, robed in a garment that left his broad chest exposed, sat across from Kalon, who had Proteus standing at his side. Jared and Clovis sat slightly apart. A solitary wooden chair waited conspicuously, clearly intended for me.

“I see you’ve awoken,” Galen said, his deep voice carrying a subtle edge of amusement.

A rhythmic knock drew my attention to a sight both peculiar and captivating—a golem carved from stone, crafted with such precision that it bore the likeness of a Celestial. The statue moved with surprising grace, carrying a platter of food.

I took the offering—a bowl of steaming soup accompanied by fresh wheat bread—admiring the artistry in the golem's form before focusing on the meal. “Yes, I have. Thank you for the meal. What did I miss?”

“A lot,” Jared replied curtly, his tone sharp with frustration. His forearm was dressed in a cloth. “While you were dozing, we were getting our butts kicked.”

Clovis exhaled heavily, his tired breath carrying the weight of Jared’s frustration. “He’s angry because he blew up his arm during training,” Clovis explained, casting a sidelong glance at Jared. “And Kalon, having drained his mana reserves, couldn’t heal it.”

I stepped forward, carefully unwrapping the cloth on Jared’s arm. Beneath it lay a gruesome burn. With practiced precision, I began mending the damaged flesh, guiding it to knit together piece by piece. The scarred tissue flaked away, giving way to fresh skin.

Satisfied with the result, I returned to my meal, dipping the bread into the soup before taking a bite. Its moist texture dissolved pleasantly between my teeth.

“You were out cold for a while,” Kalon said, his gaze steady, a hint of concern lacing his words. “How do you feel now?”

“I feel good. Refreshed, even.”

Relieved, Kalon shifted his attention back to Galen, who sat unmoving on his throne. Unlike the simple carved chairs we occupied, Galen’s seat gleamed with embedded gems, a stark contrast to the austerity of the room.

“Thank you, Galen,” Kalon began, his voice carrying sincerity. “For taking my brothers and me into your home, for the training, and for helping us unlock new magic techniques. I’m truly grateful.”

Galen laughed deeply, his voice booming and resonating through the stone walls. The force of it made me clutch my platter to prevent the contents from spilling. “You praise me too much, Kalon,” he replied, his tone magnanimous. “Knowledge is not meant to be hoarded. What I’ve done is but a fraction of what you all are destined to achieve. The potential you hold is immeasurable.”

“Even so...” Kalon hesitated, his voice trailing off as a shadow of doubt clouded his features. It struck me then—the realization that he had been wrestling with an internal conflict, torn over whether to broach the subject of spirit energy.

We had discussed this before—enlightening others about spirit energy and rallying support for the moment we knew was coming. There would be no better opportunity than now.

“There is something I need to share,” Kalon began, his voice steadying as he continued. “Our purpose here isn’t as simple as walking the path to mastery. It’s about finding Celestials who are willing to delve into the arts of spirit magic.”

Kalon paused, his words hanging in the air. All eyes turned to the Pantheon. Seated on his throne, he responded with only a slight shrug, yet that small gesture shifted the atmosphere. The air grew heavier, dense with unspoken tension. His gaze swept over each of us, weighing and scrutinizing, before settling firmly on Kalon.

“Go on,” the Pantheon said, his tone calm yet unyielding. His presence alone was suffocating, amplifying the gravity of the moment.

Kalon inhaled deeply, steadying himself before he began to recount his journey—his curiosity about spirit magic, the spark that drove him, and his eventual acquisition of the deviant arts. From his days in Bloodville, he left no detail unspoken, satisfying the Pantheon’s unrelenting demand for precision.

Yet Kalon was careful. He skillfully avoided mentioning Lord Cian’s involvement, despite the patriarch’s willingness to offer himself to the cause. I could see why—our sworn brother would never put him at risk. Kalon knew the stakes, understood the fine line we walked, and bore the weight of that responsibility as he spoke.

That hesitation could be seen as a weakness by many, but watching Kalon act this way was oddly comforting. A cold, calculating Kalon didn’t sit right with me.

He continued, his narration nearing its conclusion.

“Having gained mastery over the realm of spirit energy, I wish to use this power for the good of Enoria—to bring an end to the mana-shift.”

The oppressive presence in the room eased, a subtle yet significant shift. It was a sign the Pantheon had taken an interest, though it was unclear where he stood on the matter.

One by one, we took turns expressing our desires and strategies, each of us attempting to sway the Pantheon. My explanation of our approach to rallying forces was among them.

Galen’s expression remained impassive throughout. His usual charisma had been replaced by a placid demeanor, making it impossible to read his thoughts. When Kalon finished, Galen broke the silence with a simple request.

“Show me these deviant arts of yours.”

The ambient mana shifted, replaced by a force unfamiliar yet powerful—spirit energy. It swirled and condensed as Kalon formed a direbear. Its flesh materialized, sinew knitting together with an eerie grace. This puppet felt different, its essence infused with the foreign energy coursing through its veins.

For the first time, there was a flicker of change in the Pantheon’s expression. His neutral gaze gave way to intrigue as he examined the demon puppet. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“There is no mistaking it. This manifestation of yours truly bears the essence of spirit energy,” he said, his voice tinged with genuine amusement. “Who would have thought that someone could gain enlightenment into the second form of energy that shapes the world?”

The atmosphere in the room shifted palpably as Galen began recounting the fall of the Asuras—a celestial race with a unique affinity for poison, once inhabitants of Vijvere, now known as the Great Ruins.

The Asuras were scholars of unmatched brilliance. Their enlightenment in magic far surpassed anything we possess here in Stygia. Yet, it was that very knowledge that became their undoing.

He paused, his eyes distant, as though gazing into the depths of history itself.

“In their relentless pursuit of transcendence, they delved into the forbidden arts of spirit magic, seeking to break free from the limits placed upon us. They dreamed of becoming something greater, but their ambition blinded them. Warnings were ignored—countless and dire. To facilitate their dangerous experiments, they secluded their entire kind within the boundaries of Vijvere. It was a decision not unlike that of the Dryads, who keep to their own, far removed from the rest of Enoria.”

A shadow seemed to pass over Galen as he continued.

“Their arrogance led to catastrophe. The misuse of spirit energy unleashed a cataclysm—an eruption of uncontrolled energy that obliterated the sacred pyres of Vijvere. The once-proud Asuras were consumed by their folly, their forms transmogrified into wraiths—mad, abominable creatures with brutish strength tenfold that of the average celestial. They became horrors that roamed the Great Ruins, a grim reminder of their hubris.”

The weight of his words sank deep, silence reigning in the room before he resumed, his tone darker.

“The Oracle declared war upon the wraiths. All nine races answered the call, sending their finest warriors—from the exalted Pantheons to the humblest of the raiders. United under the leadership of the Guardian and bolstered by the aid of the Dryads, the great conflict raged on. At last, the war came to an end, but not without great sacrifice. Vijvere was lost to us, its beauty reduced to the desolation we now call the Great Ruins.”

Galen’s gaze swept over us, the gravity of the tale heavy in his eyes.

“Remember this: spirit energy is not a power to wield lightly. The Asuras sought to ascend and instead fell, their legacy a cautionary tale etched into the ruins of their ambition.”

My mind raced, weaving together fragments of history and our present struggles. There was so much we had just learned from the Great Pantheon. Galen’s tale weighed heavily on my thoughts, his strength a humbling reminder of what we faced and what we had yet to overcome. Having fought alongside the Guardian and faced wraiths deadlier than anything in our experience, Galen’s words seemed almost prophetic.

“I see why Lord Cian was hesitant,” murmured Kalon, his voice barely above a whisper.

Galen’s sharp gaze caught his words, but I spoke first, catching on to the weight of the Pantheon’s story.

“Cian, the patriarch of the Lamians, mastered his treasured blood poison art from the Asuras. It’s only natural he’d hesitate,” I began. “After witnessing their fall, I imagine it’d be hard not to. Especially when there’s something as monumental as the Guardian standing against you.”

Galen nodded in recognition.

“The Guardian maintains the balance of Enoria,” Jared continued, oblivious to the subtle shift in the atmosphere. “The Oracle ensures it stays that way, holding the power to transfer the Guardian’s abilities to another. There’s no way they’d let a group of immature Celestials and some retired warrior toy with the fabric of the world and risk reviving a forgotten disaster.”

His words hung in the air, sharp and brazen, drawing our attention. Galen’s expression remained unreadable, but I felt the tension ripple through the room.

The silence that followed was deafening. Jared’s lack of decorum was glaring, the weight of his words heavy in the space between us.

“What?” he asked, his tone defensive. “Did I say something wrong?”

Clovis shot him a withering glance before speaking with a calm yet pointed tone. “Perhaps you should consider your words more carefully before referring to a Pantheon in such a manner.”

There was still much to uncover—too much. Yet I knew that gaining Galen’s support was more than just a step forward. It was the foundation we desperately needed to lay. As we moved forward, our resolve would have to strengthen. There was no room for mistakes.

“It’s different now. Kalon has achieved what even the Asuras could not,” I said, my voice steady as I glanced toward Kalon, who sat silently before Galen. “The change is here.”

Galen rose from his throne, his towering form seeming to shrink as he stepped forward. The room seemed to hold its breath. Extending a hand toward Kalon, Galen waited. For a moment, Kalon hesitated, but then he grasped Galen’s hand firmly, a silent understanding passing between them.

The walls around us began to shift, grinding together in an intricate dance of interlocking stone. The air hummed with ancient magic as the room dissolved, revealing the vast expanse of the outside world. Above us, the stars glittered brilliantly against the velvety night sky. Winged night beasts soared in the distance, their haunting cries carried on the wind.

“Life and death,” Galen began, his voice low and resonant, “for every event that occurs, the earth speaks to me. I can feel its pain, its longing.” He paused, turning slightly toward us, his gaze piercing as though looking through the very essence of the world. “Enoria calls for a change. That feeling has only grown stronger since meeting you all.”

As he released Kalon’s hand, he turned away, his broad back facing us. My eyes were drawn to the sheer strength he exuded, the weight he bore evident in every fiber of his being. Galen, the Great Wall. Now I understood the name. Those shoulders carried the burden of Enoria, a mantle few could ever bear.

He spoke again, his baritone voice cutting through the night, powerful yet strangely reassuring. “Indeed, there is much to do. Facing the enemies ahead is certain. Be it the Guardian or the Oracle herself, I will stand with you.”