The journey back to Morgana’s mansion was made in almost absolute silence, not by Damon’s conscious choice, but because his mind simply no longer had the energy to sustain any continuous flow of coherent thoughts, each step taken more out of habit and willpower than real control over his own body. The city around him seemed distant, distorted, as if observed through an uneven surface, and only now, with the adrenaline of the fight slowly dissipating, was he beginning to realize that something was profoundly wrong—not externally, not obviously, but on a much quieter and more dangerous level.

The vibrations.

He hadn’t fully understood them during the fight.

He hadn’t had time.

But now…

He felt them.

Every movement seemed misaligned, as if his muscles responded with minimal, yet perceptible, delay, while a strange sensation—not exactly sharp pain, but something more diffuse, more internal—spread through his body like a constant echo of impact. His breathing, normally controlled, was irregular, sometimes faltering for a brief moment before returning, as if his lungs had momentarily forgotten how to function properly.

Even so, he continued.

Because stopping… wasn’t an option.

The mansion appeared before him sooner than he expected, or perhaps time had simply lost its meaning halfway there, but upon reaching the front door, Damon had to stop for a moment, bracing his hand against the wood as he tried to stabilize his vision, which threatened to darken at the edges. His fingers trembled slightly, something rare, almost nonexistent in his normal condition, and it was in this small detail that he realized how serious this really was.

“…Damn…” he murmured softly, more of a failed exhalation than a proper word.

Still, he gathered what little strength he had left and pushed the door.

It opened with a low creak.

And the exact moment he crossed the threshold—

His body gave way.

There was no attempt to regain his balance.

There was no reaction.

It was immediate.

A complete collapse.

The sound of his body hitting the floor echoed through the mansion’s entrance, dry, heavy, without any control or cushioning, as if the entire structure that had held him upright until that moment had simply given up at once.

Silence.

For a split second.

And then—

Movement.

From inside the house, quick footsteps echoed, first one, then two, coming from different directions, interrupting any tranquility that had existed in that space moments before.

Morgana was the first to appear.

And what she saw—

She froze.

For a single instant.

Damon lay on the floor, completely still, his body in a position too awkward to ignore, as if he’d been carelessly left there, his breathing ragged, irregular, almost nonexistent at times, while small stains of blood began to appear beneath him, not in large external quantities… but enough to betray something far worse happening internally.

“Damon…?”

Her voice came out low.

Incredulous.

But when he didn’t answer—

All that remained was panic.

“DAMON!”

The scream cut through the air as she rushed to him, falling to her knees beside him without any concern for elegance or posture, her hands immediately going to his face, trying to lift him, trying to make him react, her eyes scanning every detail, every mark, every sign of damage she hadn’t seen before.

“Damon, look at me— look at me!” her voice trembled now, completely different from the firmness she usually carried.

Behind her, Ingrivid also arrived, but stopped abruptly upon seeing the scene, his eyes widening slightly, quickly assessing the situation but without intervening immediately, as if trying to understand the true extent of the damage before acting.

Damon… moved.

Minimally.

His eyes opened just enough to focus, even if vaguely, and for a moment, he seemed not to recognize where he was, his mind still struggling to reconnect with the present.

“Morg…” his voice came out hoarse, faltering, almost inaudible.

She leaned immediately closer, holding his face more firmly, as if she could anchor him there with just a touch.

“I’m here, I’m here, you’re back—what happened to you?!” the words came out too fast, rushed by growing despair.

He tried to breathe.

He failed.

He tried again.

And then he succeeded, but the sound was uneven, broken.

“…Vibration…” he murmured, his eyes closing for a second before opening again, heavier, more distant.

That’s when Morgana realized.

It wasn’t just external injuries. It was worse.

Much worse.

His body… was failing from the inside.

The vibrations hadn’t just reached the surface.

They had penetrated.

Destroyed.

Disorganized everything internally.

“No… no, no, no…” she murmured, her voice fading as the panic began to transform into something deeper, more desperate.

Ingrivid stepped forward then, finally approaching, her gaze analyzing Damon with a more technical coldness, but still carrying a clear tension.

“This isn’t ordinary damage,” she said, kneeling on the other side. “Something is… out of alignment. As if his organs—”

“I know!” Morgana cut off, louder than she intended, her already uneven breath.

Damon tried to laugh.

But the sound didn’t come out.

Just a weak whisper.

His eyes returned to Morgana, with visible effort, and for a moment, despite her critical condition, that same trace of humor was still there, almost ironic in the face of the situation.

“…I told you… she was good…” he murmured, with difficulty.

“Shut up!” Morgana replied immediately, but her voice broke mid-sentence.

He blinked slowly.

The world was getting darker now.

More distant.

But he knew what he needed.

He knew exactly.

And there was no time for beating around the bush.

His hand moved.

Weakly.

Searching.

Until it found her arm.

He grasped it.

Without force.

But with intention.

“Morgana…” his voice came out almost as a whisper now.

She leaned immediately closer, her eyes already shining, her breath faltering along with his.

“I’m here, Damon—”

He hesitated for a second.

As if gathering the words was harder than any blow he’d received.

And then—

“Give me… blood~”

Silence.

Heavy.

Immediate.

Morgana’s eyes widened for a moment, not in complete surprise, but in the weight of what it meant at that specific moment.

She knew.

Of course she knew.

But hearing it…

Was different.

Was real.

Urgent.

Vital.

“You…” she began, but her voice faltered.

Ingrivid looked between them, understanding instantly, his expression hardening slightly, but without interfering.

Damon… didn’t have time anymore.

His hand slipped slightly from her arm.

His gaze lost focus for a moment.

And then returned.

Weaker.

More distant.

But still there.

Waiting.

Morgana didn’t hesitate any longer.

Her expression changed.

From despair…

To decision.

Quick.

Absolute.

She brought her hand to her own wrist, her fingers trembling for only a second before tightening, her nails pressing into the skin with enough force to break, creating a clean, immediate cut from which blood began to trickle slowly.

Without thinking twice, she brought her wrist to his lips.

“Drink…” she murmured, her voice low but firm now. “Come on… Damon, drink.”

For a moment—

Nothing happened.

And her heart skipped a beat.

But then—

His lips moved.

Weakly.

Instinctively.

And then they closed around her wrist.

The first contact was weak.

Almost nonexistent.

But the second—

Firmer.

And then—

He began to drink.

Slowly.

But he began.

And at that exact moment—

Morgana let out a sigh she didn’t even know she was holding.

While holding him there.

As if she would never let go again.

The initial contact was hesitant, almost instinctive, as if Damon’s own body was still struggling to decide if it had enough strength to respond to it, but it only took a few seconds for something deeper to take control, something far beyond consciousness or deliberate will, and then the rhythm changed, becoming firmer, more consistent, as if each drop of blood he absorbed was rekindling parts of him that had been brutally extinguished by the vibrations that almost destroyed him from the inside.

Morgana remained motionless throughout the entire process, her body rigid not from fear, but from the extreme tension of someone holding something too precious to allow any mistake, her eyes fixed on his face, observing every minute reaction, every subtle change in his breathing, every muscle contraction that indicated it was working, that he was… coming back. Her free hand trembled slightly at his side, but she didn’t move, didn’t recoil, didn’t interrupt, even when she felt the slight pang of pain transform into a more constant sensation as the blood flow increased.

Ingrivid, for his part, watched silently, his attentive eyes analyzing not only the act itself, but its consequences, perceiving with almost clinical clarity the exact moment when Damon’s body began to react more noticeably. The micro-tensions disappeared first, followed by the gradual stabilization of his breathing, which ceased to be irregular and faltering, assuming a deeper, more consistent pattern, still heavy, but functional. It was like watching something being rebuilt from the inside out, cell by cell, structure by structure.

And then—

He stopped.

Not abruptly, not urgently, but slowly, like someone who finally recognizes the necessary limit and decides to respect it. His lips moved away from Morgana’s wrist with a slight drag, leaving a thin trail of blood that began to trickle down her skin before being contained by the already diminishing flow. He remained there for a second longer, his eyes still closed, as if absorbing not only what he had taken, but the full effect of it on his system.

Morgana didn’t pull away immediately.

But she didn’t speak either.

She just watched.

Waiting.

And then—

Damon released her wrist.

His body relaxed suddenly, as if finally allowed to yield, and he fell backward, the impact against the floor being much more controlled than before, but still heavy enough to echo slightly through the room. He lay there, on his back, his chest rising and falling in deep, now steady breaths, still carrying traces of exhaustion, but without that silent despair that had gripped him minutes before.

For a few seconds—

He just breathed.

Without moving.

Without speaking.

His eyes closed.

As if he were simply… rearranging everything.

And then—

A sound escaped.

A stronger exhalation.

Almost a laugh.

Low.

Torn.

“…That blonde bitch…” he murmured, his voice still hoarse, but now much more present, much more alive. “Go fuck yourself…”

Morgana blinked, surprised by the abrupt change in tone, while Ingrivid only slightly arched an eyebrow, observing it with a certain silent interest.

Damon ran a hand slowly across his face, as if confirming to himself that he was still whole, or at least… returning to being so. His fingers slid along his jaw, his neck, as he released another heavy breath, more controlled now.

“I hope…” he continued, opening his eyes slowly, staring at the ceiling as if speaking directly to nothing. “That she loses that pretty little face of hers…” There was a small pause, and then a slight crooked smile appeared at the corner of his lips. “…son of a bitch.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense.

It was… different.

Lighter.

As if the worst was over.

But what came next—

It was visible.

The regeneration.

Not explosively, not as a grand spectacle, but as something far more unsettling in its naturalness. Small adjustments began to occur beneath his skin, almost imperceptible at first glance, but impossible to ignore when observed closely. His complexion gradually returned to normal, the traces of exhaustion faded little by little, and his breathing, once heavy, began to stabilize at a completely natural rhythm.

Internally—

It was even more intense.

The damage caused by the vibrations began to be corrected, misaligned structures were restored, tissues were reconstructed, as if his body were following a perfect map of how it should be, eliminating any deviation with almost absurd precision. The sensation wasn’t exactly comfortable—there was a tension there, a constant internal pressure—but he showed no discomfort beyond a slight closing of his eyes at certain moments.

Morgana watched all this in silence, still kneeling beside him, her wrist already being pressed by her other hand to stop the bleeding, although her attention was completely focused on Damon, following every second of that recovery as if she needed to confirm, repeatedly, that he was truly returning to normal.

“You…” she began, her voice lower now, less laden with panic, but still with clear traces of the previous tension. “…are a complete idiot.”

Damon chuckled weakly.

“I know…”

He turned his face slightly toward her, his eyes now much clearer, much more focused, and for a brief moment, that same look from before—confident, ironic, alive—was completely back.

“But a resilient idiot…” he finished.

Ingrivid crossed her arms, letting out a small sigh through her nose, as if relieved, but unwilling to admit it openly.

“Next time,” she said dryly, “try not to almost die before you get home.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep