Chapter 35: Rewards

[DING!]

[REWARDS BEING DELIVERED!]

[You have received 40 blank points!]

[You have reached level 10!]

The floating window glowed before Damon’s eyes as if it were made of pure crimson fire. He blinked a few times in surprise.

“Level… ten?” he murmured, still in disbelief.

His chest still burned, the center pulsing like an extra heart. He raised his hand, watching the red lines on his arms begin to fade, as if they were hiding beneath his skin.

A new screen opened before him:

[Name: Damon (no last name)]

[Age: 19]

[Cultivation: Apprentice]

[Race: Incubus]

[Talent: Low]

[Level: 10]

[HP: 100/100]

[STR: 16 → 30]

[AGL: 14 → 28]

[VIT: 16 → 30]

[STM: 13 → 27]

[INT: 15 → 29]

[DEF: 13 → 27]

[Blank Points: 40]

[Skills: Touch of Asmodeus]

[Traits: Battle Focus]

[Martial Skill (Swords): Beginner]

[Martial Skill (Spears): Novice]

The eyes Damon’s eyes widened. His entire body felt lighter, sharper, as if every muscle had been refined, compressed to its limit, and then relaxed. He clenched his fists and felt power bubble through his veins.

“This is… monstrous…”

The gain wasn’t just numerical. He could feel it. His vision was sharper, every detail of the room leaping into his mind with absurd clarity: the cracks in the wood of the table, the jagged dance of the lamp flame, even the distant sound of someone breathing on another floor of the mansion.

His entire body felt like it wanted to move, to fight, to hunt.

He opened the stats tab again and looked at the remaining 40 blank points. A wry smile played across his lips.

“So… how will I shape this new me?”

He thought for a few moments.

Strength. Being able to crush any enemy with a single blow.

Agility. The power to move like a ghost, impossible to touch.

Intelligence. Understanding the technique in its entirety, delving into the arts of manipulation and sorcery.

Vitality. Becoming unbreakable, resistant to any harm.

Defense. Creating an iron body that no one would dare face head-on.

He took a deep breath. He didn’t want to make any mistakes.

“I’m an incubus… a demonic cultivator. If my power grows by devouring emotions and vitality… I must survive the fight. And for that, endurance and strength are paramount.”

His fingers moved across the screen, distributing points.

[Blank Points: 40 → 0]

[STR: 30 → 36]

[AGL: 28 → 32]

[VIT: 30 → 36]

[STM: 27 → 30]

[INT: 29 → 32]

[DEF: 27 → 32]

[DING!]

[You have allocated all available points.]

[Your body has been enhanced in every aspect.]

A new wave of energy coursed through him, much gentler than the first, but no less impactful. It was as if his flesh, his bones, and even his thoughts were being adjusted, refined, calibrated to a state of demonic perfection.

He took a deep breath, and this time, the air entered his lungs like liquid fire. Each heartbeat felt like the roar of a beast.

Damon stood, his muscles responding with precision and lightness, as if born for battle.

“I’m not the same anymore…” he told himself, looking down at his hands. “I will never again accept being treated like dead weight.”

The book on the table pulsed one last time, as if approving of his transformation, and then fell silent, the red letters fading until they were nothing more than strange, motionless symbols.

But Damon knew: this was only the first step.

The hunger within him roared again, demanding to be fed.

He gave a dark smile. “So…”

[Name: Damon (no last name)]

[Age: 19]

[Cultivation: Apprentice]

[Race: Incubus]

[Talent: Low]

[Level: 10]

[HP: 500/500]

[STR: 36]

[AGL: 32]

[VIT: 36]

[STM: 30]

[INT: 32]

[DEF: 32]

[Blank Points: 0]

[Skills: Touch of Asmodeus]

[Traits: Battle Focus]

[Martial Skill (Swords): Beginner]

[Martial Skill (Spears): Novice]

[Cultivation Technique: Crimson Night Eater (Level 1)]

Damon closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the newly stabilized flow of energy course through his veins. The demonic heat in his chest still throbbed, demanding more, but he took a deep breath and held himself back. This was no time to give in to his hunger.

He stood slowly, stretching his arms and back. As he stretched, every muscle seemed to respond with perfect firmness, like newly oiled gears. The simple act of moving was no longer the same—there was precision, strength, and speed in every gesture, as if his body had been reshaped.

He gave a wry smile.

“Time for the routine.”

He pulled on the black tunic that lay over the chair, tied the sash around his waist, and picked up the spear leaning against the wall. The dark wood and silver blade reflected the lamplight. He twirled it in his fingers, noticing how it felt lighter, more obedient in his hands.

As he left the room, the hallway fell silent. The cool morning air filled the mansion, bringing with it the scent of damp earth. He walked to the courtyard, his firm, heavy footsteps echoing across the stone floor.

The courtyard was wide, with dark sand paving prepared specifically for training. Statues of ancient warriors adorned the walls, their stone gazes fixed on any who dared step within.

Damon took a deep breath, swung the spear in an arc, and positioned himself in the center.

“Let’s see what I can do now.”

He started slowly, repeating the basic movements he had learned. Straight strikes, circular swings, upward slashes. Each movement flowed faster than before, as if the spear were a natural extension of his arms. The sand churned beneath his feet, kicking up dust with each step.

Swish!

The blade sliced ​​through the air violently, leaving an audible trail. Damon spun and delivered another blow, this time a sequence of three quick thrusts. His newfound agility made him seem like a blur, and when he stopped, he realized he had effortlessly advanced almost twice his usual distance.

A smile appeared on his lips.

“It’s as if my body is guessing the next move.”

He continued. He moved fluidly, testing combinations, guard transitions, and even improvising techniques he would never have dared try before. The spear spun in circles above his head, and he brought it down in a vertical thrust so powerful that the blade embedded itself in the sandy ground, raising a small cloud of dust.

Damon breathed calmly, sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. But unlike before, his body showed no signs of fatigue. His renewed stamina was like a bottomless pit.

He closed his eyes for a moment and remembered the words from the book: “Negative emotions are the greatest source of power for a demonic cultivator.”

With that in mind, he let anger bubble gently in his mind—memories of loneliness, of Esther’s scorn, of feeling like a burden. Each subsequent blow grew heavier, faster, more aggressive. The spearhead sliced ​​through the air with a sharp sound, as if ripping even space apart.

Swish! Swish! Swish!

The sand in the courtyard spread in waves, and the impact of each movement left deep marks on the ground.

When he finally stopped, panting but still full of energy, Damon raised the spear and stared at his distorted reflection in the blade. His eyes burned crimson red, a remnant of demonic energy.

The air in the courtyard suddenly became dense. Damon, who was spinning the spear in a fluid motion, felt an invisible pressure against his skin, as if space itself had trembled. His body reacted before his mind could process it.

In an instant, he turned his feet in the sand, steadied his stance, and pointed the spear in the direction of the premonition.

Boom!

The sharp sound echoed.

The tip of the weapon was stopped… by a single finger.

Damon’s eyes widened.

Ester stood before him, like a shadow in the gray morning light. Her black dress clung to her slender body, and her cold eyes pierced him like blades of ice. The finger holding the blade didn’t even tremble.

“You’ve grown strong,” she said, her voice calm but icy. “Too quickly.”

Damon felt his heart race. The feeling wasn’t just shock: it was anger. The memory of that sentence still echoed in his mind—”You’re dead weight”—and now the woman who had said it was there, staring at him with the same silent contempt.

He tried to pull the spear back, but Ester’s finger wouldn’t budge. It was as if she had driven the weapon into the steel itself.

Her eyes narrowed, cutting.

“Explain yourself.”

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