Chapter 358 - 359: Circle Of Madness

The water was deep and pitch black. The deep was dark and full of terrors.

From what he saw with his shadow perception, the waters below teemed with monstrous life. Aquatic abominations stirred restlessly—some resembled massive ground crawlers, others were indescribable horrors that looked as if they had slithered straight out from the fevered nightmare of a mad god.

The deeper he sent his shadow perception, the more overwhelming their presence became.

Their auras grew more potent, more ancient, more alien. The water was deceptively calm, hiding its impossible depth like a grave hiding secrets. Below, ruins sprawled in the deep like a drowned city— statues, shattered temples, and fractured towers signs of a sunken mausoleum, a long-forgotten part of Lysithara that now belonged to the abyss.

The cracked remnants of the sunken city gave him chills. He didn't dare extend his shadow perception into certain areas—not out of caution, but out of primal fear. Some darkness was meant to remain untouched.

Still, he pushed on, almost like a man possessed—desperate for even the faintest glimmer of salvation. That's when he encountered it.

His shadow brushed against something vast—immense—anchored deep within the black. It wasn't terrain. It was alive.

It felt wrong.

A shape so enormous it swallowed his senses. As he probed deeper, he realized it wasn't just massive—it was ancient. And aware.

Then… its gargantuan eyes opened.

Damon's breath caught. He ripped his perception back as pain lashed through his skull. He collapsed to his knees, coughing up blood.

"That was close… that was too close…" he gasped, his vision blurring. "It almost saw me… it almost sensed me…"

His chest heaved. His heart thundered in his ribs. His head was spinning. He had almost died just from sensing its existence.

A warm white light washed over him, mending his body. He looked up to see Sylvia beside him, healing him with trembling hands, her lips bleeding from how hard she had been biting them.

He didn't speak.

He just sat there, letting the silence soak in… the quiet dread that lingered.

"Hahaha…" He laughed—a hollow, broken sound that echoed off the rocks around them.

He laughed again, holding his head, a distant smile on his lips as he stared at the dark waters before him.

Even now, he could feel them. Some creatures stirred—lurking just beneath the surface—gentle currents rippling with the twitch of hideous appendages.

Grotesque abominations circled them. Waiting.

Advance into the water and die… stay here and slowly waste away… or go mad.

Whichever came first.

Damon saw the bleak paths laid out before him like a cruel joke. He lowered his head with a tired smile.

His life had always been like this—the stronger he became, the more monstrous the adversaries. As if the universe was laughing, dragging him forward like a pawn dancing on the palm of some sadistic god.

Was this his fate? To suffer?

He sat in silence, the weight of that question burying his thoughts.

Always the loser. Always the prey. Always fighting an uphill war against fate.

Where was the fairness in that? Where was his choice?

His lips curled into a bitter smile as he raised his head.

He remembered what Valarie once said Mugu had told her.

Fate wasn't some cosmic force that man needed to defy—it was a construct, born from a collection of choices. Some his. Most not.

Damon laughed softly—his dread unraveling into a quiet madness.

But what did Mugu know? He was mortal. Unless… he heard it from the Unknown God.

Damon lowered his head again, biting his own smiling lips, dark eyes dimmed with fatigue. He was tired. So tired of the struggle. Of the meaningless battle to simply exist.

"Then whose choice was it that I'm here…?"

He muttered to himself, smiling bitterly. His chest ached, his heart twisted. He wanted—deeply, desperately—to give up. To finally stop. To let it all go.

But he remembered.

A lot of people made choices that led to his pain. His suffering. His exile.

Some of them were dead.

"Haha… but some of them are alive… they're living their best lives… while I…"

His rage ignited—boiling from somewhere deep, coiled around his heart like a viper. They probably thought he was dead.

Well, joke's on them.

He was still here. Still crawling through hell. Living off nothing but hate, rage, spite, and pure stubborn resentment.

"It's their choices…" he laughed again—madness curling his lips. "Hahahanaja…"

Yes. They were still alive. His old village—the ones who had abandoned and betrayed him.

The Quick Hand, who had made him a fall to a life of crime…. everything. And more than any of them—the wretched dark spirit summoner who had thrown him into this damned land to rot.

He clenched his jaw, eyes wet with tears that would never fall. He refused to let them.

They wanted him to die. They wanted him to suffer. They wanted him to break.

Fine.

He would suffer. He would break.

But he would live. And he would kill them all.

His spite roared louder than the dread that choked the air, stronger than the horror that danced in the water, deeper than the madness that nipped at his mind.

No—he welcomed the madness. It fueled him now.

He would live not out of vengeance, not out of pride—no, he would live so he could kill them with his own two hands.

He rose to his feet.

The others had been silent through it all.

Sylvia remained by his side, unwavering. Leona watched with worry, her hands twitching toward her great sword.

Evangeline bit her lip, visibly anxious. Xander had clenched his fists—and when Damon stood, so did he.

They knew he wouldn't give up.

Matia stood behind him like a silent shadow. Her face hidden behind her helm. Her voice was quiet—cold like frost.

"…What do we do?"

Damon clenched his fists, eyes narrowing as he looked into the darkness.

Some monsters had begun swimming closer to the small island of wreckage they stood on. Shadows circled like vultures beneath the waves.

The green water rippled. Evangeline's light magic revealed colossal shapes stirring beneath the calm. Their auras barely restrained.

Damon took a deep breath.

"Our situation's gotten worse," he muttered, brushing his wet hair back. "Well… that's fine. Nothing new."

The others stood, one by one. Weapons drawn. Faces grim.

"It seems this city wants us dead," he said, voice cold.

Damon smiled then—fierce and unyielding—his eyes flickering with defiance.

"That's too bad… the feeling is mutual."

He turned to them, raising his hand as the shadows surged around him—violent, wild, and alive.

"…Let's kill 'em all."