Damon had taken many lives—some human, some former humans.
He had killed and killed until, at one point, he stood atop more than ten thousand corpses.
Naturally, he exuded a raw and baleful killing intent.
His mana was dense—oppressively so. It radiated from him in slow waves, crashing down on the room like a tidal force. The air grew heavy. Thick.
Damon took a deep breath, consciously pulling back his aura and the bloodlust roiling beneath his skin.
He had to remind himself—don't kill them.
He sighed.
This was the price of playing along with Lilith Astranova. They'd danced around the illusion of a vaguely defined relationship, and now he had to deal with these fools.
But that was fine.
He'd still get what he wanted.
He'd vent a little.
Across the dueling ring, the fifteen noble youths froze. Damon heard the distinct sound of sweat dripping onto polished marble. Then one of them—only in the First Class—turned with wide eyes… and bolted.
