Chapter 2
For two grueling years, the dojo became Damian's sanctuary and his crucible. Every strike, every block, and every fall was a rhythmic pounding against a silence he refused to break. He was a man possessed, spending countless hours meticulously honing his martial arts skills. And he was getting better—the improvement was undeniable, visible in the fluid strength of his movements and the steel in his focus.
But when the sun set, the discipline shattered. Every night brought the same chilling, visceral nightmares, a torrent of terror he couldn't outrun even in sleep. The trauma he adamantly refused to reveal to anyone was not a burden, but a relentless, burning motivation. It was his secret engine. His overwhelming fears and barely contained rage were the furnace that fueled his every training session, driving him past the point of exhaustion.
Out in the light of day, the transformation was evident to those close to him. Lucy and Mike, in particular, couldn't help but notice the dramatic change in Damian's appearance. His physique was leaner, harder, radiating a new kind of coiled strength. He had shot up, looking taller, healthier, and undeniably better than before.
He was a master of pretense, managing to smile, talk, and act as though he were perfectly fine, a picture of quiet determination. Yet, beneath the practiced facade, the memories of that night remained sharp and predatory, an unrelenting specter that hunted his waking moments. It was a constant, searing reminder of what he had lost.
With every ounce of his being, Damian had made a solemn, ironclad vow: He would never let it happen again.
The air in the classroom practically vibrated with unrestrained energy. The high school years were officially over, a chapter sealed and filed away. Every face was alight with anticipation, the buzz of voices a chaotic symphony of future plans and hopeful farewells. The entire class was ecstatic, looking forward to two monumental rites of passage: finally completing their high school days and, more importantly, securing their highly coveted admissions to college.
Amidst the joyful pandemonium, Damian sat like an island of tranquility, full engrossed in the vibrant panels of his favorite manhwa. His attention was absolute, his mind a thousand miles away, lost in a world of complex heroes and intricate plots.
A shadow fell over his book. Scott, a friendly grin already splitting his face, strode confidently up to Damian's desk. Without preamble, he slammed the flat of his hand down on the wooden surface with a sharp thwack, jolting Damian abruptly back to the noisy reality of the classroom.
"Hey, Damian," Scott said, his smile bright and easygoing. He leaned in slightly, glancing at the illustrated pages. "It seems like you can't do without these novels, can you?" He punctuated his lighthearted observation with a warm chuckle.
Damian blinked, his focus slowly pulling away from the vibrant colors and dramatic tension of the page. He finally registered Scott's presence, along with the lingering sting of the desk's impact.
"Oh, I didn't notice you coming," Damian said, his voice still tinged with the lingering excitement of his fictional world.
He carefully held up the book, his eyes shining with genuine anticipation. "This is the last volume of 'GOD-LEVEL Stats'! I have been anticipating this release for almost two years.It came out last week, and I managed to get my copy yesterday. I can't wait to see how it ends!"
Scott, however, seemed completely unconcerned with the fate of 'GOD-LEVEL Stats.' He gave a small, dismissive shrug, his smile fading slightly as he adopted a more earnest expression.
"Oh, anyways," Scott interjected, completely ignoring Damian's enthusiastic comments about the novel, "I have something important to tell you."
Damian's curiosity immediately piqued. He carefully marked his page and set the manhwa down, giving Scott his full attention. "What's that?" he asked.
Scott straightened up, his eyes meeting Damian's with a serious, almost challenging look. "We are having an after-school party to celebrate," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument or doubt. "And you're invited."
Damian's initial excitement about the manhwa vanished, replaced by a visible unease. He shifted slightly in his chair, muttering his response with a clear note of hesitation.
"Huh... I might not be able to come," he murmured, avoiding Scott's direct gaze. He quickly searched for a plausible excuse. "I have something urgent to attend to."
Scott's serious expression intensified. He didn't back down; if anything, he seemed to plant his feet.
"You must come!" Scott insisted, his voice firm and carrying a clear undercurrent of frustration. "Damian, you've been avoiding me for the past two years! Every single time I invite you out—whether it's for a practice match or a party—you always decline."
His voice softened, the sharpness giving way to a visible sadness that clouded his features. He took a small step back, looking genuinely hurt. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No, you didn't," Damian said immediately, his voice taking on a reassuring quality as he sensed Scott's genuine hurt. "It's just that I have a lot to do these days, Scott. It's been pretty intense."
Scott wasn't easily deterred. He crossed his arms, his serious expression challenging Damian's vague excuse. "Is it so much that you don't have a single day to spare?"
A wave of guilt washed over Damian. Scott was right; he had been avoiding everyone, not just for the sake of his training, but because the trauma made social interactions feel like a luxury he couldn't afford. Seeing the sadness on Scott's face finally broke through his self-imposed barrier.
"When is it?" Damian asked, a subtle shift in his tone suggesting he was giving in. "Let's see if I can shift my schedule."
Scott's face instantly brightened. Without a moment of hesitation, he replied, "It's on Friday, this Friday, by 5 PM."
Damian paused, his mind quickly flipping through his rigid weekly routine. I don't have practice on Fridays, he thought to himself. It's usually my rest day. Maybe I could spare one day for him. After all, I can't blame him; it really seems like I've been avoiding him.
He looked up at Scott, offering a compromise. "Alright, I'd come, but I would leave before 8 PM," he stated firmly. "I don't want my parents worrying about me."
Scott's smile returned with dazzling force, sweeping away all traces of his previous disappointment. "That's fine!" he exclaimed, clearly delighted with the commitment. "I'll be expecting you, Damian!"
He took a step toward the door, then paused, the excitement bubbling over. "I'll come pick you up by 5 PM," he offered enthusiastically. "Oh, and I'll also let everyone know you're coming. It's surely going to be a blast!"
With that promise hanging in the air, Scott bounded away, leaving the desk and weaving through the lingering crowd of students, carried off on a wave of pure, infectious joy.
The moment Scott was gone, the noise of the classroom seemed to recede once more. Damian didn't waste a second. He retrieved his copy of 'GOD-LEVEL Stats,' flipped open to the page he had marked, and instantly dove back into the world of fictional heroes and intense battles, once again deeply engrossed in his manhwa. The impending reality of the party was shelved, replaced by the immediate need to know how the story ended.
True to his word, Scott arrived precisely at 5 PM on Friday, the energy radiating off him practically visible. He picked up Damian, and the two set off toward the party venue. The hall was conveniently located, situated just one street away from the town field, meaning it wasn't far at all from Damian's house.
When they arrived, the celebration was already in full swing. The music pulsed, laughter mingled with the bass, and everyone was clearly having fun, shedding the stress of their final school days.
Scott immediately headed for the refreshments, sorting out some drinks for both of them. He offered a beer to Damian, but Damian politely refused, citing his age. "I'm not of age yet, Scott," he said. Understanding, Scott quickly set off to find a soft drink instead.
With drinks secured, Scott dragged Damian toward the center of the hall. Soon, the two friends took to the dance floor, losing themselves in the celebratory chaos. They danced with wild abandon, laughing and moving like it was the end of the school year—or even the end of days.
But the fun was short-lived. Shortly after they started, Damian began to feel a strange, disorienting dizziness washing over him.
"I didn't take any alcohol," Damian muttered to himself, furrowing his brow in confusion. He tried to rationalize the feeling. "Maybe all this dancing is making me dizzy."
He scanned the crowded room, his eyes searching for Scott, but he couldn't spot him anywhere in the vibrant, swirling mass of people. Feeling suddenly overwhelmed and unstable, he quickly searched for an available couch in a quieter corner of the hall and sank down onto it, hoping the moment of rest would clear his head.
Just a few minutes after settling onto the couch, the strange dizziness intensified, pulling Damian down into a sudden, deep oblivion. His body went slack, and he was totally out; he had lost consciousness completely.
Hours later, Damian's eyes fluttered open, his head throbbing. He lay still for a moment, his vision blurry, trying desperately to make sense of his environment. The place was dark, the air cold and stale.
"Huh... where... where am I??" he stammered, his voice low and ragged.
He realized he was lying on the floor, but the floor felt hard, rough, and unfamiliar. Where was the party? Where was he?
He attempted to push himself up. As his muscles strained, a sudden, sharp, searing pain shot through his back. It was a specific, horrifying ache—a feeling he instantly, sickeningly, remembered from the deepest recesses of his nightmares.
A wave of absolute terror crashed over him, paralyzing his movements.
"No... no... no, not again," he whispered, the words catching in his throat. His voice dropped to a low, teary sound filled with despair. "This... this can't be happening."
His pants were down,he knew what had happened
The agony radiating from his back was a brutal confirmation, sinking him into a deep pit of helplessness. All the hours, all the sweat, all the discipline forged over two years of rigorous martial arts training had failed him completely.
The moment he swore never to let happen again had returned, and he couldn't even stand to defend himself.
"What was the use? Why did I even bother?" he whispered to himself, the question a bitter accusation against his own effort. A single, hot tear streamed down his left cheek.
Then, piercing through the despair, a sudden, blinding thought struck him.
"Scott!" he exclaimed loudly, the name ripping through his earlier paralysis.
The realization that his friend had been with him supplied an urgent burst of adrenaline. Ignoring the throbbing pain, Damian pushed himself up and dashed out of the room, staggering through the dark, unfamiliar space in desperate search of his best friend.
After a frantic moment of searching, he finally found him. Scott was slumped and passed out in the corner of a nearby, equally desolate room. Damian rushed to his side and quickly checked him over. After a brief but careful observation, he concluded that Scott had mercifully not been touched or injured in the same way.
"Thank goodness," Damian muttered on a low, trembling tone, collapsing onto the cold floor and breathing a profound sigh of relief, a small victory amidst his crushing defeat.
After a moment to steady himself, Damian realized they were still in the large party venue, though sequestered in two deserted, separate rooms far from the action. The music and voices from the main hall were muffled, but present.
Acting swiftly, and ignoring the fresh surge of pain, Damian gently hoisted the unconscious Scott over his shoulder. He carried his friend out to Scott's car parked nearby. Since Scott was utterly passed out, Damian took the wheels. He might not have been an expert driver—his focus had been on martial arts, not road skills—but he possessed enough concentration and skill to safely drive them both home.
His first stop was Scott's parents' house, where he carefully maneuvered Scott inside. With that done, he made the short walk to his own home, since their houses were only a street apart.
As he walked, he pulled out his phone to check the time. It was a few minutes before 8 PM. Relief washed over him; he would make it home before his curfew, and his parents wouldn't have any reason to worry.
But the relief was fleeting. A cold, unsettling thought suddenly flashed through his mind, cutting through the pain and exhaustion: "Why didn't they take anything from me?" his phone, wallet, and keys were still in his pockets. Something about the attack—its purpose, its context—felt fundamentally wrong.
Damian pushed the front door open and walked into the warmth of his home. He moved past the living room, where his parents were settled on the sofa, watching a family movie. He paused, summoning a practiced facade, and greeted them with a slight smile and a nod, assuring them he was fine. But beneath the polite mask, he felt utterly hollow, a shell carrying a fresh wound.
"Good to see you back before curfew, son," his father called out, half-distracted by the screen.
Damian murmured a reply and continued up the stairs. The moment his bedroom door clicked shut behind him, the carefully constructed walls he had maintained since leaving the hall shattered.
Everything came rushing back like a broken dam. The pain in his back, the dizzying confusion, and the terrifying, brutal memory of the trauma that had first motivated his training two years prior—all the past and the present agony rumbled together in his head. His mind became a chaotic storm of fear, pain, and overwhelming despair.
As the will to live gradually fades away,
Overwhelmed by the torrent of pain and memory, a profound sense of emptiness took root in Damian. The will to fight, the two-year-old vow, felt meaningless against the recurrence of the terror. He sat at his desk, his hand shaking as he picked up a pen and paper. With grim finality, Damian drafted a note, meticulously writing down his deepest regret and the unresolved trauma he had carried in silence. In his mind, this was the undisputed end of the road for him.
He pushed the note away, stood up, and moved with a purpose born of despair. He found a small, sharp blade and walked slowly toward the bathroom.
As he stepped across the threshold, ready to carry out his terrible decision, his eyes fell upon something unexpected: his manhwa. The final volume of 'GOD-LEVEL Stats' lay on the counter, abandoned earlier in his hasty escape. He hadn't finished it.
A strange, small desire—a flicker of the world he was about to leave—gripped him fiercely. The compelling need to know how the story ended, to see his fictional hero's final destiny, was suddenly paramount.
If this is the end, he thought, his hand dropping the blade, I might as well finish reading the story.
Damian sat down and opened the final volume of 'GOD-LEVEL Stats.' He dove into the story, allowing the fictional narrative to momentarily eclipse the horror of his reality. As he read through the climax, something specific in the text snagged his attention: the main character's extraordinary supernatural power. A power so immense that it rendered him completely resistant to human weapons and, crucially, impervious to the effects of drugs or poisons.
If only there were a way to attain such powers, he thought wistfully. But the practical side of his mind, the mind of a high school graduate, quickly dismissed the notion. This was the real world; magic was just fiction and myths, an escapist fantasy.
"But what if..." he muttered to himself after a long pause, the words barely a whisper. The thought, once dismissed, took hold like a parasite. A new desire awakened in him, a craving for something beyond natural, something extraordinary. If physical training alone couldn't protect him, then perhaps he needed to search for something more radical, something impossible.
The trauma and the fresh violation fueled this new, dangerous ambition. His blinding anger and festering hatred would no longer just motivate his training; they would fuel this desperate new quest. He fixed his gaze on a single, burning goal: REVENGE.
The innocent, frightened heart that had once sought only peace and protection was now cracking under the immense pressure of despair and fury. It was only a matter of time before it was totally broken, consumed entirely by the darkness of his new, terrifying resolve.
The entire weekend became an obsessive quest for Damian. After dutifully completing his daily chores—a mechanical task he performed while his mind churned—he retreated into his room, transforming it into a war room of the esoteric. He spent every waking hour consumed by frantic research: diving into history, gods, myths, witchcraft, ancient tales, fringe theories, obscure beliefs, and rumored spells. He was seeking anything, absolutely anything, that could offer a glimpse of the extraordinary power he now desperately needed for his singular goal.
Two days after the disastrous party, a break in his intense focus arrived with a familiar sound. Damian was hunched over his computer, deep into a rabbit hole of arcane lore, when he heard a light rap on his bedroom door.
"Hey Damian, are you still sleeping?" Scott's voice drifted through the wood, sounding apologetic but also slightly cheerful.
Damian instantly froze. His face went rigid. With a sudden burst of panicked urgency, he swept every piece of paper, every open book, and every scribbled note from his desk into a deep drawer. He slammed the drawer shut and turned the key with a sharp, decisive click.
"I'm awake, give me a minute!" Damian called out, his voice loud and slightly hasty, betraying the panic he was trying to conceal.
He quickly smoothed his clothes and tried to compose his expression. Scott and Damian had been best friends since they were five. They lived close to each other, their respective parents were well-acquainted, and they had grown up doing virtually everything together. They were, by all accounts, basically inseparable.
Damian rushed to the door and pulled it open, offering a casual smile that didn't quite reach his intense eyes.
"Hey," Scott greeted him softly, a slight sheepishness in his expression. "I haven't seen you since the party, so I had to come check on you." His face quickly brightened with enthusiasm. "The party was lit, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, kinda," Damian answered, his voice slow and doubtful. He kept his tone measured, carefully testing the waters. "I don't remember much from the party," he admitted in a low, uncertain voice, watching Scott's reaction closely.
Scott simply chuckled, brushing the comment aside with carefree excitement. "Neither do I! That's what makes it better, man. What's a party without getting wasted?"
Damian couldn't hold back the frustration simmering beneath his carefully constructed calm. The memory of the drive, the pain, and the overwhelming fear fueled his outburst.
"I had to carry you home yesterday, and I'm not even good at driving!" Damian scolded, his voice tight. "Do you know how stressful that was for me yesterday?"
Scott immediately looked contrite, though a playful smile soon replaced the guilt. "I'm so sorry for putting you through that, man. Seriously. That's why I'm here now, to make amends," he said, the smile softening his apology. "I actually have a surprise to show you."
"What would that be?" Damian asked, the word 'surprise' cutting through his anger and immediately piquing his curiosity.
Scott leaned closer, his voice dropping to an excited near-whisper. "It's a kind of altar, built to summon a mystical being. And it's believed it can grant wishes," he revealed, his face alight with unmistakable joy and wonder.
Damian felt a jolt run through him, instantly recalling the intense research he'd been doing just moments ago. The impossible desire for extraordinary power flashed in his mind.
"How true is that?" Damian asked, a subtle, desperate glimpse of excitement—a stark contrast to his earlier emptiness—finally showing in his eyes.
"Well, we'll never know until we see for ourselves," Scott responded, his eyes sparkling with adventure. "So, are you coming?"
His question was like offering candy to a desperate child. "Yes, sure, I would!" Damian replied, the word tumbling out with an intensity he couldn't hide. His excitement was genuine, his buried hopes spiraling upward with dizzying speed.
Just maybe I could finally find what I need, Damian thought to himself, the idea of the supernatural power eclipsing all else. If there was even the slightest possibility of attaining it, he must find it. "So are we going tonight?" he asked in haste, eager to leave immediately.
Scott pulled a face and shook his head. "We would go at noon tomorrow," he said, looking genuinely cautious. "It's scary at night, and we won't be able to see the path properly." He then added logistical details. "Also, we are going on foot. The road is rough, and my car won't get through, but don't worry, it's not so far from here."
Scott paused, remembering one last detail. "Oh, before I forget, Matt is coming with us. He was also interested in it," he added.
Matt was their class prefect and happened to be Scott's neighbor; they lived directly opposite each other. The more the merrier, Scott seemed to think, but for Damian, the inclusion of a third person was merely a distraction from his burning, desperate goal.
After Scott left, energized and buzzing with plans for the next day, Damian wasted no time. He plunged back into his research, his heart pounding with the newfound possibility. He immediately tried making specific inquiries about the location Scott mentioned, the supposed altar, but found absolutely nothing online. The lack of information only deepened his sense of urgency and mystery.
Amidst the fruitless search for the altar, he stumbled upon something far more profound and dangerous: an ancient ritual, a spell to summon a deity.
He jumped quickly into the details, his eyes scanning the screen, desperately trying to confirm if this dark magic was even possible. After a little scrolling, his focus locked onto a title heading that seemed to speak directly to his desperate quest: [ TO SUMMON THE DESIRE OF THE MIND ].
The text described a forbidden spell used to summon a primordial deity, and it contained a chilling quote:
> "To summon desire, only one thought must come in mind, for every desire, a price must be paid, a consequence so dire, it matches the desire. If you chose to continue, draw a pentagram and a circle, connect all edges, then another circle around it. Your blood shall be at the center. Then say the spell repeatedly:
'Hear my call, my heart desire, I would take the fall, though it is dire, on my word, begin the trial.'
And desire shall answer your call, but beware that which you desire, for the consequences cannot be avoided."
Damian stared at the screen, the ritual both terrifying and deeply tempting. His desire was for extraordinary power to enact revenge—a wish so colossal it could only be matched by a devastating consequence.
"The consequence that matches my desire would be too much. I can't use this," he concluded, pushing himself away from the screen. He was too afraid of the price. "I would go with Scott. Hopefully, whatever that altar grants would come with a lesser consequence."
With a final, deep breath, he shut down his computer. Having made his decision to pursue the unknown altar, he concluded his research and prepared for bed, the image of the blood ritual replaced by the hope of the coming journey.
The next day, precisely at noon, Scott arrived at Damian's house, Matt trailing slightly behind him. Scott looked ready for an expedition; he had a cross bag slung over his shoulder, bulging with contents.
"Why are you carrying a bag?" Damian asked curiously, his mind fixed solely on the destination.
Scott patted the bag with a proud smile. "They're full of supplies that we might need—both water and energy drinks," he explained cheerfully. "You can't explore the unknown without being prepared."
"Yeah, sure," Damian conceded, his excitement overriding his usual skepticism. "Can we leave now?"
Matt, who had been silently observing, rolled his eyes slightly. "He keeps looking for unnecessary distractions," Matt added, sounding slightly annoyed by Scott's theatrical preparation. He turned to Damian. "Let's all set out for this mysterious place."
With that, the three friends took to the road, beginning their journey. Since Scott's car couldn't handle the rough path, they walked, talking little as they left the familiar suburbs behind. After a long walk that gradually grew quieter as they moved away from civilization, they finally arrived at a quiet, long, winding road.
"It's at the end of this street," Scott announced, pointing down the quiet, deserted road. "Let's all take some energy drinks to replenish our energy as we walk."
Scott pulled out three cans from his cross bag and handed one to Matt and one to Damian. As they walked, sipping the drinks down the lonely road, they neared the end of the street. Suddenly, three figures emerged—two from the left side of the street and one from the right—blocking their path.
The three friends paused instinctively. As they did, a horrifying realization struck them: they weren't alone. They noticed movement behind them as well. This sinking, surrounded feeling was terrifyingly familiar to Damian; it was a textbook ambush.
Damian's mind raced. With his two years of intense training, he knew he could likely face the person behind him and use the distraction to escape on his own. But his friends, Scott and Matt, wouldn't be so lucky.
"I would make a break for the guy behind," he thought rapidly, calculating the risk. "That would give Scott and Matt enough time to run away."
Matt's terrified voice cut through the silence. "What's going on?" he asked, his face contorted with fear. "Huh... why am I suddenly feeling dizzy?"
The dizziness seemed to hit them at once. "Me too," Damian thought to himself, the energy drink's effect feeling sickeningly wrong. Before anyone could react or speak another word, a fifth guy—one they hadn't noticed lurking directly behind them—stepped forward and swung an iron rod, hitting Matt hard on the head.
Matt crumpled silently to the rough road, a trail of blood running from his head as he lay unconscious on the ground. The sight spurred Damian into immediate, desperate action. He dove toward the attacker who had been lingering behind them, attempting to create a small, crucial opening for Scott to escape.
"Run, Scott, run!" Damian shouted, his voice strained with urgency.
Scott hesitated for only a fraction of a second before leaping backward, making a clear show of retreating, just as Damian had hoped. But then, the sickening effects of the drug or poison he'd ingested hit Damian even harder. His muscles locked, his vision swam, and he felt his training fail him completely. He crashed heavily to the ground, helpless.
The leader of the ambushers stepped forward, looming over the fallen heroes.
"Whhhhy are you doing this? What did we do to you?" Damian managed to ask, his voice weak and shaking, frustration and raw confusion coloring his words.
Almost immediately, a chilling, sixth voice replied, the tone cold and utterly devoid of remorse:
"Why not?"
Damian's head snapped up. The sound of that voice, familiar yet horrific in this context, sent a paralyzing shock across his face as he realized who it was.