Crossworld Swordplay

Thhhhp.

The world returned all at once—a gasp of air, a flood of sensation.

Damon bolted upright.

Sweat clung to his skin like oil. His lungs heaved, dragging air into his chest as if he'd just run for miles. The infirmary ceiling spun above him in pale swirls of ivory and gold leaf. He blinked, disoriented.

A searing ache pulsed in his jaw, ribs, and collar. Slash marks painted his skin.

"The... Infirmary?" Damon muttered, groaning as he forced himself upright. His memories felt fluffy—muddled and half-lost.

The sheets beneath him were thin, smelled of medicine, and were damp with sweat. He gripped them tightly as he looked down. A faint red mark ran down his chest, slashing from left right shoulder.

He touched the wound.

"Ouch," he hissed. It stung sharply.

When am I? he thought—but the mark's familiarity clawed at him more than the time.

A soft shuffle near the bed made him turn.

Madame Virell, the academy's senior infirmary matron, stood beside a tray of folded bandages and tinctures.

"You're awake," she said calmly. "Good."

Damon didn't respond right away. His throat was dry.

"What am I doing here?" he asked finally.

"Being treated, young lord," Madame Virell replied. "But if you're asking why you were brought here, then you might also have amnesia."

She placed the tray next to him with a faint clink.

"Relax," she added, mistaking his silence, "I was jesting. Although... you probably do have a mild concussion."

Damon's eyes drifted. His chest rose and fell in thought.

"Tell me..." he paused.

"Did I beat Thorne Veras?"

Madame Virell looked at him for a moment. She picked up a tincture bottle, turning it slowly in her hand—then set it back down with a soft clink.

"Yes," she said gently. "You won."

"You even had time to celebrate and rest up before becoming sexually intimate with your servant girl. But the next morning, the damage caught up with you—"

"It turns out Thorne Veras broke your guard during the match with a clean combination, even if you ultimately bested him. The hits you took were serious: a dislocated shoulder, minor fractures in your sword hand, two bruised ribs, and a bloodied nose, to name a few. You collapsed sometime after."

"Say ah," Madame Virell said, pouring the tincture onto a spoon and raising it toward his mouth.

"Open up, Young Lord Valtair."

Damon blinked. Her nurturing smile felt too loving. Too soft. But he opened his mouth anyway.

The medicine slid over his tongue—syrupy, bitter, thick—and sank down his throat like honey laced with iron.

"Is that so..." he murmured after she pulled the spoon away.

Madame Virell placed it on the tray and opened another tincture bottle.

"This one's a bit more bitter," she warned, pouring it onto the spoon and bringing it to his lips.

So I've been sent back to the past, he thought, tasting the bittersweet blend. His eyes closed. The wind brushed across his face, caressing his hair as he drank the grassy liquid.

"Good boy," Madame Virell said absentmindedly, already reaching for fresh bandages. She set them beside him and began her work with methodical care—wrapping his ribs first, firm but gentle, then adjusting the sling around his sword arm.

"You'll need to rest the arm at least two days," she said, tightening the knot. "Three, if you want it to heal properly. And no sparring until your hand stops trembling—"

"Madame."

Damon's voice came out ragged. His pupils had dilated.

"Can I have more of that medicine?" He reached out, gripping her wrist with his uninjured hand.

His fingers tightened.

Madame Virell's eyes narrowed. She pulled her arm back firmly, not startled—but alert now.

"You're not supposed to like the taste," she said slowly, eyes flicking to the dark veins still faintly visible on his forearm.

Damon blinked, ".. Huh?"

DING!

[Warning: Gen−Sequence Instability Detected] 

Emotional spike exceeds safe thresholds.

Stabilize immediately or risk Genetic Collapse.

The text flashed across his vision—searing itself into the back of his mind—before vanishing as quickly as it came.

"Sorry about that," he murmured, releasing his hold on the unknown tension in his body. His voice dropped to something sheepish, almost too rehearsed. "I don't know what got over me."

Madame Virell didn't respond immediately. She gently pulled her sleeve back into place, her expression unreadable. For a moment, her gaze lingered on his eyes—searching for something she couldn't quite name.

"Rest," she said finally, her tone a little more cautious now. "I'll return later to check your bandages."

As she turned away, Damon leaned back against the bed. His pulse still throbbed in his neck. His breath came uneven. Blood fogged the edges of his vision.

"I won," he muttered.

The warning still echoed in his mind.

But that wasn't what truly claimed first place in his thoughts:

But don't get excited. I won't teach you how to bind it. If you want what's inside, you'll have to figure out the final part of the ritual yourself. Fail or succeed — that's your problem.

No, Damon thought. I haven't won just yet.

I doubt this was how I was meant to absorb the Sigil Stone… or even how it's supposed to be used. But this time, I'll try to unlock its secrets properly.

His hand reached toward the ceiling as his pupils dilated once more.

And there it was—

A black horse, its body dripping in an ethereal form of ink and shadow, stared down at him from the dark above.