Sign In To The Body Of Chaos At The Start

After that conversation, three nights had passed by in a hurry. The atmosphere in the Dragon Clan seemed like the calm before the storm. Antares & Varus had been relatively quiet, but Damon knew they were planning something.

During those past 3 days, the Dragon Clan's fortress became a cathedral of quiet preparation.

Damon had not slept in the conventional sense. Sleep was for those who could afford to lower their guard. His dreams, when they came, were like fragments of shrapnel, memory shards from the Primordial Era, visions of the Abyss, and whispers of versions of himself from the Abyss.

By the third night, the moon was fractured.

Not metaphorically.

Above the high towers of the world, the pale moon glistened in a hundred broken pieces, scattered fragments held together by invisible tension, suspended in a sky that looked like it had begun to crack.

It was the first time Damon had seen such a phenomena in his lift. He was standing at the high Eastern gate of the Dragon Fortress, with BloodReaper on his back in dormant blade form, sealed within the scabbard.

Behind him, Astralene was approaching quietly, walking as if she'd been born of the wind. Her attire was different. Gone were the regal robes of a scholar-sorceress. She wore a cloak of woven constellation silk, drawn over simple combat leathers carved with silver inscriptions.

Aetheric dust drifted from her every step.

Without a word, she joined him at the gate.

They said nothing for a while. The guards had long since cleared the path, bowing deeply at their departure. And yet, neither of them moved. Damon's hand curled slightly at his side.

"You feel it?" Astralene asked softly.

"The moment we step past this gate," Damon replied, "reality bends."

"The Valley's already waking. The world is trying to push it out like a fever dream, but it can't. Not anymore."

And with that, they stepped beyond the threshold,and the world shifted.

The Veiled Hollow was not marked by grand towers or ancient ruins. It was subtle. The land gave way to twilight that stretched forever, even as they walked beneath a midnight sky.

Forests here didn't whisper, they listened. The trees were tall and narrow, reaching toward stars that shimmered with unease. Each step brought them deeper into a realm that shouldn't exist.

After three hours of walking, Damon spoke. "We're not alone, are we?"

Astralene gave a faint nod, "The Valley watches all who approach. But more than that, it's pulling us in."

He could feel it now. The paths they took didn't loop, but they didn't go straight either. Every fork in the road didn't offer a left or right, it offered two versions of right. And behind every choice, a subtle hum of magic.

When they finally reached the edge of the Hollow, they saw it.

The Valley of Dreams.

It wasn't a valley in the traditional sense, it was a basin of fog, suspended in a plane of floating islands and impossible bridges.

The sky above rippled like a canvas soaked in too much ink, stars swirling like eyes that refused to blink. The entire landscape shimmered, like it was made of memory more than matter.

Damon stepped forward.

And the moment he did, the fog responded. It curled and rose, beckoning.

"Don't forget who you are," Astralene whispered.

He turned toward her, but her face was already fading, shimmering like a mirage. The Aether around them thickened. Distance warped.

"Astralene?"

"I'll be waiting on the edge," her voice echoed like a fading dream. "Only you can walk this path now."

Damon exhaled and entered the fog.

Immediately, he felt pressure.

Not crushing weight, but expectation. This realm didn't attack him physically. It waited for him to reveal himself. To falter.

He walked deeper. The ground beneath his feet shimmered like translucent marble, shifting with every step. At first, it was silent. But then, he heard it.

Footsteps. Matching his own.

He turned sharply, and saw himself.

Not just another Damon. This one was younger. Cleaner. His eyes held less shadow. They stared at each other for a long moment.

"You could've stayed normal," the echo-Damon said, his voice sharp, almost judgmental, "You didn't need the Chaos. The Spirits. The Abyssal trials."

Damon's response was cold, "And let my family and friends die?"

"You think you're saving them now?" the echo sneered, "You're becoming the thing you fight. One day, you won't come back from the void. And when you vanish, people will remember you not as a savior, but as a warning."

The real Damon narrowed his eyes. "I didn't come here to debate ghosts."

"You came to see yourself," the echo said, voice growing distant, "and you will… over and over…"

And with that, the vision vanished into dust.

But more visions immediately rose up in its place as Damon walked through the valley. The Valley did not test linearly. There were no corridors or doors. There were memories.

He found himself walking into a field where the corpses of spirits lay, countless contracts broken, fallen familiars whose names he'd never known. He stepped across a battlefield made entirely of alternate Damons, one corrupted, one enraged, one hollow-eyed with power and no soul left.

One had become the Abyss. That one lingered the longest.

The Abyss-Damon stepped forward with a crown of bone and wings of inverted starlight. His voice was a low rumble.

"Power is purpose," he said, "and purpose is pain. Embrace it fully, and you'll stop losing. You'll stop failing the people you pretend to protect."

Real Damon summoned his own power, Shadow curling around his arms, Space magic forming rings around his body.

"I didn't come to listen to corpses," he growled.

The Abyss-Damon smiled, then slowly faded, crumbling into black ash.

The Valley pulsed.

Ahead, a bridge of light appeared. Beyond it… the Wellspring.

He stepped onto the bridge, and the world twisted.

His feet no longer touched stone, or wood, or air. They stepped on concepts.

Time. Grief. Triumph. Choice.

Every step was a memory. Every step echoed a word.

Artemis. Talia. Bastion Sanctum. The Abyss. Death. Victory. Shadow. Hope.

And then he saw it.

The Wellspring of Aether.

It wasn't a lake.

It wasn't a fountain.

It was a sphere of pure, radiant light hovering above a spiraling pillar of translucent stone. The very air around it bent—gravity struggled to remain coherent.

And it spoke.

Not in words, but in pressure.

Damon fell to one knee as the Wellspring saw him.

It tore through his being like fire through silk, his thoughts, his regrets, his rage, his love, his hope. Every doubt he ever buried flared like a signal. It was not cruel. It was not kind.

It was honest.

"You seek to fight the Abyss," it said, not aloud, but in every part of his soul. "And yet you carry its residue. The chaos. The shadow. The hunger."

"I've mastered them," he said through clenched teeth.

"You've buried them," it replied. "But buried things grow."

The Wellspring pulsed, and Damon's body lifted off the ground. Spirals of Aether wrapped around him, diving into his skin. Into his spirit.

It was not like his previous power-ups.

This wasn't a transformation. It was a question.

Who are you?

Flashes.

The Primordial Era.

The Abyss.

His first training session.

Meeting his father.

The first time he held Artemis's hand.

The first time he almost gave up.

The first time he killed and enjoyed it.

The moment he chose to resist anyway.

The Wellspring pushed harder.

And he pushed back.

"No," he said, voice cracking under strain. "I will not become that. Not again. Not ever."

"You may not get to choose," it answered.

"I will."

A pause.

And then, the light grew still.

It folded in on itself, then expanded outward, slowly, like a flower blooming in reverse.

Then, it sang.

The note was pure, unbroken, and infinite.

Damon's body dropped gently back to the ground, his feet touching reality once again.

In his hand was a single shard of crystallized Aether.

A piece of the Wellspring's truth.

Not a weapon.

A seed.

He held it tightly.

A whisper echoed in his ear.

"Plant it in the world you wish to save."

Then the Valley began to crumble.

As Damon turned and ran across the collapsing bridge, the sky above screamed,not with sound, but with pressure. The Abyss had felt the event.

And it was coming.

From behind, shadowy tendrils lashed through space, dragging distorted versions of himself, fallen echoes, toward him. One reached his shoulder.

He spun, summoning Spacial Cleave, a technique he'd honed in silence. The blade of warped space tore through dimensions, severing the tendril mid-reach.

"Not this time," he growled, and surged forward.

The bridge faded behind him and the fog that surrounded him vanished.

With all that done, he emerged from the Valley of Dreams, gasping for breath, sweat dripping down his brow.

Astralene was there, waiting, kneeling beside a warded circle she had maintained throughout.

The moment she saw him, her expression broke into raw relief.

"You did it," she whispered.

"I did something," Damon answered, holding out the glowing shard of Aether. "But the real battle hasn't begun yet."

Astralene nodded.

"And it never ends."