Supreme Warlock System : From Zero to Ultimate With My Wives

Warlock Ch 359. Rats in a Burning Barn

After breakfast finally wound down and the others scattered to deal with their own tasks—Cassius to his reports, Evelyn to check the magical wards, Victoria had disappeared to gods-know-where, probably lounging in one of the manor's sunrooms like a smug cat after getting her favorite toy.

He didn't feel like training. Not today. The high from last night's flawless assassinations had already faded. The kind that clung to your skin and pressed against your skull like a storm waiting to break.

The hallway felt colder than before, quiet in a way that pressed against Damian's thoughts. He walked slowly, letting the silence seep into his skin, his mind already racing ahead.

He'd just sent a few of his shadow servants into the city—tasked with eavesdropping in council chambers, noble estates, and seedy backrooms where secrets liked to bleed. He doubted the senators and council bigwigs would stay silent after what happened.

Sure, the assassinations had been clean. Silent. Elegant. Not even a drop of blood left behind. But people don't just vanish without someone noticing eventually. Especially three Rank S magi with political weight.

They'd be sniffing around by now. Talking in whispers. Pretending nothing had happened while secretly scrambling like rats in a burning barn.

He couldn't make a move until he saw how the pieces shifted. One wrong step and he'd be exactly where they wanted him—caught, framed, displayed to the public as the monster they were already painting him to be.

So yeah. For now, it was a waiting game.

He pushed open his bedroom door and stepped inside. The room was dim. The bed was still unmade, its sheets tangled from a restless sleep and... well, he didn't even bother fixing it. No point.

Damian crossed the room, tossing his coat over the back of a chair before sinking into the velvet armchair by the window. The view looked out over the southern courtyard, where twisted willow trees danced lazily in the wind.

He reached for the bookshelf beside him and pulled out a familiar volume—"Hexcraft & Hollow Crowns: A Treatise on Forgotten Blood Magic"—a dense, ancient tome bound in cracked leather and faintly humming with latent mana. Dust flared into the air as he opened it, the smell of old parchment and dried herbs curling into his nose.

He started reading, the words pulled him in like a spell. Diagrams of long-dead rituals, forgotten sigils, theoretical constructs of blood-forged pacts. It was all familiar, strangely comforting. A language he hadn't spoken aloud in years, but still remembered like a scar.

And then—because of course—his peace didn't last long.

'You always did have a thing for boring books,' came a dry, sardonic voice from somewhere deep inside his chest.

Damian froze.

He didn't look up. Just turned the page with a little more force than necessary.

"Shut up," he muttered under his breath.

The voice laughed—low and rich and irritatingly smug.

'Aww, don't be like that, Kaelan. I was starting to miss our little chats. You've been unusually quiet lately. What happened? All those women keepin' you too distracted to talk to your favorite parasite?'

Damian gritted his teeth. "You're not my favorite anything."

'Liar,' the Demon King replied smoothly.

Damian rolled his eyes, still scanning the page in front of him even though he'd already read it a dozen times. "You only ever show up when I'm trying to concentrate."

'Because it's the best time to bother you,' the voice said matter-of-factly. 'Besides, things are heating up, aren't they? All this sneaking and killing and pretending you're the morally gray hero. I'm just saying—it's starting to look awfully familiar.'

Damian's jaw tightened. "I'm not him anymore."

'That's adorable. You even believe that.' The Demon King chuckled darkly, the echo of it reverberating faintly through Damian's mana core like a ripple in still water. 'But I know you, Kaelan. I was there when the world called you a savior. I was also there when they burned your statue to the ground and spat on your name.'

Damian slammed the book shut, not caring that the sound cracked through the silence like a whip. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled as he stared at the floor.

"You done?"

'Nope,' came the cheerful reply.

Damian took a slow breath, exhaled. "Then say what you came to say."

'Fine.' The voice shifted—less mocking now, more thoughtful, even if it still held that ever-present edge of arrogance. 'You're walking the same road again. Gathering allies. Making enemies of people in high places. You know how this ends, don't you?'

Damian stayed quiet.

'You fight. You win. And then they still crucify you because the truth doesn't matter—only the version of it the people choose to believe.'

Damian leaned back slowly, eyes closing. "Yeah. I know."

'So why are you doing it again?'

He didn't answer right away. Just let the silence settle between them like a thick fog. The truth was... he didn't know. Not really. Maybe because he couldn't ignore it. Maybe because the world kept giving him reasons to stand up and fight, even when he didn't want to.

He opened his eyes again, staring out the window.

"I guess I just… can't let it go," he said quietly. "Not when I know what's happening behind the scenes. Not when I can actually do something."

The Demon King was quiet for a moment. Then—'You're still such a bleeding heart.'

"I'm trying not to be."

'Failing spectacularly.'

Damian snorted. "You're a real motivational speaker, you know that?"

'Hey, I have my moments. This one? Not one of them. I'm mostly here to mock you.'

Damian shook his head, standing up to pace the room. "You're irritating."

'And you're predictable.'

He paused by the mirror, looking at his reflection for a beat longer than he meant to. The faint red glow in his irises flickered—remnants of the cursed mana running through his soul. The price of housing the Demon King in his core. The burden of power.

"I don't care if they paint me as the villain," he said aloud this time, voice low but clear. "I just don't want to see the people I care about burned because of me."

'Too late for that, Kaelan. They're already in the fire. You just haven't noticed the smoke yet.'

Damian's chest tightened.

Then a knock came at his door. Soft. Hesitant.