The clinic room was quiet now.
Claire lay across the small bed, her breathing slowly returning to normal as exhaustion pulled at her limbs.
A strange, lingering heat still stirred beneath her skin, but as the quiet settled over the room, a wave of emotional confusion washed through her mind.
She stared up at the ceiling, her hands clutching the thin hospital blanket.
Guilt pinched at her chest.
Why did I do that?
she thought, her pulse quickening with faint panic.
She was a sensible person.
She had met this young man barely two hours ago, taken pity on him as an orphan in need, and yet…
when he looked at her, when he spoke, her rational mind had simply yielded.
Yet, beneath that conflict, her mind kept returning to him.
The corruption planted within her soul during those moments had taken subtle roots.
When she looked at Damon, her perception of him had fundamentally shifted.
The desire was no longer a fleeting impulse; it was pulling her attention entirely to him.
On the other side of the bed, Damon sat up and silently rolled his shoulders.
He ignored her internal struggle entirely, turning his attention inward to examine his physical vessel.
The change was modest, but unmistakable.
The exhaustion that had weighed down his limbs since awakening in this body was gone.
His breathing was steady, his skin had regained a healthy tone, and the faint, aching weakness in his chest had completely cleared.
His demonic essence remained largely dormant, still starving for vast amounts of power, but the fundamental proof was now established.
The cultivation method functioned perfectly within mortal flesh.
With repeated nourishment, he could gradually rebuild his strength, refine his body, and eventually surpass ordinary human limits.
As he flexed his hand, a specific detail from his previous existence resurfaced in his memory.
He had never been a generic lust demon.
In his former realm, his soul carried a unique, possessive trait:
once a woman was marked by his intimacy, the demonic taint permanently altered her fundamental nature.
From that moment on, her capacity for sexual attraction became entirely bound to him.
She would never again experience sexual desire for another man.
He glanced sideways at Claire, observing the subtle, lingering trace of his essence in her aura.
Though his current strength was a mere fraction of what it once was, the trait had survived reincarnation intact.
She would keep her ambitions, her daily life, and her free will.
But on a fundamental, instinctual level, she was now exclusively tethered to him.
Claire shifted on the bed, turning her head to look at him as she pulled her clothes back into order.
“What…
what are you going to do now?”
she asked softly, her voice still carry a trace of strain.
“When you leave here?”
He swung his legs off the bed, buttoning his shirt with smooth movements.
He looked back at her with an unbothered expression.
“Find my way,” He replied casually.
“What about you, Claire?
What does your ordinary life look like when you aren’t playing the Good Samaritan?”
“I work at a local bakery in the North District,” she murmured, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Sweet Wheat Bakery, near the main square.
I’m usually there six days a week.”
His eyes glinted slightly, though his expression remained perfectly neutral.
A local bakery meant a fixed routine, a predictable location, and a reliable foothold if he ever needed to use her again.
He didn’t reveal a single thought, merely storing the location neatly in his memory.
“A bakery,” He said, offering a pleasant smile.
“Sounds peaceful.”
He stood up from the bed, standing at his full height.
The contrast was striking.
He no longer looked like the pathetic, half-starved boy who had collapsed in front of her on the street.
His posture was straight, his eyes sharp, and an understated aura radiated from him.
Damon caught his own reflection in the clinic window and let out a mocking smirk.
He cast one last look at Claire, who sat staring at him with a mixture of residual guilt and helpless fascination.
Without offering promises, dramatic farewells, or empty gratitude, He turned on his heel and walked out of the ward with the confidence of a man stepping onto his own territory.
Following the fragmented memories of the original body’s owner, He navigated the dim, narrow streets of Vesper’s lower residential district.
He stopped before a dilapidated apartment building, climbed three flights of stairs, and unlocked a rusted metal door.
The door creaked open, revealing the reality of his current starting point.
The room was tiny and miserable.
Dust lay thick over a stained mattress shoved into the corner.
The air smelled of damp wall plaster and stale water.
There was no food in the miniature fridge, the light switch clicked uselessly due to unpaid bills, and the small window looked out onto a wall of concrete.
The previous owner really had been living at rock bottom.
Broke, betrayed, and squeezed out of existence.
He walked inside, stepping over a pile of old mail, and stood in the middle of the room.
He felt no sentimentality, no pity for the dead boy, and no urge to curse his luck.
He simply calculated his needs with efficiency.
He needed food.
He needed capital.
He needed decent clothes, electricity, and a residence fitting for his status.
He needed to build a body strong enough to crush anyone who stood in his way.
Currently, his wealth was exactly $0, and his resources were non existent.
He looked around the empty room.
No food.
No electricity.
No money.
Nothing worth keeping.
His smirk widened, dark and arrogant, cutting through the shadows of the miserable apartment.
“Then I’ll change all of it.”
He needed to find the right woman.
Fast.