As Damien stood over his defeated opponent, a rush of satisfaction washed over him like a crashing wave—intense, overwhelming… and fleeting. There was always something missing, some invisible thread just out of reach. No matter how decisive the win, it never felt complete. Still, the thrill of victory was enough to dull the pain, for now.
Suddenly, the terrain began to shift. The geoshaper deactivated with a low hum, returning the battlefield to its original state. The transformation was subtle at first, but quickly turned surreal. Towering trees melted into dust and disappeared. The thick, suffocating mud evaporated beneath his feet. Mist dissolved into the air like it had never existed, replaced by the cold blue of the arena mat. It was like reality itself was unraveling, peeling away layer by layer.
Damien watched in stunned silence, half in awe and half disoriented. He barely registered the pain at first, but the moment the last illusion vanished, it all came crashing down on him in a single, pulsing wave. He hissed sharply, his legs buckling slightly.
Dammit. That stab of pain reminded him just how far he'd pushed himself. I need to stop fighting like I'm immortal…
Limping forward, he muttered to himself with a crooked grin, "Ah, who am I kidding? That was fun."
Before he could take another step, an arm slipped under his and hoisted him up. His first thought was, "Thank you, Luka," but when he looked, it wasn't his idiot friend—it was the referee.
The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and stupidly handsome—cover-of-a-trashy-novel handsome, the kind of guy you wanted to hate on principle.
Of course, Damien thought bitterly. Even the referees are hot around here.
He shot the man a sidelong glare. "Why didn't you call the match? I was sure you were gonna ruin my surprise."
The referee smiled faintly, his expression calm and unreadable. "Well, you see… my ability gives me a bit of insight, so to speak."
Of course it does. Abilities fell into eight broad categories—attack, defense, mobility, magic, transformation, utility, control, and healing. This guy clearly had a utility-type power, maybe even a hybrid. Damien wasn't surprised. With looks like that, the universe probably gave him a cheat code too.
"Fair enough," Damien muttered, his grin returning as fatigue dragged at his limbs. "Thanks for the lift. I'm about to faceplant."
The moment the words left his mouth, his body decided to cash in on that promise. Every step was a battle, his muscles trembling under the strain. Without another word, he let the unfairly attractive man carry him like a sack of bricks.
By the time they reached the medical tent, the referee pushed aside the thick canvas flap and gently lowered him onto one of the empty beds. Inside, a familiar warmth greeted him.
"Long time no see, Deviant Damien," came a voice laced with fond amusement.
He knew that voice—that teasing, ever-so-slightly scolding tone.
"Miss Abby…" Damien managed a tired grin that immediately turned into a wince. His whole body was one giant bruise.
The old woman stood beside the cot, her gray curls pulled back in a bun, eyes kind but sharp. She was like the academy's collective grandmother—if your grandma could heal bones by forcibly snapping them back into place.
She nodded at the referee. "Put him down right over there, Charles."
"Will do, Mom," the man replied with a casual smirk.
Damien blinked. Mom? Wait. Charles?! He stared between the two of them in disbelief. No way. No way in hell.
He'd been patched up by Miss Abby more times than he could count, and not once had she ever mentioned having a son—let alone a son who looked like a demigod moonlighting as a referee. He opened his mouth to say something, but then—
Pain.
A sharp jolt ripped through his side as he was lowered onto the bed. The rush of adrenaline that had kept him on his feet was finally gone, and reality hit hard.
I should've killed that guy, he thought bitterly, still riding the leftover rage from the match.
As if sensing his mood, Mrs. Abby spoke gently. "What happened this time? Did you lose again?"
Damien narrowed his eyes. Was she messing with him? Probably. She always did.
"Oh, you know. The usual," he said, voice dry. "Fought a guy twice my size, got flung into a tree, almost shattered every bone in my body—and then stabbed the bastard in the back."
Abby chuckled, shaking her head. "I thought the usual was you losing and almost breaking every bone in your body."
His eye twitched. Yep. Definitely mocking me.
Before he could fire off a snarky comeback, her expression shifted. The teasing melted away, replaced by something softer. Something real.
"I'm tired of seeing you in here, Damien." Her voice was low, and it caught him off guard. "If you keep this up… one day, I might be unable to fix you."
The words hit harder than any punch he'd taken that day. She wasn't scolding him. She was worried.
Miss Abby—the tough, no-nonsense woman who once set a broken arm without blinking—was worried about him. And for some reason, that made his chest ache worse than any of his injuries.
He wanted to say something. Something sincere. Maybe promise her he'd be more careful. But the words stuck in his throat. He couldn't lie to her. Not when she'd seen him like this so many times.
"…Yes, ma'am," he whispered instead, voice hoarse and thin.
Abby gave a small nod, then turned to her son. "Charles, I need you to hold him down."
Damien's head snapped up, eyes wide. "Hold me down? Why do you need to hold me down?!"
She gave him a sympathetic smile—the kind that made it worse. "Sorry, dear… but this is going to hurt."
Charles moved behind him, gently but firmly locking his arms in place. "I'm really sorry, man," he murmured. "But you know how this works."
And oh, Damien knew.
He clenched his jaw, already bracing himself. Then the healing began.
Pain flooded every nerve in his body—white-hot, blinding, all-consuming. Bones snapped back into alignment with sickening cracks. Tendons and ligaments rewove themselves like threads pulled taut across fire. Muscles stitched together with burning needles that danced beneath his skin.
It wasn't healing. It was being remade—cell by cell, inch by inch.
Dammit.
His fingers dug into the cot as he fought the urge to scream. He could feel everything. Every fracture is being sealed. Every sinew reconnecting. It was like being rebuilt from the inside out because that's exactly what was happening.
Mrs. Abby's power was incredible—brutal, but incredible. She could heal nearly any wound… but only by forcing the body to accept the repair. No shortcuts. No anesthetic. Just pain.
"I'm sorry, dear," she whispered again, voice tight. "It's almost over."
He could see it in her eyes—the guilt. She hated this as much as he did. Maybe more. But she did it anyway because someone had to.
Eventually, the agony began to fade. His breathing slowed. His vision cleared. The tension in Charles's arms relaxed as he let go.
Damien flexed his fingers. No more stabbing pain. No more dizziness. No more damage—at least, not the kind that left a scar.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the tent's ceiling, letting the silence settle.
I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy…
He paused… then smirked faintly.
…well, maybe Julius. That bastard has it coming