The Damned Demon

A week later,

The moon cast a melancholic glow over the dark, ornate chamber as Lysandra, in her flowing dark red nightgown, which accentuated her voluptuous curves, turned away from the chilling night air of the balcony.

Her silver-lavender hair, almost ethereal under the blood moon's rare light, cascaded over her shoulders as she stepped back into the warmth of her room, her mind weighed with heavy burdens.

*Bang!*

Her solitude was abruptly shattered by the heavy, unsteady footsteps of Drakar, whose entrance was as graceless as his state. His jet black wings smashed the nearby vases and small tables as he stumbled into them while walking ahead.

The smell of strong liquor preceded him, filling the room with its harsh scent. Lysandra's delicate nose wrinkled in distaste at the pungent aroma, "Why are you like this? You should return to your chamber and rest. You are too drunk," she said, her voice laced with concern yet edged with a queenly authority.

Drakar's response was a scornful scoff, his words slurred but piercing, "Why would my woman have the right to question why her man is in her chamber?" His figure loomed in the doorway, his shadow stretching long and distorted across the marble floor.

Lysandra maintained her composure, her brow furrowing slightly, "I only said that because I was worried. You don't look good," she replied, her tone steady yet soft, trying to diffuse the tension.

"Hahaha…" The sound of Drakar's laughter, bitter and loud, echoed off the walls.

He staggered toward her, his movements clumsy but threatening, "How am I supposed to look good when that bitch and her plans made me lose so many life crystals? Do you have any idea how many decades it takes for our kingdom to amass a few million life crystals? All those decades of effort were wasted on some puny clans and kingdoms."

Lysandra's brows briefly raised, wondering which woman he was talking about and why he was lamenting like this when he was the one who came up with the plan.

However, she shifted gracefully to the side as he approached, her eyes cool and firm, "That's not necessarily true. They will be forever indebted to you, and the Bloodburn Kingdom can't rely on them. They could prove to be useful when the war happens," she countered, her voice a calm contrast to his rough tirade.

Drakar's sneer was palpable as he spat on the floor in contempt, "Who needs those weaklings when just a fraction of my kingdom is enough to raze those bloodburners to the ground? We have 30 Dragon Knights, and they only have 5 Bloodborn Guards to match them in strength. They are a joke, and yet they just refuse to get destroyed."

"Let's talk about this when you are sober," Lysandra suggested, attempting to bypass him with dignified poise.

Drakar, his face a tempest of rage and intoxication, suddenly seized Lysandra's arm with a vise-like grip.

Whirling her around, his dark fiery red eyes seared into hers, alight with a brutish lustful glow, "Where do you think you're going? It's been an age since I've felt your warmth. Since Agonon's death, you've shunned my bed. I've been patient, treasuring you above all women. But my patience has its limits. It's time you resumed your duties as my woman," With a harsh motion, he hurled her towards the bed.

Lysandra's heart skipped as she hit the bed, but resolve stiffened her spine.

Rising swiftly, she faced him, her voice tight with barely constrained emotion, "Not now, Drakar. I...I still need time." The raw, recent memory of having to destroy the only remaining piece of her lover and Droco's brutal end—his chest gruesomely torn open, his life extinguished like a snuffed candle before a mocking crowd, all honor denied—echoed painfully in her mind.

Drakar had stripped her of the last kin she had, tainting even the air she breathed with his oppressive presence, which became even more suffocating to the point she was finding it hard to endure it anymore.

Drakar's fury grew, and with a snarl, he clasped her throat, his grip iron, "You dare refuse me? No other man would grant you this grief for a mere son. We could always sire more if that's your wish."

Her gaze icy, Lysandra clutched at his wrist, "No... There will never be another Agonon. And I can't... won't move on... not until the one who slew him lies dead at my feet."

His voice, a menacing growl, Drakar retorted, "So, you defy me until that alien rat dies? No! I won't let you grant him such mercy. He will live as my captive, broken and watching as I destroy all he cherishes." Flipping her to the floor, he loomed over her, a dark shadow of wrath, "And you, you need to be punished for your defiance. You dare make me beg for you when you are the one supposed to be throwing yourself at me," he declared, snapping his fingers.

A dark purple whip materialized in his hand, shimmering with a sinister light. It was clear from its glow that it was no ordinary whip but laced with a lethal poison.

Lysandra's eyes flickered with simmering resentment, which she hid as she looked up at the looming figure.

"I never thought I would use my 'Punisher' on you," Drakar muttered, a twisted pain in his tone, "Reserved for those who failed to please me...it pains me that you force my hand."

"Stop this, Drakar. All I asked for is some time," she pleaded, staring at the ominous glow of the whip, the air thick with the imminent threat of pain and venom.

Drakar coldly scoffed upon hearing her plea and,

"Crack!*

The shadowed room echoed with the sinister crack of the 'Punisher', as it suddenly descended mercilessly upon Lysandra's back, lashing away few of her scales on her wings along with some of her skin.

"Arrgh!" A piercing scream tore from her lips, a sound raw and chilling, as she crumpled to the floor under the agonizing blow, consciousness flickering like a snuffed candle, and felt the metallic taste of blood in her mouth.

Drakar stood over her, his lips twisted into a cruel smirk, "You must have felt that, huh?" His voice was laced with a dark amusement as he eyed the whip in his hand, "You know, my Punisher is laced with the special poison harvested from the Dreadspine Serpent—one that costs 500 life crystals to maintain its potency after every twenty strikes. Fortunately, I have brought enough to last an entire day."

Lysandra's heart remained firm despite knowing how terrifying the Dreadspine Serpent was, whose venom, when injected directly, could even kill a Soul Devourer in seconds.

But it was very rare to discover it in the open, and even if one came upon them, only those with a death wish would dare to face it. There was only a dangerous rumored place where this serpent had made its home, but no one dared venture there.

Of course, the poison on the whip was a weaker version of it but still very lethal to a Soul Devourer.

"For any other woman, I'd use an ordinary whip; they'd die instantly under the Punisher's lash. But you," he sneered, a twisted pride in his tone, "you're the only one who can withstand and survive it. Yet, its poison won't let you heal quickly. Maybe the pain will teach you what words cannot. So don't you dare use a wisp of your mana to defend yourself or fight the poison."

Underneath him, Lysandra's fists clenched against the cold stone floor, her face a mask of resolve hardened by the cruel test of endurance. She drew a shuddering breath, the agonizing pain searing through her, yet her spirit remained unbroken, her determination ice-cold to endure this pain rather than throw herself at him.

As the hours dragged on, the cruel echoes of the whip and Lysandra's increasingly faint cries filled the chamber, a macabre tune that played until the first light of dawn crept across the sky.

Each lash was a brutal reminder of her torment, blood seeping out from her mouth.

Yet with each passing moment, her resolve to withstand and survive hardened into an unyielding will, her spirit refusing to be crushed by Drakar's merciless hand.

For everyone she lost because of him, she has to hold on.

—

Deep within a secluded valley, hidden from the unyielding gaze of the world, lay the Lake of No Return, its dark purple waters mirroring the crimson skies.

It was here that Asher found Lysandra, her figure reflected in the eerie stillness of the lake.

As agreed, it was time for them to meet up again.

However, Asher was surprised to see her dressed in a dark red cloak that covered her entire body instead of her usual regal off-shoulder dark red gown.

Upon detecting Asher's approach, Lysandra turned slowly, her movements as if weighed down by invisible burdens. Her voice, when she spoke, was a fragile thread of sound, barely carrying over the gentle lapping of the water, "I won't take much time today."

Asher's response was a slow nod, his eyes scanning her, instinctively searching for something amiss.

Not only did her voice sound off, but it didn't take long for him to notice the unnatural pallor of her skin—a stark contrast to her usually iron-like demeanor. As his gaze lingered, Lysandra slowly turned her face away and pulled her hood forward as if to hide something.

"What the hell happened to you?" Asher's voice was tight, his brows knitted together as he observed the dimming aura that seemed to barely cling to her.