Chapter 22


    The waterfall crashed like a beast let loose, its icy spray clawing the air, mist rising in ragged curls from the churned pool below. Aaron sat cross-legged on a slick stone, the water slamming his shoulders—relentless, cold, a thousand tiny fists beating him down. His silver hair stuck to his scalp, dripping into his eyes, tracing scars and sinew, pooling where his collarbone dipped. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His mind was somewhere else—deep, past the ache in his joints, past the steady hum of the damage spell buzzing under his skin like a debt he’d never pay off.


    He breathed out, slow, deliberate, his breath a faint cloud in the chill. Inside, his ember burned—a third of it always alive, feeding the spells that knit his body tighter. Muscles denser than oak, bones hard as iron, his heart a stubborn drum thumping stronger every day. It was working. He could feel it, the way his frame held steady under the waterfall’s weight, calmer now than it’d been in weeks. But it wasn’t enough. He’d been the demon king once—unbreakable, a force that cracked the world open. He wanted that back. No—more than that. He wanted to dig deeper.


    Eyes shut, he sank inward. Past the muscle, past the bone, into the marrow where something twitched—tiny, alive, humming. Like tiny winy slimes(cells), though the word felt flimsy, too small for what they were. Little slimes, teeming in the dark, each one a spark of his ember waiting to catch fire. He’d sensed them before, back when he ruled, but there’d been no time then—just war, blood, a throne built on ash and screams. Now, with the road stretching long to the next city, with this fragile pocket of peace, he had time. So he focused. Hard.


    He pulled at his ember, a thread of heat winding through his veins, reaching for those sparks. It flickered, brushed a tiny slime—a burst of light—then died, snuffed out like a candle in the wind. Again. He clenched his jaw, the cold biting deeper, and pushed. The ember flared, hot and wild, and he touched it—a single slime, a pulse of power. Then it slipped, and pain roared through him, sharp as a blade. He doubled over, hands clawing the stone, a grunt ripping from his chest.


    At the campsite, Amelia swung her wooden sword, the air hissing with each slash. The elf parried, his relic knife a blur, but his eyes kept sliding to the waterfall—to the boy who’d bent his knee with a flick of power four hundred years couldn’t match. “Focus!” Amelia snapped, her voice cutting through the water’s roar. He nodded, but his mind churned. The slavery mark burned at the back of his neck, a leash tighter than any he’d known. And he wasn’t alone—the demoness, kneeling by the fire pit, shared it too. He’d thought her human at first, just a bad vibe, but no—she was a blood demon, her power grotesque and thick, like oil in the air. A high-ranking one, humbled same as him.


    A flicker of relief hit him—someone else carried the shame. But the question gnawed: ‘Who the hell was this kid?’ He wanted to ask Amelia, this girl slashing at him with a strength that belied her age, each block a hair’s breadth from failure. Humans weren’t supposed to be this good. His queen’s words echoed, centuries old: ‘Even though our lives are infinite, the world will never run out of surprises.’ He got it now, watching Aaron sit like a statue under that pounding water.


    The demoness struck a flint, sparks spitting into the twigs she’d stacked too neatly, like she was proving a point. The fire caught with a hiss, and she glanced up—first at Aaron, then the elf. A smirk ghosted her lips. ‘Two slaves, one master,’ she thought. ‘But who’s really trapped?’ Her hands moved fast, piling logs, but her eyes stayed sharp, flickering with something—doubt, maybe, or a buried spark of her own.


    Under the waterfall, Aaron shook. His body screamed—muscles tearing, the damage spell lagging, pain blooming red behind his eyes. Blood trickled from his nose, washed away by the spray. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. He was close. The ember surged again, and he reached—gentle this time, not forcing it. There—a flicker, a connection. A single tiny slime within him blazed, a pinpoint of light in the void. He held it, trembling, for one breath, two, feeling a whisper of the power he’d lost. Then it faded, and he collapsed back, a laugh tearing free—rough, wild, alive. It was something. A fragile thread, but it was ‘his’.


    At the camp, Amelia froze mid-swing, head snapping to the waterfall. “Aaron?” she called, voice lost in the roar. The elf lowered his knife, his gaze tight, “……” The demoness snorted, tossing a log that sent sparks spiraling. “Let him. He’ll learn—or he won’t.” But her gaze lingered, a crack in her mask.


    Amelia turned back, knowing Aaron would handle himself,she wanted to reach out to him but her care would only be an edge if she didn’t trust him.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Foot snagging a root. She stumbled, sword slipping, and the elf caught her arm, smirking. “Careful, warrior,” he teased, lighter than he’d felt in days. She shoved him off, cheeks red. “Shut up,” she muttered, but a grin broke through, quick and bright.


    Aaron lay sprawled, chest heaving, the water rushing over him like it could erase the ache. He wiped blood from his lip, staring up at the gray sky through the mist. A start. That’s all it was—a spark in the dark. But it was enough to keep him going.


    The elf blocked another swing, wood cracking against steel, and glanced at Aaron again. “You’re not focusing,” Amelia barked, her blade slamming his right. He caught it, arm jarring, and nodded. She was right. His mind was on the boy—on the power coiled there, on the storm he felt brewing, quiet and close.


    The fire hissed, spitting embers into the dark like little gasps of defiance. The demoness—stood over the pot, stirring stew she hadn’t meant to perfect. Garlic and thyme curled up in tendrils of steam, thick enough to taste, and she hated how it soothed her. She’d never asked for this knack, this quiet alchemy of broth and heat, but there it was, bubbling away. Aaron’s taunts had dulled lately, softened by the meals she laid at his feet. A small mercy, bitter as it was.


    She glanced at Amelia, hunched over her bowl, spoon scraping the edges. “He coming to eat?” she asked, voice rough, like she’d dragged it over gravel. “Or’s he gonna sit under that waterfall another eight hours?”


    Amelia didn’t look up, just chewed slow, savoring. “He’s training,” she said, matter-of-fact, like it explained everything. “…..his body.”


    The demoness froze, spoon mid-stir. Across the fire, the elf—stopped sharpening his knife, the whetstone silent. “His body?”  she echoed, squinting toward the waterfall where Aaron sat, still as stone, water pounding his shoulders. “Looks like he’s meditating though….”


    Amelia laughed, a short, cutting bark. “You’d never understand Aaron.” She scooped another bite, pride flickering in her eyes like the firelight. “And at this rate, you’ll never beat him either.”


    Her gaze drifted back to the shadow under the falls. ‘How much stronger does he want to be?’ The thought sank into her, cold and heavy, like a stone in her gut.


    Under the waterfall, Aaron’s world was a roar of white noise and ache. His skin prickled, numb from the cold, muscles trembling under the relentless crush. But his mind—his mind was alive, electric. He’d cracked it. The ember pulsed inside him, not just in his blood but in these tiny, living things—’sels’, he’d decided to call them. Tiny Slimes was too crude, too weak for what they were. ‘Sels.’ Small, simple, perfect. He laughed, the sound swallowed by the water’s thunder. ‘I’m a genius.’


    It was like peering through a cracked door into a secret world. These sels—they protected, healed, grew, each kind with its own job, its own pulse. Even now, as the damage spell clawed through him, shredding the weaker ones, his body fought back, forging tougher versions in their wake. ‘That’s why it’s taking more ember,’ he realized, teeth gritted against the pain. His body wasn’t breaking—it was evolving.


    Answers clicked into place, sharp and satisfying, and with them came a hunger. No more blunt spells for his arms or lungs. He’d craft new ones, precise, tailored to each type of sel humming beneath his skin. A locksmith picking a thousand tiny locks. ‘Yeah,’ he thought, grinning despite the sting. ‘That’s power.’


    Night had settled thick and cool, the fire burned low, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts. Aaron emerged from the falls, dripping, his skin pruned and pale, but his eyes blazed, wild and bright. He strode into camp, water trailing behind him like a conqueror’s cloak, and dropped onto a log with a grin that wouldn’t quit.


    “Lucy, Susi,” he called, voice sharp with a playful edge. Both slaves flinched, heads snapping up. “Your old names were too damn long. From now on, it’s Lucy and Susi. Official.”


    The demoness’s hands tightened on the ladle, stew sloshing. “That’s not my—”


    “Accept it,” Aaron cut in, still smiling, but the air shifted, heavy with the slavery mark’s pulse at their necks. Her words died, choked off.


    Susi’s knife scraped once more against the stone, then stilled. “You can’t just—”


    “I can and I will,” Aaron said, softer now, but it landed like a hammer. The mark flared again, and Susi’s shoulders slumped, the fight bleeding out of him.


    Amelia watched from her spot, bowl cradled close, a smirk tugging at her lips. She didn’t speak—just ate, slow and deliberate, like she was tasting Aaron’s victory too.


    Now named Lucy, she shoved a bowl into Aaron’s hands, her movements stiff, mechanical. He took it, still grinning, and dug in. “Good stuff,” he muttered, broth dripping down his chin. “You’re gettin’ too good at this.”


    Her jaw clenched, but she turned back to the pot, stirring harder than she needed to. Susi resumed his sharpening, each scrape slower, a quiet rebellion in the rhythm.


    Aaron leaned back, bowl warm against his palms, the night air sharp on his damp skin. He’d pushed himself to the edge today—felt the sels spark and shift inside him—and it was worth it. Power hummed under his ribs, closer now, tugging him toward something bigger. Something he used to be.


    Amelia nudged him, elbow gentle but firm. “You good?” Her voice was low, just for him.


    He met her eyes, firelight flickering in them, steady and sure. “Yeah,” he said, and it wasn’t a lie this time. “Yeah, I’m good. Actually I’m more than good tonight.”


    ‘maybe, this is what they call  a breakthrough.’ He thought.