The Reign Of Eternal Madness

3.Situation

Damon was a stark anomaly among the Void Dragon Clan. His words were a labyrinth of riddles, his actions a chaotic dance of unpredictability. He spoke in fragmented patterns, his voice often trailing into whispers or erupting into sudden, manic laughter. To the clan, he was a broken soul, a boy who had lost his grip on reason long ago. Whispers spread like wildfire among the people of the Void Dragon Clan—rumors that Damon had been born mad, cursed by the stars themselves. His very existence was a mystery, a puzzle no one dared to solve.

For Gerald and Dora, Damon's condition was a heavy burden. They carried the guilt of knowing that his madness might have been the price paid for the blessings he had bestowed upon them. While others scorned Damon, treating him as an outcast, Dora refused to abandon him. Every time Damon spiraled into his fits of madness, she would hold him tightly, her tears falling onto his trembling frame as she sang soft, mournful melodies. Her voice was the only anchor that could calm the storm raging within him.

Gerald, however, was consumed by the weight of his responsibilities. The Void Dragon Clan was on the brink of collapse, their lands pillaged, their people treated like cattle by the royal court. The pressure of their downfall rested squarely on Gerald's shoulders, and it hardened him. In his eyes, Damon was a liability, a reminder of their vulnerability. Over time, Gerald began to push Damon aside, his patience worn thin by the boy's erratic behavior.

In the five years since Gerald's bloodline had ascended, his power had grown exponentially. He had reclaimed some of their stolen territories, his strength now rivaling that of a small army. Gerald had become a force to be reckoned with, a beacon of hope for his clan. But Damon remained an enigma, wandering the lands of the Void Dragon Clan, scribbling nonsensical symbols into the dirt. To others, it seemed like child's play, but Damon saw something deeper—a hidden truth lurking in the shadows, a presence only he could sense.

"This family is in shambles. Only the great masquerade can save them," Damon would mutter, his voice a haunting melody of cryptic words. He often spoke in riddles, his sentences weaving patterns no one could decipher. Sometimes, he would break into spontaneous dances, his movements wild and unrestrained, as if he were communing with an unseen force. Other times, he would converse with the air, his words directed at phantoms only he could see.

As time passed, Damon's behavior grew more alarming. He would vanish into the wilderness for days, leaving the clan in a frenzy. Search parties would scour the land, only to find him sleeping peacefully among wild beasts, his small frame curled against the fur of a wolf or the scales of a serpent. It was as if the creatures of the wild recognized something in him—something primal, something untamed. Dora would often be the one to find him, her torchlight flickering in the darkness as she called out his name, her voice trembling with fear and love.

One day, Dora gave birth to a baby girl, a beacon of hope in their fractured world. It was the first time in years that Damon showed any semblance of connection to his family. He approached his newborn sister with cautious steps, his eyes wide with curiosity. Gently, he wiped her tiny face with his hand, his touch surprisingly tender. "Mama, why is she crying?" he asked, his voice soft and innocent. For a moment, the madness in his eyes seemed to fade, replaced by a profound joy that brought tears to Dora's eyes.

But Gerald's heart had grown cold. "Not every child is like you, insane," he snapped, his words sharp and cutting. Damon recoiled, his hands flying to his head as if shielding himself from the blow. "My madness is a blessing that the stars wish for but can't get," he retorted, his voice icy and distant. He placed a small, intricately carved necklace around his sister's neck before turning away, disappearing once more into the wilderness.

That night, Damon's rage erupted like a tempest. He ran deep into the forest, his small frame trembling with fury and madness. The moonlight bathed the trees in an eerie glow, casting long shadows that seemed to dance around him. Suddenly, a pack of low-level beasts—wild wolves with ordinary bloodlines—emerged from the darkness, their eyes gleaming with hunger. They circled Damon, their growls reverberating through the night.

The first wolf lunged, its teeth sinking into Damon's flesh. But instead of crying out in pain, Damon laughed—a chilling, guttural sound that echoed through the forest. He embraced the pain, reveling in it, as if it were a long-lost friend. With a swift, brutal motion, he plunged his hand into the wolf's skull, his fingers digging into its brain. Blood sprayed across his face as he pulled his hand free, the remnants of the wolf's brain clinging to his fingers. He brought his hand to his mouth, tasting the blood, and a shiver ran down his spine. It was his first taste of death, and it awakened something deep within him.

The other wolves hesitated, their instincts screaming at them to flee. But Damon was already moving, his small body a blur of motion. He picked up a handful of stones, whispering, "Art of Murder," before hurling them with deadly precision. Two wolves fell, their skulls pierced by the stones. The remaining three attacked in unison, but Damon spun like a whirlwind, his hands slicing through the air like blades. With a single, fluid motion, he decapitated the wolves, their heads rolling to the ground as their bodies crumpled.

Damon stood amidst the carnage, his face and hands drenched in blood. He gathered the wolves' bodies, feasting on their flesh with a primal hunger ,The meat was tough, raw, but Damon relished the taste—iron and warmth flooding his mouth, each bite an affirmation that he was alive.

The forest watched in silence, the other beasts lurking in the shadows, too afraid to approach. They wondered if they were the true predators or if the child before them was something far more terrifying.

As Damon finished his gruesome meal, he looked up at the night sky, the moonlight illuminating his blood-streaked face. For the first time in years, his mind felt clear, his thoughts coherent. "It's been so long since I've reasoned like a normal person," he whispered, his voice trembling. But even as he spoke, he could feel the madness creeping back in, its tendrils wrapping around his mind once more. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to hold onto the fleeting clarity.

The forest fell silent, the only sound the soft rustling of leaves in the wind. Damon stood alone, a boy caught between madness and reason, his soul a battleground for forces no one could understand.