CHAPTER 78: CRITICAL ALERT

Snow still swirled thickly through the ravine’s opening, slowly covering the rubble of the landslide. Damon lay motionless for several seconds, lying on his side, gasping for air in his failing lungs.

Every breath was a struggle. Every heartbeat a painful hammering in his chest.

He braced his hand against the ground, trying to push himself up. His arm trembled, gave way. He fell again, gasping. The pain wasn’t just in his ribs or muscles, but throughout his body—as if it had been torn apart and hastily glued back together.

"Get up..." he whispered to himself, spitting blood that stained the snow. "Get up, damn you..."

With almost superhuman effort, he managed to drag himself to a larger rock, resting his forehead against it, and pushed himself to his feet. His body swayed, unsteady, as if he were about to fall again.

That’s when he felt it.

A strange heat on his back. No, it wasn’t heat. It was the opposite. The damp, warm sensation quickly turned to cold as the snow melted and froze. He reached for his side, and his fingers came away covered in blood.

So much blood.

The red trickled down his back, soaking his clothes until they became heavy and clinging to his skin. Damon staggered, his legs trembling, and realized he couldn’t go on like this. Every movement made the fabric tear further into his flesh.

Gritting his teeth, he gripped the edge of his tunic, pulled hard, and ripped the bloody fabric. The chill of the ravine sank straight into his skin, biting into his bones like an invisible blade.

And that’s when it happened.

The bracelet on his right wrist, cracked from the last blows, simply shattered. The metal fell to pieces, the small sound barely audible over the distant roar of the wind.

The effect was immediate.

His body trembled. The illusion that enveloped him shattered, like glass being crushed.

The incubus markings, always hidden, returned. Small, black, curved horns sprouted from his forehead. His short, fragile, dark wings spread instinctively, shuddering with the shock of the frozen air. His thin tail shot out behind him, swaying uncontrollably. His skin seemed to change tone for an instant, more marked, darker, as if the truth he always tried to hide had resurfaced.

He gasped, the psychological impact almost as strong as the physical.

"No... not now..." he murmured, his words swallowed by the wind.

The bracelet didn’t just hide his nature. It warmed him, shielded his body from the fury of the cold. Now, without it, the ice sank straight into his flesh, spreading through his bones like poison.

A brutal shiver ran through him. His body felt like it was on fire inside, while outside it was frozen alive. Every nerve screamed with contradiction. The blood running down his back instantly cooled, turning into a sticky, rigid crust.

He staggered a few steps, bracing himself against the stone wall of the ravine. With each touch, he left a bright red mark on the ice.

The system immediately woke up.

[CRITICAL ALERT: Severe bleeding detected.]

[ALERT: Hypothermia progressing rapidly.]

[Motor functions compromised.]

[Survival at risk. Immediate rest recommended.]

The messages flashed before his eyes, as if etched into the air itself. He blinked, trying to see past them, ignoring the pulsing red warnings.

"Shut up..." he muttered, spitting out more blood. "No... I won’t stop now."

The system continued to insist.

[Energy level: critical.]

[Bleeding rate: fatal without intervention.]

[Seek shelter or risk total failure.]

Damon clenched his fists, though he barely had the strength to do so. Every muscle seemed to tear with the effort, but he kept walking.

"I’m not going to fall here. I’m not going to..."

With each step, the world spun more and more. His vision grew hazy, blurred. The white of the snow mixed with the red of the blood, creating pink spots that spread across his field of vision.

His wings trembled, useless in the cold. Each time the wind hit them, it felt like thousands of needles pierced his skin. His tail dragged behind him, drawing lines in the ice.

The cold seeped into everything.

His teeth chattered, but the rest of his body felt like it was burning. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, trying to keep him upright, but at the same time accelerating his heat loss.

He walked a little further, following a narrow passage that opened at the end of the ravine. A sort of natural tunnel, formed by rocks and accumulated snow. Maybe it was the exit, maybe just a dead end. It didn’t matter. He needed to move.

Each step left a trail of blood in the snow. Small red puddles that were soon swallowed up by the white.

The system wouldn’t stop.

[Resistance levels dropping.]

[You won’t survive more than 15 minutes without shelter.]

[Stop. Stop now.]

He laughed. A hoarse, broken laugh, more like a sob.

"Fifteen minutes is all I need..." he whispered. "I just need... to get out of here."

The tunnel narrowed, the rocks scraping against his short wings. He tucked them in as tightly as he could, shrinking to fit. Every movement hurt. His back burned with the blood still flowing.

The cold grew.

His body was shaking so hard it felt like it was about to shatter. His feet were numb, almost insensible, sinking into the snow with every step.

He thought of Ester.

Of her face, of her tone, always sharp, but hiding something more. Of the feel of their embrace the night before, warm, soft—the complete opposite of what he felt now.

The memory was like fire. A small, fragile fire, but enough to keep him standing for a few more moments.

"I... I have to see you again..." he murmured, his voice breaking.

Suddenly, he stumbled.

His body gave way, and he fell to his knees. The impact made him scream, pain spreading through his back and chest. Blood flowed faster, staining the snow beneath him like spilled ink.

He braced his hands on the ground, trying to stand.

The system beeped again.

[WARNING: Imminent loss of consciousness.]

[Further movement may be fatal.]

[Last chance to rest.]

Damon spat blood and laughed again, the sound almost hysterical.

"Rest? Here?" He looked around, seeing only snow, stone, and darkness. "I’d rather... die walking."

And he stood up.

His wings opened instinctively, trembling, scattering snowflakes around him. His body swayed from side to side, unsteady, but he kept going.

Each step was a challenge against his own body. Every second was a battle against death.

But he didn’t stop.

He took another step—unsteady, mechanical—and the snow groaned beneath his weight. The air seemed thicker, each breath a laborious labor; the world narrowed to a line before his eyes. The edges of his vision trembled in black and white; the red of his blood blended with the white until he could no longer tell which color was which.

His body said no. His muscles wouldn’t obey. His ribs throbbed in sync with his pulse, a small, irregular drum. Still, there was a stubborn insistence within him, a hoarse voice that repeated: Get up. Walk. Find her.

The system’s warnings flashed again, bright and relentless: critical endurance, risk of collapse, mandatory rest. He heard them as if coming from far away, like an alarm that couldn’t reach his core. They were no longer recommendations—they were pleas he pushed down with clenched teeth.

Every twenty steps, he seemed to lose ten. The weight of the night, the cold, the blood, weighed on his shoulders. His left hand slid across the torn fabric of his back and felt—more than saw—the cold flesh, the partially exposed muscle, the hard texture of what the snow was already beginning to crystallize. A razor-like cold licked the skin where the wound breathed.

A memory invaded: Ester’s face, blue eyes that brooked no indulgence; the warmth of her embrace—and in that tiny fire, a renewed urgency. He tried to form her name, to call out, to cry for help, but the word stuck in his throat like a stone.

The sound became indecipherable. The wind in the tunnel howled and seemed far away. Close by, in his chest, there was a beating that seemed the only sure rhythm: his own heart. Then even that faltered, the beats becoming less firm, as if someone were striking an old drumhead.

He groped around for support—a root, a rock, any protrusion—and found only ice. His fingertips tingled, losing sensation. The world flickered in longer intervals; touch came in intermittent bursts, his vision sank, then reappeared with faded colors.

For a fleeting second, he felt the system’s voice transform into a child calling to him through a locked door:

"[Recommends: immediate rest. Risk: organ failure.]"

He smiled belatedly, a movement so small he didn’t even notice. A smile that was more defiance than joy. "Not today," he tried to say—but the words melted before reaching his lips.

The horns weighed heavily on his head as if they were spikes of embedded metal; His wings trembled, and his shoulders ached. His skin felt as if it were about to crack from the cold and burn from within at the same time. It was an absurd, primal sensation: burned while freezing, alive and already tenuous.

The memory of a laugh, just now—his laugh, as he challenged a beast—came and went. It was so real and so distant that it almost hurt more than the freezing air.

His body gave way. First one knee, then the other. His face tilted to the side, touching the snow with his cheek, already damp with blood that crackled as it froze. The sound of his own chattering teeth formed a dry music. The world widened and then shrank; tiny lights danced at the edge of the darkness, white dots that became distorted stars.

He tried to pull himself forward like someone trying to keep his balance on an unstable board. His hand gripped the wet rock—failed. His arm relaxed. A blast of cold air penetrated deep, and with it, the final thought that still sounded clear, sharp:

"Esther..."

The syllable was a thread. Around her, memories—the warmth of their embrace, the din of battle, Garrick and Caelan’s faces—dissolved in plumes of snow. The images passed compressed, pressed by a growing weight. There was, beneath it all, the small, raw certainty that she had given everything she had.

Damon’s eyes closed before he could realize. The last real sound he heard wasn’t the beast’s roar or the creak of ice: it was the sound of his own blood, pulsing slowly, then faintly, like a dying drum.

His body relaxed as consciousness drifted. The cold leaned into him, the darkness accepting his body and pulling him down, like a heavy veil covering a dying torch.

In the silence that followed, only the muffled breath of the blizzard remained—and, lost in that white expanse, the red trail that marked the path he had insisted on following.