Strongest Incubus System

Chapter 277 277: Casino, oh yes.

The iron door slammed shut behind Damon with a heavy sound, completely muffling any trace of the outside world, as if he had crossed an invisible border between two distinct realities. The air inside was denser, laden with a metallic scent mixed with spices, leather, and something slightly sweet, creating an atmosphere that not only concealed intentions but seemed to fuel them.

Before he could even take a few steps, a hooded figure approached silently, offering him an object with precise, rehearsed movements, as part of a ritual repeated countless times. Damon accepted without hesitation, already anticipating what it represented.

A mask.

But not an ordinary mask.

It was sculpted with aggressive, almost demonic features, with contours reminiscent of an ancient creature from some forgotten legend. The surface was smooth, yet marked by curved lines that mimicked tense muscles, and two discreet fangs protruded from the lower part, giving the piece a permanent expression of menace. The eyes were narrow, elongated, with openings that allowed clear vision but completely concealed the wearer's identity. The coloring was predominantly dark, with deep red details that seemed almost to pulse under the dim lighting of the environment.

Without saying a word, Damon put the mask on his face.

Instantly, he ceased to be identifiable.

He became just another presence among many.

As soon as he crossed the main entrance arch, the space revealed itself in all its complexity.

Unlike the other market he had visited previously, this one was larger, more organized… and infinitely more dangerous. The lighting came from suspended lanterns and crystals embedded in the walls, creating a constant play of light and shadow that made it difficult to fully read the environment.

But what really caught the attention was the security.

It wasn't just visible.

It was oppressive.

Guards positioned at strategic points, all masked, all too immobile to be mere decoration. Their gazes—or whatever lay behind the masks—followed every movement, every interaction, every prolonged pause.

Beyond that, there was something more subtle.

Presences.

Individuals who didn't seem like customers or vendors, but who moved purposefully, discreetly, like predators blending into the crowd.

"200% more active," Damon thought, analyzing the surroundings with a clinical eye as he began to walk with calculated naturalness.

Nothing there was careless.

Nothing there was improvised.

He moved forward, blending into the flow, maintaining a pace that didn't draw attention, but allowed him to observe everything around him with almost obsessive precision.

The "attractions," as he liked to call them, began to appear one after another.

Stalls displayed blades of all kinds, from longswords with runic inscriptions to thin daggers with a venomous glint. Some weapons seemed to vibrate slightly, as if carrying their own energy, while others exuded a heavy, almost suffocating sensation.

Further on, contracts were displayed without any disguise.

Pieces of parchment fixed to wooden panels, with names, values, and objective descriptions. Murders, disappearances, sabotage. All organized as if they were simple commercial transactions.

Damon didn't slow down.

But he recorded everything.

Every detail.

Every pattern.

Every masked face that showed excessive interest in something specific.

There were also sellers of substances, liquids stored in colored glass bottles, some translucent, others completely opaque, all promising effects ranging from healing to destruction.

The constant murmur of negotiations filled the environment, creating a sound layer that made direct conversations difficult but favored anonymity.

Perfect.

Exactly as it should be.

Damon went through it all with a slight air of calculated disinterest, like someone who had seen far more impressive things, though inwardly he was constantly adjusting his reading of the surroundings.

And then—

He saw her.

It wasn't immediate.

But as soon as she appeared, it became impossible to ignore.

Cherry.

Even in a place where everyone hid their identities, she stood out almost offensively, as if she didn't care about being noticed—or perhaps she knew exactly the impact she made.

Her hair, in a striking pink hue, fell in soft waves over her shoulders, contrasting almost provocatively with the somber atmosphere around her. Her skin was fair, further highlighted by her choice of black dress, fitted to her body with almost calculated precision.

The fabric outlined her curves naturally, highlighting a slim waist that further accentuated her body's proportions, while the neckline revealed a generous silhouette, without falling into vulgarity—just enough to attract attention.

Her movements were fluid.

Controlled.

Each step carried intention.

Her hips moved with an almost hypnotic lightness, not forced, but natural enough to hold the gaze of anyone nearby.

The dress followed this movement, gliding smoothly against her body, reinforcing her presence without needing exaggerated adornments.

Her makeup was simple.

But effective.

Lightly defined eyes, highlighting her attentive and observant gaze, while her lips, painted a deep red, provided a strong contrast with the rest of the makeup.

It was the kind of look that didn't seek approval.

But control.

Damon slowed his pace slightly.

Not enough to raise suspicions.

Just enough to adjust his position in the flow of people, allowing him to observe her for longer without seeming fixated.

She wasn't standing still.

She walked through the spaces with familiarity, exchanging a few words here and there, but always maintaining a posture of someone who didn't need to explain herself to anyone.

That confirmed it.

Morgana was right.

She wasn't just a participant in that place.

She was part of the structure.

More than that—

She controlled parts of it.

Damon tilted his head slightly, following her movements with renewed attention.

"So you're the key…," he thought.

Cherry paused for a moment near one of the more secluded areas, where the flow of people was less, but the presence of guards was greater.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

He looked away for a moment, feigning interest in one of the nearby stalls, just to avoid any obvious pattern of observation.

But his mind was already racing.

Calculating.

Planning.

The approach would have to be perfect.

No mistakes.

No rush. Because in that place—

One wrong step didn't just mean failure.

It meant disappearing.

And Damon had no intention of disappearing.

Quite the opposite.

He was there to dive even deeper.

And Cherry…

Was the way.

Damon leaned casually against the casino's outer wall for a few seconds, observing the constant flow of people coming and going, each carrying their own intention—greed, desperation, curiosity, addiction—as if they were invisible perfumes he had already learned to recognize easily. His eyes still searched for Cherry, but it was already obvious that he had lost her the moment she crossed those doors with the naturalness of someone who belonged there. He, on the other hand… was just another masked face in the crowd.

"Great…" he murmured to himself, running a hand over his chin while letting out a low sigh. "Target identified… and immediately lost. Excellent start."

But then—

A slight smile appeared.

Slowly.

Dangerous.

Fun.

"Well…" he continued, straightening his posture before finally entering the casino. "If I can't go to her… maybe I'll make her come to me."

As soon as he stepped through the doors, the atmosphere completely enveloped him. Golden lights reflected on polished surfaces, the sound of chips being stacked and coins clinking mingled with laughter, tense murmurs, and occasional exclamations of victory or frustration. The air was thick, heavy with alcohol, expensive perfume, and that characteristic electric energy of places where luck and ruin share the same space.

Damon took a deep breath.

And then slowly exhaled.

"…ah, this place…" he murmured, almost nostalgically. "I know this place all too well."

He began to walk slowly through the hall, his eyes moving from table to table, absorbing everything. Not just the games… but the people. Their gestures. Their patterns. Their mistakes.

Because, for him, this was never about luck. It never was.

"Badly held cards… tense fingers… irregular breathing…" he mentally observed, pacing past a card game table without even stopping. "And that one over there… clearly bluffing worse than a beginner."

He almost laughed.

"And to think I used to get paid to deal with this…" he murmured, shaking his head slightly. "Besides… I get paid terribly."

He grimaced.

"That salary doesn't even exist anymore…" he grumbled. "Why work, right?"

But then—

His eyes gleamed.

"But making money?" he tilted his head slightly, a sharper smile appearing. "That… that still exists."

He stopped in front of a table.

Roulette.

Classic.

Simple.

Perfect.

"Let's start easy…" he murmured, picking up a few chips without drawing much attention.

He watched the roulette wheel spin once.

Twice.

Three times.

His gaze wasn't on the ball.

It was on the operator.

On the rhythm.

On the applied force.

On the almost unconscious repetition of human patterns.

"Ah…" he smiled slightly. "You don't vary as much as you think."

He placed his bet.

Small.

Discreet.

The ball spun.

Jumped.

Spun some more.

And then—

Stopped.

Exactly where he expected.

Damon didn't react.

Didn't smile.

Didn't celebrate.

He simply collected his winnings with the naturalness of someone who expected nothing more than that.

"First step…" he murmured.

He repeated the process.

Again.

And again.

Always controlled.

Always moderate.

Always… correct.

But never flashy.

Because he knew.

Winning too much… too fast…

Drawed attention.

And attention… in that place… wasn't the goal.

"If I clear this table in ten minutes…" he thought, twirling a chip between his fingers. "They'll kick me out of here before I even get close to what I want."

So he paced himself.

He won.

He lost on purpose.

He won again.

He mixed luck with calculated error.

He created a narrative.

Because every casino believed in stories.

And he… was excellent at telling them.

After a few minutes, he had already accumulated a considerable amount, but nothing absurd. Enough to seem good… not suspicious.

"Control…" he murmured, turning away from the table and walking to another area. "Always control."

He passed by card tables now.

His eyes quickly scanned a game in progress.

And then—

He stopped.

"This here…" he said softly. "This here I miss."

He sat down.

Unceremoniously.

Unannounced.

Just another player.

The cards were dealt.

He picked up his.

And immediately—

He smiled.

Not at the cards.

But at the people.

"This one will give up early… that one will insist until he breaks…" he analyzed. "And the dealer… is tired."

Perfect.

The game began.

And Damon… danced.

Not obviously.

Not aggressively.

But with precision.

He bluffed when he needed to.

He retreated when expected.

He advanced when no one anticipated it.

It was like watching someone play chess on a board where the others believed they were playing by chance.

And, little by little—

The chips began to accumulate again.

A little faster this time.

A little more visible.

But still… within acceptable limits.

"That…" he murmured, calmly stacking some chips. "Now we're starting to get interesting."

He looked around.

Discreetly.

Without moving his head.

Just his eyes.

Searching.

Observing.

Waiting.

"Come on…" he thought. "Someone must have noticed already."

Because places like that always had eyes.

Always.

And people like Cherry…

Didn't ignore patterns.

Especially patterns that emerged… out of nowhere.

He continued playing.

One more round.

One more victory. And this time—

A little more expressive.

He let out a slight smile.

Controlled.

But visible.

Enough.

"Now…" he thought. "Now you look at me."

He calmly rose from the table, collecting his winnings, and walked toward the bar, as if simply enjoying the evening.

But inside—

He was counting.

Time.

Reactions.

Subtle changes in the atmosphere.

"Three… two…"

He picked up a glass.

"…one."

And then—

He felt it.

That change.

Almost imperceptible.

But there.

Someone…

Was paying attention.

Damon didn't look directly.

Of course not.

He simply brought the glass to his lips, taking a slow sip while his eyes scanned the reflection in the glass behind the bar.

And then—

A slight smile appeared.

"Finally…" she murmured internally.

Because he knew.

The real game…

Was about to begin.