SSS-Rank Evolving Monster: From Pest to Cosmic Devourer

No matter how distant Mesarith City was, to Damien it might as well have been next door.

Just as he was about to set off with the battered Riverfall Lord in tow, Damien paused mid-step. A faint smile tugged at his lips. His elder brother had finally caught up.

Rather than leaving at once, he decided to wait—just long enough to exchange a few crucial words and hand over what needed to be handled here before he departed.

The world fell into a heavy stillness, the kind where even the wind seemed reluctant to stir. Minutes passed under that suffocating silence. Then, faint at first, the rhythmic thundering of hooves broke through the air.

Five minutes later, a lone figure emerged over the rise, closing the distance with startling speed. The gleam of a drawn sword caught the light, and Damien's sharp eyes recognized the stance and momentum instantly.

Dervrok.

The elder brother's gaze locked on him in an instant, but it didn't take long for his eyes to shift toward the Riverfall Lord lying sprawled on the ground like a broken marionette. Suspicion rippled across his features.

They're not here…

It was the only possibility. If even the city's lord had been reduced to this pitiful state, and yet their mother and Niomin were nowhere in sight, then the answer was as clear as it was bitter.

Dervrok leaned forward in the saddle, urging his mount to greater speed. The warhorse responded with a burst of power, carrying him across the final stretch until he was reining in just a few paces from Damien.

There was no need for wasted words. The air between them carried a mutual understanding born of blood and battle. Every heartbeat mattered.

Damien met his brother's eyes and gave a short nod.

"Mother and Niomin have been taken to Mesarith City. You handle the situation here while I rush to the city."

Dervrok's jaw tightened, his expression hardening into steel. He gave a single, solemn nod.

Damien's gaze drifted past him, scanning the unfamiliar soldiers scattered around the area. His eyes narrowed, their glint turning razor-cold—each glance as sharp and deliberate as a blade being drawn from its sheath.

Although Damien knew the Riverfall City Lord wouldn't dare make a move, he was not a man who left things to chance. His voice cut through the air like a drawn blade:

"Arctic, you stay here. In case of an emergency."

The genie, who had been casually scanning the surroundings with a look of mild boredom, froze mid-motion. In all his life, he had commanded others, never stood on the receiving end of a direct order. For the briefest moment, the world seemed to still as he processed the command.

Dozens of thoughts flickered across his mind—defiance, irritation, curiosity—but in the end, he merely gave a slow, blank nod. His eyes drifted away to the empty air, his expression unreadable.

Damien didn't spare him another glance. His focus was already locked on the Riverfall City Lord, who still lay crumpled on the ground.

The moment their eyes met, the lord's chest tightened and a cold weight settled in his stomach.

Damien's voice dropped to a chilling register.

"Listen carefully. I will only say this once. From this moment forward, Riverfall belongs to the Valthorn Kingdom. I am going to Mesarith City to take back my family. When I return… if you are not here, in the palace, kissing the ground—death will be the least of your worries."

The words didn't need to be shouted; the quiet certainty behind them struck harder than any roar.

Damien turned to Dervrok, their eyes meeting in silent understanding.

Then, a silver membrane shimmered into existence, wrapping Damien's figure from head to toe like a skin of moonlight.

With a single step, his form warped and vanished, the air twisting violently where he had stood. He pushed his Accretion talent to six hundred times speed, holding back just enough to prevent the surrounding buildings from shattering under the force.

Even so, the shockwave of his departure ripped through the streets, knocking unprepared soldiers flat onto the cobblestones and scattering loose debris like autumn leaves in a storm.

Dervrok, long accustomed to such feats, didn't so much as flinch.

Mesarith City

Though the Seven Rivers Empire often treated it as little more than a distant outpost, the Boundless Westlands were a realm of staggering breadth—home to a patchwork of kingdoms, sects, and organizations sprawling across lands both civilized and wild.

Mesarith City stood among its giants. With a population well over a million—most of them warriors walking the false path—it was a living hive of ambition, greed, and restless energy.

Here, the air itself seemed to hum with competition. Towering trade halls and sprawling marketplaces fought for space alongside the grand headquarters of several major guilds, each one claiming influence that stretched far beyond the city's walls. For commoners who refused to live and die in servitude, Mesarith was a beacon—a place where fortune, fame, or ruin could be found within a single day.

The city answered to only one ruler: the ancient and iron-willed Mesarith family. Outsiders might whisper of politics and bribery, but here, their word was law.

Today, its avenues were so crowded that the streets themselves felt swollen with life. From merchants hawking spirit-forged wares to street performers juggling flames, the atmosphere was electric. And yet, a singular buzz of anticipation threaded through the city.

The Divine Researchers Guild had promised a "grand unveiling" of their latest prize—a so-called legendary storage ring. Word had spread like wildfire, drawing curious travelers and shrewd opportunists alike, all desperate to witness history in the making.

In the thick of the crowd, two figures moved shoulder to shoulder. A man and a woman, both sharp-eyed yet smiling with an ease that was almost convincing, slipped between clusters of onlookers. To a casual passerby, they were nothing more than another pair of visitors swept up in the event. But to anyone observant enough, their bearing was all wrong—too controlled, too deliberate.

The man, a young warrior in his early twenties with a steady, righteous gleam in his eyes, leaned toward his companion, his voice barely carrying above the clamor:

"What do you think about the situation?"

The woman didn't answer right away. Instead, she lifted one slender hand and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the movement so fluid and unhurried it seemed to slow the very air around her. There was nothing forced about the gesture—her every motion carried a natural, untamed elegance rarely seen among the people of Mesarith City.

The man's gaze lingered for a fraction longer than intended, but when he repeated his question, her lips curved into a soft chuckle. That faint laugh, paired with the smile that followed, was like sunlight breaking through a veil of clouds—radiant, effortless, and dangerously captivating. Men passing nearby who caught sight of it found themselves instinctively pausing, their breaths uneven as if a spell had brushed against their hearts.

"Calm down, junior brother," she said with an airy lightness, as though his worries were little more than dust to be brushed aside. "We're here to relax, not to trouble ourselves over whether the Divine Researcher Guild's claims are true or not."

Her words drifted on the warm hum of the bustling street, and those close enough to overhear exchanged quick, curious glances. The pair's expressions, their ease of movement, the unspoken familiarity between them—it all made them seem like two carefree travelers out for a casual stroll through a tranquil garden, not strangers navigating one of the busiest, most cutthroat cities in the Westlands.

If one took the time to truly scan the streets, they would notice countless strange figures moving among the ordinary bustle of the city—faces hidden under hoods, odd trinkets dangling from belts, garments that belonged to neither noble courts nor humble workshops.

On another day, such diversity might have been a source of pride for the city's rulers, a sign of thriving trade and a melting pot of cultures. But today, it had become a persistent headache.

In the dungeons beneath one particular castle, the air was heavy and stale, the damp stone walls swallowing what little light the flickering torches offered. Somewhere in that darkness, the sharp, metallic clang of iron rattling against iron broke the silence.

"Let me out!"gkk

The voice was sharp with frustration, its echo stretching down the corridor. Violet banged her bound hands against the cold bars, her brows drawn in irritation. She still couldn't believe it—that a day would come when she, of all people, would be kidnapped like some helpless noble's daughter.

"Calm down mother-in-law, there is no point shouting, Just wait for some time, Damien my husband and your son must be already on his way to save us, he definitely wouldn't let us suffer in such a place."

Hearing those words out of her daughter in law's mouth, Violet mouth twitched like crazy as if she was experiencing a seizure