My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger

Damon's clone bit his lip as he came to a halt in front of the Grand Duke's quarters. The door before him had a complex lock, the kind that screamed nobility and too much money.

He was starting to seriously hate how securely rich people locked their rooms.

He squatted low, inspecting the lock—trying to find a way to pick it without burning too much shadow energy.

While his clone was busy with that—

His main body was now at the center of attention.

One hand wrapped around Sylvia's waist as they waltzed across the dance floor. The two of them made for quite the sight—an elegant elven lady in white and a hooded figure shrouded in black.

The ballroom grew silent.

All eyes were on them.

Damon bit his lip again—carefully avoiding stepping on Sylvia's heels. The last person he danced with was his sister… and that was years ago.

But even more importantly—

"Crap…" he muttered.

Someone had spotted his shadow clone in the Duke's wing.

---

"Halt! Identify yourself! This is the Grand Duke's private wing—you are not permitted to be here!"

The knight's voice rang out, sharp and authoritative.

He couldn't make out the figure clearly, not with the shadows twisting unnaturally around him. Still, his hand moved to his sword.

It didn't feel like a thief—too bold. Besides, this wasn't even the path to the treasury.

A drunk noble? Maybe. That had happened before.

His Grace will likely make an example out of another idiot, the knight thought grimly.

That was—until the figure straightened up.

What he saw then made the breath catch in his lungs. Fear gripped his chest. His limbs felt suddenly heavy.

There was no face. He couldn't tell if this was a man or a woman—young or old—tall or short.

It was as if the world itself refused to describe the entity before him.

"…What are you…?"

Damon smiled from beneath his hood.

Good. Faceless was working exactly as intended.

The knight was under the effects of Omen of Dread.

Still, Damon's clone was only at 10% power, and this knight… was of a similar rank.

Luckily, the Terror Engine skill made the knights fear empower Damon.

"…Identify yourself…"

The knight's tone sharpened.

"The Word commands you—state your name."

Damon froze.

His mouth… began to move on its own.

"This is a class skill…"

His lips parted involuntarily.

Back in the ballroom, his real body stammered—barely whispering out the first syllable of his name—

"Da…"

He bit his lower lip hard. Blood welled up.

This wasn't a mental skill.

The knight's skill was trying to force the truth out of him. But Damon didn't resist it head-on.

Instead, he twisted it.

He smiled.

"Amon," he said.

The curse triggered instantly.

The knight doubled over, coughing blood violently.

Damon's eyes narrowed. "Knew it. Curse-type skill. If I resist, he suffers backlash."

He surged forward with [5x] active—fist cocked.

The knight responded fast, sword drawn—he wasn't a rookie. He'd trained under the Brightwater banner and had survived battlefields.

Their blades clashed—Damon forming a short blade along his gauntlet of his shadow armor.

Even so, he was pushed back.

'If this was my main body, I wouldn't have budged an inch…'

Still, no excuses. He had to move.

Thankfully, the knight hadn't called for backup.

He slammed into him again, crashing the knight down onto the floor with a sharp thud.

'I've seen this worn-out script play out too many times. I'm not going to be anyone's political pawn. And I'm not getting betrayed a second time.'

He drove his elbow down on the knight's helmet with force.

'If they didn't have ulterior motives, why keep hiding the truth?'

Water surged up from the knight's palm—forming into a thin blade. Water attribute.

Damon's eyes sharpened.

He dodged.

Time slowed—Beholder's Gaze activating automatically.

He flipped along the wall and kicked the knight straight through the ornate door, shattering it with a heavy tremor.

He tumbled inside, shadows slipping in behind him.

'The Grand Duke definitely heard that…'

The room was luxurious but cold, shadows pooling at every edge. His clone's energy was dropping fast.

And then—he saw it.

A portrait.

A young woman with golden hair. That same smile he remembered.

Only younger. A glint of mischief behind the eyes.

'Hey there, mom…'

That was it. The final proof. The confirmation he'd been seeking—yet already knew deep down.

The Grand Duke's supposedly dead daughter, the woman who married a commoner… was his mother.

And the fool she married?

That was his father.

The so-called fools he'd disdained in his mind all this time… were his own parents.

The vast world of Aetherus had just gotten a whole lot smaller.

He didn't know what to feel.

Should he have been happy? He and his sister weren't alone.

Should he have felt resentment? That no one came to save them when they suffered?

Should he curse his mother's noble blood—the very thing that had brought Luna and him so much pain?

'I… feel… sick…'

Footsteps were rushing down the corridor.

His clone began breaking down—fading into particles of blackness and shadow.

I… I…

He didn't want to hope. Not for kinship. Not again.

He wanted clean, sharp truths. Enemy or ally. Friend or foe. Black or white.

But the world wasn't like that.

It was gray.

He let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

---

In the ballroom—

Damon and Sylvia had come to a stop.

The crowd applauded softly at the end of their dance.

The Grand Duke clapped as well.

But then—he stopped.

His golden eyes went cold.

He was staring toward the direction of his quarters.

Damon's eyes narrowed.

A moment later, he felt it.

A sharp pain.

Blood welled at the corner of his nose.

Just before the shadow clone dissolved—it had been struck.

Not once.

But 736 times.

All in a fraction of a second.

Golden light.

What had been left of his dissolving clone, was torn apart.

The backlash hit Damon like a hammer. His legs went weak.

The Grand Duke's gaze hadn't moved.

Damon staggered—body tilting.

He was going to fall.

And then—

He felt someone catch him.

The scent of gardenias… strands of fiery red hair.

He knew this scent.

"Lilith…"

Her emerald eyes met his, calming and bright.

She smiled.

"You shouldn't drink and dance," she whispered. "You'll get woozy, Damon…"