My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger

Damon had taken many lives—some human, some former humans.

He had killed and killed until, at one point, he stood atop more than ten thousand corpses.

Naturally, he exuded a raw and baleful killing intent.

His mana was dense—oppressively so. It radiated from him in slow waves, crashing down on the room like a tidal force. The air grew heavy. Thick.

Damon took a deep breath, consciously pulling back his aura and the bloodlust roiling beneath his skin.

He had to remind himself—don't kill them.

He sighed.

This was the price of playing along with Lilith Astranova. They'd danced around the illusion of a vaguely defined relationship, and now he had to deal with these fools.

But that was fine.

He'd still get what he wanted.

He'd vent a little.

Across the dueling ring, the fifteen noble youths froze. Damon heard the distinct sound of sweat dripping onto polished marble. Then one of them—only in the First Class—turned with wide eyes… and bolted.

He ran—straight out of the makeshift arena the Grand Duke had conjured.

Perhaps fear had overwhelmed reason. But in doing so, he had disgraced his family. If he had died where he stood, he would've accomplished more than fleeing in disgrace.

From the crowd, came the quiet whispers:

"Lord Bolton has such a cowardly son…"

"With youth like him, we'd lose a war with the demon race…"

"Disgraceful. Before man and goddess alike…"

The weight of those words crushed any other cowards' thoughts of retreat. The nobles who had considered running now gritted their teeth and turned toward Damon.

Even with his pressure withdrawn, they knew. They were facing a monster.

The Grand Duke smiled faintly.

"His mana levels are absurd. For his rank..."

Cassian nodded, stroking his chin. "He's not carrying a sword. Maybe he's a mage-class—that would explain the absurd mana. His other stats should be weaker."

Just then, a group of knights entered, wheeling in racks of weapons.

The noble youths rushed forward, arming themselves—still casting side glances at Damon.

An older noble, a veteran, watched in silence.

"He already won," the man muttered. "They lost the battle of wills before the first strike."

Garrick gripped a spear, humiliated. He returned to his position beside the other nobles and pointed his weapon at Damon.

"Aren't you going to pick a weapon?"

Damon looked over them slowly.

He shook his head. "That's fine. I'll just take one of yours if I need one."

Garrick clenched his jaw. He could feel the stares. He couldn't run now—not like Lord Bolton's son. That would shame his house. His father would kill him.

'I have to win. No matter what.'

He narrowed his eyes at Damon.

"Which one of us do you wish to fight first? You're a mage type, right? You'll need space to cast your spells…"

Damon sighed again, clearly annoyed.

"I don't have the time or patience to fight you one by one. Like I said before—come at me all at once."

A younger noble leaned toward Garrick, whispering, "Lord Garrick… if he wants to be stupid, let him. He'll be humiliated. His strength won't matter. We have numbers."

Garrick understood what he meant. But what if they lost? They'd just become another stepping stone in Damon's legend.

Still, he had started this. He had to see it through.

"Very well. Since you want to play the fool, we will honor your request."

He raised his spear.

"He's a mage-type. Don't be intimidated by his mana. Mana doesn't always win. As long as he doesn't cast, we'll defeat him."

The Grand Duke raised his hand.

A flash of light crossed the dueling ring.

"You may begin."

A noble charged in, sword in hand, wind roaring behind him.

And then… he felt it.

A deep, oppressive dread seeped into his heart.

His body locked up. He was frozen in place as though experiencing sleep paralysis. His limbs wouldn't move.

[Omen of Dread].

Damon appeared before him.

"I commend your bravery. First Class—but still, you dared to attack first."

He grabbed the noble's sword, twisted his arm with a sickening pop, and snapped it, before kicking him backward—into the rest of the group.

Garrick roared and unleashed a volley of flames.

Damon sidestepped effortlessly.

"You're too slow."

He passed Garrick by, not even acknowledging him. The next thing Garrick heard was Lord Poliver screaming.

He spun, thrusting his spear—

—but it went right through Damon.

No resistance. No impact.

His body had turned into shadow.

Garrick's face went pale.

"What… what in the goddess's name…?"

Damon wasn't wearing the full Pale Crown armor—but beneath his hood, the crown itself rested, glowing faintly with powerful enchantments.

He raised his fingers and fired four condensed bolts of mana. Magic Bullets.

They struck, knocking out every noble in the First Class. Instantly.

The rest—those in the Second Class—paled.

Garrick gritted his teeth.

"You coward! Fight your peers! Why go after those weaker than you?!"

Damon stood atop the small pile of downed nobles and tilted his head slightly.

"Hmmm… Isn't that obvious? I'm removing the weaklings—so I don't accidentally kill them."

Garrick's hands trembled.

Fear. It was fear.

This guy wasn't human. He was a monster.

Damon slowly approached the nearest Second Class noble. The man swung his sword with both hands.

Damon raised two fingers—and caught the blade between them.

The noble froze. His eyes shook.

"What the—how… how is that possible?! Your hand should have been cut off!"

Damon glanced sideways toward Lilith.

"I would like to clarify something—while you fools were chasing after me like dogs in heat…"

His voice dropped into cold steel.

"Let me be clear, so you don't insult Lady Astranova further. She and I are merely friends. Nothing more."

"I would ask you to refrain from jumping to wild conclusions.

He twisted the sword in his grip, kicked the noble in the chest, and sent him crashing across the dueling ring.

He caught the sword mid-air.

"Your words and actions insult her. So—I shall take an arm from each of you."

He raised the sword.

"This is my mercy."

Before Garrick could respond, all he saw was a black flash.

Then something hit the floor.

It was his spear.

And next to it—

'Are those my clothes….'

"…No… that's… my arm…"

Garrick turned, dazed, toward his shoulder. It was gone.

Blood erupted in a fountain.

"AaaaaAAARGH!"

He collapsed, screaming, as Damon stood before him like a nightmare made flesh.