My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger

As far as they could remember, Little Town was a small, uneventful village.

However, this quiet little place sat close to a forest that people didn't like traveling too deep into at night, and tall mountains loomed beyond.

It was a beautiful village… but why was there a warning about going deep into the woods after sundown?

Naturally, it was because of small monsters — goblins and all manner of other creatures. This was the world of Aetherus, after all. Settlements were the safest places… but then why did this village have a reliable protector?

They weren't thinking about Noctis and his wife. No — before them, the village had been kept safe.

However, generations later, their protector was now just a myth… forgotten… now just a tale even they were unsure had ever existed.

Perhaps it was because this method was deemed vile, cruel, dangerous, and unusual by their predecessors…

Still, trying it was the only option left.

After memorizing every step from the folktales, a figure slipped out of the village in the dead of night, walking alone with a small sack strapped to their back.

The forest was dark and oppressive under the cover of darkness. What they remembered as beautiful and serene by day was now dreadful, every shadow seeming alive. They could feel their heart pounding in their chest…

Yet fear did not dissuade them.

There was a monster in the village — a monster of hate and vengeance, a monster that would never forgive them. He had returned more powerful than ever, and they were sure Damon Grey would never spare them. He was from their village, after all.

How could he not be small-minded and vengeful, especially after being so gravely wronged?

This… was to protect the village.

They continued their quiet journey under the night's shroud, keeping to the familiar trail without any light. Light was forbidden where they were going.

Alone, they reached a fork in the path, then veered off, cutting a way through the trees away from the main trail.

Walking down the silent path, they were swallowed by the darkness.

"Ahmm—"

A small sound escaped as they kicked a stone by accident, pain shooting up their foot. They clenched their jaw, holding back the urge to cry out. Any noise could be dangerous.

They pressed on, until they reached a massive tree.

It was old, its gnarled roots half-covering a cracked stone marker. Some faded words were etched into the stone, but they didn't care about some old relic. Their business was with the tree.

Not because the tree itself was special. No — it was just an ordinary tamarind tree.

But in the stories… in the folklore… a tamarind tree was the worst place to be in the middle of the night.

They swallowed hard, recalling every step of the village ritual.

Setting down their bag, they stilled the squirming inside.

From the sack, they pulled out a pitch-black kola nut, and then the source of the movement — a pitch-black chicken. Its beak had been tied shut to keep it silent. Noises were not appreciated here.

They placed the kola nut and chicken at the base of the tree, their feet crunching over fallen seeds. Then they knelt by the roots, lowered their head, and whispered three times:

"Lady of the tree.

Lady of the tree.

Lady of the tree."

The forest fell silent. Even the night insects stopped their song.

Without another word, they rose and turned to leave.

They had only taken a few steps when it happened.

A pale-white hand reached out from the tree trunk — though there was no opening. The hand was far too long to be human, yet smooth and elegant like a woman's skin.

It plucked the kola nut from the roots, drawing it into the tree. Next, it reached for the chicken.

Sensing its doom, the chicken thrashed in terror, muffled cries slipping past its bound beak.

Blood sprayed as it was pulled into the tree, followed by sickening crunches. Droplets of red fell to the soil before the sounds went quiet.

And then… the tree moved.

Something emerged from it, following the one who had just left.

They heard the chicken's cry echo in the deep forest, but didn't look back.

Soon, faint movement stirred in the shadows all around them, accompanied by shrill, feminine laughter.

And then — right behind them, so close they could feel the breath on their neck — a voice called their name.

It only asked one thing:

"Turn around… look at me."

Cold dread washed over them. Their eyes watered, their body locking up as if under sleep paralysis.

But they forced their legs to move, keeping their gaze down, never behind.

The voice kept calling their name, promising things they dared not listen to.

They could not acknowledge her — not yet.

If they saw her now, the consequences would be dire.

They walked in silence, each step a battle to keep from making a sound, knowing that if they spoke, they would lose their voice forever.

As the treeline began to thin and the village lights flickered in the distance, the entity grew desperate.

Something long and cold settled on their shoulder.

They looked down — not back — and saw a skeletal woman's hand, flesh rotting, pitch-black fingernails as long as needles.

Terror made their breath catch in their throat as the voice purred their name again, closer now, almost whispering in their ear.

The village was so close… so close they could almost touch it.

Eyes squeezed shut, they took another step, ignoring the voice and its temptation.

Their chest burned with the effort to keep walking, each stride a fight against the primal urge to scream or flee.

Finally, with one last desperate step, they crossed the forest's edge and collapsed on the grass.

The oppressive weight lifted.

The voice was gone. The hand was gone. The cold presence was gone.

And still, they did not look back. That was the rule.

After several long moments, they pushed themselves to their feet and walked slowly toward the village.

Only when they reached its walls did their knees give way, and they slumped against the stone, panting.

"Ahh…"

Now… they only had to repeat this two more times.