My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger

Three days passed uneventfully in the village. Damon had taken back his old house, kicking his father's relatives out without hesitation.

Oddly enough, they didn't even grumble. After reclaiming it, he should have been able to relax—should have felt some satisfaction—but he didn't. Something sat on his chest like a weight, a lingering unease.

The feeling refused to fade….

He hated these feelings. For him, they were usually a sign that something terrible was about to happen.

His shadow had remained completely natural, showing no strange distortions, not even its regular playful movements, even when his two pets—the raven Croft and the squirrel—tried to provoke it. It behaved like any ordinary shadow.

This was unusual. Damon wondered if it had anything to do with what was on the distant horizon.

Trouble had to be waiting…

The last three days, he had spent in his old home, surrounded by familiar walls, revisiting old memories.

This would be his last moments of peace.

The sun was sinking low in the sky, painting the village cemetery in a fading amber light. The place was filled with cheaply made gravestones jutting unevenly from the earth, many tilted from years of neglect.

All the villagers were there, every single one forced to attend by Damon's will.

The grave before them was open. Damon already knew what lay inside not a body, but a sword buried with the dirt.

The wooden casket was pried open, revealing the broken blade. Next, the clothes of his late father were placed inside. Only then was the sword removed.

It was carefully wrapped in soft fabric, and the grave was slowly filled again as soft hymns and prayers for the deceased rose into the cooling air.

Damon's expression remained impassive throughout. He had made peace with his father's death long ago.

When the grave was finally sealed, he bit his lip, stepped forward, and stood in front of it. He opened his mouth but no words came. Turning away with a quiet sigh, he reached for the broken sword.

The moment his fingers closed around its hilt, he felt it—an unmistakable bond. This was meant to be his Dealer's Hand.

The sword was like him.

It had been something his father loved, yet it had failed to meet expectations in battle and broken under the strain—just as Damon had failed to live up to any of his noble ideals.

A broken thing. But still useful.

The blade was still sharp, still pristine thanks to the casket's protection. Its hilt bore the carving of a setting sun—Twilight.

It fit perfectly. His father had the night attribute a variation of darkness, his mother the light of Day. Twilight was where they met, where the deepest shadows lived.

And Damon—caught between light and darkness—fit that image well.

The blade was only half a sword now, the break forming a sharp, slanted point. Despite its damage, it felt just right in his hand.

The last rays of sunlight gleamed along its edge as Damon smiled faintly.

"I do not desire to live long… but I will certainly be the reason many don't. I am a dealer in death and a merchant in blood… you are the hand that brings my terrible will upon this world."

Skill – [Dealer's Hand]

You may permanently mark a weapon as your Dealer's Hand. This weapon grows sharper with your bond and stronger with every life it claims. Each soul taken feeds its edge, tempering it into a blade of legend. It will never dull, never break—so long as you live. Only in death will it lose its edge.

When Damon activated the skill, shadows around the cemetery stirred.

They rose from every gravestone, sliding like inky rivers toward him. The villagers froze, their fear locking them in place as the shadows fused into Damon's own, which swelled and spread across the ground like a living tide.

When the darkness reached their feet, dread broke them. One villager ran first, and the rest followed in a stampede.

The shadows deepened, and from their mass emerged vague, writhing forms—men, monsters, horrors. All creatures Damon had slain.

One by one, they merged into the black mass surrounding him, flowing toward the sword like a river of night. As they entered the blade, they streamed out the other side and poured into Damon's chest.

Pain tore through him.

"Argh—!"

His voice failed. The agony was so intense he couldn't even scream. Darkness spread from his heart, crawling into his veins, flooding his eyes, hair, skin—until he was a man made entirely of shifting shadow.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, it faded. His skin returned to normal, his hair and eyes as before.

Only the sword remained changed.

It floated before him, pitch black, writhing with pulsing shadows. Damon could feel it radiating death.

He raised a hand, and it flew into his grasp with a clear, ringing note.

He smiled, then willed it forward. The blade tore through the air, slicing a distant tree clean in half before returning to him.

"Not bad… but too slow. In a real battle, that won't work."

His dream of a flying sword would have to wait.

After a moment's thought, his grin returned. He willed the sword to float beneath his feet, stepping onto it. Slowly, it lifted him into the air until he hovered several meters above the ground.

"What do you know… I can use this for transportation."

Not what the skill was meant for, but Damon was the Dealer—he decided the rules.

Calling the sword back into his hand, his expression hardened.

Now came the real test—the reason he had wanted a Dealer's Hand in the first place.

Could this blade withstand the flames of Ashborn?

He ignited the black fire. Shadows spread across the blade, compressing into a single, constantly moving edge of heat and darkness.

It was so sharp he felt it could cut anything.

A rare smile tugged at his lips despite the agony of maintaining Ashborn.

But that smile faded slightly as he sensed just how much shadow energy the weapon was consuming.