Shadow Slave: Eternal Dawn

Exhaling slowly, Nico crushed the last shard in his palm. Behind him, a field of butchered, burned corpses lay motionless.

The Spell whispered:

[Your soul grows stronger.]

Crystalline essence swirled in his bright eyes like a vortex, white and pure, indicating the assimilation of fragments into his ever-expanding soul. In response, his body refined itself, strengthening in tandem with his soul. Blood coursed through his veins with improved vitality.

It was a process he'd experienced many times before, although usually not to this extent. From just his first day hunting outside the labyrinth he'd collected ten Awakened shards. Using the possessed soul of the Spire Messenger to find and assault enemies with uncanny speed, the duo managed quite well, and it was still only early-afternoon. The sun hung high in the sky, casting dull light over the blood-splattered forest of pillars below. Should he wish to hunt more, he could probably double or even triple the numbers of fragments without much trouble.

However, he had other things to attend to.

And damn was it growing painful.

Shattering a protrusion of coral in his grasp, he endured a pang of writhing agony, an involuntary groan passing through his lips.

"It's only getting worse," he grumbled.

The Messenger behind him tilted its beak down, poking his back twice. Something like worry emanated from the Specter within. Two flesh-curdling caws denoted its disapproval.

Slightly dizzy, Nico turned around, squinting at the massive Nightmare Creature with no particular expression.

Then, he pulled himself onto it — a rather uncomfortable experience due to the fact it had no saddle — and gripped its feathers tightly.

His voice came out raspy:

"Back to the priestess."

With a single beat of its black wings, the Messenger billowed upwards into the sky.

Rising far above the labyrinth, its limbs hung uselessly, the wind ruffling its feathers and passing Nico's face with blinding ferocity.

In the distance, an enormous, headless statue was revealed, one arm raised to the sky as if in prayer. The other, severed, was resting uselessly in the mud at her feet. A billowing robe hung from the woman's shoulders, carved by some unknown hand masterfully.

A gargantuan crater hundreds of kilometers wide sprawled behind it.

A few minutes later, they touched down on the woman's raised palm, the Messenger's claws scaping against ancient stone as it landed.

Nico disembarked, taking a seat beside the cold firepit. [Winter's Vase] was resting nearby. Its reservoir of snow had continued to grow, and during the stay in the labyrinth he planned to melt its contents for easy fresh water.

But that would be done later. Now, he was going to check on something.

The Memory he had gotten from Jubei. To be specific, not the five he had stolen — he'd sold those for shards since they were completely insufficient — but instead the one the man's death granted him.

Summoning his runes, he searched for the line pertaining to his Memories:

Memories: [Silver Wraith], [Mourning Star], [Song of Steel], [Wrathful Crescent], [Winter's Vase], [Glass Torch]. [Severed Vertebrae], [Herald's Locket].

He focused on the string of the last one:

Memory: [Herald's Locket].

Memory Rank: Dormant.

Memory Tier: I.

Memory Type: Tool.

Memory Description: [A herald of justice was shattered and broken. This locket, his beacon of truth and virtue, now only tells twisted lies.]

Pondering the description briefly, he willed the Memory to manifest. The sound of swirling sparks combining reached his ears, and a soft glow issued from underneath his armor, yet nothing appeared.

'Well, it is a locket.'

Dismissing the outer elements of the [Silver Wraith], he fished under his tunic and pulled out a small, intricate silver locket. Its exterior a smooth, polished oval, laced around his neck with a loose chain. Brushing his thumb over the trinket, he flipped it open.

There were two surfaces inside. One was a mirror — clouded over by fog, a jagged crack running down its center. The other was an etched design. Almost like a coin, it depicted the upper half of a skull, a crown of thorns resting on its head. Beside it, a chopped rose in bloom and an empty wine glass.

After a few seconds of inspection, the mirror suddenly began to clear, and a wavy line was carved just below the glass's lip. When Nico's eyes met his reflection's, it was like he was drawn into it, viewing the figure at much greater clarity and size than what should've been possible.

His reflection was... bloody; drenched from head to toe, dripping the viscous liquid like sweat from his skin. One hand was clutching a cracked, extinguished soul shard, and the other was twitching restlessly. An unbecoming, sorrowful gaze twisted his features, lips curled down, brows scrunched, and smeared marks — a mix of tears and blood — on his cheeks.

'How... morbid.'

Grimacing, Nico snapped the locket shut, watching it collapse and return to his soul.

His spirit throbbed painfully.

'What is that thing's enchantment?'

***

Come nightfall, Nico was restless. His back was leaned against the index finger of the priestess, eyes gazing up at the void, starless night sky above.

For once, he felt truly, peacefully blind. He had sent his Specter to a nearby pillar of coral just in case its crimson eyes attracted any sea monsters, and at the moment, no vile souls lurked in the black waters nearby him. Most the nearest Awakened abominations had been purged as well, so all that surrounded him were the quiet whispers of the wind, the salty odor of the ocean, and the churning of lapsing waves.

No emotions intruded on his peace.

He was strangely thoughtful.

Things were... changing. Ever since he killed Jubei, the rate at which his spirit wound was worsening had increased rapidly. After absorbing shards today, the cause was obvious.

The stronger his soul got, the less his spirit could withstand it.

Why was that the case? He had no clue. For some reason, the part of him rebirthed into the Specter was not repaired or regained. Instead, it stayed missing, gradually weakening him over time — day by day, month by month.

Perhaps that was just the nature of a spirit. One could not simply regain what was sacrificed; a fundamental part of his being was broken, causing a cascade failure.

Was he... going to die?

Hollow irony bubbled up in his chest.

He had had the same question before. When writhing on the ground after transforming Shaman into a Specter, the desperate, depressed thought had crossed him. Yet, it had not been his own. Now, dozens of kilometers away, surrounded by nothing but silence, the same question echoed in his head of his own volition.

Absently, his hand reached upward and grabbed hold of the [Herald's Locket], holding it above his face. Earlier, he had summoned it back, and at some point, he realized it appeared... vain. Grim. Without meeting his reflection again, he studied the incised coin: the crown of thorns, the rose in bloom, the glass made full — it all appeared warped.

'A beacon of truth and virtue that now only tells twisted lies.'

The Memory, like himself, was broken.

But... was that so terrible?

Was wickedness a sign of inadequacy?

No. It wasn't.

To be ruthless was to survive, and before all else, that was his one true goal.

'What does it matter if I fissured part of my spirit? If it won't repair itself... I'll just form more.'