Shadow Slave: Eternal Dawn

Nico stirred just as the dark sea began to recede.

Dawn spilled faint light over the shore.

As he rose, a crippling pain urged him back down, but since he knew it would pass before too long, he got up anyway, scaling down the arm of the priestess and landing on its neck after a short leap.

Squinting, he saw a small, black dot in the distance. His personal Spire Messenger was returning.

Yawning languidly, he summoned the [Wrathful Crescent], the wind ruffling his light tunic as he muttered:

"I think it's about time I begin training."

For the past few months, he hadn't really polished up his skills. The fight that earned him Shaman was the last true combat scenario he'd been in. After all, with so many new tools, he'd hardly needed true prowess. The [Glass Torch], [Wrathful Crescent], and [Song of Steel] had all made victories short and brutal, slaughtering Awakened creatures before they could even resist.

Most definingly, however, was Shaman. Its invaluable powers simply made hunting negligible. If he wanted to, he could lounge in his home all day and let it deliver him Nightmare Creatures like presents on Christmas day. Of course, he would never settle for that, but still, the majority of creatures he slayed were first taken by the merciless Devil.

Even his tag teams with the Specter against Fallen Monsters had proved to be only a minor strain because he was just the distraction.

Today, and for the coming months, that would change.

Without a reliable way to continue absorbing essence without first curing himself, he would need to progress his skills in other areas. There was no room for stagnation.

His new glaive was an unfamiliar weapon compared to his mace, so practicing with it would be helpful, and also help cement his vague battle-style.

"Battle-style, huh," he sighed.

Such a thing had barely been more than a concept before his venture to the Dream Realm. After his... relocation by Song, they had taught him a great many things, combat included. Their foreign, beastly style was imparted onto him as well.

It was a far cry from his First Nightmare, where savagery, hunger, and cold had been all he'd known.

Steadying his thoughts with a deep breath, Nico dismissed the [Song of Steel] and began to reminisce the horrid technique of the ancient humans he had witnessed while fighting Shaman. Their style had been brutal, efficient, and murderous.

His was... anything but. It was structured, calm, and final. The style was more than ruthless swings meant for no other purpose than to cleave. Instead, it worked to close in like an inescapable net. Each parry, attack, or block served a purpose, and each counter took something from his opponent. The environment, number of foes, weapons, and supernatural powers — they were all parts of his grand trap.

And that trap's only purpose was to defeat the enemy.

No matter the cost.

Shifting to a two-handed grip, he studied the structure of the [Wrathful Crescent].

The shaft of the weapon was a little over two meters long. Attached to it was a curved, bulky blade that was slower, but better used against enemies with heavier armor. Its decreased speed didn't hinder him — not when he was a Monster and possessed two augmentations — but it was noticeable. Luckily, his tall frame and long reach made it an ideal weapon for him.

Skimming through his picture-perfect memory for all the encounters he had had where someone wielded a polearm and keeping the technique of the ancient wraiths in mind, he composed a basic set of moves to learn.

When his Specter returned minutes later, the possessed body of the Spire Messenger touching down sinisterly, Nico collected himself. His armor wrapped around his body with a thought. He circled towards the opposite end of the platform.

A spar or two couldn't hurt.

For today, he would only be using one soul root on himself, sending the other to the [Silver Wraith]. There would be no progress if everything came easy, but as a mere dormant, fighting a Fallen alone without any augmentation was suicide.

Honestly, he was almost sure he would lose even with both augmentations and his preferred weapon.

In response to his posture, Shaman's crimson flames flickered in anticipation, its beastly form tensing and dropping to all... eights? It had eight legs in total counting the six clawed ones that jutted from its chest, so the description seemed appropriate, at least.

Nico raised his weapon into a high stance, then clarified:

"No mind-attacks. Just physical combat."

The Spire Messenger cawed once, the dashed forward, its hind legs springing off the stone and scattering dust in a ring.

Nico, prepared, dashed sideways, four pairs of sharp claws passing by him harmlessly. The Messenger's beak, however, hadn't extended to attack him, and pivoted easily, its sharp point thrusting through the air in an attempt to skewer him, staved barely by the shaft of the [Wrathful Crescent] as he bashed it off course.

But, by the time he deflected the beak, two of the Messenger's arms had recoiled, swiping at his pauldron. He managed to dodge one, but the other connected with a thunderous boom. Nico's bones rattled. He was launched backwards, skidding against the stone before catching himself a few feet from the edge.

'Ah... what a miserable battlefield.'

There was so little room to maneuver. Though, after today, he wasn't going to stay on the statue of the priestess, so it didn't really matter.

The Messenger's head tilted, waiting. Almost respectful.

Nico collected himself.

Raising his glaive again, he dashed back into the fight.

***

...Hours later, Nico collapsed onto the stones once again, his armor a map of wounds, gashes, and dried blood blue as the ocean. He exhaled a labored breath. His armor and tunic collapsed into sparks to fully repair itself in his Soul Sea. For once, he was glad to have tucked away a pair of garments under the armor's own.

Still, the clothing was rather light. The cold wind bit at his bruised skin relentlessly. He shivered.

Across from him, the Spire Messenger stood mostly uninjured. One of its six clawed feet were gruesomely torn at the ankle, but it was nothing the profane creature wouldn't heal given time. Similarly, other gashes lined its desiccated torso. Fetid blood wept from the wounds.

Overall... he had failed miserably. Most fights he didn't last more than ten seconds. Shaman was much smarter than the true Cursed Herald would've been. It was wicked, and through its Attribute carried the accumulated knowledge of an entire ancient civilization's brutal hunting techniques.

And, unlike the [Mourning Star], the [Wrathful Crescent] was wholly foreign to him. He imitated the movements of other fighters, but their combat was flawed or jaded, so his was too.

He would have to forge his own style or try to extract his Specter's somehow.

Either way it was fine. This fight was merely to establish a baseline of his innate skills, not throw himself against a wall without any sort of direction.

Lighting his campfire after a couple minutes, Nico watched his Specter lower itself to the ground, wings wrapped around itself comfortably. Its head flickered around the surroundings with eerie sentience, then fell upon Nico.

They observed each other.

Shaman was... calm. Intelligent. Not human, but smart enough to be considered one. Before he claimed it as an Echo, the wraith had become a Nightmare Creature twisted by corruption, and by nature, insane. Now, it was reformed. It retained no memory of its past life because it was a being created from Nico's spirit — only similar in form alone, bearing its name too because the Spell hadn't bothered giving it a new one.

Aside from the knowledge imbued into it by its Attributes, everything was a novel experience for the Specter. The Nightmare Spell, the waking world, Aspects, humans... it somehow had a vague understanding of those things through Nico's memories, but not an in depth one.

A combination of emotions stirred as it considered the world around it. Not so much as existential feelings like a human, but more like vague discernments. Pride in its own strength, awe and affection towards its creator's, and a subtle fascination about the glimpses of human life it saw in the Bright City.

But there was fear, pain, and confusion, too. A world of combat was a harrowing one — one that the wraith recognized it was born for, and despite its loyalty that would always be a fact of its life.

Nico wondered if something so smart deserved to be tethered down. His Flaw fed the Specter's emotional state into him despite its own hex. A melancholy expression twisted his features as memories replayed in his mind like broken tapes.

Flashes of his own experiences — his absent, forbidden father, his awe-inspiring mother, his hopelessness and loneliness after being adopted, and then his First Nightmare too.

Of course, unlike him, the Shaman would never quite be human. It didn't have human worries or cares. If it spent the rest of its life serving him it would die content.

But, it was sentient, nonetheless. 

He opened his mouth, then closed it. The words faded before they even formed, his gaze dull and distant. Clouds rolled overhead, casting deep shadows over the crimson landscape below. 

With a thought, he ordered the Specter to hunt the surrounding area of Awakened Creatures, then absorb the shards for itself. That was the most efficient way to continue utilizing them without being forced to carry hundreds in reserve.

Nine months was more than enough time anyway. Even subtracting however long it took to heal himself would leave plenty to spare.

Focusing deeply, he closed his eyes.

It was about time he begun making progress on that front.