Shadow Slave : Shadow Clan

The silence after Olivia's vow was suffocating.

Then the air cracked.

Not from sound—but from presence.

Anvil rose, and the ancient stones beneath his feet buckled, webbing with pressure cracks. His coat of tarnished gold shifted like molten dusk, and his eyes—still void-black—gleamed with a sick joy.

"Let's begin, then."

He took a single step forward.

BOOM.

The shockwave hit like thunder. Torches extinguished instantly. Dust shot upward. Olivia vanished in a blur of stringlight, and in that heartbeat, the throne behind Anvil exploded as one of her phantom daggers buried itself where his spine had been.

But he wasn't there.

"Too slow."

His voice came from above.

Olivia twisted, already summoning a dozen razor-thin strings and slashing the air. Like a serpent of silk and steel, they coiled and struck—

CLANG—CLANG—CRACK!

Anvil blocked each thread with only his forearms, no weapon in hand. The sheer density of his body struck against her strings with the sound of crashing metal. Sparks flew as Olivia weaved her battle art into its next form:

Moon's Spiral.

Three daggers burst from her sleeves, propelled by strings arcing around the battlefield like constellations snapping into place. She twisted midair, momentum building—

FLASH—FLASH—FLASH!

Each dagger aimed for a vital point: neck, heart, spine.

And each one... missed.

No—was avoided.

By the smallest movement. As if Anvil already knew where they would go.

"Predictable," he muttered, before finally stepping forward again—and this time, countering.

A single open palm swept out.

SHHHHRAK—!!

Olivia barely dodged. The column beside her shattered like glass, ripped apart by invisible force. The stone behind it cratered inward, dozens of feet deep.

She clicked her tongue. That wasn't mere strength.

That was a Domain Skill.

"You're using it," she whispered.

Anvil chuckled. "Barely."

Behind her, the Black Rings moved.

"Engage!" one shouted. "Protect the Matriarch!"

The elite assassins of the Shadow Clan launched forward in coordinated fury. Dozens of streaks in black and crimson blurred across the throne hall, shadow steps igniting in ripples of force as they targeted Anvil's blind spots.

Twenty of them. Ascended-ranked.

They hit like a thunderstorm—shurikens, blades, ki-arrows, phantom arts—

And in the center of it all... Anvil didn't move.

Not at first.

The first strike landed. A dagger found his shoulder.

It broke.

Then came five more.

And with a casual breath, Anvil's Domain erupted.

⸻

The air turned viscous. The entire throne hall bent under an unseen pressure. A translucent red sigil flared beneath his feet—circular, etched with runes of survival, control, and fate.

All at once, the Black Rings began to slow.

Not by choice.

Their limbs dragged like moving through molasses. Their breath hitched. Bones trembled. Their bodies—finely honed weapons—began to betray them.

"My Domain governs battle itself ," Anvil said simply

He moved.

And the massacre began.

One by one, members of the Black Rings were struck—not with grace, but brute inevitability. Like falling boulders. Each punch shattered ribs. Each kick sent bodies flying into walls. No matter how they struck, how they coordinated, his presence crushed their resolve.

Olivia screamed, launching herself forward again.

Her strings danced in erratic, impossible patterns—no longer following forms, only will. Her daggers curved like comets, dragging walls with them. She used her own blood now—strings laced with red—to fuel the Phantom Thread Style's final form:

Crimson Bloom.

The strings curled inward—spiraling, constricting, crushing in a thousand directions. They wrapped around Anvil's limbs, chest, throat—

And for a moment, Olivia saw it:

Weakness.

"DIE!"

She pulled.

The strings detonated in light.

The throne room lit up in a white-hot blaze—

—only for Anvil to step out of it.

Not bleeding. Not burned.

His Armor endured the hits how, Even broken sword wasn't able to doge my attacks in this form 

Smiling.

"Now we're getting somewhere."

He raised his hand.

A black sword materialized from his palm, shaped from his will. Not cast, not summoned—declared into reality through Domain control. He threw it casually.

Olivia raised her arms—

BOOM!

She flew backward, crashing through two ruined pillars, the impact cracking her bones.

Blood spilled from her mouth. Her body screamed in pain. Her vision swam.

But she stood again.

"You didn't even try to kill me," she rasped.

Anvil nodded.

"Why would I? I'm just... testing."

He walked toward her.

"Testing how far your love will take you. How much pain you'll endure for a dead man. For a child you didn't birth. For a world that barely remembers your name."

He crouched down beside her.

"Olivia, Olivia. Don't you see? You're trying to fight a god."

Blood clung to Olivia's lips, a red thread of defiance refusing to fall.

Her arms trembled. Her body—woven from countless threads of battle, tempered by loss and love—was barely holding form now. Her dark coat was torn in places, revealing threads of light and shadow, essence leaking like unraveling silk.

Behind her, the last of the Black Rings had fallen. Dead or unconscious—it didn't matter. She stood alone.

But she did not fall.

"Lives depend on this."

She saw them in her mind—Sunny, Rain, Jet, and Nephis.

Smiling. Laughing. Crying.

And somewhere... Jet was still trapped in the dream realm. Nephis, grieving but alive. Rain, innocent and small. And Sunny—his eyes, so much like Abel's—already too burdened by grief for his years.

"They're my children too. Not by blood. But by everything else."

She wiped the blood from her lips, her strings flickering back into formation. Tattered, sluggish, dim—but still moving. Still fighting.

Across the shattered throne hall, Anvil had not even moved.

He tilted his head.

"Still standing?"

His voice was tinged with amusement. Mocking. But even now, a sliver of curiosity lingered.

"Even knowing what comes next?"

Olivia didn't answer. She stepped forward.

Then vanished—Final Phantom Form.

The hall twisted. Dozens of Olivia's forms moved like ghosts, daggers in hand, all of them surging toward Anvil with blinding speed. Her strings had no shape now—only wrath.

She struck from every direction.

A dagger aimed at his throat—

A string slicing toward his spine—

A kick imbued with soulforce targeting his jaw—

And for a moment, it looked like she might actually strike him.

Until—

SHE FROZE.

Mid-attack. Mid-step. Mid-thought.

Her threads went limp.

Her blade fell from her hand.

Her knees buckled.

And she screamed.

Not from pain of the body—

But of something far deeper.

He was cutting her soul.

Not her mind.

Not her energy.

But her very soul sea.

She saw it. Felt it. Threads of who she was being torn, snipped, dismantled—by something that ignored the physical. His will—a Domain fueled by survival and supremacy—was cutting into her existence.

Her thoughts frayed. Memories bled.

Abel's smile. Sunny's first steps. Nephis's first spar. Rain's laughter.

All being cut away.

"No..." she choked out. "No, I... I can't let this happen..."

She pulled strings back together—frantically, desperately—using every ounce of her power to hold herself. Her soul sea twisted in agony. Her core flickered. Her threads dulled.

Anvil was still walking toward her. Slowly.

"There is no 'winning' here, Olivia."

His voice was cold now. Detached.

"This isn't a battle anymore. It's an execution. You defied fate, but fate is still watching."

She tried to summon another blade.

Nothing came.

No string answered her will.

Her soul was splintering.

"If I fall here... I'll never wake again."

"Sunny... Nephis... Rain... Jet..."

A memory came then.

Rain's tiny hand, tugging her cloak.

Nephis asking her why her hands never trembled.

Jet—calling her "Miss Olivia" with reverence, seeking a place to belong.

Sunny, after his first real battle, looking up at her and whispering:

"Will I ever be strong like you?"

She wanted to answer him now.

"You'll be stronger. But you need time. Please... give them more time..."

And then—

Blackness.

Her strings collapsed into ash.

Her knees gave out.

She fell.

And her eyes—still open—lost their light.

Only seeing a shadow of a masked man.