My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger

The group ran through the dense forest, fear clawing at their backs, pushing them past exhaustion. The night stretched endlessly above them, their bodies slick with dried blood and grime. Damon led the way, his spatial awareness and night vision cutting through the darkness, but his stomach churned with hunger. He bit his lip, feeling the loss of his dwindling supply of magic crystals.

Sending his shadow beyond its normal range consumed his shadow energy at an alarming rate, but he had no choice—he had to scout ahead. His hunger gnawed at him, his shadow reserves now at fifty percent. That meant he had exactly fifty shadow energy left.

He had burned through seven hundred just escaping. Now, only half remained. The lack of energy granted him a slight boost in stats, but he knew the closer he got to starving, the harder it would be to stay sane.

Damon suddenly skidded to a halt, leaning against a thick tree, his breath ragged. “Let’s stop for the night…”

They had been running for the entire day, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and the war trolls. They had reached their estimated resting point far ahead of schedule—Duhu Mountains loomed just ahead, a few hours before dawn.

The group collapsed in exhaustion. Their combat uniforms, usually self-mending, were torn and frayed beyond repair. They had only been out here for less than five days, but their bodies had already reached their limits—physically and mentally. Their mana pools were nearly dry from constant use, their muscles ached, and yet, their auras had grown sharper, hardened by battle. Even Matlock, once the weakest among them, now carried the cold presence of a warrior who had conquered fear.

They lacked the energy to set up camp, lying on the damp ground, too weary to care about the mud and leaves clinging to them.

Xander let out a weak, breathy laugh, staring at the night sky with disbelief.

“Hah… we actually did it… we actually killed a war troll… hahaha…” His own words sounded surreal to him.

Damon sat against the tree, head low, teeth clenched.

“You call that killing a war troll?” His voice was laced with bitter amusement.

“We got lucky. All we did was run… and let the sand crawlers finish it.”

Xander exhaled, his breath visible against the cold air.

“Yeah… I guess you’re right. All we’ve done is run. But what else can we do? We’re weak.”

Evangeline lowered her head, her body trembling. Whether from the cold or from something deeper, she wasn’t sure.

“…We shouldn’t fight,” she murmured. “Okay?”

Damon took a deep breath, calming himself.

“Who’s fighting?” he muttered. “I was just stating a fact.”

Damon forced his aching body up, reaching for his supply bag with sluggish hands. He pulled out a small pack of dry wood, his fingers trembling from exhaustion. Digging into the damp earth with his bare hands, he carved out a small pit and stacked the wood within it.

For a moment, he hesitated. His jaw clenched, as if bracing himself for the inevitable pain. Then, with a sharp breath, he unleashed a small black flame— The Ashborn skill.

The moment the fire left his fingertips, agony coursed through him like a thousand searing needles piercing his skin. It was always like this—like burning alive from the inside out. His breath hitched as the tiny black flame flickered, shifting from its ominous hue to a dull red, then catching onto the wood. Within seconds, the campfire crackled to life, casting weak light against the surrounding trees.

He exhaled, grounding himself through the pain.

“We sleep here tonight,” he muttered. “Tomorrow, we reach the base of the mountain.”

The others nodded, dragging their weary bodies closer to the fire, their expressions hollow with exhaustion. They sat in silence, the only sound being the crackling wood and the soft rustle of leaves in the cold night air.

Damon didn’t even have the strength to maintain morale. He simply stared at the flames, lost in thought.

Leona sat beside him, her presence warm against his side. Matlock settled next to them, the androgynous fairy unusually quiet. As the group unwrapped their rations and began to eat, the silence stretched between them, thick and oppressive.

Then, Matlock’s voice broke the stillness.

“…Are we going to die?”

The words hung in the air like a noose.

Leona’s golden eyes flickered toward him, cold and sharp.

“Maybe you… but none of us have a reason to die.”

Damon reached out, stroking her head gently, his fingers brushing against her beastkin ears.

“Easy, Leona,” he murmured.

She bit her lip, taking a deep breath before nodding. “Sorry. The stress is just getting to me.”

He nodded, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. “Let’s get some sleep. We have to keep moving tomorrow.”

One by one, the others settled in. Sylvia leaned against her supply bag, using it as a makeshift pillow. She clutched an old, weathered travel journal, flipping through its pages despite the dim light.

Damon, however, didn’t join them. Instead, he rose to his feet and walked a little further away, settling against the base of a tree. His gaze lifted toward the twin moons hanging in the dark sky. He sighed, closing his eyes.

Soft footsteps approached.

He didn’t need to open his eyes to know who it was.

“What do you want, Matlock?”

The footsteps halted. Then, after a brief pause, the fairy continued forward, hesitantly sitting beside him.

Damon smirked faintly, eyes still closed. “Sneaking around like that… Are you some sort of dark fairy?”

Matlock’s eyes widened, shaking his head quickly. “Ah—n-no! I’m an ice attribute fairy!”

Damon snickered. The fairy was amusing, at least.

Leaning back against the tree, he sighed as his stomach let out a low growl. Hunger gnawed at him, but he ignored it.

“You’re braver than I thought,” he admitted. “I underestimated you.”

Matlock bit his lip. Was Damon… complimenting him? He felt heat rise to his cheeks. This was the same Damon who was cold, arrogant, and tyrannical—who spoke to professors however he pleased, as if their authority meant nothing. And yet, he wasn’t just cold and scary. He was… something else.

“…You aren’t as scary as I thought,” Matlock whispered.

Damon scoffed weakly. “You thought I was scary?”

Matlock nodded hesitantly. He had plenty of reasons to. Everyone did.

Damon let out a dry chuckle. Pulling out a small ration, he broke it in half and handed a piece to Matlock. The young fairy hesitated before taking it, nibbling on the edge.

“Do you think we’re going to die?” Matlock asked again, voice quieter this time.

Damon shook his head. “It’s my philosophy to not die. Even if you kill me, I’m not dying.”

Matlock lowered his head, taking another bite before handing Damon his water bag.

For an unknown amount of time, the two of them sat there, talking.

Despite the exhaustion, despite the looming dread, Damon found himself occasionally lightening the mood, tossing in dry remarks that made Matlock smile—genuine, bright, even under these circumstances.

And for the first time in days, the weight of their fear felt just a little lighter.