My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger

The Face Stealers…

How could Sylvia not know what these vile creatures were? They weren’t exactly commonplace, but they weren’t rare either. These faceless horrors plagued all nine continents, pale-skinned and shaped like humans.

She paled, staring at the bodies—once people, now faceless, nameless, stripped of identity.

Her mind echoed with a passage from the old travel journal:

I can no longer remember their names or faces. The forest had taken them—or so we assumed. By the sixth month of the expedition, we had stumbled upon the nest of a group of Face Stealers. These creatures, normally solitary, had defied expectations. They had formed hordes. Many of us fell—our names and faces taken. The battle was dire. We wiped out most of these vile abominations… save for one. Too weak, we thought, to pose a threat.

We sent a hunting party to finish it. But we’ve forgotten their names… their faces… slain by the creature.

Loathe as I am to admit it, we lack the resources to pursue vengeance. We cannot even bury our lost. They belong to the forest now. We can only pray the Lady of Death grants them peace. We shall all return to Doom’s embrace… though I pray it is not yet our time.

Sylvia felt a flicker of relief. If the journal was accurate, then most—if not all—of the Face Stealers here were dead. At least her friends wouldn’t have to face something that could rob them of something as irreplaceable as their identity.

Damon narrowed his eyes. “This place is pretty well preserved. The battle must’ve been years ago.”

Evangeline knelt beside a corpse, eyeing the faded emblem etched into dulled armor and rusted weapons.

“They’re from Valtheron. Houses tied to the imperial cabinet…”

Damon’s eyes sharpened. “That’s obvious. But why would the imperial cabinet—or even the emperor—sanction a clandestine mission into the Whispering Forest?”

He directed the question to Evangeline and Xander—both from powerful grand duchies, their families wielding influence rivaling the imperial throne.

Evangeline shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. The cabinet has more secrets than stars in the sky.”

Xander scoffed. “As if they’d tell that to a bunch of teenagers.”

Leona stepped closer, her expression tight. “These bodies are old. Might not even be from this era—or at least not recent years.”

Matia pulled off her helm, her braid falling over her shoulder. “And it wasn’t taught in any history class I know.”

Damon sneered, rising from where he’d inspected a corpse. “Why would the imperial propaganda machine ever talk about their failures?”

He dusted his hands off, voice flat. “History class never teaches the truth. Only a set of lies everyone agrees on.”

Xander’s gaze hardened, his noble pride flaring.

“How dare you blaspheme the Imperial Family?”

Damon met his glare with an icy stare. “Screw the Imperial Family.”

Bound by honor, oath, and pride, Xander drew his spear with a sharp whisper of steel.

“You dare… take that back.”

Damon didn’t even glance his way.

Before blood could spill, Evangeline stepped between them, her sword raised at Xander.

She knew Damon wouldn’t back down. His resentment toward the imperial family ran deep—toward all nobles, really. And pushing this now would only end in disaster.

Damon sighed… this was one of the reasons he didn’t like Xander. But just like Xander couldn’t discard his ideals, neither could Damon let go of his defiant resentment…

Evangeline stood between them.

“We don’t have time for this. We aren’t in the academy anymore. As for why the imperial cabinet or the imperial family sent this many people to a death zone… that’s not our concern right now.”

She glanced at Damon. “As party leader, you know that well.”

Damon scoffed, feeling slightly irritated.

“Yeah, right…” he muttered, walking over to a corpse and picking up the sword of the nameless knight. It was rusted, brittle… for all intents and purposes, it was a dead weapon.

Damon glanced at the crumbled corpse.

‘I wonder if my shadow can eat something this dead… they’ve been gone for at least a few decades or more.’

He shook the thought off. He would try that later—after they left. He’d send his shadow back… hopefully it would gain a skill, or at least some attribute points.

Sylvia walked past him, raising her hand to the others.

“Hey, come check this out…”

Damon raised his head, discarding the old sword. None of the weapons were any good for him anyway.

He glanced at the others… they had scattered slightly, though he could still tell Xander was sour about his disregard for imperial authority.

He began walking toward Sylvia when Evangeline suddenly grabbed his arm—her golden eyes glaring at him.

“I don’t know what your issue is… but sometimes, it’s good to know when to bow your head.”

Her voice was almost a whisper.

“It’s fine because it’s us… but anyone else, anywhere else—and what you said would be considered treason. Lèse-majesté.”

She took a deep breath, her eyes softening slightly as she looked at Damon with a trace of worry before walking ahead of him.

“You might not care… but this is just Xander’s way of looking out for you. Be careful.”

Damon sneered. He already knew that. He had always known that.

He smiled faintly. “What can they take from me… just my little life. At least I die as myself—unchanged, unbroken.”

Evangeline opened her mouth but said nothing. Her eyes merely flickered with concern.

By now, the others stood before a broken monolith, staring at the words inscribed with a strange mix of reverence and dread. Damon frowned.

‘What’s with them…?’ he looked at the strange language carved into the stone. It looked familiar.

‘Come to think of it… isn’t this the same language as the system panel?’ He had never really paid it any mind—until now.

It was like a fog had lifted. The system panel… it hadn’t been written in his native tongue.

These words… they weren’t just written. They were translated directly into his soul.

The first part was familiar. Anyone who worshiped the goddess knew them by heart.

It was the last part that gave him pause. A chill swept through him, like he stood on the cusp of uncovering something dreadful.

Sylvia’s eyes glazed over, blood dripping from her nose—but Damon was too enticed by the words to even notice.

The monolith read:

Hail Minerva, Goddess of Doom.

Lady of the Inevitable.

Mistress of Final Judgment.

She Who Weighs the Scales.

Bearer of the Black Thread.

The One Who Watches from the End.

Mother of Dread and Silence.

Queen of Shattered Realms.

She Who Writes the Last Law.

Matron of War Unending.

Lady of Death.

The Fate Unyielding.

The Hand Behind the Curtain of Destiny.

Hail the Goddess of the Abyss, Bride of the—

The last line…

It wasn’t something he knew. It wasn’t just unfamiliar—it was wrong. Distorted. Heavy. Like it didn’t belong.

Bride of the—

It broke off there.

The monolith itself had shattered—as if that final phrase was a burden too heavy for even stone to bear.

Damon’s eyes drifted to the last line of the writing… it was signed:

Ashcroft.