My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger

In a dim little room adorned with tall windows and ornate, gilded furnishings, a regal man sat behind an imposing desk of polished blackwood.

Golden eyes, sharp and unreadable, stared forward—calm, calculating, cold. His hair, shimmering like sunlight on steel, flowed back behind his shoulders. Every inch of him radiated wealth, status, and power. The fabric of his garments shimmered faintly in the light, clearly of the highest quality.

He sat in silence, unmoving, his gaze fixed on the projection hovering above his table—a holographic image of a kneeling man encased in radiant gold armor.

Though his expression remained composed, an almost conflicted shadow passed behind his eyes.

This man was Cassian Brightwater—The Golden Death.

A name the demons themselves had given him.

Not a title earned through ceremony, but one forged in the deepest infernos of war. He was feared. Revered. And for good reason.

Now, he simply listened as Commander Varran Dawnclad reported in a tone stripped of anything but formal gravity. The presence of Sylvia in the report only added pressure. Her father had already been placing immense strain on Valtheron and the Academy.

Cassian took a deep breath and cut through the report with a quiet, personal question.

“Is my daughter alright?”

In the projection, Varran raised his head slightly, his expression firm.

“Yes, Your Grace. She seems to be doing fine. Somehow… all of them are alright. I have yet to inquire about the details of their journey, however. They seem sharp. Like freshly drawn swords.”

His golden eyes narrowed slightly.

“Interestingly… all of them have reached the Second Class—save for Lord Valdren… or perhaps I should say Lady Faldren, who has attained the Third Class.”

Cassian gave a slow nod.

“I see. It’s quite like that damned fairy… forcing his daughter to dress as a man to preserve his delusion of a male heir.”

Varran, still kneeling in projection, dipped his head respectfully, the glow of his armor faint.

“It appears they came from the direction of Lysithara. How they survived that ruin… is still unknown.”

Cassian said nothing at first. He was curious—but more than that, he was simply relieved. It could have been worse.

“Thank you for your report, Commander.”

Those simple words nearly made Varran stumble in place. He saluted immediately, fist pressed to his chest.

Just as he was about to end the transmission, Cassian paused.

“…Damon.”

His eyes flicked up toward the projection again.

“What about Damon? Is… he alright?”

Varran hesitated, confused. Why would His Grace ask about a commoner?

But after a brief moment, he recalled the boy. Damon Grey. Talented. Dangerous. Strange. He had potential—and potential was dangerous. Perhaps Cassian meant to recruit him. Why else would the Grand Duke care?

“He did try to avoid coming to the duchy. Meeting Your Grace is an honor far above any commoner’s station… but as per your orders, we’ll ensure he reaches Lumos tomorrow.”

Cassian nodded. “Very well, then.”

Varran bowed. “We are at the beginning of a new era… or the end of one. Seras’ Blade may have sparked it, but it seems the age of prodigies is returning. War is upon us. I can feel it.”

Cassian’s voice was soft. Resolved.

“…Let it come.”

With that, the projection vanished.

The duke exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. The room was silent—until a faint shift echoed from one of the corners.

Cassian didn’t look up.

“…Jarvis. Bring me the documents.”

A tall man in black stepped out from the shadows and placed a stack of parchment on the desk without a word.

Cassian stood, tucking the papers under his arm. He moved through the towering palace halls with practiced ease, the silence of the corridors broken only by his footsteps.

He arrived at a wing with few servants. Few dared enter here. He pushed open a heavy oak door, stepping inside.

The room was dark.

A single figure stood at the window.

He had golden hair, streaked with silver. His eyes, also gold, shimmered faintly with a distant sorrow. His beard was long, unkempt, and his aura… it was ancient. Deep. A presence that once shook kingdoms, now faded—but not forgotten.

The figure did not turn.

His voice came hoarse and bitter.

“…Have you come again, vile crow?”

Cassian sighed.

“That’s not a very nice way to speak to your only son.”

The Grand Duke didn’t move.

“What else can I say to someone who only ever brings vile omens and terrible news…”

Cassian’s gaze drifted to a portrait on the wall.

A young woman with golden hair, smiling.

“If it makes you feel any better… I’m grieving too.”

The old man scoffed.

“You think you can imagine the pain of a man who’s lost his daughter? My little girl’s been dead for nearly a decade… and I only just find out…”

Cassian said nothing.

‘Then you shouldn’t have kicked her out,’ he thought—but held his tongue.

His father didn’t need more reasons to retreat deeper into solitude.

“You haven’t left the duchy in the nineteen years since she left. You didn’t even know she was gone…”

The Grand Duke’s eyes glowed. His aura flared—then exploded.

With a wild swing of his arm, the walls cracked and shattered.

“You think I don’t know that!?”

His voice broke.

“I thought… I thought if she married that commoner and suffered some hardship… she’d come back. She’d beg her father for forgiveness. I would’ve been hard on her, yes—but I would’ve forgiven her…”

His shoulders trembled.

“And now you tell me she’s dead…”

The silence weighed heavily.

“If I hadn’t driven her away… she would never have gone to war… she never would’ve died…”

Cassian’s expression was tight. His voice quiet.

“Evangeline is coming home. While your daughter is gone… at least your grandchildren are still here.”

He set the documents on a table—one of the few things that hadn’t shattered from the outburst.

“You might want to read this.”

The Grand Duke’s brows furrowed.

Grandchildren?

But he only had one.

Before he could say a word, Cassian turned and walked away. His voice lingered in the air.

“You might want to make yourself presentable… when they come home tomorrow.”

Silence returned.

The old duke slowly stepped forward, picking up the documents with trembling hands.

And as he read them—line by line, truth by truth—something within him broke.

The Golden Sun of the Valtheron—once a monster of war, a king among lords—fell to his knees in silence.

And for the first time in years…

He wept.