Shadow Slave

Having sent the child away, and hoping that the tribesmen would not disturb it again, the shadow returned to its usual state of half-slumber.

It had already thrown the little girl, as well as her grandfather, out of its mind... however, for some reason, the shadow felt restless.

The peaceful state of being one with the world was not coming.

Instead, the shadow kept returning to the moment when it remembered a fragment from one of its past lives - the life of the ignorant man who had spoken about Shadow God with contempt, only to leave for the Realm of Shadows hours later.

That man had been a child once, as well. The shadow remembered...

In that life, he had been fortunate.

He had been fortunate because he was born in the glorious Empire.

The Empire stretched across countless realms, encompassing myriad people. It did not need a name, because there had never been another one like it - and there would never be, since the Empire was eternal. It was eternal because it was not ruled by mortal monarchs or even Supreme demigods, but by the Dragon himself.

The Dragon, who was War.

From his throne at the heart of the Empire, a sea of red flowed across the mortal realms, bringing progress and prosperity to all... all who survived the death and destruction it carried.

It was an empire of war, of conquest, of life - and, most of all, glory.

Glory! Glory! Glory!

He remembered watching victorious soldiers return from war as a young child, held tightly in his mother’s arms. The roar of the crowd was like a palpable force, and as it made the glass in the windows tremble, he felt his entire body vibrate with excitement.

He remembered awe.

And most of all, he remembered knowing that this awe would be directed at him one day, as well. That knowledge filled his young and inexperienced heart with an insatiable, untamed, wondrous longing.

Not all born in the Empire were equal. How could they be when there were gods walking among them? The Dragon sat on his towering throne, served by the Four Spirits - the Spirit of Victory, the Spirit of Beauty, the Spirit of Art, and the Spirit of Joy.

There used to be six Spirits watching over the Empire, but two had perished in the war against the Jade Court - the only war the Empire had ever lost - while the seventh was said to have not been born yet.

Below the pantheon of the Empire were the seven Supremes who managed its vast expanse and ruled over its provinces. Those who served the Supremes, as well as Transcendent champions of its unstoppable legions, held a noble status among the people - they were the aristocracy and priesthood of the Empire.

Below them were the citizens, among whom the warriors were the most privileged class. Those born in the outer provinces were not afforded citizenship, but still retained the lofty status of imperial subjects - and could elevate themselves with meritorious deeds.

And finally, below everyone, there were slaves.

The slaves were everywhere in the Empire, but had no rights or status - even the lowest of free men was a person, while the slaves were not.

The shadow had been born a citizen, which was already an enviable fate. More than that, his father was a soldier, just like his father’s father before - as such, his family enjoyed many privileges. Of course, they were not Awakened, who were the true elites... still, theirs was a prosperous and comfortable life, full of delights and boons that only people of the Empire could enjoy. But even faced with a life of prosperity, he never felt satisfied.

That was because somewhere deep within his bones, that roar of the crowd was still echoing and reverberating, making his blood boil.

Glory! Glory! Glory!

He longed for glory.

And so, as soon as he was old enough, he followed in his father’s footsteps and became a soldier.

A war soon followed, and in its bloody throes, drunk and blinded by the clangor of metal...

He stumbled on a horrifying truth.

There was no glory to war. There was no valor. There was no honor to be found, either.

There was only avarice, lust, and stagnation. There was only... plunder.

The realm he and his fellow soldiers had been sent to subjugate was a peaceful one. Its people tried to offer some resistance, but how could they resist the Empire? Their cities burned. Their temples burned as well. Their rulers - the royals and the oracles - were slaughtered.

Those who survived were sold as slaves. The riches of the peaceful realm were gathered and sent as tribute back to the heartland. The soldiers all received their share, too.

At the end of it all, he finally received what he had been dreaming of all his life. A triumph. The legions returned home and were met by a roaring crowd, the ground shaking from the deafening cheers.

But listening to it did not bring him pride or pleasure.

Instead, he only felt a bitter, scathing emptiness.

He had earned quite a sum during his long years of service, and was awarded even more after returning to the embrace of the empire and leaving the legion. It was enough to spend the rest of his life in comfort... if one lived sensibly.

But he did not, could not. He did not want to. Abandoning his devotion to the Spirit of Victory, he dedicated himself instead to pursuing the worship of the Spirit of Joy... the Spirit of Revelry.

Years passed in the haze of taverns, brothels, and gambling dens. His money slowly dwindled in the storm of debauchery, but he didn’t care. He only cared about chasing the next thrill, the next pleasure, the next delight - anything at all, just to forget everything. Just to drown out the mocking call of glory that still lived there, somewhere, deep in his bones.

His pursuit of revelry continued until he had no coin left at all. In fact, he was deeply in debt, with no way to repay it.

And that was how he ended up being sold as a slave.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, and a former soldier at that. Years of debauchery had not managed to weaken his body one bit. So, his first master had a lofty goal of making him a gladiator and earning a small fortune in the arena.

He had performed well there, indeed. But while other gladiators were content with their lot in life - battle slaves led quite a privileged existence, after all, enjoying more boons and pleasures than many of the citizens - he did not care about it one bit. He did not care about himself.

So, after several fights, he beat his master black and blue, stopping short of killing the bastard only out of revulsion.

As it turned out, even slaves had somewhere lower to fall.

He changed several owners after that, acting disobediently and violently each time. In the end, that earned him the very worst fate - being sold as an imperial slave, to be used as cannon fodder in the next campaign. Only the worst of the worst, those who held no other value or had committed crimes worthy of execution, earned that gruesome fate.

He did not mind. In fact, he was a little glad, thinking that this entire farce would finally end soon.

As he was escorted across the empire in shackles, he remembered his childhood. He remembered his mother’s arms, and the crowd welcoming the soldiers back with cries of glory.

He did not want glory anymore.

But, funnily enough...

Even after throwing his life away, shackled, half-dead from the cold, and being dragged to what would almost surely become his death...

He still wanted to live.

He was amused to realize that he still desperately wanted to survive. He was willing to cling to life with all his might, determined to never let go.

Perhaps that was why the Empire was eternal. Not because it was ruled by the God of War... but because the Dragon was also the god of Life.

He walked, shivering from the cold and hoping that the caravan would stop for the night somewhere protected from the wind. What were these bastards thinking, dragging the slaves onto the mountain? Every soldier worth a coin knew that marching in the cold without proper equipment was a death warrant. Did they not care how many slaves would actually make it to the destination?

As he looked ahead, at the jagged peak of a lonesome mountain that cut the sky with its sharp edges, the chain rattled. Someone suddenly shouted from behind him:

”You little shit! I’m going to kill you!”

He chuckled darkly.

The boy chained behind him was gaunt and weak, stumbling already. There was no need to waste air shouting at the poor waif.

He spoke, wishing for the loudmouth behind him to shut up.

”Why bother? The weakling will be dead by sunrise anyway. The mountain will kill him.”

A few seconds later, he added:

”It’ll kill you and me, too. Just a bit later. I really don’t know what the Imperials are thinking, forcing us into this cold.”

The loudmouth continued to spout rubbish, but a few moments later, a more composed voice resounded from behind:

”This mountain pass is usually much warmer this time of year. We just had really bad luck. Also, I would advise you against harming this boy.”

He turned his head, mildly curious.

”Why is that?”

The older slave chained behind the loudmouth gestured forward.

”Haven’t you seen the markings on his skin? He is not like us, who fell into slavery due to debts, crimes, or misfortune. He was born a slave. A temple slave, to be precise. Not long ago, the Imperials destroyed the last temple of the Shadow God. I suspect that this is how the boy ended up here.”

Shadow God...

He hesitated, suddenly uncomfortable. There used to be a god like that... there still was, probably. People of the Empire served the greatest god of all, though - War God, so they had no reason to concern themselves with the rest of them. Especially one as weak and obscure as Shadow.

There were no temples of Shadow God left anywhere in the world, which spoke volumes about what kind of deity that god was.

He scoffed.

”So what? Why should we be afraid of a half-forgotten, weakling god? He couldn’t even save his own temples.”

The old man was worse than the loudmouth. His voice sounded intelligent, but he spoke foolish things.

The caravan continued climbing the mountain. The cold continued to torture them and bite into their bodies. The winds continued to howl.

Eventually, they made camp. He tried to get as close to the fire as he could, finding comfort in its warmth. He ate the pitiful morsels the soldiers gave them.

He was still alive.

But then, there was a deafening sound of a crash as something gargantuan fell from the cliffs and landed in the middle of the camp. When the snow settled, he saw that thing, his eyes widening in horror...

The creature had two stumpy legs, an emaciated, hunched torso, and disproportionately long, multi-jointed hands - two of them, each ending with a set of horrifying bone claws, and another two, these ones shorter, ending with almost human-like fingers. It was covered in fur, yellowish-grey and ragged, thick enough to stop arrows and swords.

On its head, five milky, white eyes regarded the slaves with insect-like indifference. Beneath them, a terrible maw crowded with razor-sharp teeth was half-open, as though in anticipation. Viscous drool was running down the creature’s chin and dripping into the snow.

And there were strange shapes endlessly moving, worm-like, under the creature’s skin.

He froze.

’N-no...’

A Creature of Corruption... it was a Creature of Corruption, and a powerful one at that.

It was death.

’Move! I must move!’

He wanted to live. He still desperately wanted to live... everyone else could die, but he had to survive. There were so many things he regretted. So many things he could still do...

He tried to move away from the creature, but it was already too late.

Something flashed in the air, and suddenly, he felt lighter.

His vision grew blurry.

The snow was painted red.

Red... like the proud banners of the Empire. Like the glorious color of war.

Glory! Glory! Glory!

’Move, I must... move...’

There was no pain.

He fell down, and the dark expanse of the night sky swallowed his vision.

Growing darker and darker with each moment.

Like a vast, impossible shadow.

That was the last thing he saw.

...Deep in the cave, the shadow let out a sigh.

’Why do people love life so much?’

What was so lovable about its vicious, cruel splendor?

Perhaps it was simply in their nature. They were the Creatures of the Flame, after all... the Flame of Desire.

And the desire to be alive was the most ancient and powerful of all.