Shadow Slave

The boundless black sky was the last thing that the lost soldier had seen in his bitter, senseless life.

However, that was not the end of it.

The man had lived for a minute or two more... what had been the man, at least... and the shadow had lived those minutes with him. However, it did not want to remember those last moments — they were a vessel of Corruption, after all, and the shadow had no desire to feel the seeds of darkness bloom in its soul again.

Uprooting them was quite a hassle.

It remained motionless, hidden in the depths of the cave, the vivid memories of a past life still echoing in its mind. Everything about that life was so vibrant, so sharp, so stark... so different from its current peaceful existence. The shadow did not want to suffer the sharpness of life anymore.

And yet, it could not help but remember.

The lost soldier had disdained Shadow God, thinking that a deity who would allow its temples to burn was not worthy of reverence. There was no trace of the Shadow cult left in the vast and glorious Empire, after all.

However, he failed to realize that the Empire of War, while great and splendid, existed only in the world of the living... and life was nothing but a fleeting dream in the face of death.

Death was eternal, after all.

A life that spanned a scattering of years or the eternity of death... which one seemed insignificant? And why would Shadow God care about the fact that those who served War had forgotten their reverence for him, if their lives in the Empire were merely a brief stop on the way to the Realm of Shadows?

The shadow sighed.

It understood death better than the lost soldier had. And yet, it still couldn’t forget the fleeting brilliance of life.

And so, uninvited, the memories of another life — one very similar to the first one, but also entirely different — surfaced from the deep ocean of its vague, fragmented memories.

In that life, he had been unfortunate. He was unfortunate because he was born at the periphery of the Empire, in one of the distant lands the legions of War had conquered.

The people who lived there were subjects of the Empire, but they were not its citizens. The glamour and splendor of the imperial heartland was like a myth to them, and they spent their lives toiling not to starve.

He came from a family of serfs. They did not own the land they farmed, and most of what they harvested was taken away by the governor of a nearby fortress. They weren’t slaves, of course — they were free men and women. The distance between them and those wearing a collar was as vast as the sea.

At least that was what they told themselves, looking at the slaves tending the land of rich folks with disdain.

He did not know how vast the sea was, anyway. He had never seen the sea... in fact, he had never seen anything beyond his family’s small plot of land and the nearby village.

Still, it wasn’t a bad life. It might have been harsh and full of hard labor, but they rarely went hungry. He and his siblings might have all shared a small room, but at least they slept on soft mats, not on rough straw.

All of them, except for the youngest ones, woke up at dawn to help their father in the field. Their mother would already have their breakfast ready, and after eating their fill and thanking her, they left through the flimsy door of their modest home.

The door was painted red, and there was a silver bell hanging above the porch. When the wind blew, it rang beautifully.

In the moments of sweet leisure, that ringing accompanied him.

But, still...

He wanted more.

He had not even known that he wanted more, or what it meant to want anything, until he saw the soldiers march one day. Their plot was situated near the imperial road, and once in a while, the legionnaires would march past it, a river of red banners billowing above them.

He was small and weak. Toiling in the soil, he was covered in mud. His clothes were rough and colorless, threadbare, while his body was gaunt and frail. The soldiers, however...

The imperial soldiers were everything he was not.

They were tall and mighty. Their garments were painted with vibrant dye, and their armor glistened brilliantly in the sun. To a serf child like him, they were the epitome of wonder, of brilliance... of pride.

Of the Empire.

He became obsessed with everything having to do with the Empire after seeing the soldiers for the first time. Opportunities to learn were few and far between in the remote corner of the province, but there were still stories and legends. There were still wandering priests telling myths about the Spirits of the Empire.

It was from that that he learned about the valiant Spirit of Victory, the guardian deity of soldiers, who was a descendant of the Dragon and a warrior of unmatched skill.

He learned about the Spirit of Beauty, the Sacred Maiden, as well — the deity of perseverance, harvests, and motherhood.

The Spirit of Art, whose brilliance and ingenuity ensured the prosperity of the Empire, was the patron of all craftsmen and artisans.

And finally, there was the Spirit of Joy — the carefree deity of festivity and merrymaking.

He learned about the Supremes who ruled the Empire, too — the High Priests and Priestesses of the Cult of War. Each of them was a famed hero whose deeds had long become legends.

How wondrous they were, how marvelous... how dreamlike.

And, of course, there was the Dragon.

The Dragon, who dwelled atop a great tower in the heart of the Empire — a tower so tall that it scratched the sky and imposed on the realm of Sun God.

The Dragon, a living vessel of War God, had founded the Empire and oversaw it in its early years. He still watched over his subjects from his empyrean throne, his fearsome gaze scaring other deities and the Creatures of Corruption away.

Of course, War God did not rule the Empire personally anymore. The days of gods walking the earth were long over, left in the mythical Ages of Gods and Heroes.

This was a golden age — the Age of Humans.

But, of course...

Watching the glorious soldiers march past the small farm, he couldn’t help but imagine that, one day... just perhaps... he could become a hero, too.

Time passed, and he grew from a boy into a young man. His family’s small home seemed even smaller now, and the plot of land they toiled on seemed even more pathetic.

So, in the end, going against the wishes of his parents, he left in hopes of joining the imperial legion.

The wind was strong on the day he abandoned home. As he walked away, leaving his parents and siblings behind, the ringing of the silver bell pursued him like a sonorous song... following an impulse, he took it off the strings and placed it with his things.

He was lucky. Usually, it wasn’t easy for someone like him — an untrained youth from a remote outer province — to join the great and glorious imperial army. But the Empire was gearing up for a new campaign, and so, the legions needed fresh bodies.

The competition for a spot in one of the legions was still fierce — how could it not be, when becoming a soldier promised not only riches and glory, but also a direct path to becoming a citizen? — but he performed well in front of the recruiters. His frame was tall, as well, and he was no stranger to hard work.

And so, his new life as a soldier began.

At first, he often missed home. The bell he carried in his pack reminded him of the warm days of his childhood... of his mother’s touch, of his siblings laughing. Of a brighter, more innocent time. At night, he would hold it tightly and remember the past.

But as time went on, he reached for the bell less and less. Its ringing didn’t sound sweet to him anymore... instead, he grew to enjoy the ringing of sharp steel.

Surviving his first war was a challenge. The second... he was seasoned by then, having become a tempered blade of the Empire. The third one was when he had proven himself and was elevated to the rank of centurion.

The army gave him what he had always felt he lacked — the right to hold his head high. To be proud of himself. To know that he was an important part of something great and fearsome.

Of something glorious.

He had left his family behind, but the Empire replaced it. The Spirits were his parents, and the fellow soldiers were his siblings. Out there on the battlefield, he never felt alone.

Sadly, there wasn’t always war.

The Empire had existed for a thousand years already, and there were few places where its legions hadn’t reached.

The barbarous, inferior wretches that populated them lacked the courage to offer proper resistance.

Building pathways to previously unconquered realms took time and resources.

At best, the soldiers would be sent to suppress an occasional uprising in one of the newer provinces. At worst, they were left to rot and die of boredom in the fortresses, with no opportunity to elevate themselves in battle or engage in the many pleasures of war.

His dreams of becoming a hero had been crushed, as well. Despite all the years that had passed, he wasn’t even close to becoming an Awakened. And so, his career prospects grew dim.

Even though he tried to crush the dark thoughts, at times, he couldn’t help but feel bitter. He couldn’t help but resent who was better than him, younger than him... stronger than him.

And yet, his devotion to the Spirit of Victory and to the Dragon, as well as to the Empire itself, never wavered. In fact, it only became more fanatical.

He wasn’t young by then, and had accumulated plenty of merit. If he wanted to, he could retire and live a comfortable life in the heartland of the Empire as its citizen — in fact, many of his comrades already had.

...Soon, it was most of them.

But the thought of retiring from the soldier’s life had never even crossed his mind. Even when his hair turned grey, and his body began to falter, he remained stalwart in his devotion to serving the Empire.

Because the Empire was his god.

It was also because he didn’t know anything except the harsh embrace of the imperial legions. The world outside his service was strange and unfamiliar. Everything had changed, at some points... the roads he marched on, the cities he encountered, the people he met. All of it was new, and it felt like the world was passing him by. Had already left him behind, lost in the dust. Only the Spirits and the Dragon remained the same, like the axis of the world.

He loved them for it.

Retiring? Living comfortably in some peaceful town? Starting a family of his own and nursing children?

He had no desire for such life. He had no interest in the softness of soil. All he desired was the harshness of steel.

Eventually, his age caught up with him, and the kind of orders he received changed. That was how he ended up leading a caravan that escorted shackled convicts — the lowest of the low, each and every one of them.

Despicable slaves...

The mission wasn’t too difficult for a seasoned veteran like him. Apart from keeping the slaves in check and teaching the new recruits not to get cozy with them, there wasn’t much to do. Still, he maintained his vigilance.

He always did.

He had participated in the suppression of a slave rebellion once or twice, after all. These lowlifes outnumbered him and his soldiers ten to one — he knew all too well what happened when wicked thoughts entered their bestial heads, and he knew how easily those iron shackles came off.

The real chain that bound them — the only one that could — was not made from iron. It was made from fear. It was made from surrender and submission, so he made sure to keep the slaves from thinking about anything else but his whip.

Still, even his vigilance had a limit.

The danger came from an unexpected source. It was not the disobedient slaves, road bandits, or even the elements — it came from higher up the mountain, taking the shape of a ghastly Creature of Corruption.

He knew that this would be where he died the moment he saw the beast.

The imperial legions were no strangers to fighting the Corrupted, of course, and he had participated in his fair share of battles against these insidious foes. So, he immediately knew that the beast was of a high Class... he and his mundane soldiers could have handled a Beast or two, perhaps even a Monster. But this creature?

It was death.

Still, he wasn’t going to give up without a fight.

If he was to die, he was going to die while holding a sword, like he had all his life.

He was going to die hearing the clangor of steel.

The battle was short.

At the end of it all, he found himself lying in the snow. He didn’t remember how he had gotten there, or what had happened to his soldiers.

There was no strength in his body. He couldn’t move.

He was so cold.

He was cold and alone, surrounded by silence. All he could see was the night sky, and the snowflakes drifting slowly from the boundless darkness above.

He was dying.

It took all his remaining strength to turn his head. Out there, in the snow, he noticed the hilt of his sword. The blade was broken, but it was still a sword... his sword...

It was a sword of the Empire, just like he was.

He tried to reach for it, but his hand didn’t move.

‘Must... must...’

He had to take it. He had to... he wanted to... die while holding that familiar hilt.

But it was of no use.

He grew desperate. He grew weak.

His thoughts turned slow and cold, just like the bloodied world.

He reached for the sword harder than for anything ever before...

But, still, his hand refused to move.

Angry tears moistened his eyes, growing cold in the frigid air.

Then, a shadow fell on him.

Moving his eyes, he saw a gaunt boy standing above him, his pale face expressionless. In the pale moonlight, his skin looked like pure alabaster, and his dark eyes were like two pieces of obsidian.

For a moment, he was frightened that it was Death. He was scared that Shadow God had come to take him to the lightless realm, broken and unarmed... no different from the wretched slaves that had died on the slope of the mountain while trying to run away from the beast.

No, no...

The boy was merely one of the slaves.

The wretch was still alive, having come to gloat.

He gritted his teeth, wanting to feel fury. Wanting to curse the pathetic worm.

But he was too tired. He was too cold to feel anything.

Even his despair was gone. All that was left was a sense of weakness and resignation. His life was like a candle’s flame, ready to go out.

He stared at the boy, and the boy studied him silently.

Then, the boy knelt beside him and picked up the broken sword.

Reaching down, the boy raised one of his unfeeling hands, placed the hilt into it, and put it on his chest.

He found some strength to grip the hilt tightly, looking at the boy with surprise. And gratitude.

Expressionless, the boy let go of his hand and stood. Then, turning away, he disappeared into darkness.

There was silence then.

He lay in the snow, gripping his sword tightly, breathing his last breaths.

Death was coming.

‘Sword... my... sword...’

His sword was finally in his hand, but at that moment, for some reason, he didn’t feel like he had missed its touch.

Instead, he remembered a different weight. The modest weight of a silver bell he had held often, a long time ago.

‘Right... the bell...‘

When had he lost it?

He didn’t remember.

He had not thought about that thing for years, but now that it was gone, he suddenly felt its absence.

He could almost hear its ringing.

Its sweet ringing...

As it swayed in the wind on a sunlit porch. Now, there was only silence left.

Only darkness.

The sword fell from his motionless hand.

...The shadow surfaced from the torrent of memories, feeling like it had been drowning.

At some point, without thinking about it, it had taken a shape.

That shape was rough and vague, but still resembled a human.

The clear ringing of the silver bell echoed in his mind.

He felt like he could almost touch it...

Looking down, at his black hand, the shadow was surprised to see a small silver bell lying in his palm, having appeared there as if by magic.

‘Where did...’

He frowned in confusion, then raised the small silver bell and studied it closely. Then, following a strange impulse, the shadow rang it.