My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger

The creature's gaze drifted upward, scanning past the slanted, geometrically disabled ruins that loomed like the broken bones of a forgotten civilization. Damon instinctively pulled his head back before their eyes could meet.

He tugged Matia's arm gently, slowly edging them both away from the ledge.

The fear he felt—real, [remorseless]—held his body still, not in paralysis, but in controlled calm. A calm born from survival instinct.

What he saw down there wasn't just a monster—it was a horrible monster.

He didn't even know if it had seen them yet… but he had seen it. Its body, its form, its dreadful silhouette standing in the dark.

It resembled too many things they had already encountered in Lysithara.

And it felt wrong.

Tall. Gaunt. Drenched in waterlogged robes that clung like seaweed—cold, decaying kelp. Its limbs were elongated, too long, arms dangling well past its knees. Its fingers were jointed wrong, the way a broken marionette's hands might be.

Its face… hidden. Concealed behind a cracked ceremonial mask, fused to its skull with age and black rot.

It dripped black water constantly. The liquid sizzled and hissed upon touching anything.

Damon didn't dare meet its gaze. He didn't want to.

But he was certain… it was still staring up toward them.

And worst of all—this wasn't even a monster they could hope to fight. This was a being in the realm of true horror… the realm of nightmares… the realm of monsters like the Beldam.

A creature with the power to impose its will on the world itself, shaping a small area to its nature.

A Rank Four Monster. A creature with a domain.

Damon knew it.

Matia hadn't moved. Not an inch. Her expression was calm, but her iris trembled—a tiny quake betraying how shaken she truly was.

Damon began moving. Slowly. Quietly. Back into the darkness, pulling Matia with him, step by careful step.

Then it came.

"Ahhh… I see you…"

Its voice was a chorus of drowned whispers. A multitude of voices, all whispering the same words in perfect, horrific unison.

Damon didn't hesitate. He didn't wait for an invitation.

He unleashed the shades hiding in his shadow.

"Slow it down," he whispered.

That was all he said. That was all he needed to say. The shades scattered, becoming his eyes.

He and Matia bolted into the darkness.

And through the vision of his shades, Damon saw—red eyes, glowing beneath the wet hood.

The black water around the creature rose unnaturally, spiraling beneath its feet into a pillar, lifting it upward.

Damon's teeth clenched as he ran faster. He left more shades behind, scattered and watching.

They were his alarm. His early warning. His window into the gap between death and escape.

Thunderous footsteps echoed behind him. A dreadful rhythm. A heartbeat of doom.

They reached the others—just in time.

The party was packed and ready. Tension hung thick in the air.

Evangeline touched Matia's forehead, casting a spell.

A soft glow spread over Matia's eyes—Nightlight. Her vision shifted into the dark spectrum.

Damon noticed a pair of lips resting on Evangeline's shoulder—Valarie had woken up at some point.

No time to celebrate.

Sylvia stood at the front of the tunnel leading deeper. Her posture sharp. Eyes scanning.

"Come on! Hurry—we don't have time!" she barked.

Damon followed. Leona took the lead, sword drawn, lightning dancing along her armor.

"It's after us," she hissed. "I can hear the whispers even here…"

Damon ran beside her.

"I don't know what it is—but it's rank four."

Valarie, still perched on Evangeline's shoulder, gave a dry smirk.

"Trapped together like this… Looks like your luck just ran out."

"Not helping!" Evangeline shouted, ducking under a shattered statue.

"How'd you know we were in trouble?" Damon called out.

Sylvia glanced back at him, voice grim.

"I had a vision… of our deaths."

He climbed over a ledge, offering a hand to the others as the sound of rushing water grew louder… vast and monstrous.

His shades were dying one by one.

"It's a Drowned Saint…" she muttered.

Sylvia spoke louder now, her voice carrying over the sound of water.

"They're worse than monsters."

Valarie nodded slowly. "Used to be human. Comrades, even. They tried to save the city… and performed some terrible ritual. I don't have all the details—"

"I do," Sylvia growled.

"Once, they were beloved high priestesses in Lysithara. When doom loomed, they turned to forbidden rites—invoked the old gods through the metaverse. It failed. It always fails."

Her voice grew heavy.

"The old gods were amoral even then… even now most of them are unknowable, indifferent. They was cursed. Transformed. Half-human, half-forgotten."

" Drowned Saints. Forever walking the surface of black waters. They can't be killed. Only escaped."

She took a deep breath.

"At least… not by us."

Then the voice returned.

"Hehehehe… I see you…"

Damon's jaw clenched. He sent more shades. They vanished the moment they neared the creature.

"If it's Rank Four, then that water must be part of its domain…" Xander murmured, eyes gleaming with cold focus.

"How do we escape it?" someone asked.

Valarie's lips curled slightly. A memory stirred in her eyes.

"Just keep running… until you see the light."

Damon pushed his perception outward. Shadow spilled into the tunnels.

Then—he saw it.

A glow.

Not magic. Not flame.

Moonlight.

And behind them—riding a rising surge of water—the Drowned Saint wasn't even running. It was gliding. Riding its own flood, as if it already knew the outcome.

"Confident bastard," Damon hissed.

"I see it!" Leona shouted, pointing. "The light!"

The whole party surged forward.

But the Drowned Saint moved. The vast gap was nothing.

It leapt. One single step—and the distance between it and Evangeline vanished.

Too fast.

That was all Damon could think. His heart froze as its hand reached for Evangeline.

Valarie's voice whispered playfully.

"Sorry. Not today."

From the disembodied lips came a surge of white light—crackling through time itself.

The world slowed—but only for the Saint.

It was like it had entered a different timeline altogether.

This was the power unique to the seventh class.

The lips smiled faintly.

And Damon and the others crossed into the light.

"Stop."

Her voice froze them. The weight behind her words left no room for doubts.

"There's no need to run anymore."

They turned.

The Drowned Saint stood at the edge of the moonlight. The pale rays revealed the rotted face beneath the hood—blackened flesh, sealed beneath the mask.

But it didn't step forward.

It looked down at the ground—paved in white, polished stone, carved like a palace floor.

It turned away. And slowly, it faded back into the receding current.

"It won't step into another monster's domain," Sylvia said quietly. "It doesn't want to risk battling another Rank Four."

The water withdrew with it.

Damon, overwhelmed, hugged Evangeline before he could stop himself. Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn't speak.

He pulled away quickly. her face flushed. Embarrassed.

Damon avoided looking at her.

He'd been afraid. Afraid she would die.

He understood now—the horror of a Rank Four. They were like demi gods to them. And they were nothing before that power.

But that brought a new question.

"What do you mean we're in another Rank Four's domain?" he asked slowly.

Valarie's lips pressed together.

Her voice was calm. Cold.

"Welcome to the Forbidden Library."