My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger

The bottom of the hill was now a vast crater, dust rising in thick columns, with only the lingering groans of those unfortunate enough to be caught at the edges of the explosion.

Silence hung over the epicenter. The blast that had erupted from the top of the hill had left a scorched hollow where half the body of a siege beast had been obliterated. The ground there was blackened, melted, and crystallized—evidence of the sheer force of the blast.

There were no corpses in the center. Nothing had survived. Not even the stronger, more durable bones that could typically withstand magical fire. Everything had been reduced to ash.

It was at the outer rim of the destruction where the true horror lay. The orcs who hadn't died instantly now groaned weakly, their bodies torn and mangled. They would not live long.

Damon walked down the hill slowly, the Staff of Carnage still warm in his hand. This devastation had been his doing.

Regrettably, it hadn't wiped out as many of the orcs as he'd hoped—but it had made a statement. A terrifying one.

He could only use that attack once. The staff was a single-shot weapon, one that needed to be charged over time. He had done so on the way to this battlefield, letting it gather power slowly.

More importantly, he had known that the hill's high vantage point would force the orcs to gather at its base. He had waited. Waited for them to pack themselves tightly into the kill zone—then unleashed hell.

Now, he walked across scorched earth at an unhurried pace, his expression unreadable. Despite the destruction, their main force remained intact. But they didn't attack him. Not yet. The memory of that explosion and the staff in his hand made them hesitate.

They didn't know it was spent. And Damon had no intention of letting them find out.

He walked calmly into their ranks, past stunned warriors, eyes fixed on the orc war chief still seated atop his throne of bones.

At the top of the hill, the civilians and adventurers watched him go. Their expressions were a mix of hope, fear, and helplessness.

They had hope—because so far, Damon had done the impossible and kept them alive.

They had fear—because the strength of the enemy was overwhelming.

And they felt powerless—because their fate was no longer their own. All they could do was believe in Damon, the Ascendant.

He stopped in front of the warband's elite—a line of hardened orcs, likely former war chiefs themselves, now forced into service under the current leader.

They stared him down, tense, wary. Damon only nodded.

"This really is a 'might makes right' race."

But truthfully, most intelligent species were. Some used wealth, others used intellect, but all power structures were ultimately backed by violence. Nations, families, empires—all were maintained through force.

And the orcs were no different. Their current chief had united them through sheer dominance. That meant he could only be overthrown by something more powerful.

The orc war chief remained on his throne, his gaze cold. When he finally spoke, his voice was a guttural rumble, rough in the common tongue.

"Human. You come. You die."

Damon smiled faintly, his head tilting.

That's promising.

He responded in perfect Orcish, the native tongue of the orcs.

"No need to force yourself to speak a language you're not fluent in. Let's keep this in Orcish."

The orcs exchanged startled glances. This human understood them.

Good. That gave him leverage.

Damon kept his posture loose, unthreatening—but his mind was sharp. He understood exactly why they hadn't attacked him yet. They were waiting. Watching. Because he'd just shown them what he could do.

And now, he was going to negotiate.

Had he tried earlier, they would've laughed him off as weak. But now? After what they'd seen? He could finally speak on his terms.

You don't start negotiations from weakness.

The orc war chief laughed, slapping his thigh. The sound boomed across the battlefield. Then he stood, towering over his warriors. He was easily eight feet tall, with a body built like a stone fortress. Thick cords of muscle, veins like serpents beneath his skin. Around his neck hung a necklace of skulls—human and beast alike.

"You speak our tongue," the chief growled. "What do you want? You haven't come to surrender. If you think to kill me, you will fail."

Damon chuckled coldly.

"You're smart. That's rare among your kind. Strength and cunning—that's how you united them, isn't it?"

The chief didn't answer. He didn't need to. His silence was confirmation.

Damon lowered his gaze slightly, acknowledging the obvious tension.

"Yes, I came to kill you. But there's no need to involve the weak in our fight."

He did the unthinkable.

He tossed the Staff of Carnage—his only visible weapon—to a nearby orc, who caught it with wide eyes.

Gasps rippled through the warband.

Damon raised his voice in fluent Orcish.

"I smell weakness in your leader. I smell fear. I have come to challenge your chief. I will wear no armor. I will use no weapons."

He raised his hand, and his armor faded—vanishing into shadows. He now stood bare-chested, the only protection left being his enchanted boots and light trousers.

Then he pointed directly at the orc war chief.

"Do you dare fight?"

A hush fell over the crowd.

Then, one by one, the orcs began to clap their fists against their chests in approval.

The chief's third-rank aura surged to life like a firestorm. He grinned, all fangs and bloodlust.

"A human wants to fight me unarmed?" he roared. "Iron accepts!"

Without hesitation, he leapt from his bone throne, soaring several meters through the air before landing with a quake in front of Damon.

Dust billowed outward from the impact.

"Iron has never lost."

Damon said nothing. His expression remained calm, but his danger sense flared violently in the back of his mind.

He had just signed himself up for a battle to the death. On the enemy's terms. With no weapons.

And if he lost, he wouldn't be the only one to die.