My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger

The village's main path was not paved like those in the big cities. It was a hard, dried trail of packed soil, the caravan wheels kicking up dust as they approached.

Children ran ahead with bright, happy smiles, finally free from the boredom of the long journey.

Even though this wasn't their final destination, they would remain here for a few days. It wasn't because Little Town was particularly special; it was simply the last safe resting place before the road ahead became perilous, wild, and far less forgiving.

This was a convenient resting place, a spot where they could meet other traveling merchants, trade goods, gather information on the routes ahead, and maybe share a tale or two.

Perhaps that's why, in recent years, Little Town had grown.

A young man dressed in ragged, patched-up clothes sat silently on the edge of a wagon, his face obscured by a faded scarf wrapped low around his eyes and nose.

Strangely, the people of the caravan, a group otherwise warm and tight-knit, subtly avoided him, though every now and then their eyes would drift toward him with faint reverence.

A discerning eye could spot it.

The caravan, like many others, was protected by adventurers paid to see them through safely. But even they needed rest.

And this village, this quiet dot on the map, was that place.

As they entered, no one stopped them. No guards or gatekeepers stood in their way. The line of wagons and carriages trailed inward with a slow, steady rhythm.

The carriages themselves looked slightly rougher than most, no surprise, as they were crafted by orc hands, durable but less refined.

They came to a halt in the village square, just in front of a statue Damon didn't recognize a modest stone sculpture of the goddess. That hadn't been here before. It must've been built after he left.

Everything changed with time.

Why would this village be any different?

No one came out to greet them and why would they? This wasn't a royal procession or a parade of knights. No noble house was passing through. No one owed them reverence.

Damon jumped off the slow-moving wagon with a single practiced step, landing lightly on the dusty road. His handsome face, still striking even beneath the dirt and rough fabric tied around his head, remained unbothered.

The tattered cloak and patched shirt clung loosely to his well-toned frame, slightly damp from sweat, the scent of the road clinging to the wool and leather.

But he didn't mind.

He had worn worse, much worse in his days as a street child.

He scanned the road, eyes calm, waiting for even one villager to look at him with recognition.

None did.

They walked past him like he was a shadow.

They smiled, laughed, called to one another in casual tones but not to him.

He still remembered most of their faces.

And yet…

A quiet, bitter disappointment settled over him.

"Ah… I'll have to introduce myself in my own home, no less."

He walked forward toward the local pub — no, tavern now — which towered slightly higher than it used to. It had been rebuilt, possibly expanded. The wooden beams looked newer, the sign freshly painted.

Inside, the tavern buzzed with chatter and clatter, the scent of ale, old meat, and something vaguely burnt wafting from the back kitchen. Grilled fish, maybe. Or goat.

Damon stepped in without pause, the noise wrapping around him like a coat. He walked toward the counter — and saw her.

A young woman, about his age, with auburn hair tied back with a scarf, moved briskly between patrons, mug in hand, towel over shoulder. Her clothes were plain, worn at the edges. Nothing about her stood out… except for the scent of ale that clung to her like a second skin.

Damon smiled faintly, settling onto the nearest stool. His deep, dark eyes studied her quietly.

She approached the bar, not sparing him much of a glance.

"What can I get for you?" she asked, flashing a tired, professional smile.

He held that same quiet smile.

This girl, this woman, had once been a childhood friend. Like most kids from the village, she'd been part of those old summer games and wild dares.

"Justice… and a side of ale."

She squinted slightly, not amused. She'd clearly heard her fair share of idiotic pickup lines.

"We don't sell that here. Just ale."

Damon tilted his head and sighed dramatically.

"In that case… I'll take some recognition. And a side of ale."

She blinked, her eyes narrowing.

"If you're not buying anything, please leave."

He chuckled softly.

"Still as hot-tempered as always, Seta…"

Her expression didn't change.

"If you're trying to hit on me, you'd have better luck with the pigs."

Damon lifted his chin, locking eyes with her.

"That's a cruel way to treat an old friend. Am I that forgettable?"

She let out a short laugh, nodding sarcastically.

"Not bad. That was the most interesting pickup line I've heard this week. Ale it is."

She turned, filled a worn mug with lukewarm ale from the tap, and slammed it down in front of him with the grace of someone used to hard hands and long hours.

"Life really doesn't treat anyone fairly, huh?" he muttered. "All the dreams of your childhood die in your youth… Once you start seeing the world for what it really is."

Despite herself, she was watching him now. There was something familiar, something too familiar about this man.

Her brows pulled together.

"…Who are you? And what the hell do you want?"

Damon didn't answer immediately. He looked past her, through the window, to the windmill spinning lazily in the afternoon breeze.

"I seem to remember you once saying something about marrying a rich and handsome lord… and living the good life." He turned back to her with a soft smirk. "The lord must own a shitty tavern for you to still be here."

She narrowed her eyes.

That was a very specific thing to say. Something she had said when they were kids, one of those loud, bold declarations all children made back then.

All of them had dreamed ridiculous things.

None of them had come true.

"So you did your research," she said flatly. "I'll give you five points for effort. Solid dedication to your pickup game."

Damon's tone shifted.

"Why so cold?" he asked, scanning the tavern. "I don't see your father… Does he still beat your mother when he gets drunk?"

Her whole body went still.

Her fists clenched.

That was no rumor. That was history. Painful, quiet, buried history the elders didn't speak of — especially since her father had died years ago. Most people had long forgotten.

But this man hadn't.

Her breath tightened.

She stared at him, voice trembling with warning. "I'm not going to ask again… Who the hell are you?"

To Damon, her attempt at intimidation felt like a kitten growling at a dragon.

He gave a slow, easy smile.

"I suppose it's not your fault. The years have changed me. But I'll give you a clue…"

He lifted the mug and took a calm sip.

"When I grow up… I'm going to be a hero."

The moment the words left his lips, she felt the strength in her knees vanish. Her hands trembled, and her breath caught in her throat.

No…

It couldn't be…

"You… you're… Damon…?" she whispered, her voice cracking with disbelief. "But… you're dead…"

Damon smiled gently, lowering the mug.

"I was dead. I got better."