My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger

He didn't need them to perform his father's last rites — but he wanted them to. Because having people from your home there… that was tradition. That was ritual.

His father had dedicated his life to the village. In death, the least they could do was show him some kindness.

And while Damon had made some less-than-subtle threats, it was the village head who had been the first to shed any semblance of cordiality.

Damon had gone to bed with these thoughts circling in his mind.

He didn't bother doing anything else — just got himself a room at the inn and slept. There was no reason for him to worry. He wasn't in a rush.

The inn was modest. A small room, far from luxurious. Even though he had paid the innkeeper, Lana, double the amount, she still only gave him the bare minimum.

That was fine.

He didn't mind that the bed felt like stone, or that the pillow was more like a crumpled rag. He was on the upper floor, with a nice view of the village, and that was enough.

It was morning now, and he could sense many shadows moving throughout the village.

He pulled back his shadow perception, completely disinterested in whatever tricks they were plotting.

To put it simply: at this moment, Damon was without a doubt the most powerful being in the village.

And soon… he wanted them to know that.

His shadow.

Hmm… where was his shadow?

Looking for it, he found it facing north it's form twitching with anxious unease.

He walked up to it.

"What's up?" he asked calmly.

The shadow only shrugged. It didn't seem to know either.

Damon sighed. That was never a good sign.

Speaking of shadows — his minion, Ghost, had gone off to meet with Lilith Astranova and the orcs.

"They should have met up by now…" he murmured.

But Matia, who had created Ghost, was still unresponsive. Damon could feel her in his shadow, but he couldn't summon her.

"Creating a minion at her rank must really cost a lot…" he muttered, the worry in his voice barely hidden.

Still, he had company now.

Damon walked to the window. From where he stood, he saw a group of young men — farmers, judging by the tools they carried: sickles, hoes, pitchforks… and a few even had machetes.

He smiled, shaking his head.

He recognized most of them.

At the front was the village head, his hair fully gray. And beside him, a relative of Damon's. No one important. The man's father had been the cousin of Damon's father, so that would make him…

"Someone I don't give a damn about," Damon muttered under his breath.

Among the group were a few low-ranked adventurers, clearly brought in as backup muscle.

"I must be really intimidating if they came to get rid of me and still brought help…"

He turned from the window and wrapped himself in tattered clothes, hiding what he was actually wearing underneath.

Then, he walked to the ground floor and sat at a table, waiting for the drama to find him.

"Ahh… I'm a really patient person now," he muttered softly to himself.

"Leona and Eva would be so proud of the man I've become…"

He waited a bit longer, they were still some distance away, though he had seen them clearly with his shadow perception.

"Hmm… it seems they've arrived."

And they had.

Clearly, they didn't want to risk him escaping — they had surrounded the inn.

The innkeeper dropped off a plate of sausages, beans, and tomatoes for breakfast.

Damon sighed.

"How crude…"

He wasn't mocking the food. No, he was mocking the obvious and pathetic attempt to poison him.

Seriously… what did he do to deserve such amateur treatment?

Without hesitation, he grabbed a sausage with his fork and took a bite. After he had eaten it, he noticed the innkeeper throw something out the window likely the signal.

When he looked up, he saw seven young men enter the inn with weapons or, more accurately, tools in hand.

At the front his distant relative.

Neil slammed his hand on Damon's table.

"You're coming with us, thief!" he growled.

Damon took a slow sip of his drink.

"Or what?"

Neil didn't bother with more words. He threw a punch.

Damon watched the fist come toward him in slow motion. As far as he was concerned, it had less force than a fly buzzing against glass.

After a moment of reflection, he decided… no point in blocking or dodging.

CRACK!

Neil's fist hit Damon's unmoving face.

"AHH! Aghhh!!"

Neil screamed, clutching his arm. His wrist was twisted. Fingers bent inward unnaturally.

"Arghhhh!"

The others rushed to help him, thinking he had just messed up the timing of his attack.

Damon sighed and stood up.

"Let's see what the commotion outside is about…"

Without urgency, he walked to the door. As he stepped out, the ones inside rushed after him.

Paying them no mind, he looked at the village head, surrounded by armed young men and a crowd of curious travelers who had gathered to watch.

The village head raised a finger, pointing at Damon.

"This person is a thief who stole from the village years ago!" he shouted.

"Now that he's back, the village treasury is gone! At this rate, we won't survive the winter!"

Damon sneered, letting out a chuckle.

"That's a bald-faced accusation, old man. I've never stolen from you."

"You calling me a liar? An elderly man like me… lie to a child I raised like my own? I watched you grow up, you always brought trouble!"

The village head fumed with righteous indignation.

"Fine! You don't believe me? What about your relative here?" He gestured at Neil's father

"He and a few others saw you sneak into my house at night and steal all the zeni I had reserved for the village. That was everyone's harvest money!"

The words began to sway the crowd. People started yelling, pointing, accusing.

Well… almost everyone.

A few travelers ones from the caravan Damon had arrived with raised hesitant voices.

"That's a lie…"

"I'd never believe it…"

Damon gave them a thin smile.

They got the message…. they went quiet. He had told them to treat him like a nobody.

"You don't have evidence," Damon stated calmly.

Right on cue, the innkeeper ran out with a sack.

"Village head! I found this in his room!"

The crowd gasped.

"The village treasury!" the old man exclaimed, shaking as he took it.

"In this village, we have no mercy for thieves. Bring the wood and oil. Burn him! Burn him!"

And just like that… the crowd began to chant:

"Burn him! Burn him! Burn him!"

Damon wasn't even given a chance to speak.

'Gotta hand it to them… this isn't a bad scheme,' he thought.

They'd used the people's hatred of thieves to stir a mob mentality. Jungle justice. The poison wasn't to kill him it was to weaken him so he couldn't run or fight.

He chuckled.

Easier said than done.

He hadn't even offended them yet.

"These people are deplorable…" Damon whispered to himself, smiling faintly.

"I can learn a thing or two from them."