My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger-Chapter 309 - 310: Alazard
Damon's strength surged fivefold the instant his skill activated. The moment his blade met the Mist Knight's, he felt it—Wyvern's Fang cracked slightly against the steel of that cursed sword. The sheer force of the clash sent him skidding backward, boots dragging against bone and dust. But he wasn't fazed.
He gritted his teeth, gripping the hilt tighter.
'So I can match someone in the second class advancement… at least in raw strength.'
He timed his retreat perfectly—just in time for Xander's spear and Leona's blade to follow up behind him, both aimed straight at the Mist Knight.
The knight raised his sword with cold precision, deflecting Xander's spear—and in that same moment, his form shifted into a thin, ghostly vapor. Leona's strike passed right through him.
Damon lifted two fingers sharply. With a silent snap, he fired a volley of magic bullets. Where thunder should have cracked, there was only a dull thud against the knight's armor. No sound. No recoil. Just resistance.
This was the improved magic bullets.
The knight turned toward him.
He leapt—clearing several meters in a single bound—and brought his sword down with a monstrous swing.
"Matia!" Damon shouted, firing the omnidirectional gear toward her.
She caught the wires with practiced ease and yanked him back just in time, his body skimming the ground as the knight's sword tore through where he had just stood.
Matia didn't stop. Ice coalesced around her fingers, forming a spear, and she launched it at the Mist Knight.
Then Evangeline moved, her body a blur of white and gold. She leapt, rapier aimed straight for the visor.
The knight twisted. His hilt came up like a steel wall, parrying her thrust. Then, flowing like water, he dodged the next volley—Sylvia's arrows slicing the air, missing their mark.
Damon's eyes tracked the knight as he weaved through them—steel in hand, shifting effortlessly between mist and masterful swordsmanship. His grip on the Wyvern's Fang tightened.
He could feel the weight of the blade. The history etched into its edge.
'What beautiful swordsmanship…'
His eyes slid shut for a moment. He'd wanted to learn swordplay. Not for elegance or style—but because daggers… daggers were useless against monsters like this. Against knights that couldn't bleed.
"I need a sword," he whispered.
"I can kill it," Sylvia said behind him, taking a deep breath. "But I need time… Buy me that time."
Damon nodded.
He charged.
Eyes narrowed, watching everything. How the knight stood. How he held his sword. How his feet shifted, how his shoulders turned. The rhythm of his stance. The calm weight of experience.
The best way to learn… was to imitate.
And more than that—what made this worth the risk… was the knight's ability to turn to mist.
Damon could turn into shadow. He could become mist too.
This was a chance. A rare one.
He shifted his stance, mirroring the knight. Around him, his party struggled—overwhelmed by the knight's skill.
He reached for Leona, grabbed her by the ankle mid-dodge, and hurled her at Xander.
For a heartbeat, his eyes locked onto the knight again—drawn not to the sword this time, but the ashen helm.
The knight started back looking at Damon's ashen crown on his head. Those red eyes beneath the visor…
They flickered.
Like he was in pain.
The knight paused. Then, from beneath the helm, a hoarse voice rasped
"My lord… why are you unwilling to sacrifice anything…? There can be no victory… without sacrifice…"
Damon's jaw clenched.
He wasn't the Lord of Lysithara.
But the armor he wore—had belonged to that man. That title. That cause.
And maybe… just maybe, that's why—even corrupted by rot and rage—this ancient knight had remembered something. Regained a sliver of who he once was.
But all Damon could feel was fury. And sorrow.
The knight roared, charging him with renewed wrath.
Even in rage, his swordsmanship didn't falter.
Damon raised The Wyvern's Fang and met him head-on.
He copied everything. Every movement. Every angle. Where he saw improvisation, he adjusted. He adapted. He learned. Strike for strike.
The knight drove him back—but Damon's eyes stayed calm. Focused.
Steel rang against bone—dirt echoed beneath their feet—as the two warriors clashed.
One fighting with fury.
The other fighting to learn.
With every blow exchanged… Damon's hand felt numb. Even so, he quietly absorbed the knight's techniques and footwork. It was a style that was flexible, yet guarded—designed to draw a circle around the wielder.
Everything within that circle… was within reach of their sword. And from any direction, they could strike, as long as the opponent remained within range.
Damon felt like he was close to grasping it.
Just then, the knight did something he hadn't done before—he raised his leg and kicked Damon square in the chest. Damon barely had time to raise the battered Wyvern's Fang. The bone shattered from the blow, already weakened from the previous clashes.
He coughed up blood, body flung backward like a ragdoll.
The knight raised his sword, ready to end it—only for Matia to intercept, conjuring a blade of her own. She blocked the strike but dropped to her knees under its weight.
The knight's eyes flickered.
"It's just like you… to protect him, even when he refused to lose anything to save Lysitharaaaa…"
Matia gritted her teeth, straining under the crushing force of the blade.
"I don't know….. what you're talking about."
Behind them, Sylvia was chanting—her voice low, urgent—magic circles pulsing around her feet, glowing with moonlight. And then, in a flash, she unleashed the spell.
Damon surged forward, shadows at his feet, pushing Matia out of the way just as a brilliant white beam fired toward the knight.
He tried to shift into mist, but it was too late.
The light struck him head-on, knocking him to his knees. His armor turned red-hot, glowing from the impact. Steam hissed from every joint as the radiant light melted through him. When it faded… the knight remained kneeling, unmoving—blood seeping through the cracks in his armor. The red glow in his visor dimmed.
Damon exhaled slowly, cradling Matia.
His danger sense faded.
The knight was dead.
Matia removed her helm, her voice breathless.
"We won…"
The others looked on, relief flooding their expressions.
Sylvia collapsed to her knees—the spell had drained everything from her.
Damon looked down at the broken Wyvern's Fang, now nothing but splinters of bone.
"Great… I lost another weapon."
Matia glanced at the knight's sword, still impaled into the stone. She smiled faintly.
"You can always use his."
Damon nodded, stepping toward the unmoving knight who still refused to fall.
Heat radiated from the armor as he reached for the sword.
His fingers brushed against the knight's hand—when suddenly, the visor blazed red.
The knight moved.
In one final burst, he swung, the cursed blade aiming straight for Damon's chest. Damon dodged—but not fast enough. The blade grazed past his armor, pinning his shoulder to the ground.
Gritting his teeth, Damon thrust the broken Wyvern's Fang upward, driving it through the gap in the knight's chest plate.
Black blood seeped from the visor. The knight chuckled.
"You wouldn't sacrifice anything, my lord… Victory demands sacrifice… Your choice doomed us all… You must sacrifice. That… is the burden of the crown…"
The knight collapsed, his cursed blade still lodged in Damon.
As the body turned cold, Damon felt a burning pain in his chest. His shadow trembled violently.
[You have slain Mist Knight Alazard.]
Sylvia and Evangeline rushed toward him, spells ready, trying to heal him as he groaned—blood staining his armor.
Leona's eyes narrowed. "Are you okay?"
Damon stood slowly, the pain already fading from his body.
"I'm fine… I think."
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He looked down at the knight's sword… and picked it up. The blade glowed faintly in his grasp.
"Let's go… Lysithara awaits."
He staggered toward the gates—ruined, but still standing.
He paused at the massive arch, taking a long breath. His party followed silently behind.
They passed beneath the mighty archway, into lands that had once forged kings…heroes and now bore only ruin.
Before them… lay a new hell.
The ruins of Lysithara did not welcome.
A bleak sky stretched above them, and what greeted them was no sanctuary—but a city filled with horrors.
Damon's voice was quiet, but steady.
"We made it to Lysithara…"
