My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger Chapter 1015 - 1017: The Ship

Damon pressed forward within Mugu’s body as they traversed the ancient wilds of the demon continent. This was an era when the gods had relinquished their dominion, and humanity entered what history would later acclaim as its golden age.

Demons were absent from this land. The temple held no significant presence, its influence a faint whisper, almost lost to memory.

Humanity was still charting the world, and in the absence of divine protection, they had learned self-reliance.

"Ahh." Mugu wiped the sweat from his brow while walking along the rocky trail.

Ten months. That was the duration of their journey.

Throughout this time, whenever Damon inhabited Mugu, he pushed the young man’s physique to its absolute limits. He compelled him to run further, fight more fiercely, and endure greater hardship. And when Damon relinquished control, Mugu dedicated himself to obsessively training his mana and rectifying every perceived personal flaw.

Even in the garments provided by the old woman, he appeared gaunt and worn.

That afternoon, Mugu halted by a river and knelt to wash his face. The instant the frigid water touched his skin, Damon felt himself extracted from the body. His soul receded.

Damon’s brow furrowed.

This always preceded significant events.

For ten months, he had observed Mugu’s life. At times, he had lived as him.

Sleep presented the greatest challenge. Mugu would lie awake, picturing Abellona and the potential suffering she endured. These thoughts fueled his rage, his frustration, and his self-loathing.

Yet, he never wavered in his resolve.

The more vividly he imagined her nights, the more he detested his own inadequacy.

Mugu splashed water on his face once more, exhaling slowly.

Ashcroft’s voice resonated around Damon’s drifting form. "We are nearing the sea. I can perceive the black mountains."

Damon glanced upward. Beyond the treeline, jagged, dark peaks pierced the sky, and beyond them lay the sea.

Mugu’s head abruptly snapped to the side.

A contingent of individuals had materialized amidst the trees. They belonged to various races—humans, Fae, Beastkin, even a mountain elf. Their attire was coarse, and their weapons were sharp and clearly well-used.

"Bandits," Damon murmured.

Ashcroft’s tone turned frigid. "Worse. Slavers."

Mugu did not hesitate. He spun around and fled. Branches splintered as he bolted into the forest. An arrow whizzed past his ear, embedding itself in a nearby tree. He stumbled, tumbled through thickets, then sprang back to his feet, continuing his desperate flight.

The slavers pursued. The chase extended for hours. Confronted, Mugu fought with the ferocity of a cornered animal, employing bites, kicks, and sword strokes until blood slicked his hands. However, he was but human.

Ultimately, he was subdued and bound in chains. The mountain elf slaver, yanking the chain attached to Mugu’s neck, chuckled as the young man finally succumbed, collapsing unconscious. "What a wild lad. Full of spirit. He’ll fetch a good price."

Mugu regained consciousness around noon the following day. The initial sensation was the overwhelming stench: human waste, sweat, and decay.

He fluttered his eyes open to find himself confined within a cramped wooden cage affixed to a wagon, pulled by a colossal beast. Surrounding him were dozens of individuals, packed tightly, filthy, and near death. Some lay in their own excrement, while others stared vacantly, their spirits utterly broken.

Damon re-entered Mugu’s body, instantly overcome by nausea from the fetid air. "Well," Damon muttered, "it appears he’s a slave now."

Ashcroft’s voice remained composed. "This might prove advantageous. Such slavers trade across continents. If my assessment is correct, he may indeed be heading toward Soltheon after all."

"You speak as if that’s a positive outcome."

Ashcroft emitted a faint, contemplative hum. "We shall ascertain that soon enough."

Indeed, after three days of travel, the aroma of salt reached them before the sea itself became visible. As the trees thinned, Damon beheld it: a dilapidated wooden ship listing at the shoreline. Cages were strewn across the sand like discarded crates. With each arriving wagon, captives were dragged out, inspected like livestock, prodded, examined, then re-shackled and driven toward the vessel.

Damon’s jaw clenched. "These people are monsters."

"Indeed. Anyone who possesses another human being is, without question, a profound evil," Ashcroft concurred.

The creaking of the cage door breaking the silence announced their arrival. Hands reached in. Damon’s eyes narrowed as he witnessed a woman being seized by the chin, her mouth forced open for a dental examination. "It wasn’t this abhorrent in my era," he stated icily.

"That is because the goddess races held demons as captives from their wars, and demons treated them likewise. Enslaving one’s own kind became taboo. Hatred served as the simplest catalyst for unity. Ultimately, we are forged by fear and sculpted by animosity. Our perceptions are limited. That is the essence of being human."

Damon slowly shook his head. "I concur with the initial premise. However, that is not the entirety of our nature. Even a tyrant appreciates beauty. We aspire to goodness... we simply succumb to fear and hate. It is easier to foster hatred than to embrace acceptance."

"That's a rather optimistic outlook. Not one I anticipated from you," Ashcroft remarked as Damon, inhabiting Mugu's form, was compelled forward by the restraints.

Damon offered no resistance, moving as if unbound.

"On the contrary. I am someone who faltered in my attempt to be a decent human."

He was forcefully propelled into the sand.

Hitting the ground, he executed a roll that seamlessly transitioned into a rapid ascent to his feet. The hulking assailant who had thrown him could barely register the movement.

Damon sprang.

With a powerful push off the man's thigh, he soared upward, swiftly encircling the man's neck with his chains. The metallic links bit deeply into flesh. A forceful twist of his body not only disrupted the man's equilibrium but also severed his windpipe.

The assailant's frame collapsed before Damon completed his landing.

He touched down, rolled through the gritty sand, and propelled himself toward the individual who appeared to be the leader.

An impact struck him mid-stride.

A raw surge of magic collided with his chest, sending him hurtling backward across the shoreline. He crashed, rolled, and pushed himself upright as whips descended from all directions.

His skin split open.

Blood erupted.

Damon's momentum did not falter.

He intercepted one of the descending whips. The slaver yanked, expecting a struggle.

Damon yielded to the pulling force.

Advancing along the whip's length, he penetrated the man's guard, destabilized his knee with a kick, and plunged the pilfered dagger directly into the slaver's temple.

A heavy boot connected with his ribs.

He was sent tumbling across the sand—

—only to feel himself forcibly extracted from Mugu's body.

"Ah, come on. I wasn't finished yet," Damon grumbled as his consciousness ascended.

"Hmm. It appears an escape from this predicament would significantly derail the existing narrative. However, the elimination of those two individuals was permissible. I presume Mugu achieved a similar outcome," Ashcroft commented with composure.

Damon offered a slight smile as he observed Mugu below being brutally beaten.

"He has attained a level of strength surpassing that from the village. He might very well ascend to the first class on his own merits."

Ashcroft emitted a soft chuckle.

"Are you perhaps developing an attachment to the youth?"

Damon watched Mugu, who, despite the relentless assault, refused to cry out.

"Indeed... there is an inherent quality about him that compels one to root for his success. He is truly exceptional."

Ashcroft lapsed into silence, recognizing the significance of such high praise from Damon.

Mugu's resilience remained unbroken.

Yet, Ashcroft understood—

"The more unyielding his spirit, the more catastrophic the impact when that resilience finally shatters."

"Assuming the mantle of the first demon was an arduous undertaking," Ashcroft elaborated. "He would have been compelled to transgress every tenet established by the goddess to thwart the emergence of the Unknown God."

Damon gazed down at the youth, now unconscious and heavily wounded, lying on the sand.

"So, his actions paved the way for subsequent generations to find this path less arduous?"

"Precisely."

The atmosphere within the ship's hold was oppressive, heavy, and stagnant.

Numerous bodies were bound together in the oppressive darkness, packed so densely that each breath felt like a transgression.

"Ahh... ahh..."

Mugu struggled for every inhalation. His ribs throbbed from the repeated blows, his skin a tapestry of torn flesh and layered scabs. Four other unfortunate souls lay partially atop him, their collective weight pressing him against the wooden floor, slick with perspiration and foulness.

Earlier that day, a fellow captive had perished.

In the oppressive heat, decay set in with alarming speed.

Within mere days, the stench transformed into a palpable entity, insinuating itself into the lungs and lodging at the back of the throat. Mugu retched repeatedly, though his stomach was empty, yielding nothing.

Inside his mind, he meticulously kept count.

The overseers would inevitably come for the deceased.

And when they did...

He would be counted among them.

From fragments of overheard conversations, he understood that the deceased were cast overboard. The sea, in comparison to this suffocating confinement, represented freedom.

With deliberate slowness and caution, he shifted his shackles, maneuvering his body to brush against the individual who had met their end beside him. He deliberately dragged his limbs across the corpse's distended flesh, coating himself in the putrid stench of decomposition until even he found it unbearable.

In the pervasive darkness, the passage of time lost all meaning. It could have been a single day, or perhaps two had elapsed.

Then—

The hatch overhead creaked open.

Light pierced the gloom like a sharp blade.

Mugu ceased all movement.

Heavy footsteps descended the stairs. Men, covering their faces with cloth, navigated through the sea of bodies.

They commenced loading the deceased onto wheelbarrows as the living, with trembling hands, reached out.

"Water... please... water..."

"Show mercy... forgive me..."

"Help me..."

These were no longer discernible voices.

They were the lamentations of spirits already vanquished.

Mugu let his head loll to the side at an unnatural angle. His eyes remained open yet glazed, his chest barely rising or falling.

The individual who approached him did not bother to check for a pulse. The wounds. The pervasive stench. The unnerving stillness.

It was sufficient.

Grasping Mugu by his tattered shirt, he hauled him upward and unceremoniously tossed him onto the burgeoning pile of casualties. Limbs and faces pressed against him from every side.

Mugu remained outwardly impassive.

Yet, his eyes were sharply aware.

After nearly half an hour, the task of loading the deceased concluded, and the arduous process of pushing the heavy wheelbarrows back toward the deck commenced.

For the first time in days—

Mugu glimpsed the sun.

And its brilliance seared him.