Shadow Slave:The legacy fallen in a world of nightmares Chapter 2 2: Disappointment and Conflict

Samael summoned his runes with restrained excitent.

Shimring light danced within his golden eyes, reflecting endless possibilities.

He dread of a divine Aspect—an outrageously unfair power, just like in the mories of another world, where protagonists were rewarded for their suffering with overwhelming abilities.

But what appeared before him made his heart turn cold.

Na: Samael Necroline

True Na: ——

Aspect Rank: [Supre]

Rank: Dormant

Soul Core: Dormant

mories:Iron Sword

Rank: Dormant

Tier: 1

Enchantnt: Durability

This sword is far more durable than common blades. Forged in the War Empire during the Age of Heroes, it was once wielded by a cunning slave in the Coliseum—one who thirsted for blood.

Through guile, he survived and escaped.

Echo: ——

Attributes: [Adaptation], [Allergy to Divinity], [Bestial Reflexes], [Dreamspawn]

Aspect: [Honest Trickster]An Honest Trickster survives a world that mocks his suffering through cunning, while preserving his integrity.

Innate Ability: You feel intense pain whenever you lie, or whenever soone lies in your presence.

Flaw: [Transition] Born of different worlds, your gender reverses at nightfall, forcing you to live with a blurred identity.

Dormant Ability: You can turn things you consider yours into weapons. The weapon's power depends on the object transford and the guilt you feel while doing so. Weapons may surpass the object's level or rank if the guilt is properly channeled.

— What the hell is this? — he muttered, his voice faltering as he stared at the runes.— Supre? — he continued, disbelief thick in his tone. — I suffered through all of that… and it's still not enough for a divine Aspect?

The air around him stiffened. The room felt like it was shrinking—heavy and freezing—as if the world itself wanted to crush him.

— Gender transition… what a ridiculous flaw… — he said, his voice almost fading away.

He knew flaws in this world could be absurd, but this surpassed anything he had ever imagined.

Samael let out a deep breath, his hands trembling.— A Supre Aspect… and it's still utility-based, — he murmured, trying to accept reality.

But it hadn't fully sunk in yet. Tears ca silently at first, then quickly turned into a torrent streaming down his face.

— It's so unfair… — he whispered, recalling his forr world, feeling the cold seep into his bones and his heart pound erratically, as if the world were about to crush him on the spot.

— Why… — the question died in his throat.

Everything he had suppressed when he first regained the body's mories exploded in the face of reality: the world was determined to break him.

He remained motionless, sobbing, until he finally managed to regain control, swallowing the pain as best he could.

— It could've been worse… — he said, trying to convince himself. — It could've been a Dormant Aspect.

Dawn was approaching. Samael looked out the window, feeling the cold breeze mix with the timid warmth of the rising sun as it touched his frozen body.

— So… in a few hours, I'll turn into a woman? What a joke.He laughed bitterly—a sad, ironic sound weighed down by exhaustion.

Clenching his fists, he took a deep breath, trying to brace himself for what lay ahead. The world wouldn't wait—and neither could he afford to wait for miracles.

After steadying himself, Samael finally decided to look at the rusty sword.

He didn't rember receiving that mory, yet the blade floated before him—fragnts of light slowly binding together into aged iron, slightly corroded, but clearly well forged. Every detail seed to carry a story of struggle and survival.

The mont his eyes fell upon it, sothing twisted inside him—a knot in his stomach that rose sharply to his throat. His body trembled, cold sweat sliding down his temples, his hands shaking uncontrollably. His mouth went dry.

A voice—or perhaps a lost mory—whispered inside his mind. It wasn't real, yet it made him shudder.

— Blood… blood kills…

The sound echoed like a distant crowd—muffled, yet disturbingly close. His body reacted before his mind could process it: bile surged upward. Very little ca out—he couldn't even rember the last ti he'd eaten—but the weakness and disorientation overwheld him completely.

The world spun. The room shrank, as if it were trying to crush him. The floor trembled beneath his feet, and every breath beca a battle. He felt like he might die right there, swallowed by his own body.

With great effort, he dismissed the mory's manifestation. The weight on his mind didn't vanish, but the intensity of the assault eased.

— What… was that? — he murmured, his voice shaking, nearly swallowed by lingering fear.

Every ti he thought about what he had heard, sothing inside him cracked like shattered glass. So Samael made a silent decision: he would not think about it again.They could call him a coward, weak—but sotis, running away wasn't shaful, as long as he never allowed himself to feel that again.

His body was still trembling. The foul sll made its origin obvious: himself. Vomit, sweat, cold—everything mixed into an unbearable stench.

A bath was mandatory.

Hot water flowed over his body, clashing with the cold still lingering in his bones. Each drop seed to wash away not just physical filth, but the tension coiled inside him. Slowly, the tremors faded, his breathing steadied, and the sense of imminent danger weakened.

After the bath, he changed clothes, feeling a bit more human—even though the weight of what had happened still lingered. Calm or not, he knew one thing: this world would not give him rest anyti soon.

The sun was already high in the sky when Samael decided it was ti to head to the Academy. The road would be long, but he was clean, and his mind was steadier.

— Goodbye, Mom… — he murmured, the brief farewell symbolizing what he was leaving behind.

He began the long walk. There weren't many people on the streets, but those who passed him stared for a few seconds—perhaps due to the contrast between his serious expression, his legacy-like appearance, and his still-swollen eyes.

Every three minutes, he cursed the city, the academy's distance, the sun's heat—anything was a valid target.Whenever he spotted crowds, he crossed the street, satisfied with himself, thinking:

— I'm handling my trauma pretty well. I honestly deserve a dal.

But a deep pain in his core interrupted his thoughts. It wasn't intense enough to feel unnatural, yet strong enough to remind him of his flaw.

— Damn flaw… Weaver, you piece of shit—this is all your fault, — he muttered, blaming soone else being easier than carrying the weight alone.

Samael continued onward, cursing everything in sight. He passed a few Awakened and, despite himself, couldn't help but admire their beauty.

— Wow… people here really are good-looking, — he comnted, comparing them to those from his old world.

At last, he reached the Academy. The sun had given way to night, and a dreadful sensation spread through him—sothing was about to be unleashed. He had an idea of what it might be, but refused to think about it.

Approaching the massive academy walls, he couldn't help but murmur:

— That's… incredible.

His eyes sparkled, mouth slightly open, and his otherwise serious expression made the scene almost comical. But there was no ti for admiration—the transition brought by his flaw was beginning.

Samael ran in panic toward a secluded area. Just imagining the embarrassnt of transforming there sent chills down his spine.At last, he would discover what he looked like…

…if he had a twin sister.