My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger Chapter 2 Philosophy Of The Weakest

'We are not asked to be born… we are forced to exist. Today was a horrible day, tomorrow will be worse. In the end, it will all come to pass. All things fade…'

Damon Grey had allowed these words to take root in his heart. It was a silent mantra he discovered carved into a fractured stone slab, partially hidden beneath the roots of a prehistoric tree. He had happened upon the inscription during the most agonizing hours of his life—words that surfaced just as he believed that giving in to despair would be simpler than continuing the fight.

Even though the epitaph was broken, the legible fragments gripped him. Within those lines, he discovered the determination to survive rather than surrender.

The opening statement hit him with the weight of a cruel reality: "We are not asked to be born…" The conditions of his arrival in this world were out of his hands, a choice made by others that rendered him a mere pawn of destiny. Whether born a noble or a commoner, blessed with talent or cursed with none, one's birth dictated their entire path.

For Damon, life had been nothing but a sequence of suffering and insignificance.

The second phrase reflected his daily existence: "Today was a horrible day… tomorrow will be worse."

His life was a relentless struggle, a cycle of misery he inherited as an impoverished, orphaned commoner who remained powerless against the whims of those with greater strength.

However, the final part—"In the end, it will all come to pass… all things fade"—provided a small spark of comfort. If no state was permanent, then his suffering had an expiration date. His pain, regardless of how overwhelming it felt, was not eternal. This realization kept him going, serving as a reason to avoid giving up entirely.

By clinging to this philosophy, Damon found the grit to endure, facing every new day with a tiny flame of hope. He had survived long enough to enter the academy, yet even here, surrounded by peers who viewed him with contempt, his sense of hopelessness only seemed to intensify.

His burdens didn't disappear; they simply changed shape, causing his hope to begin to unravel.

As he retreated into the thick woods, warm tears rolled down his cheeks. He bit his lip until the copper taste of blood filled his mouth, ignoring the pain. His mind was fixated on that grim mantra like a dark prayer offered to any listening deity, his heart boiling with indignation.

'I am not an insect…' he muttered, every stride heavy with resentment and rage.

He arrived at a hidden clearing deep in the forest. This spot, containing a training dummy and a few basic weapons he had scavenged from the academy, served as his personal refuge. In this place, he practiced in solitude, far from the mocking gazes of fellow students who saw him as nothing more than a pathetic weakling.

Damon walked to the weapon rack and grabbed a wooden training sword, his eyes clouded by tears. He lunged at the dummy, each strike more violent than the last, attempting to break his frustration through pure physical exertion.

His palms became raw and his skin split, yet he refused to stop. He pushed until his sweat was stained with blood, until his muscles screamed, and until he lacked the strength to even hold the sword. Dropping to his knees, he watched the sun fall below the horizon, drowning in his own sense of futility.

While he sat there, the distinct sound of dry leaves crunching underfoot pulled him back to reality. Several shadows stretched over him as a group of figures formed a tight circle around his position.

Before he could move, a heavy boot struck his midsection, knocking him backward as he fought for breath.

Clutching his stomach, he struggled to focus, looking up to find Marcus Fayjoy standing there with his usual cronies—Lark Bonaire, Isaac Regardi, and several others. These were the lackeys of Xander Ravencroft, but Marcus was the one in charge today.

'I hate nobles,' Damon thought with bitter venom, forcing his body to stand up.

"Well, look who's here—the academy's black sheep," Marcus sneered, his expression full of contempt.

"Did you think you'd get away with bumping into Xander without apologizing?"

Damon felt his heart sink. He realized they were just looking for a reason to torment him. Despite the shaking in his voice, he stared back with defiance in his eyes.

"I already said sorry. What more do you want from me?"

Lark Bonaire moved closer, a nasty grin appearing on his green-haired head.

"Oh, he thinks he can talk back," he ridiculed.

"The academy's shame, looking down on us—his betters."

The circle closed in. Damon looked for a gap to escape, but he had been too slow to react; they had him completely trapped.

Lark initiated the assault, throwing a punch that connected with the side of Damon's head, sending him reeling toward Marcus.

Marcus didn't hesitate, raising his hand to fire an ice blast at close range. The freezing force of the impact slammed Damon backward.

He crashed into Isaac, who smiled wickedly while gathering earth magic in his hand. With a sharp thrust, Isaac's stone-encased fist hammered into Damon's chest, knocking the wind out of him and sending him to the dirt.

Damon rolled by instinct, barely dodging another blast of ice as he tried to get up, only for Lark to step in and deliver a brutal kick to his ribs.

The group broke out in laughter, their mocking voices echoing through the trees as they pinned him down, twisting his arms behind his back. He fought to get free, but he was completely overpowered. Lark knelt over him, sneering as he drove a fist into Damon's face. A sickening crack echoed as blood began to pour from Damon's nose.

His sight grew hazy and his energy faded, but he ground his teeth together, holding onto the last shred of pride he had left.

Marcus laughed from behind, his tone thick with derision.

"Come on, Grey. Show us that shadow attribute magic of yours. Let's see if it's worth anything."

Lark let out a sneer before punching Damon in the face again, the impact snapping his head back. Damon hit the ground hard, slipping from their hold as they chuckled, watching him collapse into the dirt.

Lark stepped forward, a smirk on his lips, and pulled his leg back to deliver a final kick to Damon's head. However, Damon reacted out of pure desperation, ducking low and slamming his fist directly into Lark's crotch.

Lark's face turned white. His smirk vanished instantly as he crumbled to his knees, his features twisted in pure agony.

Damon scrambled to his feet, breathing heavily. Without looking back, he sprinted into the dark forest, the last rays of the sun casting long, jagged shadows in his wake.

For a second, Marcus stood frozen, watching Lark writhe on the ground. But his shock quickly turned into a murderous rage.

"Get up!" he barked at the others, his eyes burning with fury.

"After him! Don't let him get away!"

The group mobilized immediately, following Marcus's order. Their footsteps thundered through the woods as they chased after Damon, their angry shouts piercing the twilight.