Another's Shadow. RealRPG Series. Book#1, page 1
ANOTHER’S
SHADOW
Book #1
By Rick Scar
Text Copyright © 2024 Dmitry Mikhalek
All rights reserved.
No part of this book can be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
Introduced by Valeria Kornosenko.
Translated by Ingrid Wolf
Edited by Dark Matter
The world isn't what you thought... or think. Humans, animals, sure, they all meet their end. But their personalities, their essence, and their talents linger on in their shadows, which make their way to the Halls of Wailing. It's a place where they wait for a new beginning. A place where their desires, their pleas, and their tears are forever unheard.
Until these shadows find their way back to life, they're kept in by special guardians, known as seltars. These were once the shadows of individuals who, during their lifetimes, became legends, heroes, or as many nowadays would say, myths.
Everything in the universe is linked, everything originates from something and aims for something. Every action has its purpose. Even the simple flap of a butterfly's wings has its own goal. What that is? Only the very forces of life and death themselves know.
But what unfolded in the Halls of Wailing threatened to shake the foundations of the world and the very fabric of creation.
The shadows... they fled.
Content
1. Captured by the Shadow
2. Fighting the Shadow
3. The Jester and the Shadow
4. The Chaser of the Shadow
5. The Story of the Shadow
6. The Cravings of the Shadow
7. The Teachings of the Shadow
8. Without the Shadow
9. Betrayal of the Shadow
10. Envy of the Shadow
11. The Servants of the Shadow
12. A Tale of the Shadow
13. The History of the Shadow
14. New Shadows
15. Their Shadows
16. The Wanted Shadow
17. Companions of the Shadow
18. The Golden Beast’s Shadow
19. Awakening in the Shadow
20. The Shadow Group
21. The Dark Lozingar
22. The Dark Healer
23. A Shady Deal
24. The Shadow Support
25. Before the Dark Nobility
26. Shadowed by the Arena
27. The Shadow Chainmail
28. The Triune’s Shadow
29. A Priest’s Shadow
30. A Hunted Shadow
31. The Killers of the Shadow
32. A Wizard for the Shadow
1. Captured by the Shadow
Year 1657 of the Three Seas Alliance
The land of Perekat
The city of Trest
My world―or rather, this world―always reminded me of the grim and barren pit of a dried-up well: just as dirty, empty, and confining. I’ve seen it from every angle, and all it ever brings to mind is a sense of hopelessness.
If there’s really a Triune God out there, I bet he steers clear of this place. How else could you explain the madness going on here?
“You asked for it.”
“Filthy little thing.”
“They got her again.”
Heading home from yet another temp job, I heard the voices near a dead-end alley, and the hasty footsteps of those who peeked into its darkness and immediately hurried away. Since my path took me right there, I stopped at the gap between the houses to see what others shunned.
At the end of the alley, by boarded-up doors and windows, four drunk men surrounded a girl sprawling in the mud. The little ragamuffin curled up, trying to shield herself from their jabs and kicks, only fueling their sadistic glee. They reveled in her pain, soaking it up like a dry sponge would soak up water, savoring her every whimper and groan.
Seeing a scene all too familiar on these streets, I knew I wasn’t strong enough to handle it alone. But, damn it, I couldn’t betray what little was left of my principles after all the shit I’d been through in my twenty-five years.
“That’s what comes to you when you steal someone else’s bread.”
The girl didn’t answer, too overwhelmed for words. But in her tiny hands, she clutched a small bundle, gripping it tight.
Is that really bread? She looks like she’d rather die than let it go. Is it for herself or for someone who needs it more?
No cries for help, just muffled groans. Like a tiny ball of patience, every fiber of her being hoping it would soon end. But ones like her learn early how fragile such hopes are. With her drunk punishers getting into their stride, the theft was more of an excuse than a reason.
I froze, while others walked by, wisely, if you can call it that, in a city where few would come to the rescue in a situation like this. The law of the slums granted survival only to the fittest, or those who mind their business. In my mid-twenties, one simple truth hadn’t sunk in with me yet: Never help out a stranger.
“Hey! Leave her alone. For the love of the Triune, why add sin to your souls?”
“WHAT?!” One beast in human shape turned at the sound of my voice. Seeing me, he grimaced and spat. “Beat it before you get in trouble, ha, ha!” Bending down, he groped around for a hefty stone.
“Who the sh-shit are you, eh?” another man slurred, the same one who’d been preaching the girl that stealing was bad.
The third man stood aside, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed, merely an observer to the harassment.
Out-of-towners or locals? I wondered as their faces were unfamiliar. Trest was considered a small town, yet it had spread out over the mountain slopes, sprouting up with two and three-story buildings, thanks to the many ore and mineral deposits remaining in the local mines around which it had once been built. As a result, you could encounter all sorts of people here.
“Are you merchants?” I blurted out.
I was buying time. Every second of conversation spared the crumpled, dirty ball of a girl from getting kicked.
“Hey, what the shit?” muttered the skinny man holding the stone, frowning and boring his gaze into me, clearly enraged that some freak (that was me) dared to ruin their fun. “You immortal or what? We told you to scram!”
He shot the cobblestone in my direction. Had the thrower been less drunk, it might’ve even hit its mark.
What should one answer to that sort of welcome? Ask them to take pity on the child? Point out they are not acting like men? Not even like humans, I’d say.
Lecturing those who engaged in this sort of behavior was as pointless as trying to shout over a waterfall.
Although I had combat experience, I’d been stripped of my military weapons after the war, like all those who served. Without my spear and shield, I was not much of a fighter. And in the war, I and thousands of other young men used to be mere cannon fodder. Having survived a bloody battle by pure chance, I thanked my lucky star, looking forward to the day I’d come back to my peaceful life.
For an outsider, my actions probably weren’t looking wise, but I couldn’t pass by without trying to help the starving child. I just had to play for time until the city guards would pass by on their patrol. They move around in small groups, but only real thugs would attack a royal soldier.
“Back off her,” I said assertively.
“Hey, look at this upstart,” drawled the shortest and chubbiest man in the group. He turned around, almost bumping into his companions. His focus struggled to settle on me as he added with a hiccup, “Is everyone in this town a dimwitted scumbag? All bark and no brawl?”
The whole group burst into drunken laughter, revealing their rotten teeth. One of them thrust out a hand, sending another stone flying past me. It hit the wall and bounced onto the sidewalk, narrowly missing an onlooker who just glanced into the alley and quickened his pace, eager to get as far away as possible.
The sun had almost set beyond the horizon. The only source of weak light barely reaching this alley was an oil lantern hanging on a corner behind me.
Keeping my eyes on them and giving no answer, I bent down and groped around. Picking a couple of stones, I straightened up, waiting for their next move. They made it soon enough, almost mirroring my own. Maybe they were starting to sober up?
One of them picked up a rather hefty stone, two others grabbed some sticks lying at their feet, and the last one pulled a knife from under his short jacket. Its blade length clearly fell under King Jastiro’s weapon ban, which was a very bad sign. The knife wearer had no fear of execution, suggesting he was already on the list of murderers or deserters and hence had nothing to lose. These men were not merchants; most likely, they were bandits who’d come to town to cause trouble or replenish their supplies. A healed wound on my left side reminded me of its existence with a dull pain of foreboding.
They couldn’t surround me in this narrow space, so their only viable option was to attack in pairs. My legs suddenly felt as heavy as if filled with cast iron, and then it dawned on me that simply running away to take these scoundrels away from their victim wasn’t an option. The situation was precarious, but the chances of surviving and waiting for help from a random patrol were still high.
Without waiting for his comrades, the biggest man charged at me. Holding a stick in both hands, h
I wasn’t waiting for this madman to reach me. My stone found its mark.
The throw was perfect, as if I were back in the ranks, throwing a dart on my sergeant’s command. The stone hit the charging man just below his ribs. Tumbling down, the thug plowed his chin into the ground and groaned, making no attempt to stand up.
Seeing what came to his comrade, the man with a weird accent decided not to rush into attack. He stopped, advancing his makeshift club, and stared at me.
We locked eyes for a few seconds, and I instantly regretted it. The bastard swung and hurled his weapon at me.
Dodging a stick in such a cramped space was barely possible. I shielded myself with my arms and press my back into the wall. Thanks to that, the heavy club only brushed against my head.
My vision blurred. I dropped to one knee. When I was about to get up, the attacker, surprisingly quick despite his bulky body, flashed up to kick me hard in the stomach. The pain doubled me over, my vision went dark, and when the dim light of the lantern reached my mind once again, I was down on the trampled ground, surrounded by four pairs of dirty boots.
What should I do? a sluggish thought stirred, quickly giving place to another: No, that’s a wrong question. Why did I even have to start this?
She was a stranger. Just another vagrant, one of many in this world. Every corner and street in Trest were swarming with them. Her parents had probably died or abandoned her: a common occurrence in our post-war reality.
My reason told me I couldn’t keep trying to save everyone. One day you’ll run out of luck, it warned. Now that day came.
But my character and overdeveloped sense of justice had once again got me into a mess. Had I walked past, I would’ve lost myself, becoming a gray, cowardly rat, like many in Trest, and my soul would rot in this decaying world. Even in the war, where it was incredibly hard, I did my best to remain human.
While thinking that, I also wondered about the girl’s incredible vitality. One blow was enough to ground me, but she’d had it much worse. Was she still alive?
Another heavy kick with a swing came to my head, almost knocking it off my shoulders.
Sprawled in the mud, I couldn’t fight back; only cover up against the blows raining down on me and think. Not about a way to survive it, but about the girl. They wouldn’t leave her alone after they were done with me. If they killed or crippled me, who would stand up for this strong but lonesome being?
However, my situation was only getting worse. The four men were lazily kicking me, losing their initial excitement… or rather the three of them as the alleyway was too cramped for all to attack at once. The fourth man lit a torch to illuminate the dead end and peeked eagerly from behind their backs, trying to kick me too. I no longer tried to escape and just lay there still, like the girl.
“Well, now what, you piece of shit? Where’s your bravery? Was it worth it?”
“Hold on, bros. Let’s see what he’s got in his pockets."
The man with the torch bent over and started rummaging through my pockets. I could barely move at all when my body suddenly arched in pain.
For a moment the alley went dark, then the torch flickered back to life. The man doing the search failed to react to what happened next. My hand, moving as though by its own accord, shot out towards him and, grabbing his ankle, yanked him in.
The big guy collapsed on his back, his head hitting the ground hard. Stunned by this sudden turn of events, the others froze for a few seconds, staring at their gasping companion. The fallen torch made the shadows dance like crazy.
Meanwhile, my body miraculously sprang to its feet and assumed a stance. The pain vanished as if wiped away. I advanced my left side, semi-turning toward the enemies and distributing my weight evenly on both half-bent legs. My right arm was close to my body, my left extended and lowered, ready to strike anyone within reach.
These sensations were outright weird. Still oblivious of what was going on, I could feel the advantages of the stance, assessing the balance and strength of my position. But at the same time, my mind was a mess. Some alien thoughts seemed to be flickering through it alongside mine. I could only hear them as distant echoes, but what I could make out was terrifying, like staring into the abyss.
Kill them... Break their arms... Execute... Who dares... me... the true me...
My mind was overwhelmed by this alien bloodlust. The murderous intent emanating from me almost had a physical weight, enveloping the alley and pressing down on everyone there. I was almost certain that some entity was controlling my body, and it had an uncontrollable urge to destroy the offenders.
I should’ve been surprised that I couldn’t control my own body, but after what I’d been through, I saw everything differently. Whatever this alien presence was, it had rescued me, so I just stopped trying to regain control.
Now that I was on my feet, the opponents backed off, realizing the tables had just turned.
“Look who’s up!” the skinny bandit rasped. "You will lie down dead!"
I tried to say something, but the voice that emerged from my mouth was the same one I’d been hearing in my head alongside my thoughts: “You vermin!”
I had no idea my vocal cords could even produce a sound like that. It was a deep, creepy rumble that sent massive shivers down my own spine.
“W-what? What the shit that was?” asked the one with a weird accent, taking a few uncertain steps back.
The passersby were no longer flocking past the alley; instead, they gathered at the entrance, forming a small crowd of onlookers who seemed to be anticipating a good fight. No surprise there. Such crowds, eager for any sort of entertainment to brighten up their dull lives, were common. A day without a brawl was like a day without a drink: outright impossible.
My body moved toward the opponent, stepping so smoothly it didn’t even feel like motion, yet the distance between us closed quickly. At one point, I sensed my body blur, becoming a mirage and starting a frenzied dance to a silent rhythm.
“What the shit?”
“He’s gone!”
The bystanders peered into the alley, stunned at what unfolded before their eyes. It resembled a high-level martial art, the subject of many rumors. While this world certainly had master practitioners, it was hard to imagine any of them reaching this backwood shithole.
I didn’t even notice the moment when I approached the hefty drunkard. Getting close, my body crouched slightly, struck his head with my right elbow from a turn, and immediately landed an upward left elbow to his chin. The next series of blows was too quick for my eyes even to make out. Before my opponent could tumble down, my unruly hands pinned his already limp body against the wall.
As a mere observer, I could not feel the strength or speed of the blows, but still I realized that whoever had possessed me was an extraordinary fighter. It was frightening yet thrilling.
The remaining two bandits stood, unsure what to do next, glancing at each other as if they’d lost confidence. But whoever controlled me targeted the one that stood closer. Seeing me turn toward him, the accented man swung his stick a couple of times, but to no avail. Quickly closing in, I dodged his next swing. My left hand grabbed his wrist while my right delivered a straight punch to his head. The sound of breaking bones, coupled with an unmanly squeal, shattered the alley’s silence, prompting some faint-hearted spectators to flee.
My body acted as if it had done this many times, knowing precisely what to do.
Almost instantly, another blow landed on the bloodied face of the still-standing opponent, knocking him off balance.
It was quick—very quick. Not like something you’d see in a regular tavern brawl. The movements were furious and aimed precisely to inflict pain and despair upon the targets.
The last one standing clutched his knife, holding it in front of him.
“Fucking vigilante. You should’ve just walked by, not fuck around. Your death will make others think twice before prying,” he said through gritted teeth.
His eyes were filled with madness, a look I’d seen many times in those who killed for pleasure or profit. This one was clearly more dangerous than his accomplices. Though he wasn’t physically imposing, his nice clothes, hanging loosely off his lean frame, indicated his regular involvement in banditry, which meant a profound combat experience.
