Shadow Slave novel Chapter 3166

Having sent the child away, and hoping that the tribesmen would not disturb it again, the shadow returned to its usual state of half-slumber.

It had already thrown the little girl, as well as her grandfather, out of its mind... however, for some reason, the shadow felt restless.

The peaceful state of being one with the world was not coming.

Instead, the shadow kept returning to the moment when it remembered a fragment from one of its past lives - the life of the ignorant man who had spoken about Shadow God with contempt, only to leave for the Realm of Shadows hours later.

That man had been a child once, as well. The shadow remembered...

In that life, he had been fortunate.

He had been fortunate because he was born in the glorious Empire.

The Empire stretched across countless realms, encompassing myriad people. It did not need a name, because there had never been another one like it - and there would never be, since the Empire was eternal. It was eternal because it was not ruled by mortal monarchs or even Supreme demigods, but by the Dragon himself.

The Dragon, who was War.

From his throne at the heart of the Empire, a sea of red flowed across the mortal realms, bringing progress and prosperity to all... all who survived the death and destruction it carried.

It was an empire of war, of conquest, of life - and, most of all, glory.

Glory! Glory! Glory!

He remembered watching victorious soldiers return from war as a young child, held tightly in his mother's arms. The roar of the crowd was like a palpable force, and as it made the glass in the windows tremble, he felt his entire body vibrate with excitement.

He remembered awe.

And most of all, he remembered knowing that this awe would be directed at him one day, as well. That knowledge filled his young and inexperienced heart with an insatiable, untamed, wondrous longing.

Not all born in the Empire were equal. How could they be when there were gods walking among them? The Dragon sat on his towering throne, served by the Four Spirits - the Spirit of Victory, the Spirit of Beauty, the Spirit of Art, and the Spirit of Joy.

There used to be six Spirits watching over the Empire, but two had perished in the war against the Jade Court - the only war the Empire had ever lost - while the seventh was said to have not been born yet.

Below the pantheon of the Empire were the seven Supremes who managed its vast expanse and ruled over its provinces. Those who served the Supremes, as well as Transcendent champions of its unstoppable legions, held a noble status among the people - they were the aristocracy and priesthood of the Empire.

Below them were the citizens, among whom the warriors were the most privileged class. Those born in the outer provinces were not afforded citizenship, but still retained the lofty status of imperial subjects - and could elevate themselves with meritorious deeds.

And finally, below everyone, there were slaves.

The slaves were everywhere in the Empire, but had no rights or status - even the lowest of free men was a person, while the slaves were not.

The shadow had been born a citizen, which was already an enviable fate. More than that, his father was a soldier, just like his father's father before - as such, his family enjoyed many privileges. Of course, they were not Awakened, who were the true elites... still, theirs was a prosperous and comfortable life, full of delights and boons that only people of the Empire could enjoy. But even faced with a life of prosperity, he never felt satisfied.

That was because somewhere deep within his bones, that roar of the crowd was still echoing and reverberating, making his blood boil.

Glory! Glory! Glory!

He longed for glory.

And so, as soon as he was old enough, he followed in his father's footsteps and became a soldier.

A war soon followed, and in its bloody throes, drunk and blinded by the clangor of metal...

He stumbled on a horrifying truth.

There was no glory to war. There was no valor. There was no honor to be found, either.

There was only avarice, lust, and stagnation. There was only... plunder.

The realm he and his fellow soldiers had been sent to subjugate was a peaceful one. Its people tried to offer some resistance, but how could they resist the Empire? Their cities burned. Their temples burned as well. Their rulers - the royals and the oracles - were slaughtered.

Those who survived were sold as slaves. The riches of the peaceful realm were gathered and sent as tribute back to the heartland. The soldiers all received their share, too.

At the end of it all, he finally received what he had been dreaming of all his life. A triumph. The legions returned home and were met by a roaring crowd, the ground shaking from the deafening cheers.

But listening to it did not bring him pride or pleasure.

Instead, he only felt a bitter, scathing emptiness.

He had earned quite a sum during his long years of service, and was awarded even more after returning to the embrace of the empire and leaving the legion. It was enough to spend the rest of his life in comfort... if one lived sensibly.

But he did not, could not. He did not want to. Abandoning his devotion to the Spirit of Victory, he dedicated himself instead to pursuing the worship of the Spirit of Joy... the Spirit of Revelry.

Years passed in the haze of taverns, brothels, and gambling dens. His money slowly dwindled in the storm of debauchery, but he didn't care. He only cared about chasing the next thrill, the next pleasure, the next delight - anything at all, just to forget everything. Just to drown out the mocking call of glory that still lived there, somewhere, deep in his bones.

His pursuit of revelry continued until he had no coin left at all. In fact, he was deeply in debt, with no way to repay it.

And that was how he ended up being sold as a slave.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, and a former soldier at that. Years of debauchery had not managed to weaken his body one bit. So, his first master had a lofty goal of making him a gladiator and earning a small fortune in the arena.

He had performed well there, indeed. But while other gladiators were content with their lot in life - battle slaves led quite a privileged existence, after all, enjoying more boons and pleasures than many of the citizens - he did not care about it one bit. He did not care about himself.

So, after several fights, he beat his master black and blue, stopping short of killing the bastard only out of revulsion.

As it turned out, even slaves had somewhere lower to fall.

He changed several owners after that, acting disobediently and violently each time. In the end, that earned him the very worst fate - being sold as an imperial slave, to be used as cannon fodder in the next campaign. Only the worst of the worst, those who held no other value or had committed crimes worthy of execution, earned that gruesome fate.

He did not mind. In fact, he was a little glad, thinking that this entire farce would finally end soon.

As he was escorted across the empire in shackles, he remembered his childhood. He remembered his mother's arms, and the crowd welcoming the soldiers back with cries of glory.

He did not want glory anymore.

But, funnily enough...

Even after throwing his life away, shackled, half-dead from the cold, and being dragged to what would almost surely become his death...

He still wanted to live.

He was amused to realize that he still desperately wanted to survive. He was willing to cling to life with all his might, determined to never let go.

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