I always figured if I was going to die young, it'd be something dramatic. Car crash. Struck by lightning while dramatically confessing my love on a rooftop. Maybe choking on a chicken nugget during a heated argument about pineapple on pizza (team yes, fight me).
Instead, I died because of a paper cut.
Not even a cool one, like slicing my finger open on a katana blade while defending a village from bandits. No, this was a standard-issue office paper cut from a misfiled TPS report. The kind of injury that makes you hiss, wrap it in a tissue, and keep typing because deadlines don't care about your boo-boos.
I was twenty-eight, single, living in a shoebox apartment in Mumbai that smelled faintly of curry and existential dread, working twelve-hour shifts as a data entry drone for a company that sold insurance to people who probably wished they were dead already. My name was—well, is—Arjun Mehta. Former human. Current... whatever the hell this is.
That evening, I was alone in the office after everyone else had gone home to their families or Netflix binges. The fluorescent lights buzzed like dying insects. My left index finger throbbed from the cut I'd gotten earlier. I'd ignored it, of course. Heroes don't stop for Band-Aids.
I reached for the last stack of forms. My finger brushed the edge. Fresh sting. Blood welled up in a perfect crimson bead.
"Great," I muttered. "Now I'm bleeding on company property. HR is going to make me fill out a form for this."
I shook my hand. The droplet flew off, landed on the keyboard. I sighed, wiped it with my sleeve, and kept typing.
That's when the dizziness hit.
At first I thought it was low blood sugar. I'd skipped lunch again—third day in a row. But the room tilted like I'd chugged a bottle of cheap whiskey. My vision swam. The cut on my finger burned like someone had poured acid into it.
I looked down.
The tiny wound was... spreading. Black veins crawled out from the cut like ink in water, racing up my hand, my arm, my chest. Cold. So cold it burned.
"What the fu—"
My legs gave out. I collapsed across the desk, knocking over the coffee mug I'd forgotten to rinse for three days. Cold dregs spilled across my cheek.
The last thing I saw was the computer screen flickering, error messages popping up like fireworks.
Then black.
I expected light. A tunnel. Grandma waiting with open arms and a lecture about why I never called. Maybe a judgmental god asking why I wasted my life on spreadsheets.
Instead, I got... nothing. Just floating in void. No body. No pain. Just awareness.
Great. I'm a ghost. Or a hallucination. Or this is the world's most elaborate coma dream.
Then sensation returned. Not in a good way.
I felt... stretched. Thin. Like someone had taken my soul and smeared it across a wall. I tried to move. Nothing happened. I tried to scream. No sound.
Panic set in.
Okay, Arjun, think. You're dead. Probably. But you're thinking, so consciousness persists. That's something. Maybe reincarnation? Truck-kun missed me, but paper-kun got the job done.
A voice echoed in the darkness. Not mine. Deep, cold, aristocratic. Bored.
"...another one. Pathetic."
The voice wasn't speaking to me. It was... above me? Around me?
I felt movement. Not mine. Someone else's legs striding forward. Boots on stone. Each step rippled through me like I was liquid attached to the soles.
Wait. Attached?
I concentrated. Tried to "see" without eyes.
Darkness. But not empty. A silhouette against torchlight. Tall man in black armor trimmed with silver. Long silver-white hair tied back. Pale skin. Eyes like frozen amethysts. Crown of black iron studded with rubies that looked suspiciously like dried blood.
Crown Prince Valerian Drakonis. The Cursed Prince. The guy every bard in the empire sang about as the walking apocalypse.
I knew this because... wait, how did I know this?
Memories that weren't mine flickered at the edges of my mind. A throne room. A screaming infant born under a blood moon. Priests chanting. Chains of shadow wrapping around the babe, binding something dark inside him.
The shadow. Me.
I was the prince's shadow. Literally. A living shadow construct ritually bound to contain the curse's overflow. Mindless. Soulless. A tool.
Except I wasn't mindless. I had a soul. And memories. And opinions.
And right now, those opinions were screaming: WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL?!
The prince stopped. We were in a courtyard. Stone walls. Iron braziers. Guards in black plate armor standing at attention. In the center: a wooden block. A man kneeling, hands bound. Hooded executioner with an axe that looked way too enthusiastic.
Valerian spoke again, voice like winter wind over broken glass.
"Lord Cassian. You conspired to poison the imperial wine. You sought to end my line before the curse could claim it. For that, your blood will feed the stones."
The condemned man lifted his head. Face pale, but defiant.
"You are the doom of the empire, cursed one. Better a quick death than watch you drag us all into the abyss."
Valerian smiled. Thin. Sharp. No warmth.
"Then die knowing you failed."
He raised one hand. Black mist coiled from his fingers—my fingers?—and wrapped around the man's throat like a noose.
The man choked. Struggled.
Valerian clenched his fist.
Snap.
The body slumped. Head lolled. Blood pooled on the stone.
And I felt it.
Not horror. Not disgust.
Hunger.
The blood hit the ground. Tiny wisps of darkness rose from it—fear, pain, regret. They drifted toward me. Into me.
Warmth. Strength. A notification appeared in my "vision," floating blue text like a video game HUD.
**[Shadow Sovereign System Activated]**
**[Host: Arjun Mehta (Soulbound Shadow)]**
**[Current Status: Bound Entity – Prince Valerian Drakonis]**
**[Level: 1]**
**[EXP: 5/100 (First corruption absorbed)]**
**[Skills Unlocked: Passive – Corruption Siphon (Lvl 1)]**
**[Description: Absorb ambient darkness, curse leakage, fear, despair, and death essence within 5 meters. Convert to personal energy and experience.]**
**[Warning: Over-absorption risks corruption. Host soul integrity currently 98%.]**
I stared at the box. If I had a mouth, it would've dropped open.
A system. I got a freaking system.
In my past life, the closest I got to gaming was mobile idle clickers during lunch breaks. Now I was literally the shadow of a doom prince with a progression system.
The executioner stepped forward to finish the decapitation—protocol, I guess. Valerian turned away, boots clicking on stone.
More wisps flowed into me from the cooling corpse. EXP ticked up: 12/100.
I wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or both.
Okay. Deep breaths. No lungs, but whatever.
So. Pros:
- Not fully dead.
- Got superpowers (sort of).
- Attached to what seems like the most powerful, edgy guy in the kingdom.
Cons:
- Attached to the most hated guy in the kingdom.
- Literally can't move independently.
- He thinks I'm a mindless curse sponge.
- If he finds out I'm sentient, he might exorcise me. Or worse, use me harder.
Valerian strode toward the palace doors. Guards parted like water.
Inside my head (our head?), I muttered to myself.
"Alright, universe. You win the irony award. I spent my life slaving in a cubicle, and now I'm literally someone else's shadow. At least give me a cool skill name. 'Shadow Sovereign'? Sounds like I should be wearing a cape and monologuing about darkness."
Another blue box popped up.
**[New Achievement: First Essence Absorption]**
**[Reward: +10 Shadow Points. Unlock Minor Manifestation (Locked until Dominion Tier 1).]**
**[Shadow Points: 10/100]**
I felt something shift. Like a muscle I didn't know I had flexing. I tried to "flex" it.
A tiny tendril of shadow peeled off Valerian's boot. Barely an inch long. Wiggled.
Holy crap. I moved something.
The prince paused mid-step. Frowned. Looked down.
I froze the tendril. Went limp.
He muttered, "...curse playing tricks again."
Then kept walking.
I relaxed (as much as a shadow can).
Okay. Baby steps. Literally.
I was stuck to this walking tragedy of a prince. But I had a system. And systems mean levels. Levels mean power. Power means freedom.
Eventually.
For now?
I was going to absorb every scrap of darkness this guy leaked. Every fear he inspired. Every enemy he killed.
Because if I was going to be a shadow...
I was going to become the biggest, baddest, most sarcastic shadow this world had ever seen.
Valerian entered the throne room antechamber. Servants bowed so low their foreheads kissed marble.
He ignored them. Sat on a black obsidian chair that looked more throne than seat.
A advisor approached. Old. Trembling.
"Your Highness. The council requests your presence regarding the border skirmishes with—"
"Tell them to handle it," Valerian snapped. "Or die trying. I have... preparations."
The advisor paled. Bowed deeper. Fled.
More fear essence drifted my way. Delicious.
EXP: 18/100.
I smirked inwardly.
Hey, prince. You might be cursed.
But me?
I'm just getting started