My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger

"You dare?!"

Flick Fayjoy barked, his voice sharp with outrage. "Who are you to throw insults at my son?!"

Lady Margan's glare was filled with unrestrained fury.

"I am the mother of a dead son," she spat. "Unlike you, who has more bastard children than you can count, I had but one. His death is an irreplaceable loss!"

She pointed a finger at him, her expression filled with mockery.

"Not that someone like you would understand!"

It wasn't long before any semblance of decorum crumbled, and they began hurling insults at one another.

Fallan Tatarstan's fists clenched, his aura surging with restrained aggression as he glowered at Flick.

Media Bonaire shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her expression tight as she observed the growing hostility in the room.

Lady Garnier, on the other hand, simply sighed—but her tightly clenched fists betrayed her true emotions.

"What a ruckus we are causing..." she muttered.

And then—

The temperature in the room plummeted.

A single voice, frail yet absolute, echoed through the air like the crack of a whip.

"Enough."

The moment the old woman spoke, an overwhelming pressure descended upon the chamber. It was suffocating.

Damon felt his head buzz as the sheer might of a Fourth-Class Advancement bore down on them. His thoughts slowed, his breath hitched, and despite his skill Remorseless being active, a cold dread crept into his very bones.

The frail-looking old woman sat there, her presence utterly dwarfing everyone else in the room.

Marabell Defontee.

The moment she released her aura, the nobles—who had been seconds away from tearing into one another—froze.

Her aged eyes swept across the room, slow and deliberate.

"That is enough bickering," she said, her tone flat but carrying an unmistakable weight of authority. "I am certain we can settle this without acting like juveniles."

No one dared to speak.

Marabell continued, her voice measured.

"We shall hear from each of the noble representatives before drawing a proper conclusion on this matter. Each person shall be given a turn to speak, and we shall conduct ourselves in an organized manner."

She turned her gaze to Flick Fayjoy.

"You may begin, Lord Fayjoy."

Flick hesitated. It was clear that, for all his arrogance, even he knew better than to test Marabell's patience. After a brief pause, he gave a slow nod.

Damon couldn't help but be impressed.

The head of this gathering had made herself known. First, she unleashed her aura to silence the room and establish control. Then, she framed the discussion in a way that forced them to participate without devolving into chaos.

Masterful.

Flick Fayjoy, now noticeably subdued, straightened his posture. His usual lecherous gaze, which had been lingering on Lilith Astranova's ample figure just moments before, was gone.

Damon sneered.

'The moment things got serious, this pig stopped ogling women. Maybe I should send him to join his son in death.'

Flick exhaled slowly, then glanced at Lady Margan before speaking.

"My son, Marcus, was raised to be an upright noble—one of both sound mind and unquestionable character," he stated firmly. "He would never do what you accuse him of—"

"I imagine he takes after you," Lady Margan interjected coldly.

"Lady Margan, please."

Marabell Defontee's voice sliced through the air like a blade.

Margan fell silent, though her expression remained defiant.

Flick nodded, taking a measured breath before continuing.

"While I admit that I am not the best of men…"

Damon's sneer deepened.

'Not the best of men? You're not even a man, you swine.'

Flick went on, his voice taking on an oddly somber tone.

"…I am still a father. And I love all my children. That is why I have always tried to give them the best I could."

Damon narrowed his eyes, analyzing him carefully.

"Marcus, if you were unaware, is my son. He is not my oldest, and his mother was not a noblewoman."

Damon's lips parted slightly in surprise.

Marcus… was the son of a commoner?

The same Marcus who went out of his way to pick fights with every commoner he met?

Flick exhaled, shaking his head. "He was… talented. So I gave him special care. And I can say—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that my son would never turn on his friends."

Damon bit his lip.

There was… something in his voice.

A pang of sorrow.

For the first time, Flick Fayjoy did not sound like a one-dimensional, perverted noble. He sounded like a father who had lost his son. A talented son.

Damon wondered.

Did he truly care for Marcus?

Or was this just another act?

Fallan Tatarstan sighed, rubbing his temples as the tension in the room thickened.

"I've heard enough," he muttered. His voice, though calm, carried the weight of authority.

"We are all parents here. We have all lost our wards under uncertain circumstances… but before we start pointing fingers, why don't we first confirm how Marcus Fayjoy disappeared?"

A moment of silence followed his words.

Then—

Kael Blackthorne stood up.

It was time to continue his report.

From what they had gathered, Marcus should be dead. But the real problem was that they couldn't be sure.

The area where he had vanished was riddled with strange markings—some carved into stone, others smeared across the ground. Signs of a struggle were evident, and, more importantly, there was blood. Blood that belonged to Marcus Fayjoy.

But the way it was arranged…

It looked like a ritual.

A ritual that made no sense.

To the untrained eye, it would seem like a crude attempt at black magic. But to those who truly understood such things, it was… wrong.

As if some amateur, with no knowledge of how dark magic actually worked, had designed it to look like a ritual.

Then again, the Academy itself knew little about dark magic. Such knowledge was forbidden by the Temple's laws.

Any records came only from ancient ruins. And even those were dangerous—taboo.

Especially since this ritual bore marks of a strange god.

Kael exhaled. His voice was measured, careful.

"As of now, we are uncertain if Marcus Fayjoy is alive or dead. However—"

He paused, scanning the room.

"—we did locate the ritual ground where he performed his sacrifices."

Damon's gaze flicked toward Lilith Astranova.

'Did she hide the rest of the evidence…?'

It was possible.

His original plan had been to pin Marcus as the culprit. But the only loose end was if they confirmed Marcus was dead. By leaving the details vague, Lilith had created a scenario where the nobles would assume Marcus had either succeeded in his ritual… or escaped.

Smart.

Kael waved his hand, and the display behind him changed.

Projected on the screen were the very same runes and marks found at the site. Damon recognized them immediately. He had instructed Marcus to draw some of them, but in his madness, the noble had started sketching randomly.

A chaotic mess.

Kael continued, his voice even.

"The Academy does not have all the evidence," he admitted.

"Furthermore, we have yet to confirm Marcus Fayjoy's fate. We do not know if he has escaped… or if he is still within the Academy."

A sharp pause.

"But what we can determine… is that the ritual failed. No magic was drawn from it."

The room was silent.

Damon glanced at the nobles.

Media Bonaire, who had been quiet for most of the meeting, was now visibly uncomfortable.

Her hands trembled slightly as she processed the implications.

If the Temple caught wind of this…

If they discovered that her own ward, Lark, might have been victim—or worse, a involved —it could turn into a political disaster.

Kael turned to his fellow professors. Chrome gave him a slow, measured nod.

Then Kael looked back at the room, his next words sending a shockwave through the nobles.

"The Academy is an educational and research institution. Investigating crimes is not our specialty," he said. His gaze swept across the gathered aristocrats.

"That said… we are willing to transfer this investigation to the Temple Inquisition and the Imperial Knight's Order."

Silence.

Then—

"NO!"

The nobles shouted in unison.

Damon barely suppressed a smirk.

Their collective reaction spoke volumes.