Paralyzed Demon - Shadow Slave

With only one day left until his 16th birthday, Morpheus knew this wasn't just another passing year—it was the beginning of a true trial. Because on his birthday, like everyone else, he would step into the Nightmare.

He didn't know what fate had in store for him, but he wasn't afraid either. He had dedicated everything to the sword. He was confident in his strength. After all, no opponent he had faced so far had ever been able to challenge him. Not even his own sister, who possessed an Aspect.

Morpheus had always looked like his father. His jet-black hair contrasted sharply against his pale skin, and his piercing gray eyes carried a cold, almost inhuman intensity. His face was defined by sharp, elegant features—high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a gaze that seemed to cut as deep as his blade. He looked like someone sculpted for battle. And in truth, he was.

His sister, Morgan, had once been the great hope of their family—the brightest talent of their Clan's younger generation. At least, until Morpheus was born. She was an Awakened warrior who had gained power from a formidable sword-related Aspect. And yet, despite this, she could never defeat him.

Because Morpheus wasn't just talented.

He was a phenomenon.

Within the Clan, they called him the Sword Demon. His opponents often felt as if they were cursed the moment they stood before his blade. His strikes weren't just skillful; they carried an instinctive lethality. It was as if, in the midst of battle, he entered another realm—one where only he and the inevitable demise of his foe existed.

Anvil, his father, was a man of power—ruthless and unyielding, a warrior who had spent his life training countless fighters. He nurtured the strong and abandoned the weak without a second thought. But even Anvil had fallen silent when he witnessed Morpheus's skill. In the end, he spoke only three words:

"A perfect blade."

Those words had been carved into Morpheus's mind. A rare praise from his emotionless father—it was everything to him. It had fueled him, made him crave even more.

But the Nightmare was different.

Swordsmanship alone wouldn't be enough. Strength, speed, and instinct could only take him so far. In the end, there was only one thing that truly mattered: survival.

And when the day of his birth arrived, Morpheus would step into his fate.

As always, Morpheus had completed his morning training. His body was exhausted, but his mind remained calm. After spending hours honing his swordsmanship, he prepared to leave the training hall, intending to shower and meditate.

But someone was waiting for him at the entrance.

Morgan.

His sister.

For years, Morgan had grown accustomed to being the center of attention. She was strong, the rising star of their Clan's younger generation—or at least, she was supposed to be.

That was, until Morpheus was born.

His younger brother had stolen her spotlight before he had even stepped into the Nightmare.

And the worst part?

It wasn't even Morpheus's fault.

He was simply that talented. Even the word "talent" seemed inadequate. The praise Morgan had longed for, the recognition she had fought so hard to earn, had been handed to her younger brother without effort. A perfect blade. The memory of those words still stirred something inside her. A long-buried frustration.

But she no longer resented him.

If anything, she had grown stronger because of him. Every spar, every defeat had forged her into a better warrior.

Morpheus, on the other hand, was vaguely aware of her feelings but didn't particularly care. To him, Morgan was a good person—and that was all he needed to like someone. He might have been a monster with a blade, but in other aspects of life, he was rather naive.

"Hey, sis," he greeted with a casual smile.

Morgan crossed her arms and studied him with an unreadable expression. "Finished your daily training?"

Morpheus nodded.

"Let's have one last duel," Morgan said suddenly. "You're stepping into the Nightmare tomorrow. Who knows if we'll ever get another chance?"

Morpheus chuckled. "If you passed, I will too. You know I'm stronger than you now, right?"

Morgan smirked and unsheathed her sword. "Sure. Let's see about that, Sword Demon."

Then, she lunged.

And in that instant—

Morpheus's gray eyes changed.

The warmth vanished, replaced by something cold, something empty.

Morgan had seen that gaze many times before. Yet, every single time, it still sent a chill down her spine.

Just looking into those eyes gave her the illusion of being cut.

"How?" she whispered.

Morpheus raised his blade, his voice eerily calm.

"Don't think of the sword as a tool."

Morgan instinctively raised her guard. But it was too late.

"Become the sword."

And just like that—it was over.

Morgan's sword was torn from her grip and sent clattering across the hall. In a single fluid motion, Morpheus had both intercepted her strike and disarmed her.

The duel had lasted only two seconds.

Morpheus sheathed his blade and turned away. "I need to rest. I'll be in my room, preparing for tomorrow."

And just like that, he left.

Morgan remained frozen in place.

She took a slow breath, realizing how tense her entire body had become. She had given her all, yet she still couldn't defeat him.

She was strong. Among the Awakened, she was a high-level fighter. Among their generation, she was at the top.

But Morpheus was something else entirely.

"Just how…?" she murmured to herself.

She no longer felt anger.

But she still couldn't get used to it.