After everything, your training has finally come to an end. But you didn't just complete it—you transcended it.
You have ascended into something far greater.
You are now the Shadow Monarch, ruler over the shadows, sovereign of the Shadow Kingdom. You have taken up the mantle of your mother, inheriting her throne, her power, and her duty to rule over this forsaken realm.
This dimension—this cursed land where only death thrives—is yours.
Seated upon your throne, surrounded by the endless dark, you contemplate your next move.
But there is nothing.
No goal. No purpose. No direction.
You simply stare into the distance, your expression vacant, your mind adrift.
Since the moment of your birth, you have known nothing but this. You were raised here, shaped by the unyielding cruelty of this world. You were forged in the fires of war, tempered by battle, and reforged through endless suffering. You rose from the ashes, becoming a warrior of unmatched strength.
And yet, despite all of that, your knowledge of the outside world is pitifully limited.
Perhaps it's time to see what lies beyond these cursed lands.
A decision takes root in your mind. Slowly, you rise from your throne, no longer content to be chained to this place. You have endured brutal trials, shed blood, and suffered more than most could fathom. But now, it is time—time to carve out your own destiny.
Just as you resolve yourself, the heavy doors to your throne room creak open.
Your sister steps inside.
Her eyes, sharp and unwavering, narrow as she looks at you—not with anger, but with something far more cutting.
Disappointment.
She stops before you, her arms crossed, her presence commanding. Unlike your mother, she is not proud of your final transformation. No, she resents it.
"So, that's it, brother?" she says, voice laced with something bitter. "You accepted her. You became her good little boy. You let her mold you into this… thing."
"You're upset that I chose mother over you, sister." Reaching out, you place a firm hand on her shoulder, your grip neither aggressive nor defensive.
You are beyond petty emotions.
Instead of reacting with anger, you tease her, taking control of the conversation.
Her provocation means nothing to you, and she knows it.
She doesn't pull away.
Her gaze hardens at first, but as she lingers in your presence, the tension in her eyes shifts.
"Yes, I am upset," she admits, her voice quieter now. "But I shouldn't be. You didn't fail me, brother. I failed you. I should have stopped mother long ago, but instead, I wasted my time resenting you."
For the first time since she entered, her eyes soften—not with disappointment, but with regret.
"You have never failed me, Uathach," you tell her, your voice steady. "Not once. You have always been my sister, and I am proud to call you that."
Your grip on her shoulder tightens for just a moment—a silent reassurance—before you let go.
She smirks.
Then, extending her hand toward you, she asks, "So… are we good?"
You return her smirk and take her hand.
"Yes. We are good, sister."
Laughter escapes the both of you as you turn away from the throne, leaving the dark, empty chamber behind.
"What do you want, or what do you intend to seek after this, brother?" Uathach asked, her voice laced with curiosity.
Yeah, that was the question, wasn't it? What would you do once all of this was over?
You didn't know. But one thing was certain—you intended to find out.
"Maybe… to see what the world has to offer," you answered.
"You want to leave?" She frowned, her reluctance bleeding through, no matter how much she tried to mask it.
But you saw past it. Past the carefully crafted façade of sisterly concern. Past the thin veil of familial love.
Her shadow betrayed her.
It wasn't just affection. It wasn't just worry. It was something deeper. Darker. Something twisted and possessive, something that did not exist in your mother. Something taboo.
And yet, it didn't faze you.
"I do," you answered simply, utterly unbothered by the depth of her hidden emotions. You didn't react, didn't acknowledge it outright. You simply moved forward.
You weren't the kind of man to waste words. If she ever found the courage to voice her true desires, you would answer her. But if she hesitated, if she buried it beneath propriety and fear, then it wasn't your place to drag it out of her.
Your mother had raised both of you to be warriors—fearless, unrelenting, unbreakable.
A coward who couldn't even face her own feelings wouldn't earn your attention.
But if she did?
If she cast aside her hesitation—if she truly embraced what she wanted and dared to speak it aloud—
Then you would answer her.
Because a courage like that deserved to be acknowledged.
For now, you do nothing.
She says nothing either, only walking beside you in silence. The sound of your footsteps fills the space between you, each step growing heavier, the weight of something unspoken pressing down on both of you.
Then, she stops.
You halt as well, watching her out of the corner of your eye, waiting, curious about what she intends to say. This time, you don't peek at her shadow—not like before when you did it by accident.
She lifts her gaze to you, her voice calm, but carrying an edge of something deeper. "You already know it, brother. I sensed it from you. You peeked at my heart. You may be able to perceive them, but do you think I can't?"
Her eyes darken for a moment as she looks through your shadow, through you, peeling back the layers of what you feel, what you think.
Then, her expression shifts, something sharp, almost offended flashing across her face. "You think so lowly of me. You call me a coward."
"I didn't." Your response is simple, firm.
She narrows her eyes.
"You can't control what you perceive. You only see what's on the surface. I don't despise you. I challenge you." You take a step forward, voice steady. "I push you to embrace what you hide, not to bury it in shame. Our mother didn't raise us to deny our desires."
Her lips curl into a slow, eerie smile.
"Mother… yeah. You always have mother in your eyes, brother…"
Then, without warning, she grabs your collar and pulls you into a kiss.
It isn't soft. It isn't hesitant.
Her tongue invades you, her lips pressing against yours with a raw, demanding hunger that refuses to be ignored. There's no pretense of gentleness—only greed, only possession, only need.
And you respond in kind.
Your arms wrap around her, crushing her against you, owning the moment as you return the kiss with equal force. You don't hold back. You take. You devour. Your grip on her tightens, possessive, unyielding.
By the time you both part, a thin string of saliva still lingers between your lips, a visible proof of the passion just exchanged.
She chuckles, breathless, eyes burning with something that's no longer concealed. "Now tell me, brother. Would mother do this for you?"
You stare at her.
"No."
Then, you turn and leave.
There's no point in playing her game—no point in arguing over who is better, your sister or your mother.
Because in the end, it doesn't matter.
You won't play.
You take.
The silence between you stretches on, thick, charged, unspoken tension lingering like a heavy storm waiting to break.
And oh, she does break it...
She clutched the fabric of your clothes, her fingers trembling slightly as she murmured, "Brother…"
You listened.
Her eyes, filled with unshaken determination, bore into you. There was no hesitation in her gaze—only an unwavering promise.
"I will surpass you and mother, brother. By then, you will no longer ignore me. You will no longer look at mother alone—but at me. Only me."
Her lips curled into a twisted, almost sickly smile.
"I know you are an adult now… and so am I. We are no longer the children we used to be. You don't need me anymore. But will that last forever?"
She exhaled softly, then leaned closer, her breath warm against your skin as she whispered, "I have already cast my shadow over you, brother. I've marked you. You will never escape me."
Then, just as smoothly as she had whispered those words, she pulled away, turning on her heel and overtaking your footsteps, her hips swaying in that deliberately sinful way—taunting you, daring you to watch.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
And then—just to make sure you got the message—she turned back, her sultry gaze locking onto you, a seductive smirk spreading across her lips.
"Since you're planning to leave… why don't we celebrate it?"
…Okay.
You know exactly where this is going.
The expectation in her eyes. The way she was pulling you in with every slow, deliberate move. The sheer blatancy of her expression—hungry, needy, obsessive.
You could see it all, clear as day.
And now, standing at this crossroads, you had two choices.
Do you turn her away and stick to your plan—leave, walk out of here, and never look back?
Or do you go to her and indulge in what she's offering?
You know what they say—don't stick your dick in crazy.
But the real question is—are you crazy enough to stick your dick in her?
Or do you run?
So, what do you think, readers? Should we smash? Or should the MC walk away without looking back?