You are dead.
But death has never been the end. It is only the beginning of a new journey—a journey where you accept Death's invitation and dance in her cold embrace.
No one knew. No one expected that a mediocre man like you, someone who had trudged through a mundane life, clawing your way up the ladder only to be crushed by reality, would be reborn as the son of the Shadow Queen.
Yet, this was never an act of mercy. Never a gift.
It was a trial. A challenge.
Even the greatest mothers in existence would never allow their sons to remain mediocre. They would shape them, forge them in fire, push them to break past their limits until they stood at the pinnacle of the world. They wanted their sons to rise, to dominate, to rule. To stand at the peak of existence, looking down upon the world as legends written in blood and history.
And your mother was no exception.
She demanded nothing but greatness from you. Not through warmth, not through kindness, but through the cold, merciless precision of her spear thrust at your throat.
You don't know how many times you died. How many times you were torn apart, reshaped, and rebuilt under her relentless training. You only remember the blurred aftertaste of her lap—the rare moments of solace when, after pushing you beyond your limits, she let you rest against her thighs. Those fleeting seconds where her fingers combed through your hair, her voice, cool and distant, whispered:
"You are my proudest creation."
And then—darkness. Oblivion.
Memories return in fragments. The first time you were born… it was not from her womb. Not through the natural cycle of life. No—you were sculpted, your very essence carved from the remains of fallen gods, from the shadows that slither between realms.
But you were not alone.
With you, another was forged. Uathach.
Your sister. Your other half.
She, too, was born not from tenderness but from brutal necessity. The same blood-soaked training. The same merciless shaping. Both of you were molded into weapons, never cradled in warmth, never given the luxury of weakness.
Your mother did not raise children.
She created warriors.
And she expected nothing less than perfection.
When you woke up, the first thing you saw was your sister looking at you with concern, her brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.
"Mother is too hard on you, brother. She should stop and let you rest," Uathach said, her voice laced with frustration.
Before you could respond, a cold, authoritative voice cut through the air like a blade.
"I didn't raise you to be weak and insignificant, Uathach." Your mother's words were sharp, unwavering, and merciless. "If you can't endure my training, if you can't withstand the brutality of this world or the lessons I have imparted, then leave. I will not stop you. You are free to abandon this path and seek the paradise you foolishly yearn for—to be weak, to live an easy, sheltered life. But if you choose to stay, you will not disgrace yourself with complaints."
Her eyes, piercing and stern, locked onto Uathach, daring her to defy that decree.
Uathach's jaw clenched. "Enough is enough, Mother. One day, I will defeat you myself. And when that day comes, I will never allow you to make my brother suffer again."
With that, she scoffed, turned on her heel, and stormed out, her footsteps echoing through the place.
The moment she was gone, your mother's gaze softened.
"You have completed all my trials and training, my son," she said, her voice no longer cold but filled with something far deeper. Pride. "You never uttered a single complaint. You never whined, never begged for mercy, never resented me—the mother who was supposed to coddle you, but instead, made you endure hell itself. No. You trained. You fought. You understood. You grasped the way this world works and adapted accordingly. And for that, I am proud of you."
You met her gaze, your body still aching, but your resolve unshaken.
"I already know that the dangers out there far surpass anything I've faced here, Mother," you murmured. "You might have shaped this place into a crucible, but compared to what awaits beyond, it's nothing…"
Memories from a distant past—faded, fragmented, and incomplete—lingered in your mind. You couldn't recall everything about FGO, but you knew one undeniable truth:
There are things out there that can erase you in an instant.
The Alien God, a being so far beyond human comprehension that it sought to rewrite Earth itself.
The Counter Force, the embodiment of humanity's will, ready to annihilate anything that defied the natural course of history.
The True Ancestors, ancient monsters beyond mortal understanding.
Akasha, a being with access to the Root itself.
And countless other threats, lurking in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to end you.
Out there, no one would save you. No divine hand would shield you from annihilation. No mercy would be given.
But here?
Here, your mother had always been there. Beneath the brutality, behind the distant façade, she cared. She had raised you, honed you, prepared you for what lay ahead—not out of cruelty, but out of love. Her own twisted, unrelenting love.
Because this was her.
Scathach. The Queen of Shadows. Your mother.
"Do you feel it, my son? The Shadow. It flows through you."
Your mother's voice was calm, yet it carried an undeniable weight.
You frowned, feeling it naturally—as if it had always been there, lingering beneath your skin, whispering to you.
Through your perception, your instincts, it became clear.
The darkness heeded your call, twisting and writhing like living entities, eager, starving—waiting for your command.
"That is the result of your training so far." Her lips curled into a smirk, eyes filled with amusement as she watched your reaction. "It makes you more insightful, sharpens your instincts, strengthens your perception. When your five senses evolve beyond mortal limits, you will feel them completely—your origin, your affinity for shadow ensures it."
Your mother chuckled, enjoying your confusion. But she wasn't done.
"However, everything is far from over, my son. I never intended for you to simply wield them… or even command them."
Her gaze darkened, her next words absolute.
"I want you to rule over them."
The moment those words left her lips, the air shifted.
"Ashborn…" Her tone turned serious, devoid of the previous amusement. "This will be your final trial—your last training. Not as my son. Not as my student."
Her crimson gaze bore into you, merciless and unrelenting.
"But as something greater."
Then—she moved.
The spear came straight for your heart.
Fast. Faster than you had ever seen.
There was no warning, no moment to breathe, no chance to react—she did not allow it. One second, she stood before you, speaking. The next, Gáe Bolg was already upon you.
Your body screamed in protest, exhaustion weighing down on you.
There was no rest from the trials before. She had not granted you the mercy of recovery.
The moment one battle ended, another began.
This was no exception.
And yet—you already knew.
It was impossible to defeat her.
Her speed dwarfed yours.
Her skill rendered yours meaningless.
Every strike, every counter, every strategy—you knew she'd crush them before they could even manifest.
She had trained you.
She had watched you.
She had crafted you.
Every technique in your arsenal had been given to you by her hands.
You could not win against what she had given you.
But that didn't mean you couldn't win at all.
Her words echoed in your mind.
Shadow flows through you.
It is your origin. Your power.
You let go.
Instinct took over.
Perception dominated the battlefield.
Insight guided your movement.
And you moved.
The moment she should have been a blur, she wasn't.
For the first time, Scáthach seemed slow.
The shadows coiled beneath your feet—stretching, solidifying, moving in tandem with your will.
A spear that should have skewered you missed by mere inches.
You sidestepped, seamless, effortless—like you had always known how.
And then—you struck back.
Darkness erupted from your palm. The abyss howled.
Hunger.
The void surged forward, chains of shadow lashing out, seeking her—desperate to consume.
Scáthach's smirk widened.
It was not a kind smile.
"Good," she murmured, watching as the abyss wrapped around her body.
Then, they shattered.
She was gone.
And before you could react—
Cold metal pressed against your throat.
Her breath was warm against your ear, her presence looming behind you.
"But not good enough," she whispered.
Then—pain.
A sharp, searing bloom in your side.
The world blurred for a fraction of a second as warm blood dripped onto the cursed earth.
But you did not scream.
You did not break.
You did not fall.
Instead—
You grinned.
The abyss is not kind.
And neither are you.
Thus, the dance between mother and son began.
You may be her son, and she may be your mother, but there is no tenderness between you. No love. No warmth.
Your bond isn't forged through affection—it is beaten into existence through battle, through blood spilled and flesh torn. It is a connection carved from pain and survival, from the unyielding truth that only the strong have the right to exist.
Scathach vanishes from your vision.
The next moment, she is already upon you—ghosting over your form like a specter of death, her spear driving through you with merciless precision.
This time, she doesn't hold back.
She is faster. She is harsher. She is ruthless.
You do not block. You cannot block.
To parry her is to challenge inevitability itself.
So instead—you flow.
The abyss beneath you shifts, the shadows writhing in response to your will, unraveling and reforming in an instant. Your body moves before your mind does, driven purely by the storm of instinct screaming within you.
Her spear grazes your ribs—and where it touches, flesh is no longer flesh, but mist, splitting apart without resistance.
Pain comes, but it is distant, swallowed by something deeper, something primal.
You strike.
Darkness coils around your arm, shifting, hardening, transforming—until your hand is no longer a hand, but a clawed gauntlet, a monstrous appendage reaching straight for her throat.
But she is not there.
A sharp impact—a knee slams into your stomach.
Air is ripped from your lungs. Your ribs groan in protest, bending, cracking beneath the sheer force.
Then—impact.
Your body collides with the cursed ground, skidding across the battlefield like a discarded corpse.
But corpses do not rise.
You do.
The abyss writhes with your fury, shadows twisting, responding to the storm raging inside you. The sky above is consumed, devoured by your presence, and for the first time, the Land of Shadows itself begins to bend beneath your dominion.
You stand, exhaling slowly. And from your fingertips, they emerge.
Shadows.
Not illusions. Not mere wisps of darkness without form or purpose.
Warriors.
Silent, kneeling figures rise from the abyss—not men, not ghosts, but something between. Their bodies flicker, shifting between the shapes of fallen gods, forgotten warlords, nameless legends—all those who failed before you, their souls once crushed beneath your mother's spear.
But they are yours now.
A legion. Your legion.
Each of them seethes with rage. Each of them remembers their deaths. Each of them demands vengeance, their eyes filled with the hunger to tear apart the woman who had once been their tormenter, their nightmare—piece by piece, bone by bone.
And yet, Scathach does not flinch.
She does not waver.
She grins.
The proud, feral grin of a monster who has just seen something worthy.
"So, the shadows heed you," she murmurs.
Then, with a flick of her wrist, a second spear manifests in her grasp.
Two.
And for the first time…
She looks excited.
The battle begins anew. But this time, you do not stand alone.
Your legion of shadows surges forward, a relentless tide of darkness crashing toward your mother with one singular purpose—to strike her down.
Each warrior wields a divine weapon, blades sharp enough to carve through reality, spears that pierce like falling stars, bows loosing arrows that shatter the air itself.
Among them, magi weave runes into existence, spells forming in the void before launching a relentless barrage aimed directly at her throat.
Yet—it means nothing.
Scathach moves like a ghost, her twin spears ripping through flesh and shadow alike. Each thrust is precise, merciless, tearing through your warriors as if she were simply tearing apart paper dolls.
Every strike is a lesson.
Every death is a reminder.
That in this world, strength alone dictates survival.
Yet, even as she cuts them down, you feel it—you learn.
Each fallen shadow does not vanish in vain. Their experience, their instincts, their very essence—all of it returns to you, absorbed back into the abyss, strengthening you.
With every strike.
With every failure.
You sharpen.
And then—for the first time—you disappear.
Not in speed. Not in movement.
But in essence.
You let go of form, of restriction, of the very concept of self—and become shadow itself.
Scathach's eyes flicker. Her battle-honed senses, sharp enough to detect even the gods, falter for just a moment.
Then you strike.
A single blade of obsidian death tears through the mist—not aimed at her heart, not at her throat—
But at her shadow.
Her eyes widen.
Not in fear.
But in acknowledgment.
The world shifts.
The battlefield, once filled with the roars of war, the cries of the dying, the echoes of your legion, now stands in absolute silence.
The mist settles. The shadows withdraw.
And Scathach, the immortal warrior, the slayer of gods—lowers her spear.
A moment passes.
Then another.
And then—she kneels.
Not in submission.
Not in surrender.
But in recognition.
"Rise, Ashborn."
"You are no longer my student. You are no longer just my son."
She meets your gaze, and in that moment, you know.
"You are the Shadow Monarch."
***
Now—if you're enjoying what you're reading so far, throw your power stones at this and rate it 5 stars.
If I see a flood of stones, I'll write faster.