The second time I died in Shadow Online, it was also to a chicken.
I wish I was kidding.
But let me explain before you think I'm cursed.
After my midnight meeting with Mystery Batman NPC and the shiny new Rusted Shadowfang, I felt invincible. Sure, the dagger was labeled "rusted," but to me it was Excalibur dipped in eyeliner. A weapon that evolved with its wielder? That's basically the gamer equivalent of winning the genetic lottery.
So naturally, I strutted right back into the chicken field to assert dominance.
The chicken did not care about my dominance. The chicken cared about physics. Specifically, how beaks could act like ballistic missiles.
Respawn number two. Same fountain. Same public death announcement. Same chorus of laughter from random villagers.
[System]: Player "Shade" has been slain by Chicken. Again.
The "Again" wasn't actually there, but it may as well have been.
Respawning stung less this time. Not because I enjoyed humiliation, but because I noticed something important: even though I died, my dagger's tooltip had changed.
Rusted ShadowfangAttack +3 → +4Hidden Stat: Evolves with wielder. (Progress 2%)
It leveled up. My deaths counted as progress.
For once, my failure was mechanically justified. This was revolutionary. Normally dying in games is punishment. In Shadow Online, for me, it was data collection.
I could live with that.
Back in the square, I realized something: I was broke. My wallet contained exactly 0 copper and an item that looked like a cursed butterknife. Assassins didn't get freebie starter armor or shiny shields. To buy food, repairs, or training, I needed cash.
In Shadow Online, cash flow worked two ways:
Grind monsters for drops.
Take contracts.
Guess which path was designed for Assassins?
A grizzled-looking NPC leaned against the tavern wall, a parchment board nailed beside him. The header read:
Assassination Contracts – Discretion Required
This was clearly not meant for level ones. The parchment flapped with names of chickenscratch NPCs: "Steal merchant ledger." "Silence rat informant." "Collect unpaid debts."
Rewards ranged from a few copper to silver. Enough to get my feet under me if I survived.
The NPC eyed me up and down. "You don't look like much, kid. But shadows gotta start somewhere. Pick a job."
I scrolled through. Most were way above my pay grade. But one stuck out:
Contract: Remove Chicken Rustler.A farmer in the north field complains his prize rooster has been stolen by a rival. Ensure the rival never steals again. Reward: 15 Copper, +Reputation (Underworld).
A chicken mission. The universe had a sense of humor.
The north field stretched into golden wheat, sun slanting low. NPC farmers moved like clockwork, but one guy stood out: greasy hair, shifty eyes, and a rooster clutched under his arm like contraband.
Target acquired.
The Assassin toolkit wasn't much at level one: Shadow Step, Dagger Jab, and Hide. Hide was basically "squat in tall grass and hope." But it worked.
I crouched, breathing slow, and the UI blurred my body until I was translucent. The chicken rustler muttered to himself, heading toward a barn.
I Shadow Stepped behind him, dagger pressed to his spine.
"Delivery time," I whispered.
Critical Backstab! -15 HP.
The rustler choked, collapsed. The rooster flapped free, squawking loud enough to summon the police. My screen flashed:
Target eliminated. Contract complete. Reward: 15 Copper.
The rooster strutted back to its farm, feathers puffed like it had personally assisted in the kill.
Back in the square, the contract board NPC gave me a nod. "Not bad. Word gets around fast in the alleys. You've got a taste for it."
My reputation stat updated: Underworld +2. Infamy +1.
The number looked small, but every Assassin forum post I'd read said reputation was the real leveling system. The more people feared you, the better the jobs.
And jobs meant money. Money meant gear. Gear meant surviving chickens.
Of course, IronWill99 wasn't done with me.
I was halfway through enjoying my new copper at a bakery stall (NPC bread tasted real—chewy, salty, addictive) when his armored posse stomped over.
"Shade," IronWill snarled. "You think humiliating me once makes you hot stuff? I saw you crawling around like a sewer rat in the wheat fields. Assassin trash."
His friends flanked me, hands on swords. The bakery NPC froze like a deer in headlights.
The duel option popped again.
IronWill99 has challenged you to a duel. Accept?
This time, I declined. Not out of fear—out of strategy.
"Why duel?" I asked. "Winner gets bragging rights. Boring. How about a bet?"
That got their attention. Gamers love gambling more than loot boxes.
"If you beat me," I said, "I'll pay you ten copper. All my cash. But if I beat you, you owe me your sword."
IronWill's sword was a shiny uncommon drop, way better than my rusted toothpick. His friends tried to warn him, but his ego flared bright as a nuclear reactor.
"Deal," he spat.
Duel Two
The square filled again. My accidental chicken fame guaranteed spectators. Bets flew across chat.
We squared off. He lunged with heavy swings. I danced back, waiting, waiting—until he overextended. Shadow Step. Behind him. Dagger slash. His HP ticked down in humiliating nibbles.
But he adapted faster this time, spinning wide arcs to block my teleports. Smart. Almost.
Because what he didn't know was that my Rusted Shadowfang had evolved again. Its tooltip now included a passive:
Bleed (1%). Every successful backstab applies minor damage over time.
I nicked him once. Twice. He laughed. "Pathetic—"
Then his health began to drip like a leaky faucet. Tiny numbers popped. -1. -1. -1.
He panicked, swinging harder. I baited him, rolled under his strike, and planted my dagger deep in his side.
Critical Backstab! -20 HP. Bleed applied.
IronWill collapsed.
Victory! Player "Shade" has defeated IronWill99 again.Reward: +15 XP. Acquired: "Steel Bastard Sword."
The crowd went wild. Someone typed, "Assassin meta incoming?" Another shouted, "Chickens fear him. Warriors hate him."
IronWill respawned pale and silent. His friends dragged him away.
I twirled his sword. It was too heavy for me to equip, but I didn't care. I had trophies now.
Real-World Ripples
Logging out later, I noticed my clip had already hit the trending page on gaming forums. The title: "Chicken Victim humiliates Warrior Twice—Assassin OP?"
Ad revenue trickled in. Pennies. Dimes. By morning, I had five bucks. Enough for instant noodles and a soda.
It sounds pathetic, but for someone who hadn't been able to afford both carbs and caffeine in a week, it felt like striking oil.
More importantly, I was building a brand. A stupid, humiliating brand—but in a world where game currency could convert to real cash, branding was power.
Back in-game, the mysterious hooded NPC returned at midnight. His voice rasped approval.
"You survived. More than that—you thrived. The shadows take notice."
My quest log updated:
New Quest: First Blood Contract.Eliminate a marked player in secret. Reward: ???
My eyebrows shot up. This wasn't PvE. This was PvP. Actual assassination of another human.
The target's name appeared: IronWill99.
I laughed so hard the NPC vanished without finishing his dramatic monologue.
The path of shadows wasn't about chickens anymore. It was about contracts, money, and humiliation weaponized into legend.
IronWill had painted a target on his own back. The game had handed me the brush.
I tightened my grip on the evolving dagger, shadows curling like smoke around the blade.
Time to show the world what an Assassin could really do.