My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger
Chapter 409 - 410: Whisper From The Heart

Death had made its home here. Ruin was merely its echo.

The whole place reeked of death and ruin. The vile stench of rot seeped into the lungs of whoever dared breathe the corrupt air.

Time itself had been twisted here—perverted beyond reason.

The cacophony of battle never ceased. The more nightmares fell, the thicker the corruption grew. These creatures didn't leave behind corpses. They became rot. Pure rot. Their deaths were just another poison spilled into the land.

But this... this was no nightmare.

It was one of the horrors of Lysithara.

A massive, titanic corpse—so enormous it could have leveled a city with a mere swipe of its claw—now lay broken, its rotting blood pouring out like endless rivers, its once-dreaded aura dimming.

"Hahaha..."

The laugh was deranged, rising from atop the creature's mountainous skull, nestled between its shattered horns.

A table sat there. A long, elegant table.

Surrounded by seats.

Pristine chairs. Fine porcelain cups. Perfect alignment. It made for a jeering, surreal sight—an absurd banquet atop a rotting titan's skull in the middle of a hellscape. But it was real. It existed. Somehow, in this ruined plane, the table stood firm.

Each of the cups shimmered faintly, filled with what might've once passed for beverages. But Valarie knew better. The colors, the scent—each cup was brimming with poison. The combined venom of dozens—no, hundreds—of monstrous species. It was enough to dissolve a man's soul through his tongue.

And at the head of that table sat a man.

A dark-haired young man, his long hair disheveled and matted with dried blood. Upon his brow rested an ashen crown, cracked and leaking faint embers of madness. His laughter echoed—hollow and unchained.

It was the only thing keeping him anchored. And even then, barely.

He was insane.

Completely and utterly lost.

Valarie watched silently. His armor, once proud and polished, was dented and blood-caked. Every inch screamed suffering. He had fought the beast for three days—ripped, torn, mauled—but refused to fall. Again and again he should have died. But he didn't. Improbable events shielded him. Coincidence bent over backward. Even fate recoiled.

He pointed to the chairs—empty, all of them. There was no one else at the table. But he still raised his voice.

"Gentlemen, we have done it!" Damon announced, lifting his hand with theatrical flair. "We are close… to ten thousand foes slain!"

He lifted a finger as if to hush some invisible celebration.

"Now now, no need to get excited. We haven't found Matia yet. And that goddamn Ruin knight keeps hunting us…"

His eyes narrowed.

"What, kill it?" he mocked, turning to one of the empty chairs. "Look at this fool… We already tried that. It's slippery. Rank three, maybe, but too damn fast. Nothing connects. And the wounds it leaves us with... we've spent our fair share of healing potions."

He slammed his hand on the table, cups trembling.

"You dare suggest we're cowards?" he roared, voice cracking. "Didn't we stare down that rank six abomination? Hah? We faced it! We spat in its face and lived!"

He sat back with a sudden jump, brushing aside the blood-matted locks that clung to his face. He reached for a cup, took a sip, and let out a satisfied sigh.

"Ahhh… good stuff."

Because everything else tastes like blood.

Valarie felt a tight knot of pain coil in her soul.

Everything he said was true.

He had defied her—ignored her pleas—and gone after a rank six monstrosity. It was then Valarie understood what Deathless truly meant. It wasn't bravado. It wasn't madness. Or rather, it was—and it was that madness that kept him alive.

It was a curse wrapped in the skin of a gift.

[Skill: Deathless]

The more you desire your own death, the more improbable events happen to prevent it. Death will follow when you least desire it.

A cruel skill. If Damon ever wished to live again... that's when death would come. Without warning. Without mercy.

He wasn't allowed to live.

But he was also not allowed to die.

She watched him gesture at his shadow, draped along the edge of the table like an old cloak. He smirked and took another gulp of the poison.

Valarie no longer feared for him taking poison. She had learned much in her time with him.

He had something called Mastery—an unnatural ability that let him gain resistance and abilities through experience. Pain, poison, fire—it was all just training.

The table. The cups. They were all products of his "system." It gave him weapons, tools, items, skills, and knowledge. But even with all that power, he had a habit of destroying rare artifacts just to feed them to his shadow—because he lacked storage.

His shadow.

The most unique thing about him.

He could feed it anything—corpses, relics, enchanted gear—and it would digest them, granting him more power. More stats. More skills.

In the time she had traveled with him, she had learned more than in all her weeks traveling with his party.

They had changed too.

"Sylvia… she did everything she could to empower them…"

Damon suddenly stood, draining the rest of the poison-filled cups as if they were spring water. He moved with reckless ease.

Poison resistance. One of many he'd gained through self-inflicted agony.

She had seen him offer his body to venomous creatures—just to build immunity. Just to get stronger.

Now he took out a coin.

A small, worn artifact—The Whisper Coin.

He held it to his lips. And in a quiet, almost gentle tone that betrayed none of his madness, he whispered

"Matia… I'll be waiting by the bone tree. Yesterday. So please… give me a sign. I'm still searching. I'll never stop."

The coin vanished.

He reached for a sword forged of blue steel and slung it over his shoulder. The table vanished into shadows behind him.

Valarie drifted into the hollow of his breastplate.

"A few more," she murmured, her voice as thin as smoke, "Just a few more vanquished foes… and maybe… maybe he'll regain his sanity."

She paused.

"And finally leave this place."

But Damon said nothing.

He just walked toward the horizon—toward the battlefield of nightmares—where monsters tore each other apart.

His laughter echoed again.

And thus, the madness continued.

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