Endless Debt Chapter 1078 - 112: One Among the Masses

Within the desolate ruins, a figure, broken and near destruction, lay ensnared in the rocky crevices.

The Shadow King’s meticulously crafted plan had yielded substantial results; by employing himself as the ultimate bait, and channeling the explosive might of the Devil, the ensuing Decay Plague had proven devastating. Even the Seeker of Glory, the First Seat, was left grievously wounded and torn asunder by such an overwhelming and terrifying force.

Had the Fourth Seat not intervened, the deadly array meticulously devised by the Shadow King might have successfully ensnared this formidable foe, trapping him forever within that somber and hopeless abyss.

Yet, unforeseen variables constantly emerge, disrupting the most calculated of schemes.

"Ha... ha..."

The Shadow King’s breaths grew increasingly ragged, his struggle for air palpable, as if he were drowning. Each inhalation was punctuated by excruciating pain, rendering the torment unbearable.

Despite all the meticulous preparations made beforehand, confronting this catastrophic Extraordinary Disaster, and succumbing to the surge of decay, every single one of the Shadow King’s defenses had ultimately collapsed.

With every labored breath, the insidious Decay Plague infiltrated his lungs. Even the ethereal state of Etherealization offered no true respite; his internal organs were undergoing irreversible decay, his skin festered and wept pus relentlessly. Agonizing pain and profound despair continuously ensnared the Shadow King’s consciousness, plunging him into an abyss of utter helplessness.

The Shadow King found himself utterly incapable of commanding his own body; every single cell within him cried out in a desperate attempt to unleash the pent-up rage and sorrow.

Beneath the relentless onslaught of the corrosive poison, a section of his helmet had been melted away, revealing the silver-white mask beneath, which had long since fused with his flesh, now embedded deep within his very skull.

In this moment of ultimate despair, the Shadow King was suddenly overcome by an inexplicable surge of emotion, compelling him to both weep and laugh simultaneously.

Ultimately, the Shadow King succumbed in that bleak and shadowed place. He was unable to absolve the disgrace of the royal lineage nor exact vengeance for the countless evils perpetrated, despite his immense sacrifices. In the end, he had achieved nothing, a stark echo of his desolate childhood.

However, from another perspective, he found a strange sense of absurdity in his situation. Leviathan’s promise still resonated beside him, a solemn vow to retrieve Xilin’s body. Now, however, such an endeavor seemed utterly impossible.

The Devil was not omnipotent, a realization that, paradoxically, instilled a sliver of hope within the Shadow King regarding this world. Perhaps, just perhaps, successors would emerge to triumph in this protracted and maddening game.

For the time being, the Shadow King quietly awaited the inevitable arrival of death. In the fleeting moments that remained, he was consumed by bitter resentment towards himself.

He had failed once more.

These thoughts brought him a sorrow as deep as that of a child.

All meaning seemed to evaporate; even death itself no longer held paramount importance. All he yearned for was escape from this bitter existence, liberation from these agonizing bonds.

As his breath grew progressively fainter, the pervasive Decay Plague systematically consumed all the Ether within the Shadow King. Deprived of the support of Etherealization, his mortal flesh began to corrode and disintegrate, his vital organs transforming into grotesque lumps of putrid blood, failing one after another in rapid succession.

Time seemed to accelerate its passage across the Shadow King’s form; he aged with alarming speed, resembling a desiccated corpse weathered and worn by the relentless winds.

The Shadow King’s life had reached its irrevocable end; he could not muster the strength to take another step.

Through the encroaching blur of his vision, he perceived a dark, empty void – a realm devoid of light, devoid of hope, and characterized only by an eternal, profound silence.

The advent of Death had long been anticipated, yet the Shadow King’s mood grew increasingly despondent and steeped in despair.

His mind became a torment of condemning thoughts, self-recrimination akin to an ascetic monk's harsh penance. Why did so many perish because of him? Why did even souls have to be sacrificed? Why endure such prolonged agony...

Why...

Why...

Why did he ultimately falter?

Was it due to his insufficient efforts?

Amidst this self-inflicted criticism and gnawing doubt, the sole solace for the Shadow King was the unwavering fact that he had not surrendered his resistance until the very brink of death. Knowing full well the impossibility of victory, he had nonetheless inflicted a grievous blow upon the First Seat. Under the Devil's manipulation, he had forged the King's Shield Guard, thereby prolonging the struggle.

The Shadow King felt he had exerted every ounce of effort a mortal could possibly offer.

It was time for rest.

The Shadow King had no idea how much longer he had to endure; his only fervent wish was for this excruciating, protracted torment to conclude as swiftly as possible. Despair lingered in his mind, seemingly establishing itself as his sole, constant companion.

As if wielding an invisible, spectral whip, lashing invisible wounds upon his very soul, just as utter annihilation seemed imminent, a faint glow of Ether illuminated the surrounding darkness.

In that instant, countless scarlet stars flickered to life, followed by an explosive burst of Ether, coalescing to form a colossal Cross Sword Light, a phenomenon that appeared poised to tear apart the very fabric of the encompassing darkness.

Emerging from the blinding radiance, a figure adrift in sorrow stepped forth from the Cross Sword Light, advancing resolutely towards the Shadow King.

The Shadow King had often contemplated what spectral entities he might encounter in his final moments; perhaps the fabled embodiment of Death, or maybe even the Devil himself. Yet, he had never, in his wildest imaginings, envisioned encountering such a being.

He bore the indelible marks of arduous trials, his youthful countenance etched with a rugged, weathered maturity. His eyes were hollow, devoid of discernible focus.

The hilt of his sword was adorned with cruel thorns, impaling his palm, from which blood gathered and dripped steadily downward.

The Shadow King recognized this blade: the Blood Transfer Sword, Jia Meng's very own weapon.

His gaze shifted rearward, and he saw the sword from his memories. Once pristine, it was now utterly defiled by dark Voodoo, its surface marred by countless pits of corrosion.

The Shadow King managed to recall the name of the figure before him.

"Gray?" he croaked, his voice rough, as if his throat were sealed.

Gray, Mammon’s Debtor, his faithful messenger. At this moment of impending doom, his very appearance offered a wealth of understanding.

With painstaking effort, he moved his head, whispering, "Hurry, Gray. Return to Mammon and tell him… tell him I have nothing left to give."