My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger Chapter 884 - 885: Less Than A Passing Thought

"Lowly maggots, every one of them." His tone stayed icy and composed, carrying a deep indifference that revealed his utter contempt for the beings arrayed before him.

Atop a structure consumed by fire, he positioned himself while the inferno surged and crackled around his soles, though it failed to disturb him even a bit. Blazes swept across the rocks below, the scorching warmth twisting the atmosphere, but his bearing stayed completely unaltered.

How could mere flames from a lesser realm trouble him?

His figure appeared diminutive, which came as no shock. It belonged to a young girl with cropped dark locks. She donned a modest gown falling to her knees, pristine and finely crafted, and the tidy way she was attired suggested her family carried some importance.

Yet her gaze held profound darkness.

Those eyes no longer answered to her.

"Such a bother. A majestic nightmare like myself, confined within yet another nightmarish realm."

The words echoed as Ittorath's, while he surveyed the chaos unfolding beneath, his stare laden with scorn.

Upon fleeing via the Lake of Tears into this domain, disappointment had greeted him immediately. This realm amounted to little more than a mere illusion.

Ittorath harbored the familiar scorn he reserved for denizens of inferior planes.

None of their ways showed refinement. Their sorcery lacked substance. Their alchemical pursuits were worthless. Their grasp of cultivation and insight into the Dao simply did not exist.

Ittorath's disdain mirrored that of a metropolis dweller stumbling upon a backwater hamlet. No, it cut deeper. It resembled encountering an isolated isle teeming with primitive tribes.

"Primitives. Utter primitives." His features twisted in real revulsion, his mouth twisting as though the mere view repulsed him deeply.

He spoke true.

The realm of Aetherus imposed numerous bans and barriers, exceeding those in typical lower worlds. For instance, the heavens themselves lay barred by the Goddess of Doom. Ittorath's authentic form back in Lysithara could still detect her influence draping the plane like a hidden veil.

His eyelids lifted gradually.

He had entered this plane via the Metaverse, aided somewhat by that pathetic insect dubbing himself Mugu.

Each arrival bore their own motives for venturing here. Certain seekers craved might and imagined attaining profound heavenly insights to seize the Dao.

Primarily, that described cultivators, such as the sightless ancient Daoist.

Others suspected the Goddess concealed Akasha's mystery within, while some pursued Ataraxia's attainment in this sphere.

Undoubtedly, these ancient entities recognized the slim odds, yet they ventured forth regardless. Inevitably, some immense artifact awaited discovery. An item capable of propelling them to higher tiers.

Beyond that, whispers circulated regarding the enigma of True Beings.

The peril remained minor. This constituted just a lower realm, after all. Over three hundred thousand years had elapsed here, isolated and confined.

No concern.

Such a span hardly qualified as lengthy.

Little duration had transpired back in their origins.

Yet Ittorath's purpose diverged. He had pinned hopes on a particular outcome.

He behaved with ruthless intent, chasing the reward more fiercely than any other, not for its inherent value, but as an opportunity.

This opportunity to gain his maker's approval, the Unknown God.

"I exist as merely a fragment of His nightmare."

Even should the Unknown God acknowledge his presence, Ittorath ranked as too trivial and negligible. Beneath an insect. Scarce more than a fleeting notion.

The Unknown God would never concern Himself.

As Lazarak and Seraph Null clashed overhead, celestial might ripping the skies, he lifted his palm toward the firmament.

"If only your glorious timbre could touch me once. A single instance, and satisfaction would fill me eternally. My deity."

Naturally, such notions stayed confined to reverie.

The Unknown God would never reply.

"Ittorath."

A sound resonated within his thoughts.

Ittorath exhaled deeply, his frame slumping a touch. He had yearned for this moment endlessly, to the point of conjuring illusions.

"Ittorath."

The sound repeated.

The young girl's eyes expanded in shock. Her complexion abruptly whitened, vitality fleeing her features.

This timbre.

Ittorath recognized it intimately.

It stemmed from the horrors that birthed him.

Altered from memory—more profound and weighty—yet it unmistakably hailed from the Unknown God.

His legs gave way, dropping him to the earth on his knees, his chest surging with near-bursting elation.

"My... my deity. You have not abandoned me."

In a distant locale resembling a dwelling's interior, a silver-tressed silhouette clutched a tome, his visage obscured by its sheets.

Then a subtle grin curved his lips as he whispered,

'A deliberate maneuver. Granting him resistance to fate manipulation alongside the Deathless ability forged a striking contradiction. One ripe for my manipulation.'

Across the tome's leaves, all events unfolded in script. The clash of Lazarak against Seraph Null. Damon engaging Sylvia and Lilith. Every detail.

Including Ittorath prostrated in awe.

All formed elements of his composition, and should dissatisfaction arise, much like revising a tale, he could alter it freely.

Authority. Dream Maker.

'A dream retained reality's essence, yet lacked observers. Upon the solitary watcher's awakening, it dissolved. The unobserved fades from memory, and the forgotten falls to Oblivion, the consumer of visions.'

Of course, such feats proved impossible under the Goddess of Doom's dominion, compelling him to draw them into a night terror of his crafting here, where his unchallenged dominion reigned free from rival deities' meddling.

The underlying principle stayed straightforward.

Not due to his inferiority, nor her superiority.

What unfolds when an unyielding barrier encounters an unrelenting momentum.

The omniverse would shatter like fragile crystal prior to any resolution, diminishing them to mere juveniles in a playground indulging in pretense, bound by self-imposed edicts.

Hence arose the imperative for adherence to the No Absolute Accord, explaining why divinities bound themselves to defined constraints.

Certainly, regulations bred openings.

And intrigues.

"I summon you, Ittorath. Listen well."

Ittorath quaked fiercely, uncertain if ecstasy or paralyzing dread gripped him as he confronted the Demon God directly.

"I stand capable, eager, and prepared. Unseen Sovereign. God of the Abyss. This humble nightmare bows before the God of Dreams."

The Unknown God assigned him a mission.

Fulfillment promised a reward.

Ittorath sensed his core might rupture.

Then the aura withdrew.

He climbed upright gradually, a grin etching his expression.

"I will not disappoint you."