My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger Chapter 898 - 899: Holy Child

It seemed like the pool was assessing if he stood as foe or friend.

Upon encountering the Seed of Depravity, a ferocious wave of murderous aura surged against Damon. This force felt immense, primordial, and unrelenting. Yet before it could build any further, the pool detected the Divine Spark.

Suddenly, all motion ceased.

An eerie quiet descended, one that dragged on forever in Damon's mind, despite lasting just a fleeting instant.

This Divine Spark originated from Lazarak. Strangely, it stood as one of the few elements Damon had carried back from that horrific ordeal.

The Divine Spark once owned by Lazarak, the God of Darkness.

Damon remained uncertain of its true function. He only understood that probing it triggered the Seed of Depravity to yank at it savagely. Such clashes brought Damon excruciating torment as the seed stripped the spark's enigmatic essence.

Yet now, the pool's sacred power started nourishing the spark.

What had been a minuscule, almost undetectable glimmer began to expand and intensify. Damon sensed its growth within him.

Simultaneously, he let out a sharp gasp.

A torrent of searing agony ripped across his form, lacerating his muscles, spirit, and very core. His magical pathways bulged, turning more potent and polished. His body toughened and fortified, his presence broadened, and his ashen complexion gained a subtle pinkish tint, as though forged toward an ideal state.

Toward the essence of flawless existence.

Damon lost track of time's passage. He only registered the overwhelming suffering, which intensified relentlessly.

The Divine Spark had enlarged, now invading the heart's domains controlled by the Seed of Depravity.

The instant these powers met, crimson liquid burst from Damon's lips as torment wrenched a scream from deep within.

But that marked merely the start.

These opposing energies clashed irreconcilably. They refused to share the same vessel. One must be destroyed, or Damon faced certain death.

No compromise existed.

One embodied the demon's route.

The other signified godhood.

Such supreme powers denied harmony.

Radiance against shadow.

Through the torment, a peculiar sharpness pierced Damon's thoughts. Maybe his psyche sought escape from the agony. In that tenuous awareness, a query emerged.

How did the Unknown God harbor both?

Did he suffer this torment too? Or had he mastered merging polar forces of might?

Indeed, he remained Unknown.

A lone entity.

The Demon God.

Damon realized swift action was essential, lest he perish.

By then, the pool mended him at frantic speed, yet his frame kept fracturing and crumbling. Blood seeped into the waters, only to be thrust back into his veins. He looped endlessly through creation and ruin at once.

Should that cycle halt, he'd burst apart and expire.

Lazarak had bestowed this Divine Spark upon him, though Damon pondered the reason.

Regarding the pool's acceptance of him, Damon harbored a hypothesis.

Maybe because Lazarak sprang from the goddess's own creation. Rebellion aside, he stayed a deity born of her essence.

The High Templar's gaze bulged in astonishment. In his long service, he'd beheld nothing comparable. Though baffled by the sight, as the pool's holy force roiled and the soft luminescence in Damon's torso brightened, he dropped to his knees in zealous worship.

"He... he... he is chosen..." he murmured.

He wasn't.

Far from it.

The goddess would never select Damon. Truly, he found himself in dire straits, and had the cursed elder extracted him sooner, Damon might have endured this trial with less peril. Regrettably, a routine ceremony had spiraled into a desperate fight for survival.

Damon sensed the Seed of Depravity yielding before the pool's colossal might. Though merely a fragment of the goddess's sacred essence, that fragment could crumple reality like parchment. It held no boundlessness, yet neared it in dread.

The Divine Spark pressed onward.

But Damon hadn't cultivated the spark personally.

Unlike the Seed of Depravity, forged from grudge, carnage, and myriad spirits slain by his blade or through his deeds.

His shift toward demonhood had advanced deeply, perilously so, teetering on complete awakening.

And this spark now unraveled it all.

With ruthless dominance.

Damon's sole thought rang out,

"Damn it... I’m going to die."

Three hours elapsed. Or so he estimated.

His form shattered and reformed in brutal repetition. Skeleton ground to dust and recast. Vital organs burst and renewed. Still, the Seed of Depravity clung tenaciously.

Could rebellion vanish so simply?

Would a demon yield to godliness?

Demons arose from revolt. Resistance defined them. Even legendary Demon Kings had rebelled, birthing their infernal essence.

As the swirling depths pulled him to the pool's brink, Damon resolved his course. Upon hitting the edge, he mustered his last reserves for a desperate lunge.

He aimed to escape.

Then the High Templar's stare gleamed.

"Do not let the current ruin the ritual. Push the chosen one back in."

Damon almost swore.

He would have, if able.

Instead, hands plunged him back into the depths. Agony exploded anew, and the spark flared wildly.

'Damn it... I need to do something. Anything.'

Over those three hours, he'd attempted reining in the spark. It yielded scant results.

One last recourse remained.

One he'd shunned.

But executing it demanded utter focus.

Damon inhaled raggedly, trembling. This held peril. To proceed, he'd cease holding back the Divine Spark and redirect his will elsewhere.

In one mere heartbeat, his core might shatter utterly.

Leading to true oblivion.

Did he dare that wager?

"No risk, no reward."

He released his grip.

His heart tore open. Death loomed near.

In that precise flash, he summoned his shadow essence and wedged it between the Seed of Depravity and the Divine Spark.

A cold wave unfurled.

Abruptly, the warring powers halted their fray.

A barrier of darkness now divided them.

Damon at last eased.

He surrendered his frame to drift, letting the pool mend him gradually. As torment ebbed away, he rose and stepped from the waters.

That spanned the most grueling span of his existence.

Raising his gaze, he discovered encirclement by the temple's elite faithful. Each donned the order's supreme robes, features veiled, auras crushing.

Nine in total.

He'd encountered tales of them.

The Nine Elders of Conflict.

"When did they get here...?" Damon grumbled.

"Twenty-seven hours..." the High Templar breathed.

"You lasted twenty-seven hours..."

Damon squinted suspiciously. That seemed impossible. He'd gauged mere hours at best.

Then he scowled.

Had awareness flickered in and out?

His physique felt feather-light, impossibly so. Transformation had struck. His mana stood fully purified. That hurdle alone had loomed large. Even with extra mana cores, he'd anticipated years for such refinement, barring domain mastery.

Yet here he teetered at his level's pinnacle.

Sans domain formation.

"So... did I get the Hero title or what?"

"Hero..." one Elder intoned softly.

"No. You are a Holy Child. A Holy Child blessed by the goddess. You will be the light that ends the evils of this era."

Damon stood speechless as the figure pressed on.

"You will stand at the forefront of our war against the demons. The vanguard of our actions. The one who brings war. All hail the Child of War."

Damon sensed his scalpel quiver.

He disliked it intensely.

That rang as a fancy scheme to hasten his demise.

He rubbed his nape.

"So... can I get my Hero title, my holy relic, and be on my way?"

Masks concealed their expressions, but their voices betrayed zeal to hurl him into apocalypse.

Child of War.

It echoed the mantle Seras Blade had claimed, just before thrusting into the Demon Wars' bloodiest theaters.

'Great. I’m about to become a poster boy for war crimes.'

Swiftly, they hauled Damon off to ready his unveiling as the Holy Child.

Far inside the Holy City, within a forbidden temple vault accessible solely to the High Templar and Nine Elders, a golden-haired figure stirred from a sarcophagus.

"I sensed my brother’s presence..."

He shut his eyes once more.

Impossible.

For Lazarak lay slain.

He'd ensured it himself.