My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger Chapter 979 - 981: Trace

Damon felt uncertain about his emotions toward it.

Strength flowed into him relentlessly. The seed of depravity rooted itself deeper, propelling his rank ever upward. Normally, even with monster cores absorbed and his body forged anew at the Fourth Class, years would drag by before cresting that realm's summit. Progress transcended mere energy stockpiling now. True steps ahead demanded insight, a domain—essences far more intangible than sheer might.

But the demon continent revealed a different route.

One shrouded in shadow.

This seed of depravity granted a perilous shortcut. Damon could surge ahead at breakneck speed, yet the price twisted him into an entirely foreign being.

A demon.

Multiple paths existed to cultivate such a seed. The crudest way proved the most horrifying. Slay. Slay without end until the skies wept blood. Monsters alone wouldn't cut it, though.

Humans were required.

The purer their innocence, the finer. Or the mightier their souls.

Damon remained clueless about soul quality's true measure. He hadn't unraveled it, nor did he wish to. Just imagining the massacre of the blameless, slaying babes in their beds for might, churned his gut.

Yet...

He halted.

Eyes shut, and the vision assaulted him without warning.

His village.

In flames.

Devastated.

Resentment clung fiercely.

Damon breathed out steadily, shaking off the recollection with a head toss.

His dilemma appeared straightforward in outline, though its fallout loomed vast. Might through forsaking his human essence... versus caution and a languid ascent.

Yet a third option lingered.

Instead of butchery, the alternate route to expanding a seed of depravity involved rule. Rising as a demon overlord. Greater legions of demons swearing fealty would swell it further.

Damon's stare intensified a touch.

'If so... have all demon lords faced this fork?' he pondered.

Butchery versus command.

Thoughts drifted to the Unknown God. Had he confronted identical crossroads? And which route had claimed him?

One truth stood firm for Damon. Ashcroft had embraced rule. The very seed of depravity now within Damon had been Ashcroft's once. Damon simply seized it.

And the inaugural one?

Mugu, the Wicked Prophet.

History flooded back to Damon. Valtheron's royals had once escaped the demon continent, finding sanctuary in Soltheon.

That detail sealed it.

Mugu embraced slaughter.

A soft sigh escaped Damon's mouth.

Their party neared a colossal city perched as a guardian atop an immense, boundless mountain chain. Sharp summits clawed the skyline like fangs from a primordial monster.

"The Black Mountains," Damon stated evenly.

"Yes, my lord," Gotrog answered, his rumbling voice laced with subtle malice.

"The Mountains of a Thousand Peaks," he continued, voice dipping lower. "Here we pen the heretics from distant shores. Here their assaults always ignite."

Damon inclined his head, eyes scanning the expanse.

"With such a harsh barrier, why not breach from elsewhere?" he queried. "The demon continent anchors the world's heart, encircled by oceans everywhere."

Gotrog emitted a deep growl, wisps of flame flickering from his nose.

"They can't," he declared.

"The west harbors the Graveyard of Gods, spanning thousands of kilometers—a lethal void. No life endures its traverse."

Damon dipped his chin faintly. He'd nearly overlooked it.

"The east stands here," Gotrog went on, arm sweeping lazily toward the peaks. "The Black Mountains. Sole traversable route. Chief warground."

His wings twitched as words flowed.

"Northward stretch Norrath's iced oceans. Mana twists wildly there. Reality warps. Abominations prowl the depths. Armies shatter cohesion, supply chains crumble—they perish long before us."

Damon absorbed it in silence. Such lore evaded even his class teachings.

"What of the south?" Damon inquired.

Gotrog's face grew grim.

"The south proves grimmer."

Damon held back. He sensed it already.

"Two mighty dragons claim the southern seas," Gotrog explained. "Aethergon, the Cloud Dragon, reigns above clouds over tempests and mist oceans. Aquagon, the Great Tide, lurks below the surface."

A subtle shiver prickled Damon's scalp.

Two great dragons marked his past clashes—plenty to last.

No urge stirred for another.

Near Duhu Mountains, Ashergon loomed first. Its body eclipsed summits. One exhale scorched a city-sized swath to cinders. Wyverns swarmed it like troops, enslaved to its command.

Rexagon, the Gravewing, struck next. Wounded yet apocalyptic. It showered liquid doom from above, reeking of putrefaction.

Like Ashergon, Rexagon usually led swarms of minions—undead drakes, colossal sky-beasts, harbingers of blight and destruction. Recent loss alone stranded him.

"Indeed," Damon responded coolly. "I've clashed with Ashergon and Rexagon. The rest await me not."

Gotrog stiffened.

The hulking Balrog gawked briefly.

"My lord... you've battled two great dragons... and survived?"

Disbelief in his voice escaped Damon's notice.

"Yes," he answered offhandedly. "A cursed stroke of fate. Devil's fortune fits it."

Gotrog vented a long breath, digesting the revelation.

"It clarifies much," he grumbled. "None dare the southern passage. Only lunatics would drive forces through fog seas."

Insanity drew lines.

Trapped amid Aethergon and Aquagon spelled no battle.

Obliteration.

Damon's eyes turned ahead as the city sharpened into sight.

"Looks like we've reached it," he noted.

"Trace."