My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger Chapter 981 - 983: Demon Tower Key

Damon entered the city of Trace in a stupor. His pace dragged unnoticed, gaze distant as the recollection tore into his thoughts.

Who was that woman... and how could she nearly detect him despite fate manipulation resistance?

His fingers twitched faintly by his side.

Fate manipulation resistance had shielded him from True Gods' detection after dying in Lysithara. It wiped him from their awareness.

So how did she sense him?

His jaw clenched tight.

There was that instant. One fleeting moment when an icy, unyielding force grazed him.

If he'd met her eyes... he knew without doubt.

He would've perished.

’Was that a memory or a vision?’

His eyes dropped, brows furrowing deeply.

The System revealed it to him. He sensed it clearly.

Then why?

"Why did the Unknown God grant her a sword that destroys everything"

His words emerged soft, barely audible, throat parched.

Somewhere in the vast void among stars, a being lurked who could annihilate existence just by drawing a blade.

Damon breathed out steadily, chest heaving gently.

The foe of all existence.

That's why they named her Nemesis Omega.

The steady march of his forces stumbled.

Damon’s head jerked upward.

Up ahead, demonkin sentries held position, weapons planted as they barred the way mid-first gate.

His gaze sharpened.

Trace City featured dual gates. A bastion stronghold. Its ramparts soared skyward, spanning mountainsides until merging with clouds. Damon’s eyes followed their rise, a subtle furrow creasing his forehead.

Such fortifications were rare even for him.

He advanced a step, lips parting to speak.

His shadow quivered.

Damon halted abruptly.

A jolt pierced his core, abrupt and piercing. Fingers spasmed as an unseen presence tugged at his awareness.

Something within the city beckoned him.

Murmured.

Drew him in.

His mouth opened.

No voice escaped.

Just a void-like pang surged through, profound and ravenous. His ribs constricted as an odd craving gripped him, primal and irresistible. It seemed parts of his essence lay interred inside those barriers, awaiting discovery.

His stare intensified.

’Ashcroft’s fragments.’

His fist balled tight.

Nothing else could provoke this reaction.

Shards of the Demon Lord of Domination.

"I must claim it."

The declaration escaped softly, yet unyieldingly firm.

Leading the group, Zagan advanced, stance rigid and poised. He addressed the guards, gesturing smoothly while offering parchments.

Damon observed quietly, eyes remote yet piercing.

The sentries examined the documents before yielding passage.

Zagan nodded curtly and pivoted.

The troops resumed motion.

Feet pounded earth rhythmically as they crossed the entrance.

Trace City unfolded ahead.

Damon’s vision scanned it, focus returning as haze lifted.

Streets sprawled enormously, broad enough for legions to advance intact. Fortifications and parapets dotted avenues strategically, every setup deliberate.

The atmosphere buzzed.

Steel clanged amid drilled squads. Commands echoed sharply. Provisions flowed orderly. Forgers pounded molten steel; rune artisans etched glowing sigils.

Damon tilted his head, absorbing the scene.

Spire-like structures dotted the metropolis, each asserting solitary reign. Encircling them, orderly tent arrays expanded.

His sight rose higher.

He sensed it clearly now.

A vast sealing array enveloped the whole settlement. Even casually, its weight pressed his perception. Methodical. Restrained. Implacable.

But under that order...

Lurked turmoil.

Damon’s eyes slitted faintly.

Every spire answered to a separate overlord. Each commanded personal legions.

This marked the tournament.

His hands eased as realization dawned.

The victor claiming all would rise as ultimate warlord.

His expression steeled.

That outcome stayed impossible.

No demonkin ever dominated fully. Total conquest defied reality.

Mighty devoured feeble, bolstering ranks, amplifying might per triumph.

Then stagnation hit.

Not from compassion.

From survival.

Potentates allied into councils. Might countered might. Dominion preserved via shared peril.

No sovereign.

No unchallenged rule.

Damon’s gaze chilled further.

Lacked a supreme might to bind them.

Echoed the Demon Continent post-Ashcroft’s fall.

No Demon King.

Merely Demon Lords over private realms, tied tenuously.

He released a measured breath, staring forward.

This bastion would mirror that fate.

And he’d claim its heart amid the chaos.

Damon held no scheme for this turn.

His intent stayed basic: scout data. Absorb knowledge. Depart.

He’d pressed here solely as a demonkind vanguard outpost. War’s nerve center.

Here strategies formed.

Indeed, demon lords and goddess race seventh-class elites avoided frontline clashes.

Unnecessary.

Seventh-class beings wielded cataclysmic power. Direct collisions promised no triumph.

Just shared ruin.

Or Ashcroft’s phrasing.

Each equated a nuke.

No one grasped nukes, yet all grasped the dread.

Obliteration absolute.

Damon halted on a vacant city lot, surveying environs before committing.

Then Zanat neared, bowing mildly while proffering a key.

"My lord, this is a tower key," he stated deferentially. "Each lord constructs their tower via this enchantment. Simply infuse your magic power. Greater magic from you and your forces yields grander, mightier towers."

Damon accepted the key deliberately, inspecting it closely.

He perceived it.

Intricate spellcraft embedded profoundly.

Uncommon.

Alien.

Almost... system-like.

[You have obtained a demon tower key]

The system notified.

Damon’s eyes narrowed faintly.

[Do you wish to build a tower]

[Y/N]

He chose without pause.

’Yes.’