My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger Chapter 817 - 818: Builders

Carried from the final breaths of Valarie Sunwarden before her passing, these words had journeyed back through time alongside Damon.

He was never quite certain if she was the one who had first conceived them, or if she had merely repeated a phrase heard from a source long lost to history.

Their origin was irrelevant; what mattered was that the words endured.

Reborn through his speech, they had already triggered a transformation within the hearts of these children.

Damon found himself dispensing wisdom that he personally refused to follow.

It was almost comical, reminiscent of that one friend who offers impeccable relationship advice despite having never been on a single date.

Do not tether yourself to the deceased.

Do not allow hopelessness to consume you.

Such curious words coming from a man who lived the exact opposite life.

Forging a path toward future meaning.

That was something he had long since discarded.

All while he moved forward with the full intention of meeting his end.

Damon possessed the correct answers; he simply didn't believe they were meant for him.

With a gentle smile on his small face, Lazarak observed in silence. He was well aware of his function during such moments.

Legacies are not the creations of Gods.

Gods merely watch as they take shape.

Resting a hand over his heart, he watched these mortals do what they do best.

They survived.

They dreamed.

Lazarak was reminded of a sentiment his brother had once shared with him.

"Gods shape systems. Humans shape meaning."

His eyes wandered toward the flickering orange light of the campfire.

’Is that why he grew so detached?’ he wondered, thinking of his brother.

The god continued his observation. Technically, the three of them were little more than children. Their collective age barely spanned a century, yet within them lay a boundless well of potential.

Lyn bit his lip while staring at Damon. A flicker of determination ignited in his eyes, his dark, glossy hair shimmering in the firelight.

"Can we really do something like that."

Damon took a moment before responding. He shifted his attention toward the abyss beyond the flames, where the night consumed the world.

He caught sight of something in the dark.

"You can’t see it from here," Damon murmured, "but there is a hatchling in a tree."

He looked back at the pair.

"A hatchling is born weak and featherless. It is bald and vulnerable. But if it survives long enough, there comes a day when it leaves the nest and takes flight into the vast sky."

Sithara clutched the book—all that remained of her father—even tighter. Faint echoes of his agony and gasping breaths still seemed to vibrate from its pages.

"Can we hold a funeral for our father," she inquired, her voice remarkably firm despite the tears still wet on her face.

Damon gave a slow nod of approval.

"Yes. You may."

Lyn balled his hand into a fist.

"Can we take his ashes afterward. His body is no more, so we can only cremate what’s left."

Lazarak looked toward Damon, seeing that he had no plans to interfere.

"Where do you plan on taking his remains," Lazarak asked with kindness. "You cannot carry them forever. He must eventually return to the earth."

Sithara nodded, her eyes rimmed with red as she pressed the book against herself.

"We know. We’ve decided to bury him in Lysithara."

A soft smile touched Damon’s lips.

So, they had made their choice.

"Lysithara does not exist," he pointed out.

The siblings reached out, their hands locking together in a firm grip.

"It will," they declared in unison. "When we create it. Then we will bury our father."

Their eyes burned with an inner fire, their voices ringing with an unbreakable resolve.

"We will build something magnificent. The finest place in existence."

"In Lysithara, it won’t matter if you’re poor or rich, noble or peasant, human or elf, short or tall, talented or talentless," Sithara added. "There will be a place for everyone. To learn and to grow."

"A path to forging your own legend," Damon added under his breath. "A legend of tomorrow."

Perhaps it is impossible to know what will eventually blossom into a legend that alters the course of history for eons.

But Damon was certain of one thing.

The mightiest oaks were once nothing more than saplings.

And even before that, they were merely thoughts and intentions.

He handed them pieces of cooked meat from the crocodile beast, insisting they eat. The cremation of their father would take place tomorrow.

Eventually, the two children drifted into a deep sleep, finally overcome by exhaustion.

Lazarak sat near Damon, keeping watch over the pair.

"Once again," Lazarak whispered, "I am reminded that you have quite a way with words, my friend. I am most impressed."

Damon exhaled a sigh and shook his head dismissively.

"Not really. I simply wanted them to move forward. There is no benefit in weighing them down with foolish ideas of revenge."

"They could have easily been consumed by hatred," Lazarak pondered.

"They would end up hating everything," Damon noted. "The world. The gods. It is exhausting to live with that kind of hate. Never to forgive. Never to forget. Turning every slight into a deep-seated grudge."

He crossed his arms over his chest.

"They would be worse off that way."

Lazarak looked at him.

"Thank you."

Damon’s brow furrowed slightly.

"For what."

"For changing their fates," Lazarak said, a gentle smile appearing. "For giving them a new purpose."

"This world has too many destroyers," Damon countered. "We need builders. And believers."

Lazarak nodded in agreement.

They conversed in low tones until the first light of dawn began to touch the horizon. As the sun began its ascent, Damon looked at the slumbering children and raised his hand. Shadows roiled upward, creating a thick shroud that prevented the sunlight from waking them.

He intended to get the funeral site ready.

Damon fashioned a headstone in the same style as the one for Valarie Sunwarden, collaborating with Lazarak to set the scene. Before they could finish, the children awoke despite the shield of shadows.

The sight must have been surreal—massive walls of darkness holding back the morning sun.

The dawn felt empty to them, yet it was undeniably beautiful. Warm and gentle.

They set their father’s remains—the book—upon the stone. Lazarak began to sing a low, mournful dirge, his voice vibrating with a grief older than the worlds themselves.

With a simple flick of his finger, Damon lit a torch and passed it to Lyn.

The boy walked forward, bringing the flame to his father’s remains. The black fire consumed the book gently, leaving nothing behind but ash.

As he stood there, Damon was struck by a haunting sense of familiarity.

This location bore too much resemblance to the graveyard of Lysithara.

Dawnbreak Hollow.

The realization caused a faint smile to cross his face.

The children gathered the ashes into a magical urn crafted by both Damon and Lazarak. Damon had forged the vessel itself, while Lazarak had infused it with enchantments and intricate details.

With that final act, they sealed away their father’s remains.

Not as a conclusion.

But as a new beginning.