My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger Chapter 884 - 885: Less Than A Passing Thought
Previously on My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger...
"Lowly maggots, every single one of them." His tone remained steady and icy, carrying a clear sense of detachment that revealed his utter contempt for the beings standing before him.
Perched atop a blazing structure, he watched as the fire swirled and crackled around his feet, but it failed to disturb him at all. The inferno licked at the stone underfoot, warping the atmosphere with intense warmth, yet his stance stayed utterly composed.
Flames from a lesser realm could never trouble someone like him.
His appearance was diminutive, which came as no shock. It resembled the frame of a young girl with cropped dark locks. She donned a modest gown that fell to her knees, pristine and finely crafted, suggesting her family likely possessed some status from the tidy way she was attired.
Yet her gaze held shadows.
Those eyes no longer truly belonged to her.
"Such a bother. A dignified nightmare like myself, confined within yet another illusion."
The words echoed as Ittorath surveyed the chaos unfolding beneath, his stare laden with scorn.
Upon fleeing via the Lake of Tears and entering this realm, disappointment had greeted him immediately. This location turned out to be little more than a mere vision.
Ittorath harbored the identical scorn he always did toward beings from inferior realms.
There was no refinement in them whatsoever. Their spells lacked substance. Their potion-making was worthless. Their grasp of cultivation and insight into the Dao was completely absent.
The disdain Ittorath experienced mirrored that of a city dweller stumbling upon a backwater hamlet. Actually, it went deeper. It resembled encountering an isolated isle inhabited by primitive tribes.
"Primitives. Utter primitives." His features twisted in real revulsion, his mouth twisting as though the mere view repulsed him deeply.
His assessment rang true.
Aetherus teemed with countless bans and barriers, exceeding those in typical lesser realms. To start, the heavens above were locked shut by the Goddess of Doom. From his actual form in Lysithara, Ittorath could still detect her influence draping over everything like a hidden veil.
He parted his eyelids gradually.
Arrival in this domain had occurred via the Metaverse, aided somewhat by that pathetic insect named Mugu.
Each visitor pursued their own motives for venturing here. Certain ones craved strength and imagined they could unlock profound insights into the cosmos and seize the Dao.
Primarily, that described cultivators, such as the sightless elderly Daoist.
Others suspected the Goddess concealed the mystery of Akasha in this place, while some held that Ataraxia lay attainable right here.
Naturally, these ancient entities recognized the slim odds, yet they arrived regardless. Inevitably, a tremendous artifact awaited discovery. An item capable of propelling them to higher levels.
Beyond that, whispers circulated about the enigma of the True Beings.
The danger seemed minimal. This was, after all, just an inferior realm. Over three hundred thousand years had elapsed here, isolated and confined.
It made no difference.
Such a span wasn't overly extended.
Hardly any duration had ticked by in their original domain.
Ittorath's purpose for this journey diverged, however. He had pinned hopes on a specific outcome.
His ruthless actions and fiercer pursuit of the reward stemmed not from personal desire for it, but from recognizing this as an opportunity.
An opportunity to gain approval from his maker, the Unknown God.
"I exist merely as a fragment of His nightmare."
Should the Unknown God even acknowledge his presence, Ittorath remained far too trivial and unworthy. Smaller than an insect. Not worth a fleeting notion.
The Unknown God held no interest.
As Lazarak and Seraph Null clashed overhead, he lifted his arm toward the skies, where godly energies ripped apart the firmament.
"If I could but hear your glorious words even once. Just once, and contentment would fill me forever. My god."
Naturally, such thoughts were pure delusion.
The Unknown God would remain silent.
"Ittorath."
A sound resonated within his thoughts.
Ittorath let out a breath, his frame slumping a bit. For ages, he had yearned for this moment, now reduced to mere illusions in his mind.
"Ittorath."
The sound repeated.
The young girl's eyes expanded in shock. Her complexion abruptly lost its hue, draining away completely.
This sound.
Ittorath recognized it intimately.
It originated from the terrors that birthed him.
Though altered from his recollections—more profound and weighty—this was unquestionably the Unknown God.
His legs gave way, dropping him to the earth as ecstasy threatened to overwhelm his chest.
"My... my god. You haven't abandoned me."
In a distant spot, resembling the interior of a dwelling, a silver-haired silhouette clutched a tome, his features obscured by its sheets.
A subtle grin crossed his lips as he whispered,
’A deliberate maneuver. Granting him resistance to fate manipulation alongside the Deathless skill forged a striking contradiction. One ripe for my use.’
Every detail filled the book's leaves. The clash of Lazarak against Seraph Null. Damon battling Sylvia and Lilith. The entirety.
Ittorath's prostrate worship included.
It all formed part of his ongoing composition, and should it displease him, he could revise it effortlessly, much like refining a tale.
Authority. Dream Maker.
’A dream remains real, yet lacks observers. Upon the solitary watcher's awakening, it fades. The unobserved slips into oblivion, and the forgotten falls to Oblivion, the consumer of visions.’
Obviously, wielding this in the Goddess of Doom's domain proved impossible, so he drew them into a nightmare of his own design in this space, allowing unchecked dominance without rival deities meddling.
The underlying concept stayed straightforward.
His lesser might or her superior force played no role.
When an unyielding barrier encounters an irresistible momentum.
The omniverse would shatter like fragile crystal before any resolution, diminishing them to mere youths in a playground fantasy, bound only by their whims.
Hence arose the demand for adherence to the No Absolute Accord, explaining why deities bound themselves to specific guidelines.
Naturally, guidelines bred openings.
And intrigues.
"I summon you, Ittorath. Listen."
Ittorath shook uncontrollably, uncertain if bliss or sheer terror gripped him while confronting the Demon God directly.
"I stand prepared, eager, and devoted. Unseen Sovereign. God of the Abyss. This humble nightmare bows before the God of Dreams."
The Unknown God assigned him a mission.
Success promised a grand reward.
Ittorath sensed his chest might rupture from elation.
Then the aura withdrew.
He climbed back upright gradually, a grin etching across his visage.
"I won't disappoint you."