My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger

The Goddess of Doom had many titles… she was the Goddess of Doom naturally. Her titles were comprised of everything that fell into the broad definition of the word doom—thus, her titles.

She is the living embodiment of doom—its inevitability, its terror, and its authority. Not merely a herald, but Doom personified, encompassing every aspect of the term: fate, judgment, destiny, dread, death, and law. All of it. Everything that could be defined with the word doom.

‘Lady of the Inevitable’—that signified her authority over Destiny, absolute and unchanging. One could never defy Destiny… even if they went against Fate.

As ‘Mistress of Final Judgment’, she passed down the final decree… beyond which, there was nothing.

Damon could think of all her dreadful titles… all the horror of her power… but never had he seen or heard of the title—

Goddess of the Abyss.

Never in his life had anyone referred to Doom as the bride of anything.

He narrowed his eyes.

Was this title saying she was the bride of something? Maybe a concept? Or was it… an entity?

The goddess was often depicted wearing a veil, but her veil seemed more like a widow… not a bride.

He could think of one—bride of Chaos or bride of Destruction—that would still fall under her domain and would still be her title… but if she was the bride of someone… something… then that would be a whole other story.

Damon bit his lip until blood flowed.

That was doubtful. The former had to be it. He just… couldn’t confirm it.

Which left the original title:

Goddess of the Abyss.

‘The Abyss has to be a word to define what happens when something is destroyed…’

Yes… that had to be it.

This was the Queen of Shattered Realms, after all. The goddess who brings an end to worlds. Every world supposedly had a story about how it would end… and Doom was always the reason for it.

Her authority was absolute… in every world, every reality… stories of doom coming into being always exist. Every world had tales of how the world would end…

This was merely Doom’s authority.

Damon wasn’t very religious, but his heart still pounded. He felt like if he thought too much, he might touch upon something terrifying… something that would cause him to be erased.

Not killed—erased.

He took a deep breath, forcing his mind to shift focus—locking in on Ashcroft’s name… completely ignoring any horror his friends would have been feeling. He could hear their horrified breaths, the way their silence cracked around them…

But he could only focus on the name of the one who had dared to carve these words down.

…The arrogant demon lord from myth, whose existence was always debatable.

The Demon Lord of Domination—Ashcroft.

The one who had almost conquered the known world…

Why had the Demon Lord of Domination carved these words into this stone monolith?

Ashcroft was only born after Lysithara fell. He didn’t exist in that era… if anything, he too should’ve stumbled upon the ruins like they did.

‘Then does that mean… he was real?’

Ashcroft had actually existed.

According to legends… he died here. In Soltheon. In the temple of the Goddess, where he had spoken blasphemous words…

Damon also recalled a prophecy left by the Unknown God.

A prophecy that had promised the demons:

“The Dominator shall return.”

Till this day, demonkind waits…

…along with any fool who believes the tale.

Waiting for Ashcroft—

—to usher in a new era.

“Arrhgg…”

Damon heard the gasp beside him—sharp, wet, cutting through his thoughts like a blade. It broke him out of his reverie. He turned around, just in time to see Sylvia staring at the invisible journey book… floating in front of her.

Her nose and eyes were bleeding.

She raised a trembling hand, a scream twisting out of her throat—and then her head smashed against the monolith with a sickening crack.

Damon froze.

He wanted to move. He should have moved.

But he… just couldn’t.

His body would not obey.

His soul screamed, his instincts roared, but nothing answered.

Behind him, the others were just as still. Every muscle locked, every breath caught in their lungs, as an aura slowly began to bleed out from Sylvia.

The book… visible only to Damon… glowed with the mark of the Unknown God. Its pages flipped with no wind, moved by an invisible power. The weight of that presence suffocated the air.

Sylvia stood up, covered in blood, screaming in agony.

Damon wanted to move.

He grunted, forcing his will to rise, but his body and his will were misaligned—disconnected. None of them dared move.

Even the shadows remained still.

But from his own shadow, Damon felt the swirl of something else—something alive and alien and wrong.

Not evil.

Just… wrong.

Like reality had cracked.

No one made a sound.

For a moment, it was as if the world had relinquished its authority to the book… and Sylvia… she was no longer just Sylvia.

She was a vessel.

A mouthpiece.

A truth.

Slowly, she walked toward an empty monolith nearby. Unlike the others, its surface was smooth—unbroken—untouched. As if it had waited for this.

She raised her fingers.

Then carved.

Her blood became the ink. Her bones snapped under the pressure. Yet she did not scream. She whispered instead… whispering the words she etched into stone.

They all heard her.

Her voice—a tragic sigh of someone recounting a tale long buried—cut through them, soft and haunting.

Her eyes had turned black. Swirling like the abyss itself.

They knew not to look.

And luckily, she wasn’t looking their way.

Still, they heard.

They were forced to hear.

“…The Weeping Star came first, and the god who gives names devoured its light. All names that followed were lies.”

“…The Weeping Star came first, and the god with no name devoured its light. All names that followed were lies.”

“…To speak his name is to invite him in.”

“…So the goddess took it, carved it from the hearts of men and cast it into the void.”

“…In oblivion, she bound them. In silence, she damned herself.”

“…He called her Bride, but the veil she wore was never white—it was woven of false fates.”

The god who blessed names hated his own…

Ohh, tragic tale of the abyss and his bride…

She turned.

Slowly.

To face him.

Damon’s head dropped instantly—instinct overriding thought.

He could not look into those eyes.

He would not.

His body trembled.

He felt alone.

Truly alone.

Left in a dead, godless universe to face something unimaginable. Something that wasn’t even malicious—just unknowable. A thing beyond dread. Beyond horror. A concept that horror itself would flee from.

And then—

It ended.

Just like that.

A sound echoed. Soft. Final.

Sylvia’s body collapsed to the forest floor, her breathing faint… but alive.

Still… no one moved.

They all remained frozen.

Mortals, locked in the grip of something ancient and unknowable, their hearts scarred by a fear that would never leave them.

Not ever.