My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger

The Keeper of False Truths…

Saying that name aloud made the air feel heavier. Damon felt a subtle shift in the armor of Pale Crown—it reacted, ever so slightly, to the mention of that cursed title.

This wasn’t the first time he had heard it. The Beldam was the first to mention it… She had claimed he was the city lord of Lysithara, before rot and corruption had swallowed the city whole—twisting its citizens into nightmares and mockeries of flesh.

The one who had once worn the Pale Crown armor… had fallen just like the others. And in his fall, he became the Keeper of False Truths.

Damon was certain now—he still lurked within Lysithara’s ruined walls. Even in his corruption, the city lord lamented his once-glorious kingdom.

“Why did the Keeper of False Truths do this to you…?” Sylvia’s voice cut through the silence.

Though fear lingered in her eyes, curiosity burned brighter. She needed to know—perhaps more than she feared the answer.

The man—no, the thing—merged with the tree gave a twisted, hoarse laugh. There were tears in his eyes, tears and madness.

His laughter boomed with despair, the kind that echoed from some pit of torment no sane mind could endure.

“Heh… ha… hahah… why did… why didn’t I just choose death…? Why—why did I answer… why did I choose to answer… ahhhh! Why?! Why! I—I just want to die… please… kill me…”

His arms tore from the bark with a sickening rip—flesh half-decayed and fused to wood gave way, revealing blood and rotted bone. They all watched, frozen in quiet horror. He had once been human. Like them.

“I will free you,” Damon said softly, stepping forward, sword held still. “I will kill you. But only if you answer my questions.”

The creature stilled. His eyes, wet with blood and tears, flickered with a fleeting clarity.

“I… want to go home…” he whispered. “I want to go home… Why did I join… why did I become a knight…? Why… why did I fight their wars… why did I seek glory…?”

His voice broke.

“Hahaha… glory is a lie… glory is a lie…”

He clutched his head, trembling.

“The Imperial Family… Ashcroft… why did they send us to search for Ashcroft…? He’s not even real… why did my comrades have to face that horror…?”

His words dissolved into broken sobs and wild, meaningless sounds. He thrashed, body writhing and screaming in madness—his form neither man nor tree, covered in decay, dripping with blood and sap. For how many decades had he been like this? How many years of torment?

Even the silence felt sick.

Damon stood still. Calm. He did not flinch, and neither did the others. They had all seen too much. They had grown numb to horror.

Sylvia stepped closer, a trace of pity in her eyes. Even Damon—despite all he had endured—couldn’t help but silently lament the pain this soul had suffered.

Time passed. Minutes, maybe. His body finally slumped, mouth agape, silent. The bark and flesh of his grotesque form slick with blood.

Then… he raised his head.

“I remember…”

His voice was hoarse, but clear.

“I remember… we didn’t find anything related to Ashcroft’s return. He had been here—in the distant past—but he would not return. Not here.”

His eyes dimmed. A bitter chuckle escaped him.

“We found some clues… fragments of why Lysithara had fallen.”

He swallowed, or tried to, his whole form shaking.

“Many of us were lost. Only a handful remained. We wanted to leave the city… through the Black Gate on the other side.”

A tear fell, mixing with blood on his cheek.

“We thought we could leave… until he came from the mist…”

“The Keeper of False Truths.”

He closed his eyes, blood dripping from his chin.

“He didn’t attack us. No… he only asked us… to play a game.”

A tremor went through the tree. Through him.

“Moromer… refused,” he groaned. “His refusal… was against the rules.”

He opened his eyes, wide and broken.

“So he died.”

Damon’s heart thundered in his chest.

He lowered his head, a soft, bitter chuckle escaping his blood-caked lips.

“He… would not allow those who entered his city uncorrupted… to leave without playing his game… without answering the riddle that torments him.”

His head slowly tilted back, eyes staring blankly into the bleak, grey sky above—like he was seeking something that was no longer there.

“Those who failed the questions… were damned.”

Xander swallowed hard. The sound of his gulp echoed too loud in the hollow silence.

The man turned to them—his rotted face half-consumed by bark, his chest rising with labored effort. One eye stared with human grief, the other clouded with rot.

“It’s too late for you now…” he rasped. “You cannot leave… not without playing his game. But beware…”

His voice cracked with finality.

“His riddle has no answer… you are damned… as well.”

Damon clenched his fists, veins pressing tight beneath his skin. That did not bode well. Not at all.

The man’s gaze turned sharp—piercing, almost desperate.

“If he finds you… when he finds you—he will find you—you must not play. Choose death. Die.”

Their faces turned pale, blood draining from them like retreating tides. Even Damon couldn’t hide the tremor of dread creeping through him.

“How do we avoid him…?” Damon asked, his voice low.

The man’s voice was fragile now—fading, like a candle in a storm.

“He is inevitable… If you see him within the city… do not listen to his words. That may buy you time. But… that won’t work when you try to leave. He will not allow it… not until you answer.”

Sylvia bit her lip, drawing blood. “What is his riddle?” she asked, her voice trembling despite herself.

The man’s decayed lungs wheezed, struggling.

“It’s a game… with simple rules. Two questions… only two…”

He swallowed a mouthful of blood.

“The Keeper… asks you to play. These are the rules:

—You must play the game.

—Refuse… and you die.

—Fail to pass… and you are damned.

—You must answer both questions correctly.

—You may not delay the game indefinitely.

—Pass… and you receive a reward. Safe passage through Lysithara.

—You may play as an individual… or as a group.

—You get only one lifeline. Fail again, and it’s the end.

—The answer to the first question must not be the same as the second.

— You must pass the second question.”

He looked at them with hollow eyes, red tears running down his wooden cheek.

“The First Question…”

“I can only exist when I am not. I am always true and always false. What am I?”

His body shuddered—roots cracking beneath him.

“The Second Question…”

“What happens when an unstoppable force… meets an immovable object?”

His head dropped, as though the weight of the words alone had broken him.

“Now… the game begins…”

Damon’s jaw clenched as he turned toward Sylvia. She was already looking at him, her white hair catching the dull light, her fingers trembling. She had come to the same conclusion.

The others were silent—staring at one another, confused, pale. They hadn’t grasped the nature of what had just been spoken.

This game was deceptive.

The first question—there was hope in it. An answer could be found… perhaps something philosophical, or paradoxical. But the second…

Damon’s breath caught in his chest.

The second question had no answer. It was the very definition of paradox. It was the trap.

“This isn’t a game anyone can win…” he muttered under his breath.