My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger

Chapter 816: Chapter 816: Too Early And Too Late

The two siblings sat close together, holding the gasping book between them. The familiar scent of their father lingered on the fleshbound pages as they read. The book was made from his skin, bound by his suffering, and within it his trapped soul breathed in shallow, broken gasps.

His life was recorded in detail, each page heavier than the last. The two siblings held back their tears as they turned the pages, their fingers trembling, their shoulders growing stiff with every line.

Until they reached the final passage.

“Ilyth the Insightful was blinded by his own intellect, the folly of a man who gazed too long at the sun. His wishes may have come from a place of well meaning intent, but his actions sowed devastation…”

Lyn and Sithara continued reading until they reached the final quote.

“I failed to create it for my children.”

The moment they read those words, tears spilled freely from their eyes. Their composure shattered. The two siblings clutched the book tighter as their cries broke into the night, raw and unrestrained.

Damon watched in silence.

He didn’t know why he felt unsettled by the sight.

He had planned to read the book himself at some point. He had taken others like it. To him, the suffering of the condemned had been little more than fleeting curiosities, passing pages in his own long march toward death.

Yet watching these two children cry over what remained of their father stirred something faint and unwelcome in his chest.

Lazarak shifted uncomfortably. He had always been kind, and he disliked seeing children cry.

He gestured toward Damon.

Damon exhaled slowly, already understanding.

“Well,” he said quietly, “this is as good a time as any to set up camp.”

They didn’t need one. Damon and Lazarak had traveled for days without rest. They had the strength to endure weeks, even months, of endless walking.

This was a consideration. For the children.

The thought made Lazarak smile faintly.

It didn’t take long for Damon to get a fire going. He didn’t summon a tent. He simply built the fire beneath the open sky. He summoned Matia from his shadow, along with Ghost, posting them silently along the perimeter.

The night sky was bleak, empty of stars. The only light came from the fire before them. Behind them, the river flowed with a soft, constant murmur, its cold presence felt whenever they stepped away from the flames.

Silence followed.

Lazarak remained close to the children, offering quiet reassurances. Eventually, their crying faded into shallow breaths and sniffles.

The silence that followed was heavy.

Damon understood their despair. They had carried so much hope, and now all that remained of their father was a gasping book crying out in endless agony.

He was dead more than he was alive.

They were smart enough to know that. Or at least Damon hoped they were.

Smoke rose from the skewers near the fire. The remains of the crocodile monster crackled softly as it cooked. Its mana core rested within Damon’s shadow storage. He had devoured the rest earlier, hoping for a skill or something useful.

He hadn’t devoured much lately. He actively couldn’t without a physical body.

And besides, he was going to die soon anyway.

What use were skills to a dead man.

The soft crackle of the flames and their dull red glow made Damon sigh.

“What do you intend to do now?”

The question lingered.

For a moment, neither child answered. Sithara’s shoulders trembled faintly when he spoke.

“We… don’t know…”

Damon looked at the way they clutched the book.

“You know your father is dead,” he said quietly. “Holding that book won’t bring him back. You’ll only make him suffer more.”

Lazarak shook his head at Damon, but Damon didn’t soften his words. Not for them.

He knew what being an orphan was like. He knew what it meant to lose everything.

“Whether your father was a good man or not doesn’t matter,” Damon continued. “What matters is that he was good to you.”

Sithara slowly raised her head, her eyes red and swollen.

“You can’t bring back the dead,” Damon said. “But you can live on. Your father lived. You are proof of that. I don’t know what he wanted to achieve, but I do know what he achieved.”

He gestured to them.

“He achieved you.”

He wasn’t sure where the words came from. Perhaps for Iris. Perhaps for Luna or perhaps for himself.

Orphans had the most reason to quit.

But he wouldn’t let them.

It was almost ironic. He was already tapping out himself.

“Lysithara…” Lyn whispered.

The sound froze Damon.

“What.”

Sithara raised her head, lips quivering.

“He wanted to find Lysithara,” she said softly. “A place where knowledge is shared. Where we can strive to reach our full potential. A place of learning, culture, and acceptance. Where we can all be together, regardless of race or gods.”

Damon’s hands trembled slightly, though his expression remained calm.

Lazarak glanced at him. Damon had mentioned Lysithara before. The birthplace of his teacher. Or something like that.

“Did… did he find it,” Damon asked.

Lyn shook his head.

“No. Lysithara isn’t a real place. It was something our father made up. He combined our names. Lyn and Sithara. Lysithara.”

Damon lowered his head.

He didn’t know how to feel.

When he came from, Lysithara had existed. It had fallen, reduced to ancient ruins. He had never known its golden age. Only its corpse.

’Born too late to experience Lysithara. Lived too early to see it exist.’

What a paradox.

Lazarak watched quietly. His intuition as a god stirred. Something about this moment felt important.

Perhaps even historical.

Damon looked up and smiled at the children.

It was a sad smile. A genuine one.

“Our imagination has no limits,” he said softly, “until we try to imagine a new color. The only thing without limits is the number of human desires. We are born with desire, and we die with them.”

He pointed at them.

“Those who do not test their limits will never know their potential. If Lysithara does not exist, then you simply need to create it.”

The children stared at him, hollow expressions slowly shifting.

“How,” Sithara asked quietly. “We’re just children.”

Damon shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said. “That is your legacy. You can give up, and the dream you shared with your father can die. Or you can carve your mark into history. Etch your names where even gods have failed.”

He echoed the same words Valarie Sunwarden had once told him before she died.

“Create something beautiful.”

The siblings looked at each other, their eyes burning as Damon’s image etched itself into their minds.

“Create something beautiful.”