My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger

Damon nodded, a gentle smile on his face as he glanced at Sylvia, who nodded back in turn.

The strange voice echoing from the rotten corpse urged them with a plea soaked in desperation—"Free me…"

"Sure, why not…" Damon smiled faintly. "Just give us a minute…"

He began to back away slowly, the others instinctively following his lead as they inched toward the door.

Valarie's voice suddenly echoed, eerie and almost childlike in tone.

"Ahhh, you guys are going to the door… wait—wait! It's not what you think…"

Damon sneered as his hand reached the door's surface.

"Do we look stupid to you? No one seals something with magical chains without a reason."

Valarie gasped in disbelief. "Wait! I didn't mean free me from the chains—I was talking about freeing what's left of me… from the rot… wait—wait…"

Damon didn't even pause. He began pushing the great door close.

"I'll teach you runecraft! I'll… I'll show you the path! Please—don't leave me here…"

The doors shut. Her voice echoed one last time, distant, drowned in grief.

"Please… don't leave me… to the rot. I just… I just can't hold on anymore…"

A shadow lingered on the floor beside her, unmoving—then shifted. Outside the door, Damon, who had just left his shadow behind, sighed and stepped back inside.

Sylvia walked in behind him, her expression unreadable. At the very least, they needed to confirm her sincerity.

"You… you came back…"

Damon looked at her—or what remained of her. A rotting, malformed corpse bound in hundreds of glimmering chains, her presence steeped in sorrow.

"Don't act smart with me. You help us, we help you. That's all."

Valarie paused. Her voice was calm this time. Too calm.

"Very well. I am agreeable. However… you must honor your word. My condition is simple. I promise to show you to a waypoint—or a teleportation gate. In return, you will fulfill one term."

Damon nodded. They were also desperate—but they couldn't afford to show it.

"What are your conditions?"

The others waited in tense silence, letting Damon speak on their behalf.

Valarie's voice was somber.

"Take what's left of me. Bury it in the cemetery of Dawnbreak Hollow… or in the heart of Lysithara, where my comrades rest. Those of them who were lucky enough… to find rest."

Damon scoffed, a mocking expression twisting his features.

"As if we'd be so dumb. I have a better proposition—you act as our guide while we're here. You teach us runecraft. You will hide nothing. When we find a way out, then we'll bury you. Take it or leave it."

Valarie was quiet for a long moment.

"You won't even let a dead woman rest… have I not suffered enough?" Her voice lowered to a whisper.

"Very well, then. You have a deal. I will honor my word. I swear it upon the Six Ascendants of Lysithara. I, Valarie, will keep my promise. However, should I fade before completing this promise… you will bury me—or at least take me to the heart of the city."

Damon nodded. He had to be thorough. No tricks.

"One more thing… I want you to answer my questions with only 'yes' or 'no.'"

He glanced at Sylvia, who already had her Journey Book ready—it had truth-detection ability as long as Sylvia was willing to risk it.

Valarie didn't hesitate. "I have no reason to lie to children… but very well, then."

Damon met Sylvia's gaze to ensure she was ready.

"Do you plan to do us harm?"

"No."

Sylvia nodded.

"Do you have any intention of betraying us?"

"No."

"Are you using any form of self-suggestion or mind techniques to avoid telling the truth?"

"No."

Damon continued to ask more questions—methodical, calculated. He left no gaps, no room for vague intentions. In the end, he confirmed it: Valarie had no combat ability left. No hidden powers. Just lingering sorrow.

Evangeline stepped forward, her voice gentle.

"How do we free you?"

Valarie released a long, unnatural sigh.

"You don't. My body is already gone… at least most of it. Just take the part untouched by rot."

Damon frowned, his tone skeptical.

"And which part would that be?"

Valarie's voice almost sounded… amused.

"Isn't that obvious? How else have I been talking to you? My mouth, obviously…"

Damon blinked, confused, his eyes reluctantly scanning the corpse—eyes he'd purposefully avoided using to examine her grotesque form. But then he saw it—clear as day.

Beautiful lips. Untouched. Immaculate. Resting atop the rot as though placed by a sculptor's hand.

"Well… what are you waiting for? Use something to move me off this rot…"

The lips spoke. They moved independently from the corpse. The mouth of Valarie continued to speak even though it was clearly disconnected from anything living.

They all stared at each other, speechless at the sight.

After weeks in the Death Zone, they had grown somewhat accustomed to strange things—but this… this was new.

"So…" Leona finally broke the silence. "Who's gonna touch that?"

Damon turned to Xander with a deadpan stare.

"It's obvious, isn't it? The person with the longest weapon. Good thing you brought a spear, aye Xander?"

Xander's eyes widened, pointing at himself. "Me?! What about you?!"

A dry chuckle echoed from Valarie's lips.

"Hahaha… you children are so amusing. Don't fret—if my malformed corpse bothers you, then burn it. Use the lamps. Set the body ablaze. Burn the roots of that wretch, Ythar, along with it."

She paused—waiting. Almost expectant.

"My lips still retain a lingering effect from when I wore the armor of Duskglass. It grants resistance to rot…"

Damon's eyes narrowed. Understanding clicked into place.

The Ascendants' armors… that must be it. They granted resistance—maybe even immunity—to rot. That would explain why the six champions of Lysithara survived and fought the rot.

But then the question clawed at his mind.

Why did Valarie fall? How did she lose her armor? How did she become this hideous parody of life—dead, yet still lingering?

While Damon pondered the nature of the armors, Evangeline reached up. Without hesitation, she plucked one of the ghostly flames from the wall and tossed it onto Valarie's corpse.

The blue-green fire ignited instantly, spreading like a phantom tide. It burned away the roots and flesh entwined in rot.

A ghastly screech erupted, shaking the walls—the rot screamed as if it felt the pain.

The flames surged… then faded. Only ash remained.

And from the smoldering pile… a single pair of feminine lips remained.

The lips smiled.

"I rejoice… to hear your miserable scream, vile outsider…"

Then the lips stretched slightly, as if looking at them all.

"Well… shall we depart, my young successors?"

Damon glanced sideways at Leona.

"Erm… I'm not touching that. Who's carrying… her… it… I mean, the lips?"

He looked at their faces. Every one of them averted their eyes. Leona even whistled awkwardly.

Damon bit his lip.

He was the party leader.

He had no choice.

This wasn't what he signed up for—but then again, nothing in Lysithara ever was.'