My Living Shadow System Devours To Make Me Stronger Chapter 783 - 784: Sin Of Wrath

Drip drip drip...drip drip

The sounds of dripping echoed through the library. Along with it ca a deep fishy sll of blood that overwheld every sense.

Drip ....drip.

It was a heavy stench that triggered nausea in anyone unfortunate enough to be exposed to the thick scent of fresh blood in such quantities.

"Ahhh" He groaned, the sound echoing in the vast hall.

He was blind in the sense that he could not see anything. It was not darkness. It was nothing. Nothing was a difficult concept to describe. Nothing was deeper than darkness.

Perhaps humans were never ant to define it.

His eyes were gone.

Drip... drip.

Blood fell freely onto the ground around him. His form was covered in deep gashes as if he had been impaled by hundreds of porcupines. Muscles were mangled and flesh torn open. Red ichor flowed as his lifeblood drained away.

Damon had tried preserving as much of his body as possible.

"Hehehehe... I had quite a good rest. Is that all you have?"

It was a strange sight, but torture had never been able to make Damon surrender. Pain only fed the flas of his insanity further. For him, this trial was a battle of attrition.

"Your sin has been punished."

Damon’s eyes were blind, but he still had his shadow perception. It was almost comforting, since this trial had recreated his original body and brought back his familiar senses.

Though he was mangled, he did not want to know what his face looked like or whether he even still had one. It would surely be a bloody ss.

From his perception born of shadows, Damon watched the Archivist writing in his book.

He had an idea.

"I get it now. How you managed to create books made from the living flesh of prisoners. Each of them had to go through this trial and for every sin they were broken down until they were made into books."

The Archivist did not answer. Damon did not mind. He slowly raised his hand with a soft exhalation.

He unleashed a blast of Ashborn flas at the Archivist. The flas spread outward, black as shadows, but they never reached him.

"It is futile to resort to violence here. We must adhere to the rules of the trial."

The Archivist’s tone was flat, revealing nothing. But Damon noticed one word.

"We. So even you are bound to the rules here."

Damon sneered, then laughed as blood dripped from his face.

"Is that all you have? Or are you saving my worst cris?" He paused. His voice grew cold. "Fellow prisoner."

It was a conjecture, based on what Root ore had said. In the trial of self, everyone in Eidolon was a prisoner.

Even the wardens were prisoners in their own way. Damon had not thought about it much because the Mirror Seraph seed so dedicated to its duty and did everything in its power to stop challengers, even when they passed.

But that was because it served Seraph Null, the lesser god who ran this world.

The Archivist did not seem bothered by Damon’s words. He simply glanced up.

"Your thoughts are correct on the matter. However, they will do little to ease your plight. While I may be a prisoner, you are still a greater sinner and must face the trial of your sin."

Damon breathed heavily as the Archivist began to write with his quill.

"What terrible sins. Your unrelenting nature has brought more suffering. Guided by this spiteful nature, you have committed the cri of murder of passion."

Damon raised a brow. Murder of passion. A romantic cri? A womanizing cri? That did not seem right.

The Archivist continued, clearly reading Damon’s thoughts.

"Murder of passion is violence driven by rage. Your wrath has consud many. Your unforgiving nature has killed many innocent people."

"You have committed the sin of wrath."

As he said this, a new image appeared. Damon recognized the mountains and rivers, the familiar adow, the old windmills.

It was his village.

In the vision, an innocent child stood under the sky as a man in dark armor, full of wrath and grievance, sent a sphere of destruction toward the village, condemning them to a fiery death. Their souls were devoured by burning shadows.

The child was young, perhaps seven. He understood nothing of the conflicts around him, nothing about Damon Grey, the stranger who had co to their village.

The child did not understand the grown-up world, the shouting, the argunts. He did not understand anything. But when death ca, he understood fear.

The sins of the father fell upon the child, and the entire village suffered under the wrath of Damon Grey.

"This is your guilt. This is your cage. Murder driven by the passion of the mont could have been forgiven. Look at your hands, Damon the Demon, and tell you are not a demon. Tell you have no innocent blood on your hands. Tell you have not killed in fury."

Damon gritted his teeth. The broken fragnts dug into his bleeding gums.

He did not speak in his defense. He understood what his heart was showing him. He knew the village had innocents, yet he could not let those people live.

"Do what you have to."

"You offer no argunts for your sin of wrath." The Archivist asked the question, but Damon remained silent. His expression was unreadable in his mangled flesh.

"For your punishnt, you will face the furnace of lting mirrors until the flas burn hotter than your wrath."

Damon felt chains tighten around him as the ground opened beneath his feet. The mont he began to fall he felt heat rising to et him. When he finally struck the ground, his feet sank into molten stone. Mirrors surrounded him, each one replaying the monts of his greatest wrath.

Each reflection fanned the flas that burned him.

As white fire consud his body, he raised his head. Smoke seared his wounds and tore at his flesh.