Devourer's Legacy: I Regressed With The Primordial Crest-Chapter 43: He is Back! (1)

The Ceremony Master took a step back, his eyes wide with disbelief.

All around the chamber, gasps echoed like ripples in a still lake. Whispers broke out. Tension spiked and confusion swelled.

And high above, even the Patriarch frowned—his piercing gaze narrowing as he observed the unfolding chaos.

No one understood what was happening.

No one, except Renard. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

[You have awakened the Blood Crest – Wild Heart (Royal)]

"...What?" Renard muttered, eyes locked on the glowing message before him. He slowly looked down at his blood-soaked hand, his mind spinning.

'This doesn't make sense...'

He already had a Blood Crest inherited from the Devourer's Legacy-so it didn't make sense to awaken another crest. It was unheard of.

And even if he awakened a crest, it should have been Legendary rank during this stage.

So how—how could he awaken another?

And why was it already in Royal rank?

None of it made sense. But one thing became immediately, terrifyingly clear.

This was not good.

"Arghh!"

Pain exploded in his chest, a sharp stabbing agony that stole the breath from his lungs. He clutched at his heart and collapsed to his knees.

His veins bulged grotesquely beneath his skin—no, all the nerves in his body were bulging, pulsing with uncontrollable force.

But Renard knew.

He understood exactly what was happening.

In his past life, he hadn't become a Sovereign through strength alone. Understanding the body, the flow of essence, the chaos of crest interactions—these were the lessons carved into his bones through bitter experience.

And right now—

The two Blood Crests were rampaging inside him.

The one he had inherited from the Devourer—Eternal Hunger—was clashing violently with his own newly awakened crest, Wild Heart.

'No... No, this is bad. This is really bad...!'

He hadn't planned for this.

Hell, he didn't even think it was possible!

'I have to do something'

His mind was starting to unravel from the sheer force of the backlash.

—Cough!

More blood erupted from his mouth, splashing violently onto the Genesis Pillar.

Gasps turned to panic.

"This... something's not right!" the old Ceremony Master finally spoke, his voice tight with alarm.

"Healers! Quickly, to the spire!"

The audience chamber descended into chaos. Nobles, patricians, and servants alike stirred in disarray as a group of healers sprinted toward Renard.

—Cough!

Again, more blood.

And then—

"ARRRHHHHHHH!"

A bone-chilling roar of pain tore from Renard's throat as his body arched in agony. He clutched his chest with all his might, fingers digging in as if to rip the pain out with his own hands.

By the time the healers reached him, his body was writhing uncontrollably.

They cast spells frantically—cleansing circles, pain suppression glyphs, even soul harmonization charms.

Renard's body glowed under the barrage of healing essence.

But when the light faded—

He was still screaming.

Still burning from the inside, as the two crests continued to rip each other apart inside his core.

His essence paths felt like they were aflame.

No—melting.

The old master, watching all this with mounting dread, suddenly shivered.

His hand rose to his neck, clutching at the strange eye-shaped tattoo etched into his skin.

And for the first time in living memory—he screamed.

"Bring the young master to the spire! NOW!"

The entire hall fell silent in shock.

Never before had they heard the old man raise his voice—much less refer to anyone with respect.

All eyes snapped to him.

"W-What...?"

"The master said 'young master'...?"

But there was no time for questions.

"HURRY UP, YOU FOOLS!" he roared again, veins bulging in his neck.

The urgency in his voice shattered the hesitation. Guards and attendants scrambled forward, gathering around Renard's convulsing form.

The old master's expression shifted—from confusion to sudden, terrified clarity.

Without hesitation, he threw off the ceremonial robe draped around his shoulders, revealing a wrinkled, tattoo-covered torso. Strange symbols pulsing faintly, spread across his skin like an ancient map etched in ink and time.

The healers moved fast, carrying Renard closer to the Genesis Spire. By now, Renard's consciousness had already faded. He clutched his chest in agony, letting out broken howls of pain.

The old master stepped forward, grasped Renard's hands, and forcefully pressed them against the Spire.

And then—

It happened.

The entire spire erupted in light.

It began as a pure white glow—then shifted to green, then blue, orange, and then red. The lights surged in succession, faster and faster—each more radiant than the last—until the final glow burst forth in a brilliant golden blaze.

Then—

Golden flames rose from the Spire itself, coiling upward like divine fire.

From within the flames, the shape of a majestic beast formed—so awe-inspiring that even the most stoic of onlookers rose to their feet.

A creature with fur purer than snow, eyes serene as the sea, and its entire body wreathed in golden fire. A crown blazed atop its head, unmistakable.

A Royal Crest.

"The Holy Wolf!"

A cry of disbelief tore through the hall.

Murmurs rippled through the audience. Stunned faces turned to each other. Some fell to their knees. Others simply stood in stunned reverence.

The Holy Wolf—one of the two sacred beasts worshipped by the House of Grim. It was a crest born perhaps once in a generation, if that.

Even the Patriarch's eyes glimmered—though with an emotion none could decipher. Beside him, his companion—the white tiger—let out a low, uneasy growl.

Then—

It changed.

The Spire, still glowing gold, suddenly flickered.

And then...It turned black.

"Oh, dear Lord of Beasts...!"

The ceremony master stumbled back, nearly falling as if realizing something that shouldn't be possible is happening.

The golden flames vanished—devoured by darkness.

A second image began to form—this time not of light, but of shadow.

A titanic silhouette emerged, so vast, so undefined, that it seemed to spill out of the spire itself.

Its shape was unknowable, shifting. Tentative glances caught only innumerable eyes, each one gleaming like a soul-bound mirror, peering straight through reality and into the core of the onlookers.

"What... is that?!"

—SHHRIEEEK!

The shadow entity shrieked, an otherworldly cry that tore through the minds of everyone present.

It turned its many gazes toward the crowned Holy Wolf—and without hesitation, lunged.

—HOWL!

The wolf responded, unleashing a majestic howl that shook the hall itself. The two mythic forms collided, golden flame against abyssal shadow, in a clash that defied logic.

***

Far away, deep beneath the Umbra Household, within the Heavenly Archives...

In the deepest chamber of that forbidden place, a slab of ancient stone—long dormant, long sealed—suddenly lit up.

But the light it emitted wasn't illuminating.

It was devouring.

The slab consumed the light around it like a void. The temperature dropped and the Essence itself seemed to cower.

A woman stood before it—slim, robed, and radiant. Her long silver hair swayed as she clutched a tome glowing faintly in her arms. Her eyes widened in horror as she gazed at the slab.

"He is back..."

Lucia —the living grimoire known only as The BookLover at this time—shivered.

Her voice was but a whisper, yet it trembled with the weight of a prophecy long buried.

"The Devourer... is back."

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