Devourer's Legacy: I Regressed With The Primordial Crest-Chapter 40: The Main House of Beast Tamers (2)

With that solemn announcement, the towering doors of the audience chamber creaked open.

Light poured into the hall, blinding for a moment. And before a silhouette could even be seen—steps echoed.

-Step.

-Step.

Slow, measured steps that should have gone unnoticed in such a vast space resounded like thunder, precisely because of the utter silence that had fallen over the chamber.

As the light dimmed and eyes adjusted, they saw him—the source of that sound.

The man who ruled one of the Eight Great Houses.

The man known as a one-man army.

The man before whom even the Seven Patricians seemed diminished— Zephyr Grim, Patriarch of House of Beast masters, had entered the chamber.

And with him came a wave of sheer pressure—a weight that dropped like a mountain upon every living being in the room.

All at once, the air turned heavy.

Breaths shortened. Spines straightened. Sweat beaded on brows.

Fear—raw and unfiltered—spread through the chamber like wildfire.

'Keuk! Here he comes... The Ruler of Beasts!'

A title said to be reserved only for the Lord and rightful successor of the Grim bloodline. A title that struck terror into the hearts of both humans and beasts.

'Incredible...'

Renard clenched his fists.

'Without lifting a finger, he commands the world to kneel.'

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Behind Zephyr strode a beast that made even the hardiest warriors falter—

A white tiger, nearly six feet tall at the shoulder, its fur marked by deep black stripes that shimmered faintly like runes. It moved with silent menace, each step a quiet reminder that the Grim Patriarch was not alone... and never needed to be.

"All hail the Lord Grim!"

From the high dais, even the Seven Patricians—regal, arrogant, draped in power—knelt.

Below, the nobles and scions of lesser bloodlines followed without hesitation.

-Thump.

Renard could hear his own heartbeat.

That was how still the chamber had become.

Zephyr walked with the poise of a man who bore kingdoms beneath his feet. He said nothing as he ascended the platform and seated himself atop the Obsidian Throne, gilded in veins of blood-crimson ore.

His cloak, like a dying sun, unfurled behind him—falling across the steps like folded wings.

The white tiger walked ahead and lowered itself at the foot of the throne. Zephyr raised a single hand and rested it on the beast's head, gently patting it like one would a house cat.

Only then did the chamber stir. The patricians and nobles finally stood.

"Let's begin," Zephyr said—his voice calm, yet filled with force.

With a flick of his fingers, a blast of light surged from the center of the chamber. Rising from the floor came the Pillar of Genesis—a towering monolith of darkstone etched in ancient runes and the insignias of beasts. It shimmered with a power older than the estate itself.

From both sides of the hall, robed attendants appeared in synchronized motion, each holding a tray containing thumb-sized vials filled with luminous blue liquid.

It was the Essence of Providence.

The catalyst for awakening.

No more words were spoken. None were needed.

The Awakening Ceremony had begun.

"First, Lyric Grim."

***

A blue-haired boy stood on trembling legs, then stepped down from the platform and hurried toward the spire. His eyes were focused, but his entire body trembled under the weight of expectation and nervousness.

As he reached the base of the Pillar of Genesis, an old man in ceremonial robes stepped forward. With a curt nod, he signaled to an attendant, who brought forth a silver tray bearing several small vials filled with glowing blue liquid.

"Take one and consume it in a single breath," the old man said, his voice cold. "Do not spill it. Do not waste a drop. That vial is more valuable than your life."

The boy flinched, already at the edge of tears. Still, he nodded, reaching out with both hands shaking—to take one vial as carefully as if it were glass about to shatter. For a moment, it looked like he would drop it from sheer nervousness, but somehow, he held firm.

With a deep breath, he opened the lid—and drank.

His face turned pale the moment the liquid touched his tongue.

Everyone had been warned in advance.

The Essence of Providence tastes like hell.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

The essence was no simple potion. It was a catalyst—a volatile key that shattered the barriers of body and soul to awaken the dormant power within.

And shatter it did.

"Arghhhhhh!!!"

The boy collapsed to his knees, screaming, hands clawing at his chest. His eyes went bloodshot. His back arched unnaturally as the essence rampaged through him, tearing at every nerve, every cell.

No one moved to help.

This was the price of awakening.

A full minute passed before the screams faded. The boy, now drenched in sweat and panting heavily, slowly forced himself back to his feet—barely standing.

The Ceremony Master, who had watched silently the entire time, finally gave a nod.

"Place your palm upon the Genesis Pillar," he intoned.

With staggering steps, the boy approached and laid his trembling hand against the dark monolith.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then—light.

A soft, green glow erupted from the pillar, blooming like vines in spring. Leaves, spectral and translucent, twisted upward around the boy's arm as a crest began to form.

The Mark of the Emerald Fang.

A brief murmur went through the hall.

The green color indicated that it was an uncommon crest—better than average, but far from exceptional.

There was no applause. Not a smile. Not even acknowledgment.

Even the boy's hopeful expression began to dim.

"Just uncommon?"

"Emerald Fang, huh? Looks like a body-enhancement type crest. He might make a decent meat shield."

"A Grim born with only that? Tch."

The whispers weren't even hushed. Nobles, youths, and elders alike spoke as though the boy were already forgotten.

Was an uncommon crest bad? Not at all.

But for a descendant of House Grim to awaken anything less than rare was... shameful.

The boy was escorted out quietly—his small back hunched, not just from fatigue, but from the crushing weight of ruined expectations.

In the blink of an eye, all his dreams had been discarded.

Forgotten.

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