Devourer's Legacy: I Regressed With The Primordial Crest-Chapter 46: Death Supreme

"Commander Renard."

The voice reached him like a whisper on the wind—soft, yet imbued with a commanding presence he couldn't quite understand.

He turned toward the sound and found himself standing on a distant hilltop, the world spread out before him like a living map.

Below, a massive battle raged across a sprawling plain. The clash of steel against steel rang through the air, punctuated by the roars of charging warriors and the screams of the dying. ƒrēenovelkiss.com

Humans and demons crashed into each other in waves of violence, their banners streaming in the smoky air. Blood and bile streamed through the battlefield, dying the land red.

Yet despite the chaos unfolding below, Renard felt strangely calm. He watched the carnage with detached interest, as if observing pieces moving across a game board rather than witnessing actual death and destruction.

"The Umbra's walls are not strong enough to stop our advancement," came that same voice from beside him. "It seems like the battle will end early."

He turned to see a woman standing at his side, though he hadn't noticed her approach. She was draped entirely in black robes that seemed to absorb the light around them, and in her grip was a massive staff with a human skill attached, that pulsed with dark energy. Her face remained hidden beneath her hood, but something about her presence could be felt powerful.

"The seventh army and the sixth army are attacking together," Renard replied, his voice carrying a confidence that surprised himself. "This is an obvious result."

The words came naturally, as if he'd had this conversation a thousand times before. Part of him wondered when he'd learned military strategy, when he'd started thinking of human lives as mere numbers on a battlefield. But the thought slipped away as quickly as it had come.

"You speak as if victory is assured," the woman said, a hint of amusement in her tone. "We haven't encountered any of the eight heroes yet. Even with overwhelming numbers, battles can still surprise us."

She said contradicting her own statement a few moments ago.

In response, Renard gestured toward the melee below, where thousands of undead supporting the demon forces were steadily pushing through the human defenses. "Even if our army falls, we have you here—the Death Supreme. What's there to worry about?"

The title rolled off his tongue easily, though he wasn't sure where it had come from. Death Supreme. It felt right, somehow. Natural for the figure that stood in front of him.

The woman was silent for a long moment, watching as a section of the human battle line collapsed under the assault of her legion. When she spoke again, her voice carried a weight that made Renard's chest tighten.

"Tell me, Renard—do you ever wonder what separates us from them?" She nodded toward the battlefield below. "What makes a human life worth less than a demon's? Or a demon's worth less than a human's?"

The question caught him off guard.

Renard frowned, not expecting it, but he didn't answer rashly either, instead he considered it carefully.

"Power," he said finally. "The strong survive, and the weak perish. That's the natural order."

"Is it?" Her staff clicked against the rocky ground as she shifted her weight. "Or is that simply what we tell ourselves to sleep at night?"

Renard flinched at her words as the memories that felt both distant and painful surfaced.

He didn't even want to be reminded about the past.

"The strong make the rules," he said, his voice harder now. "They take what they want and destroy what they can't use. I've seen it happen and I've lived it."

The woman turned slightly toward him, though her face remained hidden. "And what did that teach you?"

"That mercy is a luxury only the powerful can afford." The words tasted bitter in his mouth. "That trusting humans leads to betrayal. That the only way to survive is to become stronger than everyone else."

"Even if it means becoming the very thing you once hated?"

The question hit him like a physical blow. Renard's hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he let go a second later - pointing fingers at the distant walls.

"They made me this way. The seven families, with their politics and their greed. They slaughtered my family like animals and then acted like it was just business. If I've become a monster, it's because they turned me into one."

"You say that and yet," the woman said softly, "here you stand, commanding armies and deciding the fates of thousands. How different are you from them now?"

Renard wanted to argue, to explain that his cause was different, that his reasons were justified. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, he watched the battle below and tried to ignore the uncomfortable truth in her question.

"Sometimes I wonder," the woman continued, beginning to walk slowly along the ridge, "if hatred is just another form of chains. We think it makes us strong, but perhaps it only traps us in patterns we can't escape."

"Easy words from someone who hasn't lost everything," Renard replied, following her.

"Haven't I?" There was something sad in her voice now, something that made his chest ache in a way he couldn't explain. "Loss comes in many forms, Renard. Some scars are visible, others run deeper than flesh."

They walked in silence for a while, the sounds of battle fading behind them. The woman's robes whispered against the ground with each step, and Renard found himself studying her, trying to catch a glimpse of the face hidden beneath her hood.

"Do you know what I see when I look at you?" she asked suddenly.

"A Monster?" Renard answered without hesitation. "Someone who butcher his enemies without hesitation? I don't care how the world see me."

The woman just smiled at his response.

"No, I just see a boy who's forgotten how to hope."

The words struck Renard harder than any physical blow could have. He stopped walking, his throat tight. "Hope is for people who haven't learned better. It is a terrible thing."

"Is it?"

She had stopped as well and was slowly turning to face him. Her hand reached up toward her hood, fingers delicate despite the power she wielded.

"I hope," she said softly, "that there comes a day when I can see you have hope and smile."

The hood fell away, revealing her face.

Renard's breath caught in his throat. Half of her face was severely burned, the skin twisted and scarred in ways that spoke of unimaginable pain. The damage was extensive, disfiguring, the kind of injury that would make most people turn away in horror or pity.

But Renard couldn't look away. Despite the scars—or perhaps because of them—she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her remaining eye held depths of compassion and strength that made his heart race. The scars didn't diminish her beauty, they spoke of her hardships, of battles fought and endured, of a spirit that refused to break.

"You...!" he started to say, reaching toward her instinctively.

But even as he spoke, the world began to blur around the edges. The hilltop started to fade, her face becoming less distinct. The sounds of battle grew distant and hollow.

"Remember," her voice echoed as everything dissolved into mist. "Remember what it feels like to hope."

The last thing he saw was her scarred but beautiful face, etched with an expression of infinite sadness and love, before darkness claimed him entirely.

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