Devourer's Legacy: I Regressed With The Primordial Crest-Chapter 33: Idiot? Me? (1)

Children were forbidden from using essence until the Awakening Ceremony.

While essence was a source of immense power, it was equally dangerous. Even the slightest mistake could lead to energy deviation, crippling a person for life. Moreover, a child's body simply lacked the strength to withstand the force of raw essence.

Renard, however, had no concern for such restrictions—nor did he have any respect for the main family's so-called rules.

But he wasn't a fool.

Drawing too much attention to himself before he was strong enough would only invite trouble.

That was the reason why he hadn't advanced to the essence realm even though he had the capability to break through.

Thwack.

Renard's brow furrowed as he swung the wooden practice sword, frowning at the lack of weight in his grip.

'It's too light.'

Compared to the long swords he was used to wielding, this was laughable. His body had grown far stronger in the past two months—so much so that the practice sword felt almost weightless in his hands.

He was accustomed to swinging weapons that could crush bones with a single strike, yet now, he felt nothing but air.

But that was fine.

Because what he lost in sheer power, he gained in speed.

With a lighter weapon, his agility skyrocketed.

And with the addition of Beast Mimicry, his movements became even sharper—more precise.

For the past two months, Renard had never skipped training, not even for a day.

He hadn't been given a second chance just to waste it.

But oddly enough, revenge or redemption wasn't the true reason he pushed himself so hard.

Renard had always been like this.

Even in his past life, he never allowed himself the luxury of idleness. He had always been chasing strength, shaping his mind to resist laziness.

Even as a Demon Army Commander, leading an entire force against the continent, he had never once stopped training unless it was absolutely unavoidable.

And yet—

"That bastard still called me weak."

A flicker of anger sparked in his golden eyes.

He hadn't thought about it in a long time, but now, a memory surfaced—one of the newspapers he had once read.

One name stood out in that article.

Klean Weaver.

That disgusting bastard.

The only man who had dared to call the Beast Sovereign weak.

Even now, the mere thought of it sent a sharp flare of rage through Renard's body.

But with that rage... came realization.

The Wild Heart Arts, the technique he had developed in his past life, had always pushed his body to its limits. Back then, he had often suffered from the strain of using it excessively.

But now?

Now, his young body was recovering at an astonishing rate.

His muscles adapted to the Wild Heart Art better than he had ever imagined.

Each swing felt sharper. Each movement, smoother.

It was as if his body had already swung the sword hundreds of times, yet he was barely sweating.

That realization made him frown because he couldn't put the strain he wanted on his body with this light sword.

'This won't do.'

Renard turned his gaze to Lyla, who had been silently watching him from the sidelines.

"Don't you have any wooden swords that are heavier than this?" he asked. "Something bigger would be better as well."

Lyla stared at him for a long moment—two full seconds—before responding.

"...The ones in the eastern training hall are all similar," she admitted, tilting her head slightly. "But there might be a few in storage at the inner training hall..."

The training ground was an open space, exposed to the harsh glare of the midday sun.

The heat bore down relentlessly, and Lyla, clearly unaccustomed to such conditions, was already drenched in sweat.

Yet the boy standing before her—Renard Grim, heir to Tiara Castle—remained unbothered.

She had heard rumors about him.

They said he had survived multiple assassination attempts.

Some whispered that he was protected by a powerful guardian. Others claimed it was sheer luck.

Regardless of the truth, one thing was certain—he was alive.

And that alone was impressive.

Among the Grim heirs, he wasn't considered the most notable or gifted. But he also wasn't someone whom she could ignore.

Even if her assignment as his personal attendant was only temporary, Lyla understood her role, she had to follow him until the ceremony ended.

Still, she couldn't help but feel uneasy.

"Can you get some here?"

Lyla blinked.

He didn't want just one—he wanted multiple?

But that wasn't what concerned her most.

"That... I'm not sure if I can borrow them, young master," she admitted hesitantly. "But I can surely ask for permission."

Renard shook his head, his expression showing clear reluctance.

"If that's the case, then don't bother."

Lyla's eyes widened slightly.

He... wasn't going to insist?

Most noble heirs would have demanded she get it—whether she had permission or not.

But instead, Renard turned on his heel, casually swinging his arms, and headed toward the inner training grounds.

Lyla immediately rushed after him.

"Young master, if you need anything, please instruct me instead."

Renard didn't slow down.

"If it were anything else, then maybe. But if I'm going to use it to train, then I need to pick it myself."

He glanced at her.

"What would be the point in sending you if I don't know if it suits me? Should I waste both of our time making you go back and forth? Instead, if I fetch it myself, it'll be over in a snap."

Lyla opened her mouth to protest but closed it immediately.

She couldn't argue with that logic.

And so, she silently followed as Renard stepped into the inner training ground's warehouse.

***

The warehouse had clearly not been maintained in some time.

A thick layer of dust coated everything, disturbed only by the slight breeze that sent particles swirling in the air.

Lyla swallowed, feeling a cold sweat trickle down her back.

She had actually wanted to clean this place before.

Foll𝑜w current novℯls on ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm.

But when she had suggested it, the maid in charge of the inner training ground had rebuked her, claiming it was unnecessary.

So, it had been left as it was.

"M-my apologies," she stammered, bowing her head.

Renard barely spared her a glance.

"What for?"

He didn't care about the dust or her apology.

Instead, he walked further into the warehouse, searching.

And soon enough—

He found what he was looking for.

In a corner, half-buried under old equipment, lay a set of sandbags—designed to be worn on the body for weight training.

Renard picked one up, testing its weight in his hands.

'Decent.'

Then, his gaze landed on something else.

A chainmail vest, thick and sturdy—but neglected. The metal links were dull, covered in a thin layer of grime, clearly not maintained properly.

It was also too big for his frame.

But when he draped it over his shoulders, a small smirk tugged at his lips.

It was heavy.

And that was exactly what he wanted.

Finally, Renard turned to a long wooden sword, nearly matching his own height.

The moment he lifted it, his grip tightened.

Yes.

This would do.

---***---