Resurrection of the Primordial Demon

Chapter 5: The Roots of the World

The three silver-armored bodies lay sprawled like expensive scraps across the suffocating dust of the Ruined Village. The light from their chest plates—once worshiped as the blessing of Goddess Elara—was now dimming, dying, after Zephyros twisted the gravity around them until their bones nearly shattered. Silence ruled once more, leaving only the roar of damp wind from the edge of the clouds.

Lyra stood frozen. Her lungs still struggled to pull in oxygen that seemed to freeze in her throat. Her wide eyes remained fixed on the three Light Enforcers—elites normally capable of flattening an entire village with a wave of their hands—now reduced to helpless piles of flesh before the man who had just awakened from an ancient grave. No spell had been shouted. No complex magic circle had appeared. Zephyros merely willed it, and the universe obeyed.

Zephyros crouched beside one of the soldiers. His pale fingers moved slowly over the man’s forehead. A thin strand of silver mist, like cold cigarette smoke, curled out from the soldier’s pores and slithered into Zephyros’s palm.

“Y-you’re going to kill them?” Lyra’s voice trembled, breaking through the night air. “If Silver City finds out they died here, they’ll send the entire legion. We won’t have anywhere left to hide.”

Zephyros did not answer immediately. He stared at the silver mist in his hand with an unreadable expression—a mixture of contempt and boredom. “Death is mercy too expensive for her followers,” his voice was heavy, echoing softly as though rising from the bottom of an abyss. “I merely took fragments of their memories. The last hour of their lives is now empty. When they awaken, they will only feel exhausted, as though they’ve just woken from a forgotten nightmare.”

He stood and flicked his hand, scattering the mist into particles of light that dissolved into the air. His gaze shifted to Lyra, piercing directly into the deepest point of the girl’s fear. “Gather your things. We leave now.”

Lyra did not argue. She rushed into the ruined building, grabbing her worn backpack containing rock-hard stale bread and a dull dagger. That was all she owned. In a world that had forgotten humanity, she needed very little to survive, but tonight, she needed courage far greater than the instinct to find food.

They left the village without a sound. The thick mist beneath the clouds swallowed their figures, hiding their footprints on the ground scented with rusted metal and stale rainwater. The farther they walked, the more the flat, lifeless landscape gave way to steep cliffs that seemed to challenge the heavens themselves.

Far beneath their feet, the Ether Ocean growled softly. It was not water, but a flow of chaotic raw energy where reality itself shattered into fragments. And high above, the floating islands of Aethelgard glowed arrogantly beneath the artificial sunlight Elara claimed as her own.

“How are we supposed to get up there?” Lyra whispered, staring at the paths of flying ships in the distance. “Only the chosen are allowed access to Silver City. To them, we’re... trash.”

One corner of Zephyros’s lips lifted into a cold, almost invisible smile. “They built civilization on rooftops, Lyra. But they forgot that no structure can stand without foundations rooted in the earth.”

He pointed toward the wall of a massive cliff before them. There, enormous petrified roots wrapped around the stone like gigantic veins. They were roots from the Sylphira Crystal Forest far above, piercing all the way through the floating island’s underside. Between them, dim blue crystals pulsed weakly as though breathing.

“Elara calls the energy you possess darkness, a stain,” Zephyros said as he continued walking, his steps light as though gravity held no authority over him. “It is the greatest lie in history. The Light she created is blind tyranny. What she calls darkness is merely the world’s quiet side—passive energy that preserves balance so the universe does not burn itself apart through greed.”

Lyra lowered her head, staring at her own hands. “But my blood... my blood awakened you. They said I was cursed.”

Zephyros stopped. He turned around, allowing the crushing pressure of his aura to soften slightly. “Your blood is the key because your ancestors were Guardians of Balance. They were my disciples before history was rewritten by the victors. You are not a curse, Lyra. You are the anomaly Elara fears most.”

The explanation struck Lyra harder than an Ether storm. For years she had believed herself to be trash, yet before the Primordial Devil, she was the heir to something far older than any god. She took a deep breath, straightened her back, and nodded.

They entered a hollow between the giant roots. The air inside felt different—warm, sweet, and filled with the hum of pure energy. Yet the calm shattered when a low growl made the hairs on Lyra’s neck stand on end.

From the darkness crawled an Ether Beast. Its body was a grotesque fusion of obsidian stone and charred wooden tendrils. Its eyes burned red, overflowing with unbearable pain. Black smoke poured from its fang-filled mouth.

Lyra drew her dull dagger, her legs trembling. “An Ether Beast... they’re mindless monsters!”

Zephyros instead stepped forward unarmed. He showed no intention to kill, only a strange pity. “It is not mad. It is merely clogged.”

As the creature leaped to attack, Zephyros simply snapped his fingers. No magical explosion erupted. Instead, a wave of silence swept through the chamber. Instantly, the black smoke vanished from the creature’s body. The red light in its eyes dimmed, replaced by calm, clear blue.

The beast that had been feral moments ago landed softly, lowering its head before Zephyros’s feet and emitting a rumbling sound like a giant cat. Zephyros stroked the creature’s stone head briefly before it darted back into the darkness, finally freed from its pain.

“Elara’s magic forces nature into submission, and it tortures them,” Zephyros murmured. “I merely restored the flow of its energy.”

They arrived at a circular stone platform in the center of the hollow. Six enormous pillars covered in ancient carvings stood tall, buried beneath thousands of years of moss. Zephyros placed his hand upon the stone floor, and instantly, the entire place trembled.

The resonance rose from the depths of the earth, a low sound that made bones ache yet strangely soothed the soul. One by one, the carvings upon the pillars glowed bright blue, shedding the dust and moss that concealed them. A single pillar of light shot straight upward, piercing through the stone ceiling as though matter itself did not exist.

“This is the gateway to the heart of Aethelgard,” Zephyros extended his hand toward Lyra. “Once we enter, there is no turning back. We will emerge in the wolves’ den.”

Lyra looked at the hand, then at the pillar of light leading toward Silver City—the place she had only ever seen as a cold glow in the sky. She took Zephyros’s hand, her grip firm and unwavering.

“This world has rotted for long enough,” Lyra said firmly. “Let’s take it back.”

Zephyros did not smile, but a spark of satisfaction flashed within his eyes. He poured pure essence beneath their feet, and in an instant, gravity vanished. Their bodies shot upward, piercing through layers of earth and clouds with a speed that tore through reality itself. The creator had returned, and he had not come to negotiate.