Resurrection of the Primordial Demon

Chapter 6: The World Above the Clouds

The remnants of the teleportation magic slammed into Lyra’s chest, leaving behind a nauseating pulse beneath her ribs. Her lungs were forced to draw in air that was too thin, too clean, and too sharp—as though the oxygen in Aethelgard’s middle region had been designed to reject those from the lower castes. She coughed, dropping to her knees upon white marble that felt cold as ice.

Before her stretched an endless sea of white clouds, separating the magnificent upper civilization from the rotten, damp exile zones below. To Lyra, the sunlight here did not feel warm; it felt like judgment. She stared at her rough, trembling hands, feeling like a black stain upon a sacred canvas.

Zephyros stepped out of the fading energy circle without the slightest sway. His worn robe fluttered in the wind, standing in stark contrast to the bridges of light connecting the floating islands around them. His abyssal eyes did not gaze upon the beauty with admiration, but with carefully concealed disgust. He saw infrastructure built atop the corpse of his own civilization.

“Once, this place was a workshop where artisans forged the foundations of the world,” Zephyros’s voice sounded flat, yet carried a resonance that made the hairs on Lyra’s neck rise. “Now, they have turned it into a kennel for guard dogs that think themselves holy.”

Lyra struggled to stand, her eyes fixed on the crystal towers in the distance radiating golden light. “Cloud Tower Post,” she whispered hoarsely. “If we step onto that bridge, the detection crystals will dissect our souls. They’ll know I... I carry darkness. They’ll execute me before I can even breathe again.”

Zephyros turned around, looking at the terrified little girl. He offered no hollow comfort. The man simply raised his hand. His fingertips emitted no magic—he twisted reality itself. The air around them hummed softly as primordial essence was violently drawn from the atmosphere.

“Do not move, or this essence will tear your skin apart,” Zephyros ordered.

His touch against Lyra’s forehead felt like an icy needle that melted into fire. Lyra choked as she felt something foreign crawling beneath her skin, coating every strand of her energy with a painful shell of artificial light. It was not merely a disguise; it was a cage falsifying her very identity.

“I wrapped your existence in a layer of pure essence,” Zephyros said as he lowered his hand, as though he had done something trivial. “To their cheap tools, you are now nothing more than a boring middle-caste citizen. Stop trembling, or your anxiety will betray the disguise faster than any sensor.”

Lyra swallowed hard, clutching her racing chest. In her world, falsifying a soul’s identity was a legend that existed only in bedtime stories. Yet in this man’s hands, the laws of nature felt like clay to be shaped at will.

They walked toward the gate, crossing bridges of light humming beneath their feet. The line before the city entrance was a parade of arrogance—carriages pulled by silver-winged beasts and nobles dressed in glittering silk. At the end of the queue stood two guards in absurdly polished white armor, holding crystal staffs that served as judges for all who wished to pass.

When their turn arrived, one of the guards sneered at Zephyros’s worn robe. He lazily pointed his crystal staff toward them in a gesture dripping with contempt. “What hole did you crawl out of?”

“Just wanderers seeking fortune in Silver City,” Zephyros replied. His voice was low, yet carried such authority that the guard unconsciously straightened his back.

The crystal atop the staff lit up. Not merely with ordinary white radiance, but with an explosion of pure light so stable that the guard gasped and stumbled back. It was an energy frequency possessed only by those who spent their lives within the deepest essence temples. The guard swallowed nervously, his arrogance collapsing into nauseating stammering.

“F-forgive me, sir. I did not realize... please, go ahead. May Elara’s light bless your journey,” the guard said, bowing so low he nearly touched the ground.

Zephyros walked through the gate without sparing him a glance. Inside the city, marble polished to perfection reflected the light of skies that never dimmed. The smell of baked bread and expensive perfume filled the air, an aroma utterly foreign to Lyra’s nose, which was accustomed only to earth and rust.

Lyra’s stomach let out an embarrassingly loud protest. She immediately lowered her head, cheeks burning red. Zephyros stopped before an inn that looked far too luxurious for people like them. “We need strength. And you need to stop behaving like a starving animal,” he said without turning around.

Inside the inn, Zephyros placed his hand upon a polished oak table. He did not reach for a pouch. He simply stared at the dust particles dancing beneath the window’s light. With a single flick of will, the dust condensed, crystallized, and transformed into a chunk of pure glowing blue essence.

The servant who had been about to throw them out froze instantly. That crystal was worth more than the yearly wages of the entire staff. “T-that... pure essence? Right away, sir! Our finest dishes will arrive immediately!”

“You worship light, yet use it as currency,” Zephyros murmured as the servant rushed away. His eyes shifted toward the massive golden statue of Elara dominating the city square. “How ironic. They worship a thief who steals their own future.”

Outside, the shrill voice of a priest echoed through magical amplifiers, praising Elara for sealing away the “Primordial Devil.” Zephyros listened to every insult with an expression so flat it became terrifying. There was no anger in his eyes, only endless emptiness.

“They hate you without even knowing who you truly are,” Lyra whispered, her chest suddenly heavy at the sight of Zephyros standing so alien within the world he himself had created.

“Lies are comfortable foundations upon which to build a kingdom, Lyra,” Zephyros replied. “But foundations built on sand collapse when the tide arrives. Elara does not merely rule; she feeds upon this world’s core like a parasite. Aethelgard is dying beneath the false brilliance they call enlightenment.”

After eating and replacing their ragged clothes with more respectable robes, they returned to the streets. Lyra now wore a simple blue dress that made her look like a respectable lower-caste daughter, while Zephyros wore a heavy black robe concealing the rigid outline of his body.

A commotion erupted in a side alley. Two academy students in arrogant uniforms surrounded an old man sprawled upon the ground. One of the youths stomped upon the old vendor’s fruit basket, crushing red apples until their juice splattered across his expensive shoes.

“Low-caste trash should know their place!” the young man shouted while preparing a sphere of light in his palm.

Lyra clenched her fists, nearly stepping forward before the cold pressure of Zephyros’s hand upon her shoulder stopped her. “Do not waste your existence on meaningless anger,” Zephyros whispered.

Yet Zephyros did not allow it to continue. His eyes narrowed slightly. He did not cast a spell. He merely nullified the law of gravity beneath the youths’ feet for a fraction of a second. Their balance vanished instantly; they crashed face-first into the hard marble. The sphere of light exploded in its owner’s hand, scorching the edges of their expensive robes.

Amid the confusion and humiliated screams of the youths, Zephyros and Lyra walked past them without a word.

“Why help him if it meant nothing?” Lyra asked after they had moved away.

“I did not help him,” Zephyros replied coldly. “I simply dislike seeing the laws of nature polluted by defective magical techniques.”

They arrived at the aerial train station. The enormous crystal-fueled machine hummed atop its magical rails, ready to cut through the clouds toward the heart of the Goddess of Light’s power. Inside the quiet carriage, Zephyros stared at his reflection in the fogged window.

“Lyra,” he called. This time his voice was not as cold as usual, but far heavier. “Starting tomorrow, I will tear apart everything you think you know about this world. I will teach you how to hear the true heartbeat of essence.”

Lyra looked at him, fear and hope battling within her eyes. “Primordial magic?”

“Not magic. Magic is a cheap trick for those afraid of reality,” Zephyros turned, staring directly into Lyra’s soul. “I will teach you how to become part of the universe’s will. Your blood carries that burden, and it is time you stop running from it.”

The train shot forward, leaving the glittering Cloud Tower Post behind. Ahead of them awaited Silver City with all its bloody magnificence, while behind them, sleeping history was beginning to open its furious eyes.