Devourer's Legacy: I Regressed With The Primordial Crest
Chapter 61: Who the hell is this Old man (2)

Chapter 61: Who the hell is this Old man (2)

"You’re looking for Old Man Hobb?"

It was a few weeks ago when Zain was going around all of Ashrend, trying to find someone based on a rough sketch.

A child who had offered him some water recognized the image in his hand and led him toward the person he was searching for.

What he saw made his stomach turn.

A pale old man with a thin, wasted body sat slumped against a wall, reeking of cheap alcohol. His clothes were filthy rags, and he looked like he hadn’t bathed in months. The man was living in some rundown shack that looked like it had been abandoned years ago.

For a moment, Zain was taken aback. He wondered if what he was seeing could really be the same person he was looking for.

But looking at the long, matted beard and the prominent scar that ran across his forehead, he could only convince himself that this was indeed the right man.

He looked at the name written down by Renard- Sir Hobbren Corvalis.

Zain hesitated for a moment before deciding to go through with it. He slowly approached and gently shook the man who seemed only days away from death if his drinking continued.

"Sir Hobbren! Sir Hobbren!"

The old man was completely out of it. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, and he barely seemed to register Zain’s presence. He mumbled something incoherent and tried to wave Zain away with a shaky hand.

Cursing his fate and wondering what kind of situation young master Renard had gotten him into, Zain decided to use the words Renard had told him to say if the old man refused to cooperate.

"Sir Hobbren, I am here by the orders of Young Master Renard Grim. He has told me to relay this message if I ever found you."

The old man barely seemed to register what Zain was saying. His bloodshot eyes remained unfocused, and he continued mumbling incoherently to himself while clutching an empty bottle.

Zain cleared his throat and pressed on.

"Sir Hobbren, your daughter is still alive—"

He wasn’t even finished speaking when the effect hit like lightning.

The old man, who had seemed completely out of his mind just seconds before, suddenly went dead still. His bloodshot eyes snapped into sharp focus, and a deadly look filled them—like a wolf that had caught a scent.

Before Zain could even blink, the old man’s hand shot out. In one smooth move, he drew the sword from Zain’s own sheath and pointed it right at his throat.

"You...! What do you know about my daughter?!"

Zain was completely screwed.

Here he was, thinking he was pretty strong these days—peak of Essence Zone, new techniques, almost twice as powerful as before meeting Renard. And this drunk old man had just made him look like a complete amateur.

’Young master,’ Zain thought desperately, ’what the hell did you get me into?’

"I... uh... I don’t know the details," Zain managed to say, trying not to move his throat too much against the blade. "That’s all the young master told me. You have to meet him personally to know more."

The old man’s eyes went wide and wild. His hand shook, but not from weakness—from barely controlled rage.

"Don’t you dare play with me, boy." His voice was rough like gravel. "I’ve killed men for less."

"I’m not lying! I swear!" Zain’s voice cracked a little. ’Oh great, now I sound like a kid.’

The blade pressed closer. "My daughter... she’s really...?"

"That’s what he said!" Zain squeaked. ’Squeaked! I’m a grown man and I just squeaked!’

Hobbren stared at him for what felt like forever. His eyes searched Zain’s face like he was trying to read his soul.

"If you’re lying," the old man whispered, "I’ll gut you slow. I’ll make it hurt. More so that you could ever imagine. You understand me?"

Zain nodded so fast he thought his head might fall off. "Completely understand. Crystal clear. No lies here."

The old man finally pulled the sword back, but kept it in his hand. "Who did you sent you?"

"Young Master Renard from House Grim," Zain said quickly, rubbing his throat. "He’s at the awakening ceremony right now. You’d have to come back to Draemir territory with me if you want to meet him."

Hobbren went quiet for a moment. Then his face twisted with something between hope and pain.

"Draemir territory," he muttered. "That’s... that’s far."

"Not that far," Zain said, then immediately regretted opening his mouth when those dangerous eyes focused on him again.

"How do I know this isn’t some trick?"

Zain threw up his hands. "Look, do I look like someone who’d come up with a cruel joke? I’m just a messenger! I don’t even know what this is about!"

The old man studied him again. "You’re scared of me."

"Well, yeah! You just held a sword to my throat!"

"Good. Fear keeps people honest." Hobbren stood up slowly, his joints creaking. "We leave now."

"Now? Like, right now?"

"Did I stutter, boy?"

"No, sir. Right now it is." Zain looked around the shack. "Do you need to pack anything?"

Hobbren followed his gaze. Empty bottles, moldy bread, a blanket that might have been white once upon a time.

"....."

His silence was enough of an answer.

"Uh..."

Zain just turned back walking out but then the old man spoke once again.

"My daughter..." Hobbren’s voice went soft suddenly. "She really might be alive, right?"

The hope in his voice was so raw that Zain felt bad for him. "That’s what Young Master Renard said. And I know that he is not a man who would lie."

"You better pray that it isn’t."

Hobbren said and walked toward the door, still carrying Zain’s sword.

"Um, sir? My sword?"

The old man looked down at it like he’d forgotten he was holding it. "Oh. Right." He tossed it back to Zain handle-first.

Zain caught it and quickly put it back in his sheath. "Thank you."

"Don’t thank me yet, boy. If this turns out to be lies, you’ll be the first person who would die by that sword."

"...."

Zain was moments away from bursting into tears. As they stepped out of the shack, he muttered under his breath, "Young master, you better know what you’re doing, because I’m pretty sure that man could kill me with a spoon."

He tossed a silver coin to the boy who had led them to the old man.

Even as they prepared to leave, Zain kept stealing glances back. The transformation had been unreal—from a broken drunk to someone with the reflexes and killing intent of a seasoned warrior. Whatever had happened to his daughter had shattered him completely.

But now, with just the hope that she might still be alive, a spark had returned to his eyes.

Zain only hoped Renard knew what he was doing—because whoever that old man was, he was far more dangerous than he looked.

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