Devourer's Legacy: I Regressed With The Primordial Crest
Chapter 89: Ian (2)

Chapter 89: Ian (2)

One hour in, Ian’s breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving like a bellows. Sweat soaked through his shirt, and his legs felt like they’d been filled with molten lead. He forced himself onward, muscles screaming in protest with every movement. The pain in his mind had evolved beyond simple pressure—it was an unrelenting storm now, bombarding him with flashes of memories he’d tried to bury, fears he’d never spoken aloud, doubts that whispered poison in his ear.

As he climbed up, the visions became more vivid, more real than the stone beneath his feet. He began to see his mother’s tear-streaked face as she turned away, her shoulders shaking with sobs she tried to muffle. His father’s hands trembling as he counted silver coins, weighing them against the worth of his only son.

And along with that came a voice whispering inside his head, cruel and persistent.

They sold you like cattle. You were worth twenty pieces of silver. Twenty. That’s all your life meant to them.

He clenched his fists until his nails drew blood, driving the thoughts away like smoke. One step at a time. That’s all he could afford to think about now. One step, then another, then another after that.

Two hours in, more than a third of the children had collapsed or turned back, leaving dark stains on the steps where they’d fallen. Some sat rocking in place, their minds too shattered to move forward or back. Others lay sprawled unconscious, their bodies finally claiming the rest their spirits couldn’t give them.

The staircase was silent now except for the occasional moan or sharp intake of breath—the sounds of children learning that the world was far crueler than any bedtime story had prepared them for.

Ian’s hands trembled like autumn leaves, and his vision tunneled until the world narrowed to just the next step... and the next. His foot caught once and he nearly pitched forward, barely catching himself with a gasp that tore at his throat.

Every fiber of his being screamed at him to stop, to give up, to join the broken children behind him and accept that some mountains were too high to climb.

But he didn’t.

And then—

Movement.

Smooth. Efficient. Effortless.

Someone passed him.

Ian’s bleary eyes turned, and at first he thought he was hallucinating from the magical pressure cooking his brain. But no—he knew that face, even through the haze of exhaustion.

Ray.

The quiet boy with midnight-black hair and eyes like polished obsidian. The one who’d barely spoken during their entire journey here, who seemed to exist in his own private world that no one else could enter.

His steps were light and controlled, like this wasn’t a magical trial designed to break the human spirit but a casual morning walk through a garden. There was something almost dancing in the way he moved, each foot placed with perfect precision.

Ian watched, stunned into momentary stillness. Ray’s posture showed no flicker of pain or hesitation. His breathing was steady and deep. His face was calm as a mountain lake at dawn.

’How?’

Something fierce and desperate surged through Ian’s chest.

’No. I won’t be left behind.’

He pushed himself harder, trying to match Ray’s pace, trying to close the distance between them. But as he did, the illusions struck back with renewed vengeance.

You’re nothing

A voice eerily similar to his father’s voice echoed in his mind.

We raised you for fourteen years and you weren’t worth keeping.

You were always too weak

Then it was his mother’s voice.

The visions multiplied, overlapping until Ian couldn’t tell where the staircase ended and his nightmares began. He saw himself as a child, trusting and naive, believing in bedtime stories about heroes and happy endings. He saw his parents’ faces—not as they were in his memories, but twisted with disgust and disappointment.

Worthless. Burden. Mistake.

Ray was pulling further ahead, his form becoming a distant shadow against the endless stone. Ian stumbled, his coordination failing as the magical assault intensified. The world spun around him, reality bending and warping until he couldn’t distinguish up from down.

I have to catch up. I have to—

But the harder he tried to focus on Ray, the stronger the illusions became. They fed on his desperation, his need to prove himself, growing more vivid and cutting with each passing moment.

Twenty silver pieces. That’s all you were worth.

Ian’s vision blurred, his steps becoming erratic. He was losing ground, losing focus, losing himself in the maze of his own broken memories.

And then, through the chaos of his fractured thoughts, a single clear realization struck him.

The pain in his mind was overwhelming because he was fighting it. The illusions were strongest when he tried to resist them, when he struggled against the magical pressure like a drowning man fighting the current.

But there was another kind of pain—immediate, sharp, real.

Without hesitation, Ian slammed his forehead against the stone step in front of him!

The impact sent a shock of pure, clean agony through his skull. Stars exploded behind his eyes and for a moment, the world went white.

But the whispers stopped!

The visions flickered and faded.

The immediate, physical pain cut through the magical assault like a blade through silk, giving him a moment of crystal clarity.

’Pain I choose will be stronger than pain forced upon me.’

Ian lifted his head, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead, and looked up the staircase. Ray was still there, still climbing with that same effortless grace, but now Ian could see him clearly. The illusions had lost their grip.

He slammed his head against the stone again, harder this time. The pain was excruciating, but it was his pain. It belonged to him in a way the magical torment never could.

Again. The sound of skull against stone echoed in the silence.

Each impact drove away the phantom voices, each jolt of agony carved out a space in his mind that the staircase couldn’t touch. Blood ran down his face, staining his shirt, but his thoughts had never been clearer.

If I have to suffer, I will be the one controlling it.

Ian began to climb again, and this time he didn’t stumble. Each step was punctuated by another deliberate strike of his head against stone—not enough to knock himself unconscious, but enough to maintain that sharp, cutting clarity that kept the illusions at bay.

The other children who remained on the staircase stared at him in horror. Here was a boy who had found a way to turn the trial’s own weapon against itself, who had chosen to embrace physical pain rather than be broken by mental torment.

The quiet boy was still ahead, still moving with that same untouchable grace, but now Ian was following a path he could see clearly.

Blood dripped from his forehead onto the stone, marking his passage with crimson drops. His skull throbbed with each heartbeat, but his mind was sharp as a blade.

Ray glanced back once, his obsidian eyes taking in Ian’s bloodied face with something that might have been approval. Or perhaps just acknowledgment.

Then he turned back to his climbing, and Ian followed, step by painful step, into the darkness above.

The staircase stretched endlessly ahead of them, but Ian no longer cared about the distance. He had found his way to endure, his method to survive.

And he would not be left behind again.

---***---