Devourer's Legacy: I Regressed With The Primordial Crest
Chapter 90: The Mind’s Weight (1)

Chapter 90: The Mind’s Weight (1)

Renard felt the spell take hold as soon as he started climbing. Mental attacks. The inscriptions carved into each step were designed to assault the mind, not the body.

He’d been hoping for something physical, but this made sense. A strong mind was the foundation for any mage. You needed a mind capable of handling complex formulas and spells, strong enough to withstand the pressure of immense magical essence. It was a basic requirement, so it wasn’t surprising that the Silent Monastery would test for it.

As Renard climbed, he noticed the changes with each step. The mental pressure increased gradually, like weights being added to his head one by one. By the tenth step, it felt like a small headache. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

But when he looked around, the other children were already struggling. Some had stopped completely, gripping the stone rails with white knuckles. Others moved forward one painful step at a time, their faces twisted with effort.

Renard wondered why they found it so difficult. Maybe it was because he’d lived two lives. Maybe it was the suffering he’d endured. He didn’t realize how much stronger his mind had become compared to other children his age.

For a moment, he considered faking weakness and joining the struggling group. But that would be a waste. If he wanted to meet the Martial King’s daughter—herself considered a prodigy—he couldn’t afford to be average.

Hiding his abilities would be a strategic mistake.

Instead of slowing his pace to match the others, Renard continued climbing at his natural rhythm, letting his true capabilities show.

Around the fiftieth step, everything changed.

The purely mental assault suddenly gained a physical component. Each step now required him to push against what felt like increasingly thick air, as if the atmosphere itself was becoming dense and resistant. His leg muscles began to burn with real effort, and he could feel his heart rate climbing as his body adapted to the new challenge.

Instead of grimacing at this development, Renard actually smiled.

This was exactly what he’d been hoping for.

He began climbing with renewed energy. After weeks of soft living at the orphanage and cramped inactivity in the wagon, his body was finally being challenged again. The burn in his muscles felt good, familiar, like greeting an old friend after a long absence.

His breathing settled into the steady rhythm he’d learned during countless training sessions in his previous life. In, out, in, out—matching the pace of his steps, conserving energy while maintaining momentum.

The first hundred steps had been deceptively easy. The magical pressure was there but subtle, like a gentle weight on his shoulders. The inscriptions glowed faintly as he passed, responding to his presence but not actively fighting him.

By the two hundredth step, however, the entire nature of the trial had transformed.

The mental pressure had multiplied exponentially, evolving from a simple headache into something that felt like iron bands slowly tightening around his skull. Each thought required deliberate effort to maintain, as if the magical assault was trying to scatter his concentration like leaves in a windstorm. The inscriptions now blazed with brilliant light, their patterns seeming to writhe and shift whenever he wasn’t looking directly at them, creating unsettling movements in his peripheral vision.

The physical component had become equally demanding. What had started as mild resistance now felt like climbing through thick mud while carrying a heavy pack. Each step upward required genuine muscular effort, and sweat was beginning to form on his forehead despite the cool mountain air that should have kept him comfortable.

But Renard had faced magical pressure before, during his time with the demon army. He knew the secret wasn’t to fight it but to work with it. You had to let the energy flow through you instead of trying to block it out. The key was acceptance—acknowledging the pressure without resisting it, using its rhythm to guide your movements rather than letting it disrupt them.

By the three hundredth step, he’d found his flow.

His steps became more measured, more deliberate. Each foot placement was precise, each breath timed perfectly. The magical pressure that had seemed so overwhelming at first now felt like part of his own body’s rhythm.

Behind him, he could hear the sounds of other children struggling—gasping breaths, stumbling footsteps, the occasional cry of pain or frustration. Some had already given up, collapsing on the steps or retreating back down to the bottom.

Renard didn’t look back. There was no point. This wasn’t about them.

The pressure continued to build with each level, but he adapted to it. His mind, tempered by memories of a previous life filled with hardship and training, bent without breaking. His body, young but already disciplined, found ways to endure.

At the four hundredth step, the first waves of true exhaustion hit him. His legs felt heavy, his lungs burned, and the magical pressure had become a constant, crushing weight on his thoughts. But he’d felt worse before. Much worse.

He remembered training sessions that lasted from dawn to dusk, combat drills that left him collapsed in the dirt, magical exercises that made his head feel like it might split open. This was difficult, yes, but it wasn’t impossible.

One step. Then another. Then another.

The inscriptions around him pulsed with increasing intensity, their light casting strange shadows on the stone walls. The air itself seemed to thicken, making each breath an effort. But Renard’s pace remained steady, his form controlled.

He wasn’t racing to the top. He wasn’t struggling to survive.

He was simply climbing, one step at a time, with the patient determination of someone who had learned that most obstacles could be overcome through persistence rather than brilliance.

When he finally passed the boy who had been ahead of him—Ian, he thought his name was—Renard didn’t spare him a glance. It wasn’t out of arrogance or cruelty. It was focus. Everything else was just distraction from the task at hand.

The summit was still far above, but Renard could sense it now. The magical pressure seemed to have a pattern and a purpose. It was testing not just strength but adaptability, not just endurance but understanding.

And step by step, breath by breath, Renard was proving he had both.

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