NOVPUB
Chapter 44 - He is back! (2)
Silence.
For a heartbeat, for a breath, for a moment in time stretched beyond comprehension—no one moved. The golden inferno wreathed around the Genesis Spire, blazing higher than any had ever seen. It illuminated the ancient chamber with divine fire, casting long shadows of fear.
And within the shadow was a form that none wanted to look at!
The Holy Wolf stared down at it from its perch atop the spire. Ethereal, majestic, impossibly regal, while the form in the shadows seemed to smirk at it.
Its howl—silent, yet deafening in presence—reverberated through the soul.
The Ceremony Master fell to his knees.
"So it begins," he whispered, more to the pillars of fate than the people around him.
"He is back!"
***
The white tiger, a beast that had been raised by the Patriarch since he was child, the strong monster, whose strength itself was unknown, growled and roared at the appearance of the two forms.
It wasn't exactly a roar of anger, rather it was a roar that seemed to be coming from fear, which made the Patriarch bewildered!
But there was no time for such thoughts.
For the first time since the ceremony began, Zephyr Grim stood up and extended his hands.
Essence burst forth like the ocean and the whole of the Audein chamber was covered in his essence.
It was at that moment the people once again realized the power of the man who led House Grim.
The two energies which were rampaging on the genesis pillar were both suppressed with his energy in an instant and silence once again descended into the chamber.
Everyone's attention turned to Zephyr.
His hands, normally clasped in cold control, were now outstretched on the arms of his obsidian chair, as if bracing himself for what he was witnessing.
He stared, unblinking.
At the boy who was writhing in agony!
***
Renard did not see the reactions.
He did not hear the gasps, nor the awe, nor the roar of the white tiger. He was somewhere deeper.
Somewhere else.
His consciousness had been torn from his physical form and cast into an abyss that defied comprehension. The pain began as a sharp lance through his skull, as if someone had driven molten iron directly into his brain. But that was merely the beginning.
The agony multiplied, fracturing into a thousand different torments. His nerves screamed as invisible flames licked at his essence. Every fiber of his being felt stretched to the breaking point, pulled in directions that shouldn't exist. It was as if his very soul was being unraveled thread by thread, each strand snapping with excruciating precision.
His mind spiraled—plunged through a tempest not of wind and rain, but of flame and blood and thunder. He was suspended in a vast mental void, yet it pulsed with unbearable intensity. And within that void, two titanic forces clashed.
The Eternal Hunger manifested, creeping into his awareness like ice in his veins. It was a cold abyss, endless and consuming, more terrifying than any physical death. The hunger didn't simply gnaw at flesh—it devoured meaning itself, emotion, identity, hope. It was the embodiment of void—of needing, of starving, of craving complete obliteration.
The hunger whispered to him in a voice like winter wind.
Why struggle? Why endure? Let go. Let me take the pain away. Let me take everything away.
His fingers began to numb. His heartbeat slowed. For a terrifying moment, he almost welcomed the emptiness.
Then the Wild Heart erupted.
The white wolf blazed into existence, and Renard's world became fire and fury. Every nerve screamed as primal instincts flooded his consciousness. The urge to hunt, to kill, to run until his lungs burst—it crashed over him like a tidal wave of molten need. no𝚟𝚙u𝚋.c𝚘m
His bones stretched. His muscles bulged. Claws tried to tear through his fingertips while his jaw ached from teeth that wanted to become fangs. The wolf wanted to mark territory, to howl, to abandon every trace of humanity for pure, savage freedom.
Caught between obliteration and chaos, Renard's scream tore from his throat—part human sob, part bestial roar.
The two forces pulled at him like he was rope in a tug-of-war. His ribs felt ready to crack. His mind fractured as human thoughts scattered before animal instincts, only to be swept away by the hunger's numbing void.
And caught between these two impossible forces, Renard screamed.
The sound that tore from his throat was no longer entirely human—part howl, part sob, part raw agony given voice. His body convulsed as the opposing energies pulled at him from within. Every muscle locked in spasm, every nerve ending on fire.
He was dying and becoming something inhuman all at once.
It was then, as his sanity frayed to its last threads, that a voice whispered from the darkness.
Child of Misfortune, You are not meant to exist.
The voice was something ancient, serpent-like, coiled through shadow and speaking with the authority of cosmic law. Each word struck him like a physical blow, carrying the weight of absolute judgment. It wasn't merely a threat—it was a pronouncement of universal truth, as if existence itself was rejecting him.
Terror flooded through him. He knew, somehow, that to respond would mean true death—not just of body, but of ever having existed at all.
But just as he felt himself beginning to accept that judgment, another voice rose—louder, thunderous and resolute, blazing with such intensity that he had to cover his eyes even in this realm of pure consciousness.
A soul marked by the divine flames. You are not meant to die.
It was the white Wolf, and somehow Renard could understand its howl as clearly as human speech.
Renard didn't know how he was understanding the wolf's howl or how he heard those words with such clarity, and even if he knew, there was nothing he could do. Torn between those two powers, each pulling him in directions that would destroy him, all he could do was endure and stare at them with eyes streaming tears of liquid fire.
Renard staggered beneath it all. He was no longer the boy he'd been—somewhere in the torment, his body had changed. His hands were scarred and callused, his frame tall and hardened. The feared Beast Sovereign stared back at him from his own reflection.
"Is this a ....dream?" he whispered through bloodied lips.
But before he could grasp any answers, something new descended.
Light!
Not from within, but from above—soft as a candle, then growing stronger. It was neither warm nor cold, but perfect balance itself.
For the first time, the rampaging Blood Crests recoiled.
The Eternal Hunger stilled, uncertain. The Whit wolf paused mid-lunge.
In that moment of impossible peace, Renard found he could breathe again.
---***---
