Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer-Chapter 110: In the Beginning

The hovel was woven into the strangled roots of a dying Ironwood tree. The old man had introduced himself as Drigurd, the province’s storyteller.

He was a Lvl 120 Scholar. Though now, as he told Percival, his teaching days were far behind him.

His home smelled of the damp earth and drying herbs. It was a scent easy to memorize. A small fire crackled in a stone pit, casting long, dancing shadows against walls made of living bark and hardened mud.

Drigurd sat on a stool carved from a stump, his gnarled hands wrapped around a clay bowl. Steam curled up from the Lowen soup; a thick, crimson broth made from river-moss and spiced venison blood.

It was a dish of the old world, heavy and iron-rich, designed to keep the cold of the frontier from freezing the marrow.

Percival sat across from him on a crate, his obsidian armor drinking in the firelight. He held his own bowl, but he did not eat.

Drigurd thought it was rude, but he did not attempt to confront the summoned Hero—a man he could sense was far more powerful than him.

Percival’s gaze was fixed on the old man’s face, watching the interplay of fire and shadow reveal the duality of his lineage.

He found Drigurd truly intriguing. Rarely do the Elves and Dwarfs mix, they hated each other more than their combined hatred for the humans.

He wondered if this had ever caused trouble for Drigurd in a conservative province such as Hollowcreek.

"You asked about the Gate," the Hybrid murmured. "You asked why it feels like a grave before you even step inside."

He took a slow sip of the soup, his eyes distant, reflecting a time before maps were drawn.

"It goes far beyond that, Hero. To understand what that Gate World is, you must understand the rot that lies beneath the foundation of this entire world. You must understand the lie of the Fall."

The old man set the bowl down. The fire popped, a spark flying into the darkness.

Percival didn’t know how much of the old man’s tale he was willing to believe. Still, it was better to listen and possibly learn something.

Anything to prepare for what awaited in that Demon Gate World.

"Before there was void," the Hybrid began, his tone shifting into the rhythmic cadence of oral history, "before even ’nothing’ had a name, there was Principius."

Percival narrowed brows of intrigue. The name almost vibrated in his chest. It was his first time hearing it.

"Principius was not a god. Gods require definition. Principius was existence without identity. It was the first energy to stir in the everlasting absence. It contained all potential—creation, destruction, order, chaos—yet possessed no desire to become any of them."

The old man’s hands began to move, tracing shapes in the air as if weaving the story from the smoke.

"For eons, it simply was. But existence without reflection is stagnation. To understand itself, Principius divided. From this division came the Six Primordial Energies. The Architects of Reality."

He held up a finger, thick and calloused.

"Order was born first, and it became Azrael, God of Life and Death, for life must end and death must give way to life.

"From Order’s shadow emerged Chaos, and it became Asmodea, Goddess of Creation and Damnation: two irreconcilable forces bound together, birthing endless contradiction.

"From the clash between them arose Conflict, and it became Beltharion, God of War and Conquest, for disagreement is the seed of all struggle.

"From the silence emerged Solitude, and it became Lilithis, Goddess of Time and Secrets, for only through isolation can time flow undisturbed and truth remain hidden.

"From intention and structure came Design, and it became Mothiree, Goddess of Nature and Wisdom, for form requires understanding to endure.

"Last came Emotion, raw and unbound, and it became Azazel, God of Dominion and Desire; the wellspring from which ambition, loyalty, love, and obsession flow."

Percival’s eyes narrowed at the mention of Azazel. The Demon King. But more importantly, he heard a name he’d never heard before.

Asmodea.

Who the hell was that?

Did a goddess like that even exist?

"You said Asmodea," he interjected.

Drigurd smiled knowingly. "Indeed I did."

Percival’s eyes narrowed. "I’ve never heard that name before."

Drigurd still smiled. "Indeed... you have not."

The shadows in the hovel seemed to lengthen.

"In the beginning, there was balance," he continued, seemingly ignoring Percival’s question, perhaps to answer it later. "The gods shaped the foundations: realms, laws, physics."

The old man looked into the fire, his eyes filled with the reflection of ancient flames.

"But then Asmodea, driven by her nature, acted. Asmodea wished to create. She sought after it like a drug. To create spawns. Flawed. Free. Dangerous."

"Against the counsel of her siblings, she forged the first living beings from her own volatile essence. As expected of the first ever creations, these beings were imperfect. Demons."

Percival felt a chill run through his armor.

"They were sinful," the Hybrid continued. "Grotesque. Driven by instinct and unbridled power. They carried sparks of divinity without the restraint to wield it. They tore at the fabric of the newly made world. They twisted reality just to see if it would break. Azrael warned her that creation without balance leads to damnation. Beltharion saw only war. But Asmodea... she saw children."

The old man clenched his fist.

"When the gods moved to erase the mistake, Asmodea moved to protect it. She sought rebellion. She planned to use her chaotic brood to overthrow her siblings and reshape existence into a paradise of unrestrained freedom."

"That," the Hybrid said grimly, "was the moment judgment was passed."

"The Five Gods united. They waged a war that cracked the firmament. In the end, they imprisoned Asmodea and her entire demonic lineage beneath reality itself. They sealed them in a metaphysical tomb beyond the reach of worlds."

He paused for emphasis. "They named this prison Purgatory."

Percival grimaced.

"Chaos was bound. Creation was halted. Damnation was buried."

Drigurd took a shuddering breath and reached for his soup, his hands trembling.

"Shaken by what they had nearly unleashed, the gods turned their attention to creation once more. They admitted that Asmodea’s idea was good, and now that she had begun creation, they could finally use it."

Percival took a deep breath, his face darkened with intense concentration.

"But this time," Drigurd breathed. "They used restraint. First, they created the Dwarves: sturdy, unyielding, like the stone. But they were too rigid. Too flawed. Then, the Elves; they were graceful, harmonious. But we were too perfect. We believed ourselves to be beautiful, glorious and holy. Just like the gods themselves."

He looked at Percival.

"Finally, they found balance in Humans. Flawed. Adaptive. Ambitious. Capable of both great good and terrible evil. After the Humans, they rested. Thus, Evernia was born." 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝒆𝒘𝙚𝓫𝙣𝙤𝒗𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

Silence reigned for a while. Percival said nothing, he only waited for the half-blood to continue. Or finish.

"But the story you know... the story of Azazel’s Fall..." The Hybrid shook his head slowly. "It is an ancient lie told to protect your sanity."

Percival finally spoke. "The texts say Azazel fell because of greed. He wanted to rule mortals."

"False," the Hybrid spat. "Azazel fell because of loyalty."

The word hung hauntingly.

"Loyalty?" Percival repeated.

"Emotion remembers what logic discards, Hero. Azazel, like other gods, is guided by his own nature. He is driven by Emotion. He could not accept the eternal imprisonment of Asmodea."

"Regardless of whether she was right or not, she was his sister. He believed it was wrong to imprison her. And so, he rebelled against his siblings and descended not to rule you, but to break the seal of Purgatory. He descended to free the Oldmother."

Percival sat back, his mind reeling. If what this man was saying was true, the Demon King wasn’t a conqueror like the world believed.

He was a kid who missed his elder sister. Some kind of liberator.

"I have more," Drigurd said with a grin.

Percival gazed at him. He couldn’t back away now. The old man was yet to arrive at how any of this had to do with the Demon Gate World out in the forest.

"Azazel’s descent fractured one of the seals," the Hybrid whispered. "Just a hairline crack. But it was enough. A single Demon escaped. That Demon corrupted the animals of this world, and created children, a new kind of evil. The horrors you fight today. The Demonspawns."

"To prevent total annihilation, the remaining gods made their final, desperate decision. They embedded a framework into the mortal world. A game-like structure. Classes. Skills. Levels."

The Hybrid pointed a shaking finger at Percival’s chest.

"The System is not a gift, Necromancer. It is a Weapon. Awakening binds your soul to divine echoes, granting you power while chaining your growth to their rules.

"You might know this already but Gate Worlds are not random dungeons. They are stories written from god’s essence, with beasts that are created merely to be killed for the harvest of the awakened mortals."

"Beneath the earth, it said that Asmodea waits; she listens to the heartbeat of the world. She remembers the betrayal. She dreams of her return."

The silence in the hovel was deafening. Percival could hear the wind howling outside, sounding like the screams of the damned.

How could this be the lore of an ordinary game-like world?

"But," Drigurd said, "you asked about the Gate."

He looked up, his eyes filled with dark knowledge.

"Did you hear of the news, Hero? The report from Dranarg, in the Dwarf Kingdom? A pillar of light that pierced the sky?"

Percival shook his head. "I didn’t."

"Green," the hybrid hissed. "Green is the color of rot. The color of venom. But in the ancient tongue, Green is the color of the Oldmother. And the light from Dranarg... it was green. Pure, evil emerald green."

The old man leaned in, his face illuminated by the fire.

"I told you Gate Worlds are manifestations of the living gods: Stories formed by their being. If this Gate World is here... and it has Demons—Asmodea’s children—within it, then..."

He swallowed hard.

"That means the light in Dranarg wasn’t just an anomaly. Dranarg is the oldest city. Which means it was the only land for Asmodea to be buried."

Percival’s brows creased with a troubling thought. "You’re saying..."

"It is likely that the Oldmother has escaped," Drigurd declared. "She has been freed from Purgatory."

Percival’s eyes widened. The creator of Demons? Out in the world?

That spelled disaster. In capital letters.

His mind couldn’t begin to fathom how horrible this could be... if it were true.

Was it... true?

He gazed at Drigurd for a moment before asking. "If she has escaped... then why hasn’t she begun the conquest? Where is she now?"

The hybrid stared into the dark corners of the hovel, as though avoiding Percival’s fearful eyes

"That, my dear Hero" the old elf whispered, terror choking his words, "is the haunting question."

"Because if a Goddess of Chaos is walking the earth... and the world hasn’t ended yet..."

His eyes returned to Percival, hollow.

"...then she is waiting for something. Or... she is looking for something."