The Primordial Record novel Chapter 1780

Chapter 1780: The Great Push

Primordial Chaos had focused all of his boundless, chaotic power on the tiny, ordered thing.

It was an overreaction of cosmic proportions. It was the universe screaming to erase a single, incorrect decimal point. He did not merely strike it; he poured into it the full, screaming weight of everything he was—all the random chance, the infinite probability, the unbridled potential for change.

Rowan thought it was like trying to extinguish a candle by throwing the sun at it. The Primordials had great weaknesses, but you needed to be strong enough to exploit them.

He did not feel pity or exhilarated at what he was about to accomplish, only a dull sense of satisfaction that was flavored by grief... if only he had been strong enough at the beginning, so much loss and sorrow would have been avoided.

The Centipede of Certainty was designed for this. Its entire existence, its unbreakable law, was predicated on this single moment: Be destroyed by Primordial Chaos.

The moment Chaos’s power touched it, the concept of its death was realized. The law was fulfilled. And in that fulfillment, the concept executed its final, devastating function.

The energy Chaos expended was not absorbed, nor reflected. It was consumed by the certainty of the outcome. The infinite, chaotic power had no possibility but to be used for the one thing that was absolutely certain: the Centipede’s destruction.

In doing so, the energy itself was forced to become orderly. It was channeled, focused, and transformed from a wave of random destruction into a single, coherent, and inevitable result.

The backlash was not one of power, but of existence itself, targeting the core of Chaos’s being, and this resulted in a shockwave that would have destroyed the entirety of the Underverse if the Archai had not been strengthening it.

Primordial Chaos, the embodiment of "maybe," had been forced to participate in a sequence of absolute "must." His chaotic essence had been momentarily forced into a rigid, causal chain with a predetermined conclusion.

For the first time in all eternity, something had happened to him that was not random. It was fated. It was certain.

The effect was catastrophic to his being. His form, a storm of possibilities, shuddered and convulsed. The nascent stars in his essence winked out, not in explosions, but in silent, mathematical corrections. The lightning of chance froze into static, predictable patterns. The billion eyes glazed over with the film of inevitability.

He was stunned, not in the sense of being dazed, but in the sense of being defined. For a nanosecond, an aeon in Primordial time, the concept of Chaos was contradicted.

The infinite dice he constantly rolled all came up snake eyes at once. The discordant symphony of his existence hit a single, sustained, perfect note.

The roar of a billion probabilities died in his throat. The chains of entropy that bound him to the Gate of Oblivion flickered, their chaotic energy momentarily subdued by the wave of absolute order that had just passed through their master. The storm of his form grew still, coalescing into a temporary, almost solid shape of shock and confusion.

"Wha...?" The concept was a feeble sputter, a single, unadorned question mark in the void.

It was the opening. The only opening that would ever exist.

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The Incarnation of Rowan did not hesitate. He had not blinked during the entire exchange. His every atom, his every thought, had been focused on this precise moment. The moment of absolute, paradoxical stillness in the heart of the storm.

His main body tweaked the Incarnation, the same way he had done to the centipede, giving this body a single law and purpose before pulling back.

The Incarnation fully accepted this change, and at the moment Primordial Chaos became stunned, he moved.

He did not run or fly. He applied force. Not against Chaos, for that would still be useless, the mass of a Primordial when viewed in a lower-dimensional sense, such as force or weight, could be considered infinite.

What Rowan did was to apply force against the concept of Chaos’s position.

Multiple Origins whose focus was on severance pulsed out of the Incarnation, and the entire Underverse seemed to flash as if a bolt of heavenly lightning had crossed its expanse.

These laws of severance cut the possibility of Chaos remaining anchored. It severed the "maybe" of him recovering his wits. It imposed a new certainty to replace the one that had just faded: the certainty of movement.

Rowan’s Incarnation planted his feet on a solid fragment of a long-dead concept and pushed. He put the weight of his will, the memory of the slain Primordial Soul, and the silent screams of a thousand annihilated realities into the motion.

His hands did not touch the chaotic form. They pushed against the space that contained it, against the probability field that defined its existence. It was like pushing against the idea of a mountain.

For a moment, nothing happened. The innate resistance of a Primordial was immense, even in a state of stupefaction.

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