The Primordial Record novel Chapter 1783

Chapter 1783: Breaking A Primordial

Trapped in a body that was a prison, fighting in a realm that hated him slightly less than it hated his opponent, and facing a weapon that was his absolute antithesis. Chaos’s attacks were wild, world-ending, and inefficient. Rowan’s were precise, absolute, and fatal.

Rowan ran along the spine of a mountain range that was trying to crush him. He dodged a rain of stars that burned with the heat of betrayal. He weaved through a forest of grasping limbs that sang songs of madness. He was a paradox himself: the epicenter of a storm of annihilation, yet the calmest, most focused point in the cosmos.

He found a weak point—a vast, pulsing organ that seemed to be regulating the Primordial’s desperate hold on its newly ordered form. It was a heart of chaos, trying to beat in a rhythm. A profound vulnerability.

Rowan did not hesitate as he raised Anathema for a final, decisive thrust, disregarding the shriek of disbelief from the Primordial.

He felt a profound pulse erupt from Primordial Chaos, so powerful that the entirety of Oblivion seemed to grind to a halt, as ephemeral cracks appeared and disappeared. This amount of power released by Chaos even shocked Rowan.

His blade was halted an inch from piercing the heart of Chaos as the landscape around him dissolved not into an attack, but into an image. A memory, rendered in perfect, soul-rending detail.

He stood not on grey ash, but on green grass. The air smelled of woodsmoke and baking bread. Looking down, he could see Andar, Maeve, Diane, Lost, Circe, Vraegar, and Staff. His Angels surrounded them in mortal bodies as they organized a small feast.

The childish laughter of Lost as he was picked up by Staff and tickled cut through the air and into Rowan’s heart like a knife, and smelling a familiar fragrance, he looked to the side to see Eva, who was not the personification of Light, just his Lady of Shadow.

She glanced at him before looking away, a smile in her eyes. There and then, Rowan knew she loved him, not because of his power or beauty, but because she had made the choice. Eva knew that Rowan would not stop for anyone, and so she was quiet, satisfied to be at his side.

In his memories, Rowan did not say anything, and now he also did not; he just looked at her like he had never seen her face before.

It was a perfect illusion. A moment of peace before the storm. A gift and a torment from the master of maybes.

"THIS IS WHAT I TOOK FROM YOU," Chaos’s voice whispered, not as a roar, but as the sighing wind. "I CAN GIVE IT BACK. STOP THIS. TURN BACK. AND I WILL WEAVE A REALITY FOR YOU WHERE NONE OF IT EVER HAPPENED. YOU CAN HAVE THEM BACK. YOU CAN HAVE YOUR PEACE."

Rowan stopped. He looked at Eva’s face, alive with joy. He saw the smoke rising from the fire and smelled the fragrance of mortal food. He felt the pull of it, the deep, ancient ache that had driven him for millennia. It was a perfect trap, crafted from his own deepest desire. One he always thought was lost, but always returned in the end.

He looked at the illusion, and for a moment, the cold mask slipped, not with grief, but with pity.

"You still don’t understand," he said, his voice soft, almost gentle. "This peace you show me... It’s built on a foundation of your chaos. It’s a lie. And a life built on a lie is just a slower form of Oblivion."

He waved his hand, and his mother appeared, Elura. She smiled at him, and Rowan looked directly at her without flinching. "I do not fight for what was lost. I fight so that others may have what I lost. And that requires a world without you and your kind."

The love in his heart did not make him weak. It was the reason for his strength. It was the fuel for the fire that had burned away everything but his purpose.

He saw through the illusion. He saw the pulsing, terrified organ beneath the image of his childhood home.

He did not hesitate.

Anathema plunged down.

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