The Primordial Record novel Chapter 1788

Chapter 1788: Eos

When the star reignited, a new pressure arose, different from the crushing weight of the reality-ending presence of Rowan. It was the dense, potent, pregnant pressure of a beginning. It was the feeling inside a star a nanosecond before ignition.

The gathered immortals and pantheons remained prostrate, not in reverence, but in catatonic shock.

His first footstep had not just sent a ripple of power that signaled that Rowan could end all of Reality as he wished, it also left the Arena a fractured, blackened wasteland, scarred by the mere weight of his footfall.

Telmus had expended all his power and battled at the level of the Primordials, but he had only sent cracks across the Arena, and unlike every single life inside Reality, Telmus had not fallen to his knees, but he stood, body shaking, and his mind blank. A light gust of breeze would blow him to the ground, but Rowan was not focused on him.

Rowan took his next steps, and the pressure of a new beginning exploded.

Where His first footfall had cracked and blackened the Arena, His second footfall did the opposite. As His foot—the same foot that had moments ago threatened to shatter creation—settled upon the plain, a wave of pure, white-gold energy erupted from the point of impact. It was not fire, nor was it light as Eva or her father, Primordial Light, understood it. It was Life. Raw, unformed, and screaming with potential.

The wave washed out across the infinite plain of the Arena. Where it touched the blackened, cracked scars of His first step, miracles bloomed. The dead light surged back, not as sterile solidity, but as a living crystal that sang in harmonic frequencies.

Forests of silver trees erupted, their leaves chiming soft melodies. Rivers of liquid starlight began to flow through new-cut channels. The very air, which had been void of anything but primordial concepts, now thrummed with the breath of possibility, smelling of ozone and newborn rain.

Across all realities, the opposite occurred. Stars that had flickered out now roared back to life, not just reigniting, but burning with a new, fierce intensity.

Dying worlds felt their cores recharge; barren moons were suddenly veiled in nascent atmospheres. On countless worlds, in the moment of absolute despair that had followed the universal blackout, life erupted. Deserts bloomed. Sickly children were healed. The spark of sentience flickered in previously mindless creatures.

Reality had been experiencing a surge of regrowth and expansion when Rowan opened the Primordial vortexes and unleashed what remained of Eosah’s essence upon Reality. However, no matter how potent that essence was, it was from a dead Reality, but Rowan was alive, and like Eosah, he was a creator.

He did not release any of his essence into Reality; he did not need to. His presence was enough.

Annihilation and Creation were not two separate powers He wielded. They were the inhale and exhale of the same being. His first step was the ending necessary for the new beginning. His second step was the beginning itself.

He was not just the Killer of Primordials. He was the Ground of All Being. He was Reality itself. And His name was Eos.

The assembled gods remained on their faces, but now their prostration was infused with a new emotion: a bewildered, terrified hope. They had witnessed the end of all things and then its resurrection, all in two footsteps by the same entity.

Rowan—Eos—stood once more in the center of the now-living, and singing Arena. This place, meant for spilling blood, had tasted the radiance of Rowan’s glory, and its essence had transformed. No matter how much power the Primordials poured into this Arena, they were not creators like Rowan, and the final spark that would allow this place to elevate into something else had to come from a being like him.

Rowan’s void-like eyes, which had moments ago promised absolute erasure, now held a different quality. They were still voids, but voids that contained the potential for all constellations, all stories, all loves and hates yet to be written. They were the silent dark before the Big Bang.

He did not look at the Celestials or Demons. He did not glance at the gathered gods or the cosmic leviathans. They were set dressing. Interesting patterns that flickered on the surface of his being, but of no more ultimate consequence than the foam on a wave is to the ocean.

His gaze, slow and tectonic, swept over the only beings in the assembly who constituted something approximating peers. The Primordials. They were not gods; they were the fundamental principles upon which gods themselves were built. And there were five of them here.

Primordial Life, Memory, Demon, Imagination, and pushed out of his hiding place, Primordial Time. There was one more Primordial entity here, the Primordial Beast, but they had hidden their form the moment Rowan arrived. Whatever entity they were expecting to he challenging the Primordials, a being of Rowan’s power had exceeded their wildest dreams.

Rowan did not care for the Primordial Beast. On this day, he was not here for them.

He focused the full weight of His attention upon the Primordials alone. The pressure of his gaze, which had been a general fact of existence, now became a specific, focused force. The Arena fell silent as the very air held its breath.

The voice that spoke was not the glacier-calving boom of the Killer. It was quieter, deeper, the sound of continental plates conversing.

It was a voice not meant for lesser beings to hear, and indeed, the non-Primordial entities in the Arena heard only a vibration that made their souls feel thin and translucent.

But the five Primordials heard Him. And they understood.

"I was dead, killed by Nyxara and your machinations, but I have returned," Rowan intoned, His gaze resting on each of them in turn. "You all know different parts of me, and I know small parts of you, but for us, that is enough."

The Primordials did not respond. Rowan’s voice captivated them like flies trapped in a spider’s web. He slowly brought up his right hand as if he were touching the space between dimensions.

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