The Primordial Record novel Chapter 1789

Chapter 1789: Beyond Origin

The colossal fury of the Rowan’s speech still vibrated in the cosmic firmament, a tremor of pure intent aimed at the hearts of the five beings who had orchestrated his ruin. His focus was a singularity of vengeance, drawing all light and hope into its crushing grip.

But for a single, fractured moment—a nanosecond stretched across a billion years by his own nature—the gaze of one of his targets flickered.

It was Xyris, the Silent, Primordial Time. Unlike the other Primordials who were filled with rage and fear, Xyris gaze could not leave his left arm that was painted with the blood of Primordial Soul.

In his eyes was a profound, ancient weariness, a sorrow so deep it was less an emotion and more a fundamental law of a broken universe. It was not fear of the impending battle. It was the echo of an older, deeper cataclysm, a regret that predated this specific hatred.

Rowan saw weakness, and in that flicker, he pierced through the Origin of Time with his consciousness. He could feel the defenses of Primordial Time rising up to shatter the probe of his consciousness, but it was already too late.

Before now, Rowan already had a sizable stake inside the Origin of Time but he had kept his hand silent, but now, he erupted with all the brilliance of a supernova and tore a core Truth from the consciousness of Primordial Time.

Doing this was sacrificing his position inside the Origin of Time, but Rowan believed it was worth it, he saw no need to hide who he was any longer.

All of this happened in the barest fraction of a moment, and the roar of rage arose from Primordial Time from the intense violation of Rowan’s consciousness probing into the core of his being, but it was too late, Rowan had already gotten what he wanted.

The roar of Primordial Time ceased as if Rowan had squeezed his throat, but the violation went beyond such physical constraints. The sorrow of Primordial Time was a window for Rowan, and he did not hold back.

In an instant Rowan was in full control of the Origin of Time, and he squeezed, causing a shockwave of Time’s Origin to erupt throughout Reality, linking to all the Wills of Time that had been spread all of it by the shattered body of Primordial Time.

All of Reality, even the Primordials were frozen in place. They could not have expected that Rowan was able to reach into the Origin of Primordial Time to attack them.

Rowan had seen the memories of the past. He had seen how the body of Time was shattered and his Origin suppressed. With the small window of opportunity before him, a consummate warrior and killer like Rowan would take advantage of it.

"I told you all to prepare, but the eons of your ceaseless consumption have made you all weak. You have forgotten what it means to battle for your life."

The Primordials would be able to break from this prison of time in a short period, barely the blink of an eye, but for Rowan, this gave him all the time in the world to attack.

Primordial Time was frozen in shock, he watched Rowan charged towards them, and he could not stop it, not quickly enough.

To add insult to injury, he could feel the consciousness of Rowan dragging him into his memories, to one of the most painful events of his life, and his roar of indignation was covered by the pull of the past.

The present, with its roaring promises of retribution, dissolved. The seething energy around Rowan’s form stilled. His terrible figure charging towards them blurred into faint outlines, like mountains seen through a dense, temporal fog.

Primordial Time was pulled down, not into unconsciousness, but into memory.

It was a ocean he had sworn never to swim in again, for its waters were made of lost joys and the acid of betrayal. Yet, he was drowning in it now.

The scent of the present—ozone and void-dust and spilled divinity—was replaced by the aroma of dying stars and the quiet, breathless potential that exists only at the end of all things. The roar of his own power became a profound, echoing silence and he was there again. At the edge.

’No, not here... Rowan stop this... Ahhh... Stop it!!!!"

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They stood on the cliff of solidified void, Soul and Time. Behind them, stretching into an infinity that was finally, blessedly finite, was the carrion-carcass of a reality, Eosah. It was a glorious, terrible corpse.

Dimensions, like spilled diamonds on black velvet, were darkening, her stellar hearts cooling into frigid iron. The last songs of a trillion, trillion nascent vitalities were fading into a permanent, featureless hum—the background radiation of a closed book.

This was their purpose, their rhythm, as natural as breathing for mortals. They had killed many Realities like this, yet Eosah had not been killed easily. For a long time the Primordials had starved, and when they gained access to the heart of Eosah, they had luxuriated in her screams. Now her body was cooling, the life fading from her as they sucked out her marrow.

They had chosen to witness this passing not in their vast, terrifying primordial forms—the forms that could encompass the corpse-reality and still have space left over—but as mortals. It was a habit, a game, a comfort. To experience the infinite through the limiting, exquisite lens of the finite.

He was a man, tall and seemingly carved from old, weathered stone. His hair was the color of a twilight sky, and if one looked too closely, they might see the faint, slow dance of galaxies within its depths. His eyes were not a color a mortal could name; they were the deep, patient brown of rich soil that holds the fossils of eons, yet they flickered with the impossible, rapid-fire silver of quantum foam.

He wore simple, dark clothes that seemed to drink the faint light, and his hands, resting at his sides, were strong and capable, the hands of a clockmaker or a gravedigger. This was Time, condensed. Not the river itself, but the bank from which one could watch it flow.

She was a woman, and to call her beautiful was to call a supernova bright—a pathetic understatement that missed the entire point. Her hair was a cascade of living nebula, strands of violet, cobalt, and magenta that swirled with their own inner light, capturing the very essence of creation’s artistry.

Her eyes were the true marvel. They were the color of a perfect event horizon, not the destructive kind, but the moment of ultimate potential where all things are possible, where light itself pauses to consider its options. They held a soft, terrible gravity, pulling not matter, but meaning, toward them.

She was dressed in robes that seemed woven from the echoes of forgotten melodies and the remembered warmth of a first embrace. This was Soul, given a shape one could look upon without going mad. The song of existence given a single, perfect voice.

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