The Primordial Record novel Chapter 1792

Chapter 1792: Rowan V Demon

The scent of the other Primordial’s scattered essences was still sharp in the void, a cocktail of ruptured power and stunned pride. But Rowan’s gaze, cold and absolute, fixed upon a single point of imploding darkness—the wound in reality where the Primordial Demon had been slammed downward.

The Great Abyss awaited, and his perception swept through it, knowing he was inside the Primordial Demon yet understanding that the Origin of Demon was inside the body that he had just punched.

With a glance, he understood the general situation of the Abyss. It was a thousand levels of absolute negation, a spiral of anti-creation designed to erode and consume all that was. It was the perfect prison for hope, for light, for meaning.

This would be a grand tomb for the demon.

Rowan did not dive or descend. He simply stepped off the edge of existence and allowed gravity—not the physical force, but the gravitational pull of his own focused vengeance—to draw him down.

He fell through layers of despair, through landscapes of solidified terror and oceans of liquid silence. Each level of the Abyss was an entire dimension, and the passage of Primordial Demon had destroyed all of them. A few demons were lucky to survive, but they would not live for long if they did not flee to the other side of Reality.

As Rowan descended, the Abyss reacted to his presence not as an intrusion but as a cancer. It constricted, its nullifying essence pressing against him, seeking to unwind the very fact of his being.

He ignored it. His focus was a spear aimed at his target, who seemed to be waiting for him. As he set foot on the earth, this layer of the Abyss vanished, and Rowan felt an impossible weight over him; he did not need to look upward to know that Primordial Demon had transported them to the lowest depths of the Abyss.

Rowan looked around, seeing that they were on a featureless plain of black glass that reflected nothing. This was the heart of the Abyss, the ultimate silence.

The Demon was already waiting.

He was not a monster of claws and rage. He was a theorem of violence given form. Every line of his body, from the sharp angle of a shoulder to the taut cord of a tendon in his neck, spoke of maximum efficiency, of lethal economy.

His fame was not myth; it was a cosmic fact. Across all realities, in every dimension where conflict existed, his martial art was the absolute pinnacle. It was not something he did; it was what he was.

Xylos was the absolute expression of dominance through physical form. 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

And he stood, waiting, because he knew. He knew Rowan would come for him this way.

"Rowan, no, Eos..." the Demon’s voice was the sound of bones grinding together in the dark. "You come to me with only your hands. An homage? Or an insult?"

"A statement," Rowan said, his feet settling on the glassy floor. "I will break you at your best."

There were no more words.

The Demon moved. One moment, he was twenty paces away; the next, his fist was an inch from Rowan’s temple. The technique was flawless, a strike that existed outside of wind-up or telegraph, leveraging the very physics of the Abyss itself.

Rowan’s head moved a micrometer. The fist grazed his skin, and the air it displaced shattered the black plain for a mile around, erupting into a storm of razor-edged obsidian shards.

The fist, missing its target, transformed to a palm, edge hardened to a state beyond diamond, aimed for the center of Rowan’s sternum, not to bruise, but to separate the molecular bonds holding his body together. If it landed, it would tear Rowan in two.

Primordial Demon had called this move the Sundering Palm, and in the past, he had once torn a Reality in two with this move.

Rowan’s body reacted before his mind could articulate the threat. His chest was concave by a precise inch, allowing the Sundering Palm to pass through the space his body had occupied a fraction of a second prior.

The vacuum left in the wake of the missed strike tore the black glass floor apart with a sound like a continent shearing in half.

The Demon flowed without pause from the missed Sundering Palm without missing a step. His hands became a blur, each finger striking like a needle-tipped viper, aiming for nerve clusters, energy meridians, the soft tissue of the eyes. Each strike was perfect, untelegraphed, and fatal. They came from impossible angles, leveraging the strange geometries of the Abyss.

And Rowan met him, not with technique, but with adaptation. He perceived the micro-expressions in the Demon’s energy signature, the subtle shifts in weight that preceded a universe-shattering blow.

He did not block; he flowed. He leaned back as a blade-hand passed, the shockwave carving a canyon into the nothingness behind him. He twisted around a kick that could have extinguished a sun, grabbing the Demon’s ankle and using his momentum to hurl him upwards through three levels of the Abyss with a sound like tearing silk.

As the body of Primordial Demon shot upwards, Rowan brought his hand forward and rotated it as he twisted the fabrics of Reality with that simple move.

Primordial Demon was no longer going up; instead, he was falling down, as the bottom of the Abyss became the top. Squeezing his hands into a fist, Rowan plunged down after the Demon, and he attacked with a punch, but the Demon was ready for it as he dismissively slapped Rowan’s blow aside, causing this level of the Abyss to explode from that missed attack.

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