The Primordial Record novel Chapter 1813

Chapter 1813: It Has Been Mine

The words of the Third Prince were like a lash to Vyraak’s soul; hard-earned triumphs began to seem like manipulation by a hand he had never seen.

He, Vyraak, the Dragon God, was a beast of burden. A cosmic fool. A delivery system.

His head drooped, the horns that had gored Demon Lords now pointing impotently at the non-ground. The shimmering, impossible grandeur of the Palace of Time seemed to mock him, a prize he was never meant to claim, only to deliver.

The warm, familiar weight of the Red Moonlight Blade against his side was no longer a comfort. It was a leash. The shame he felt at this moment was a physical sickness.

The Third Prince watched, his expression one of detached, almost clinical pity. He could not feel empathy, but his powerful mind understood everything that was happening down to the smallest detail, and he did not want to miss a thing.

"And so the scales fall," the Third Prince said, his voice soft, almost a whisper in the immense silence. "It is a painful revelation, but a necessary one. Surrender the blade. Relinquish the purpose that was forced upon you. There is a certain peace in accepting one’s true, small place in the grand design."

Small. The word echoed in the hollowed-out cavern of Vyraak’s mind. He was small. He had felt it at the Arena, a terrifying insignificance. And now this... this janitor... was confirming it. His life was a footnote in another being’s story.

He saw it then, a future of profound quiet. Of laying down the blade, of turning away from the Palace, of finding some forgotten corner of a broken dimension to live out his days in the humiliating knowledge of his own irrelevance.

It would be a peace, of a sort. The peace of the defeated. The peace of a tool that has been used and discarded. But then, from the depths of that despair, a memory surfaced.

He was not yet an Old One, but a great wyrm at the seventh-dimensional level, cornered in the remnants of his dying universe by a Celestial Creator.

His fire was spent, his wings were tattered, acidic bile eating through his scales to the bone. He was finished. He knew it.

Then, a heat at his side, and a light in his heart. The Red Moonlight Blade had come to him. Knowledge that was almost instinct flooded his mind: a specific angle of attack, a microscopic flaw in the Celestial Creator’s armor, a way to put all his remaining strength into ascending to the eighth dimension.

This was the day he became an Old One, and his story, which should have ended, became more.

’What have I really lost?’ Vyraak thought to himself, as another memory took center stage in his mind.

He was now an Old One, challenging a mighty Demon Lord called the Sun-Eater. The demon was a vortex of plasma and arrogance, and it was winning.

It had absorbed his storms, his flames, his fury. It was preparing to finally consume him, to add his essence to its core. Despair had taken him.

The blade, again. A pulse of warmth. A vision, not of a killing blow, but of a feint, a surrender. The knowledge of how to let his own power be pulled in, to overload the Sun-Eater’s core with a chaotic mixture of their combined energies. He had done it, a move that felt like suicide. The resulting explosion had scarred a hundred dimensions and left him the victor, the Sun-Eater’s power now his own. The blade had not just saved him; it had made him stronger.

’What have I truly lost that has not been given back to me in full many times over?’

Not allowing the words of the Third Prince to twist his own memories. Vyraak dug deep into the ten thousand years of conflicts and the one constant that had been with him all this time.

He recalled memories of not just battles, but of choices. A whispered nudge to spare a tribe of mortals, who would later become his most devout worshippers, their faith fueling his vitality, giving him a sense of purpose outside battle.

A subtle guidance away from a path that would have led him into the territory of a Primordial’s wrathful Throne. The blade had been there. Not just as a weapon, but as a mentor. A protector. A... partner.

The Third Prince saw the change. The dragon god’s despair was hardening into something else. His previous enjoyment at Vyraak’s mental suffering turned to wariness.

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