The Primordial Record novel Chapter 1817

Chapter 1817: Cleansing The Taint

Rowan knew that the words from this thing were just a final desperate attempt to taunt him. His victory could never be meaningful to a being like this, but Rowan did not care; he had learned to face nightmares and evils of all kinds.

He stepped forward, and the Third Prince shrieked,

"Rowaannn..." the name was a curse, spat out with a spray of black-tinged spittle. "You... cut out... our heart..."

A violent shudder wracked his frame. The skin of his back stretched taut, and with a sound like tearing canvas, it split open. From the wound, thick, black tentacles erupted, slick with slime.

The tentacles were covered in barbed suckers that pulsed with a vile life, and with the way they were moving, it was as if they weren’t part of him; instead, they were using him.

The Third Prince was just a collapsing puppet for something unspeakable inside.

"You think... this is a victory? Claiming the Origin of that pathetic clown?" he gurgled, pushing to his feet. His legs trembled, bones audibly grinding with sickening cracks. "You’ve just... killed the only thing... keeping the infection... contained!"

Suddenly, the Third Prince lunged towards Rowan, aided by his tentacles that pushed against the ground.

One of the tentacles, thick as a man’s thigh, lashed out faster than thought, but it didn’t aim for Rowan’s body; it headed towards the space around him, seeking to corrupt the very air he breathed.

Where the tentacle passed, the polished floor blackened and cracked with a rot that could devour millennia in a second.

Rowan didn’t retreat from this attack. He moved inside the lash, his form a blur, and as the tentacle whipped past his head, he grabbed it.

The moment his hand made contact, the slime on its surface sizzled, and the tentacle screamed—a high-pitched, psychic shriek that felt like needles in the brain.

Rowan’s grip was like a vice, and he poured destruction into the tentacle. The slick, powerful limb withered in his grasp, turning desiccated and brittle in an instant. With a brutal wrench, he tore it from the Third Prince’s back.

Black, tarry blood, smelling of ozone and decay, geysered from the stump, and the Third Prince howled in rage and pain.

The puppet of evil didn’t stagger back but continued surging forward, his broken, bloody hands reaching for Rowan’s face.

Rowan smoothly dodged the grab and drove a fist into the Third Prince’s chest.

The impact was sickening. He was here with his main body, and his strength was something that no one in Reality could equal.

Ribs splintered inward. The thing inside the shell of the Third Prince shrieked in fury. Another tentacle, this one tipped with a barbed, bony stinger, shot from the Third Prince’s shoulder, aiming for Rowan’s eye.

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