The Primordial Record novel Chapter 1986

Chapter 1986: A New Pact

Half of the Realm of Death lay in ruin, and a greater part of the damage had occurred after the fall of Primordial Light. Before the fall of the Primordial, the fight had been tense, but both parties were pulling their punches; the fall of one of their number broke the last lock on the Primordial’s restraint.

No longer holding back, the Primordials unleashed all the Origin Forces they controlled, and the Realm of Death, infinite in its depths, melted before their might. Countless regions were shattered, and armies without number could not even get the chance to know how they perished.

The Primordials paused for a moment, observing their work and finding no joy in it.

Shattered fractal shards floated like broken glass in the void, reflecting distorted echoes of the battle that was growing more heated. Trillions of Regions had been erased in the cataclysm, their harvested souls dissolving into wisps of unremembered smoke. The air, if such a thing existed in this deeper layer of the Realm of the dead, hummed with the aftershocks of burned Origin Forces, a low vibration that set the remaining Primordials’ wings trembling.

They had begun to burn their Origin Force if they detected any hint of resistance, ensuring that there would be no way for Death to ever surprise them. Their strategy was brilliant as several Mandal of various elemental forces were discovered, and if they had been any less careful, some of them might have died.

The Beast that they helped create had more teeth than they originally believed.

Nyxara stood at the center of the Primordials, her new hybrid wings casting a cold, uneven glow over the devastation. The white feather’s light, now threaded with her black soul-essence, illuminated the faces of her siblings, Xylos, his demonic features twisted in barely contained fury; Eldrithor, chaos subdued into an unnatural stillness; Xyris, his temporal senses reeling from futures that had suddenly darkened; Elgorath, golden frameworks dim as he etched Asteroath’s final scream into eternal memory; Vorthas, green wings drooping, sap-tears carving furrows in his skin.

They formed a circle for mourning and not defensive purposes. Asteroath’s death hung between them like a black hole, pulling at their resolve. They thought that the sting of Asteroath’s loss would begin to lessen after a while, but the reverse was the case; they felt his absence more deeply than ever.

The plans they had made that spanned endless eons now felt fragile. They had burned through tens of thousands of Origin Forces in that desperate rescue, ramping up from their cautious thousand to levels they hadn’t touched since the betrayal of Enoch. And still, it hadn’t been enough.

In the heart of Nyxara, she remembered the screams of Rowan when she showed him the dying souls of his mother, children, and his friends. She had seen his pain, and it had amused her that someone so powerful and graced with so much potential could be so... fragile.

’Is this what he felt every time we broke his heart? If so, why does he continue collecting the weak around him?’

"We press on," Nyxara said, her voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of something new, uncertainty. "Asteroath’s light fuels us now. We adapt. We—"

The Realm of Death shuddered, and the Primordials had to call their powers to surround them as something deep inside it was stirring.

Look of astonishment flew from the eyes of the Primordials as they looked at each other, for a moment, the power they had felt had exceeded anything they had ever come across before.

The ground, compressed layers of ancient corpses, split open like a wound reopening. From the fissure rose a presence that dwarfed the Mandalas that had taken the life of Primordial Light, the generals of Death and their infinite legions. It was not an army. It was the source.

The Beast of Final Rest emerged.

It did not charge or roar. It simply... was.

Its form defied the Primordials’ senses, even their higher-dimensional perceptions.

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