The Primordial Record novel Chapter 2211

Chapter 2211: The Signature of The Defeated

Eos crossed the Grand Void on foot. He wore a robe of white with golden hems, and his hair was also as white as snow, and it reached his back.

There were faint hints of facial hair on his face, as if he had not shaved for a few days, and except for his impossible size, where he could hold trillions of Realities on the palm of his hand, he appeared like a normal man.

However, for him, size was ultimately meaningless at this point, because he could be as big and as small as the situation demanded him to be.

A ninth-dimensional immortal could cross the Grand Void, but they would spend so long doing so that if they ever reached the other side, only their bones would arrive as they would be long dead along the way, and only the momentum of their bodies would carry them through.

There was no reason for Eos to cross the Grand Void on foot, since distance had stopped meaning what it once meant the moment his body completed. But he walked anyway, because walking was a verb and verbs belonged to the one who acted, and he wanted the Tower to watch him come slowly, at his own pace, along a path of his own choosing.

Small insolences mattered at this level. They were almost the only insolences that did.

He had always treasured his mortal roots, and his every action at the moment was a defining characteristic of who he was, and he wanted the Great One... no, the Luminious called that being this name, he wanted The Painter, to know who he was.

The Origin Tree spread behind him as he went. It had crossed some threshold of scale that made numbers unhelpful; it was not a tree of a certain size any longer, but a tree of a certain weight, and the weight pressed outward in every direction into the substrate of the void.

Wherever the weight pressed, the void changed. Things that had been inert for eras remembered they had once been alive. A compressed vein of dead-history near Eos’s right ankle stirred and thought, very briefly, of a language it had once spoken. He passed on; it forgot again, but less completely than before.

There were things locked inside the Grand Void, pieces of forgotten histories that would take many years to explore, and if there was a chance to explore the Grand Void in the future, then Eos would delightfully take it.

The Tower grew closer. It had not moved, and it had never moved from the moment it was created as the Tower was a fixed mark in the Grand Void, the way a nail is a fixed mark in a plank, and every previous Existence had been a different plank, and the nail had held.

He reached up close, and he discovered that the material of the Tower was not bone. When he was at the ninth-dimensional level, he had thought it was bone, or a better word would be that he had told himself it was bone because the mind preferred a metaphor that could be held, even his own.

In the tenth dimension, there was no space for falsehood, especially to one’s own self, and he now saw that the actual material was signature of all the ones who had stepped forward to challenge the tyranny of the Painter.

They were the cured, set, hardened leavings of things that had once been made, stripped from them after the breaking and pressed into building stock.

The Tower was not a tomb, but a declaration of victory, an insult to the dead, as every brick was the fingerprint of something that had dared to stand against the Painter. That was why it could not fall. Its walls were the very habit of creation, turned against itself.

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