The Primordial Record novel Chapter 2218

Chapter 2218: Seventy Three Endings

As much as Eos wanted to stop this power from entering Existence, he could not; it was the rule of the game, and without it, the situation for all life would become bleak.

Just because Eos and the Painter were playing this game did not mean they could not physically fight each other, but there was a saying in one of the mortal worlds deep inside the Origin Tree, which goes, "When two elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers."

If he were to battle the Painter, then the entirety of the Grand Void would become a place of devastation, and the Origin Tree would survive it, but all of its inhabitants would be dead, even the Primordials.

The only way to fight the Painter was via this board, and that meant he had to follow the rules and counter the moves of the Painter with his own.

And so he could only watch the influence of Drift enter his Origin Tree.

A philosopher in a world on the second branch began, under Drift’s quiet pressure, to find that her old certainties no longer felt certain, not because she had been refuted, but because the tone of certainty had shifted in her.

She lost her followers and lost her appetite for argument. She became smaller, shrinking away from the things that she loved.

Drift’s whole purpose was to make beings smaller without their noticing, and across the first age, Drift would touch sixteen trillion philosophers, and all of them would write less than they would have, and none of them would know why.

This was just in philosophers, and not the other countless lives that filled the Origin Tree, both mortal and immortal.

The Painter had learned its lesson well, and its counterattack was fierce.

Drift was just the beginning, and what came next was Distance, the companion of Drift.

Distance was a habit which the Painter taught to entire civilizations without their knowing. Distance worked on the architecture of relationships.

A father in a world on the four-quintillion branch found, over the course of his middle years, that he was not as close to his son as he had once been.

He could not point to the moment of cooling. There had been no fight. There had been no betrayal. There had simply been, over the slow accumulation of two thousand small choices, a way in which the father had stopped reaching.

The son had felt it, and he had slowly gotten used to such treatments from his father. The son’s children had been raised in a household where reaching was already considered slightly embarrassing.

By the third generation, the entire culture in that part of the world had developed an aesthetic of reserve, and the aesthetic of reserve had begun to seal off precisely the kind of private joy that Eos had been quietly cultivating.

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