The Primordial Record novel Chapter 32

Chapter 32 First Battle

The Black fog swallowed them, and neither one of them flinched from that darkness. Rowan felt Soul Seizer drawing many soul fragments with varying flavors. He detected laughter and sunlight and a baby wailing. Weird, he had never had this effect when he collected souls before.

Then it hit him, he was collecting the souls of people. Regular folks who lived their lives in contentment, their souls carried a glow that felt warm and complete.

Was this not Alana? The young woman who had a painful crush on Rowan, went beet–red anytime Rowan tried talking to her. She had an unusual way with words, always referring to herself in the first person.

This soul that felt like a piece of hard leather should be Morin, a dependable farmer who was something of a playboy.

Branrik, a mason who had seven strong boys he was very proud of…

Ragodr, the self-proclaimed most handsome man in all of Calcutta…

Fjarmir, a petty thief who had been adopted by his people because he was mostly harmless and could be called in a pinch to help do menial tasks…

Grunmir...

Voramyr...

Svegrim...

Torernir...

Gragvar...

Grarnir...

Thogir...

Please, no more…

Hundreds of soul fragments came, they brought with them a trace of their memories, but only the best parts or the worst.

Grarnir sees his wife torn apart and at the moment of his death; seizing an Abomination and tears out the throat with his teeth….

So many souls…. So many memories…

Rowan did not know how he did it, but he did not consume those souls, he kept them safe in the Jaws of Dagon—The bracelet form of Soul Seizer that was on his wrist.

As the souls poured into his being, carrying with them light and heat, his Icy Soul grew colder. Throughout the previous battle, he had never made a sound, he was imitating Maeve. Her coldness and deadly precision. But that was not who he was. He was not cold, he lived his life with passion….

His Soul may have turned to Ice, but his blood was filled with fire.

So, he opened himself to the souls, his Soul Seizer called them through the darkness, and they came to him seeking warmth and solace, he opened himself, and he asked them to witness their vengeance.

The shapes that entered his sight in the fog were different from anything he had ever seen before. _{frёewebηovel.cѳm}

He screamed again, stunning the Abomination on top of him, and he erupted with all his strength and fury, digging deep inside and his bloodline began to boil and heat up, the two golden tattoos on his chest began to glow and growls began to emanate from them.

He seized an Abomination by the throat, he had lost the shears in the confusion, and he pulled and twisted, breaking the spine with a sickening crack, he used the body as a shield and began to push his way out of the pile.

His sword fell and killed and maimed any Abomination he could reach, while he used the body he held as a battering ram, limbs were thrown out and bodies were cut in twos and threes, when Rowan stepped out of the pile he was covered head to toe in yellow gore, and no Abomination bigger than a brick was left.

His chest was heaving and his legs were shaking, his mind burning like a furnace. Ahead of him, more Abomination poured out from the ruins of homes and fields, and Rowan began to laugh, for in his Primordial Record he had harvested more than a hundred and fifty soul points.

He poured them all into Ouroboros and his strength returned, his lungs filled with air and his leg steadied and grew stronger like a piece of divine oak whose roots could touch the core of the planet.

"Maeve… Weapons!" The sword he was using was now bent and useless, he discarded it, and it shimmered away.

She sent two swords toward him, he caught them and said, "I want bigger ones next time." Maeve was standing back and watching his surroundings, she held back, knowing Rowan wanted to vent. She would stay back and protect him, she materialized many 'Sparking Beads' and began burning the bodies he left behind.

And he charged towards the Abomination, going forward deeper into the town, the beacon behind him blazing blue, hoping that they heard him. Hoping that they still keep faith.

Rowan began to kill.

His thoughts were aflame. Why should he hold back his strength? He was different from Maeve, he did not need to measure his blows, did not need to fear weakness or tiredness on the battlefield, for with every slain enemy he got stronger, faster. His fatigue eased, his technique for slaughter got more refined, and with every step, he took he got better.

Rowan roared again, and this time it was as if two voices were roaring with him.