The Primordial Record

Chapter 1719: The Birth of Eos

Killing a Primordial was rather anticlimactic, but it was not as if Rowan was expecting much. After all, what he had just done could be seen as cutting off the hand of a massive creature with a thousand arms.

The blow had been painful, and may have lasting consequences to the Primordial, which may most likely end up being devastating in the future for that entity, but that was not the most significant usefulness from her death.

Every Primordial inside of Reality was intrinsically connected to Rowan, and it was by killing them that the connection they held with him would be revealed, and this was equally as important to him as any growth in power he would gain by battling and killing them.

So the Primordials for him were the keepers of his past, and for Rowan, the past was like a book; killing Primordial Soul was the first Chapter to that book. From her, the connection would begin to unravel.

Rowan glanced at his sleeping children in their trillions and sighed. He should deal with the gains he had acquired from this battle, heal his Origin Land, and take care of his children. He was expecting his bloodline avatars to be returning soon, and with their help, the healing of his realm would proceed much faster.

It also reminded him that he needed to begin recreating his Angels. If the integration of his children with the Origin Land kicked off, they would become powerful, but he would still need a special branch that would act as his eyes and hands in this realm.

Of the many creations that Primordial Light had built, then Angels were one of the most paramount of them all, and Rowan could not wait to bring them back to life.

With his mind settled, Rowan plunged deep into his nascent dimensional soul. In this battle, he had destroyed and recreated his soul multiple times, and despite his extraordinary talents, his creation was not perfect since he was under tremendous pressure.

Killing Primordial Soul and experiencing the death of all the countless souls she had gathered from previous dead Realities, alongside acquiring Soul Origin. Rowan’s knowledge of the soul had taken multiple broad steps forward, and his last dimensional soul was now too weak for him to regard as perfect.

He believed that if he finished comprehending Soul Origin and upgrading his soul with the knowledge he had gained from this battle, the next time he used Realm’s Butcher Onslaught, the damage he would suffer would be extremely minimal.

Rowan quickly made his consciousness silent, which was a gigantic feat when the size of his consciousness had reached reality-defying levels.

In the silence of his consciousness, he grasped the portion of his soul that had been taken from him, and the first thing he sensed was a crystalline void that was beyond time.

Rowan paused and explored deeper, beyond this void were countless dimensions folded like origami dreams, and then they began to merge when a quiet Will that appeared almost nonexistent took shape in their midst.

A silhouette etched in nebulae took shape, vast as the collective memories of ten thousand universes.

Rowan was stunned, “Is this my birth?”

Easing himself deeper into the vision, understanding slowly began to stream into his mind.

First, he began to see the curve of a skull emerging; it was not made from bones but woven from event horizons!

Smooth as quantum foam, haloed by the birthing-light of colliding dimensions. Within its translucent cortex, spiral arms of unborn galaxies drift like milk-thoughts.

Rowan could spend all of eternity looking at the formation of his bones, and endless fascination would not cease to emerge from its creation.

Immediately, he began to see where his foundations were incorrect. He had built his space origin on the foundations of Eosah’s body, but she was not him, and although they were both Realities, their potential and powers were different.

His body began to subtly change, breaking away from the mold he had given it, but Rowan was not even aware of it, with his mind focused on the transformation of his birth.

He saw his tiny fists unfurl—Each knuckle a singularity wrapped in dark matter swaddling, gripping strands of cosmic strings that thrum with creation’s frequency.

When the fingers flex, superclusters ignite in their palms: sapphire nebulae blooming like fingerprints.

Rowan shuddered at the glory of his birth, realizing this was something that occurred very rarely in creation, and his Light should have illuminated all of Limbo at his birth, so that all may come and worship him, but this crystalline void had hidden his Light from all.

He barely paused to acknowledge that thought; what was important for him was to delve deeper into the mystery of his birth and synchronize his past with the present to fully unveil the future.

Rowan saw the creation of his flesh, his skin like folded spacetime— Stretched taut over limbs longer than inflation epochs, dappled with constellation freckles and molecular nurseries.

Where veins should be, rivers of liquid gravity flow, pulling star-dust into the shape of capillaries.

Eyes like bound universes. One iris a swirling Mandelbrot of matter, the other a perfect void of antimatter, both blinking with the slow pulse of entropy reversed. Its gaze holds the weight of eternity… and the lightness of a first breath.

“By the light of all creation, he was beautiful!”

Rowan paused. This thought was not his own; it spoiled the harmony of this pristine scene with the stench of desire, and he knew that this thought came from Primordial Soul. She had watched his birth, and even if the Primordial would not acknowledge it, she had nearly fallen to her knees and worshipped him.

Rowan watched himself float in an unknown dimensional cradle, suspended by gravitational lullabies sung by colliding branes.

Around him, relic photons from dead universes gather like fireflies, weaving a shawl of faded light.

Then the first sign of awakening bloomed across his body as his small mouth sighed and the air trembled.

A sound like celestial harps tuned to Planck length, exhaling vapor that condenses into dwarf galaxies. Ribbons of dark energy curl from its lips, knitting new spacetime into being.

Rowan had always loved music, and it would seem that even before he gained consciousness, his first sigh was as beautiful as a Celestial choir.

Then, in his sleep, he began to dream. Black holes became rattle-toys, spinning with metallic hums. Supernovae burst like soap bubbles against the cheeks of curved vacuums. Entire histories—from quark dances to dying stars—flicker beneath eyelids thin as cosmic microwave background.

Rowan’s body, as he observed these changes, shuddered and transformed multiple times as an intense baptism began to reshape him from the inside out.

For so long, he had not understood the past or where he stood in it. He had been following the path laid by others, and through sheer grit and tenacity, he had overcome all the challenges in his path. Now that he could see where he came from, see his roots, everything became clearer and more beautiful.

Rowan watched his beautiful dream occur across countless Eras, for even time had no power here, but before long, the darkness came, the eyes filled with greed, salivating over his Light, and above his sleeping form, a mouth filled with blackened fangs opened wide.