The Primordial Record

Chapter 1843: The End (3)

Inside the Pantheon of Chains, seven stood before his ancestors and called for their judgment. There was no fear in his heart because he knew he was worthy.

To claim the first layer of Defiant Ascension, Telmus would have to prove he was greater than the law they controlled. The act of Defiant Ascension meant to claim.

Seated on thrones of echoes that resembled the shadow of screaming wraiths, the seven began their judgment, and under their gaze, Telmus readied himself.

But still, “Damn, these tests are kind of ridiculous are they not?” Telmus muttered to himself, but his stubbornness would not allow him to back down, coupled with the fear in his heart because he knew that something terrible would happen if he were not strong enough to face it.

Telmus looked up; each judge was the size of a mountain range, while he remained as small as an ant.

“I have no time to waste here, because I am afraid that Reality is about to end, it is the only reason there is this fear in my heart. So I will say this once. All of you, come at me!”

This ordeal was harrowing enough if he had to face a single judge at a time, but Telmsu could not be patient enough for such an ordeal. There was an eighty percent chance of failure if he did everything right, but he was still pushing to do everything wrong.

As a Primordial, his consciousness was moving so fast that a single second had been stretched to a billion years, and yet it was not enough.

The judges, unfeeling to his plight, took up his challenges and threw their might against the single fragile being in their midst, and the entire Arena began to crack under the weight of their judgment.

In this Arena, Truiplop became the Inquisitor of Destiny. He turned his unblinking eyes towards Telmus, and it felt as if his gaze carried the weight of tearing blades that sought to ground Telmus to bits and pieces.

In this space, Telmus’s consciousness had no power that could defy reality; he was as fragile as a mortal, but that was the entire purpose of the test. Could he use a mortal that had a zero percent probability of defying Destiny to forge a path towards victory?

If such a thing were ever possible, then a victory like this could not be given; only a Will strong enough to defy common sense would be able to seize it for themselves.

Hekaton became the Warden of Mortality. His appearance took the worst of mortals, as he appeared like a pathetic creature made of decaying flesh and endless appetite. Fear of the unknown filled his eyes, but that was nothing before the fear of death that had claimed his soul.

His presence washed over Telmus, reinforcing the concept of mortality imposed on him. It was a direct challenge to his spirit, almost as if he was challenging Telmus to hold the sun in his hands with the body of a man.

A soft sigh emerged from Metagei, who had become the Architect of Hierarchy. He did not even have a humanoid structure, but resembled a being made from perfect angles and unyielding stone—a golem of pure natural order.

In this order, it was natural that there was a god above men, light above darkness, life above death, among many other concepts.

This order was flung onto Telmus like a brick wall, and his knees buckled, but he did not fall, even as his bones began to shatter into pieces.

A loud chuckle came from Pyanop, now the manifestation of the Tyrant of Prayer. In this form, it took the shape of a bloated, insatiable mass of flesh that fed on devotion.

Thoughts of power and the strength to resist the trials ahead flowed into Telmus’s mind. Pyanop whispered a promise of endurance and power to him, enough to resist this unfair trial, and Telmus would only need to worship him.

“Come on, Telmus, you know you cannot hold on… In fact, you don’t even have to make your devotion to me known to the rest; you can just send a thought. Say master, and you will become the Primordial you have ever wanted.”

Beside the throne of Pyanop, the Tyrant of Prayers, was a faceless being with a thousand arms, all of which held a thousand locked gates. Yuleti, the Jailer of Potential, leaned forward to regard Telmus.

A single unshaking Will pressed against the mortal in their midst with a single potent message, “This far and no further.”

Men were not meant to fly or to live beyond their destiny. Yuleti was the final gate that barred any admission of a variable into a constant already set in place. It was a challenge to Telmus that said, It does not matter how many laws you break, you can never pass this wall.

A fleeting sob emerged from Maimak, the Oracle of Ends, who took the shape of a woman wearing torn robes and weeping on her throne. If Telmus had the spare thought to be angry, he would, because Maimak took the shape of his wife, and even her voice was the same.

“Even stars fade, why did I believe my love would last forever? I am withered, the gods I worship are dead and forgotten, and my husband no longer remembers my name. Telmus, how long will you continue this farce? Come home to me, we will meet our end together, for we are mortals and this is our lot. This small joy is for us alone, our fleeting lives are meaningful, leave eternity for the cold gods and mad Primordials… life should end, but we should have our arms wrapped around each other when it does.”

The last throne sat Anthesterion, the Silent King, wearing armor that covered his body from head to toe; his resemblance was a stark image to Golgoth, the God King.

“Telmus, I had once offered you the peace of nothingness, and you spat on my grave, and yet, here I am again, and this time I do not offer, I simply wait. I wait for the moment that is coming when you break and enter willingly into my arms. You have nothing to support you, your flesh and Will is mortal, and you stand before the infinite. You shall die here, Telmus, and your story will end.”