Novel Full Chapter 1794: The Dance Complete
Chapter 1794: The Dance Complete
Primordial Demon knew he was losing. The perfect, polished geometry of his demonic form was chipped, cracked, and his Origin Force was nearing exhaustion.
The Great Abyss was collapsing, as he had sucked out every bit of Origin Force from inside their structure just to keep himself alive. In all his Eras of life, he doubted he had seen a warrior like Rowan, who seemed to be a perfect fusion of multiple impossible concepts.
‘So, this is the road beyond Origin. This is the Destiny that has been denied to us. Ah, there is still a chance for me to seize it.’
Primordial Demon recalled the entire process of their battle. Rowan was not a superior artist; he was more like a force of entropy, weathering the masterpiece of his superior martial talents into rubble.
The adaptability he had was infuriating; it was a constant, grinding corrosion of his certainty in his power. In this realization, born of desperation and rage, the Demon found a final, terrible clarity. If he could not outfight this entity, he would have to pull out all the stops… he would have to un-write him.
His attacks must be so fierce that Rowan’s recovery ability would not be able to catch up.
Primordial Demon disengaged, leaping back across the boiling plains of forgotten hope. His breathing, for the first time, was not the steady rhythm of a master, but the ragged heaving of a cornered beast.
He did not assume a stance. Instead, he began to move in a way that was alien to the fluid, efficient violence he had displayed thus far. These movements were slow, deliberate, heavy with finality.
They were not meant to strike a body, but to strike at the concept of existence itself. Rowan had proven to have obtained all the inheritance of his previous self, Eos, making him a dangerous entity the likes of which had never been seen before, because no Reality in existence could wield their Origin the same way that Rowan was doing.
These movements he was making were the Dance of the Final Silence, a kata so profound that its mere initiation began to distort the crumbling Abyss around them. The very air grew thick and still, as if reality itself was holding its breath.
Primordial Demon made the first move in the dance. His left hand swept out in a flat, cutting arc. It did not move through space, but through time. The motion was a blade aimed backward. Rowan’s eyes widened in astonishment when he realized he could not dodge this blow, and it didn’t matter how far away from the Primordial Demon he was; once he was targeted, this technique would reach him.
Rowan could hear the entire dying Abyss screaming as he felt a sickening lurch, a phantom pain as a version of himself from one second ago was conceptually severed.
It was like having the roots of a tree axed. The immediate effect was disorientation, a loss of foundation. He stumbled, his knowledge of the fight’s immediate history becoming fuzzy, unreliable. The Demon did not pause. The dance demanded continuity.
The Demon’s right palm thrust forward, not towards Rowan, but towards the space between them. A wave of absolute stasis radiated outwards. Sound died. The particles of dust and energy hanging in the air froze in place. Rowan felt his own bodily functions screech to a halt. His heart stopped mid-beat. His neurons froze, thought ceasing.
‘Damn, that is impress—’
He was trapped in a single, excruciatingly stretched moment of now, a fly in amber. Within this enforced stillness, the Demon moved, unaffected, the sole actor on a frozen stage.
As Rowan was trapped in the present, the Demon’s foot traced a complex pattern on the ground, a sigil of negation. This movement targeted what was to come. Rowan’s mind, even frozen, could perceive the infinite branching pathways of potential futures—dodging left, striking high, blocking low—all the possibilities that constituted his ability to adapt. One by one, these branches began to wither and turn to ash. The vast, shimmering tree of his potential collapsed into a single, thin, inevitable line: the line of his ending. Hope, the engine of defiance, was extinguished.
The Demon locked his gaze with Rowan’s. His gaze was was not one of fury, instead it was of profound, absolute negation. This was the Gaze of the Abyss, which was not a psychic attack in the traditional sense; it was more like a direct infusion of the meaning of nothingness.
Rowan’s frozen mind was flooded with the absolute truth of his own insignificance. The love for his family, the weight of his vengeance, the memory of his children—all of it was rendered meaningless against the infinite, cold backdrop of the void. Why fight? Why exist?
The answer was: there was no reason. The will to continue, the very spark of his consciousness, guttered under the weight of this truth.
With Rowan’s past severed, his present frozen, his future erased, and his will broken, the Demon approached. His fingers, held in a delicate, almost artistic configuration, reached out and lightly touched Rowan’s chest. It was not a strike of force, but an application of a cosmic law: entropy.
The molecular bonds that held Rowan’s body together began to untie. His flesh did not tear; it unraveled like old cloth. His bones did not break; they disintegrated into sand. He began to come apart at a fundamental level, his physical form losing coherence.
As Rowan’s body unraveled, the Demon’s touch deepened, seeking the core of his consciousness—the “I am” that was Rowan. This was the Touch of the Final Night. It was a gentle, insistent pressure against the flame of his soul. It did not seek to destroy it with violence, but to smother it, to convince it that it had never been alight in the first place.
The memories, the personality, the essence of who and what he was, began to fade, not like a forgotten dream, but like a lie being exposed. The universe was asserting that Rowan had never truly existed.
Rowan’s body began to shatter like smoke. He still remained frozen. A part of him was aware that he was dying, but he simply could not move or do anything. Once Primordial Demon began his dance, the only result was death.
Primordial Demon took a final step back, and with a sweeping gesture of both arms, he drew a circle around them. The last remnants of the Abyss, the distant screams of dying dimensions, the very hum of background cosmic energy—it all ceased.
True, absolute silence descended. This was not an absence of sound; it was the absence of the potential for sound. It was a silence so complete that it had weight, pressing in from all sides —a sensory deprivation that extended to the soul. In this silence, even the concept of a fight was forgotten.
By now, the Origin Force inside Primordial Demon was running out; he could feel his core unraveling, but he was so close to killing Rowan that he pushed through the discomfort.
He clapped his hands together. The circle he had drawn imploded, pulling in the nothingness that the Dance had created. The full, concentrated power of the Abyss—its purpose of negation and consumption—activated one final time, focused entirely on the dissipating form of Rowan.
It was no longer a place he was in; it was a force actively digesting him, absorbing the unraveled threads of his being into its own infinite emptiness. It was Reality eating itself.
The Demon gathered all that was left—the silence, the consumption, the unraveling, the erasure—into a single point at the tip of his index finger. It was a singularity of oblivion. There was no light, no heat, no energy.
It was a hole in everything. He stepped forward, the Dance complete, and aimed this point of absolute nothingness at the center of Rowan’s fading chest. This was the final blow. Not a punch, but an erasure. A deletion from the cosmic record.
This was the Dance of Final Silence. A nine-part ritualist move to un-create a Primordial Being, created to end Realities on a mass scale.
“Goodbye Rowan, your light shone bright, but now it is mine!”