The Primordial Record

Chapter 1828: I Shall Not Keep Them Waiting

“Haaah….. Fuuuuh…”

Telmus took in long, deep breaths, and he had never felt so strong. The energy here, Ether… it was so potent that it was almost impossible to describe.

“Haaah…. Fuuuh…”

This enormous field of power that dwarfed anything he had ever known was everywhere around him, and he could not imagine what it would be like to wield such power effortlessly.

A subtle shift in the Ether drew his attention. The shimmering substance of potential around him stilled, then parted, as the immense form of Rowan, seated in the sea, turned its cosmic regard upon him, like a sunbeam narrowing to a laser point.

“It is time, Telmus.” Rowan’s voice was a truth that manifested directly in Telmus’s mind, calm and immense as the ocean he sat in. “The realm is prepared. Your crucible awaits.”

Telmus felt a tremor run through his chimeric form. The consumed essence of the Primordial Demon stirred within him, a coiled serpent of martial pride and ancient power, sensing a coming trial. “I am ready,” he said, his own voice a multi-tonal rasp that seemed crude in the harmonious air.

“Follow the path,” Rowan instructed.

Ahead, the very substance of the paradise began to change. The singing rivers of light diverted, the forests of silver-bark leaned away, and a staircase of solidified shadow descended into the ground. It was a path leading down into the foundational layers of the Origin Land.

Telmus turned to his daughter, Staff, who had been standing a few paces behind him, her form still holding a faint sorrow. Her face that had previously been stalwart now held anxiety.

“Father,” she whispered, her voice the sound of a wind-chime in a gentle storm. “Must you do this? Here, there is peace. We are safe. Why risk it all again?”

He reached out with his right hand, a rather clumsy gesture with his new, powerful form, and cupped her cheek.

The contrast was stark: his hand, mottled with stolen power and capable of shattering worlds, against her face, which seemed as fragile as spun glass.

“Staff,” he said, his voice softening, the many echoes within it quieting to a single, paternal tone. “This peace… it is a beautiful dream. But it is a dream built on a foundation that is still cracking. Rowan holds the line, but he cannot hold it alone forever. The things we saw at the edge of the void… they are still there. Pressing.”

He looked from her fearful eyes to the idyllic landscape. “I was given a power, daughter. A terrible, hungry power. I could use it to hide here, to be a guardian of this one, small paradise. But that is not what this power is for. It is a power of ascension. Of defiance. It is meant to grow, to evolve, to meet greater challenges. To hide it away would be to betray its very nature, and to make us hypocrites in this sanctuary.”

Tears, like tiny droplets of liquid sapphire, welled in Staff’s eyes. “I just got you back. After the Arena… after the possession… I thought I had lost you forever. Now you walk into another abyss.”

“This abyss is of my own choosing,” Telmus said firmly, though his heart ached. “The last time, I was a pawn. A vessel for a will not my own. This time, I step forward with my eyes open. This is my defiance, Staff. Not just against our old enemies, but against the very fear that would have me stay small and safe. I defy the notion that we must cower in the light. I will become part of the light that pushes back the dark.”

Telmus reached with his other hand and manifested his blade. With a twist of his Will, he transformed it into a staff.

“I don’t know why you picked the name that you did, but it represents your vision, do not change it.”

He pressed the staff into his daughter’s hands. “This was the symbol of my old life. My life as a leader, a father, a warrior. I give it to you. Keep it. Remember that man. But do not wait for him to return. The being who emerges from the deep… he will be something else. Something more. And he will fight for you, for this place, for all places, with a strength that old me could never have imagined.”

He pulled her into an embrace, his arms encircling her in a protective cage of love and resolve. She clung to him, her eyes flickering with grief and a desperate, proud love. “Come back to me,” she whispered into his chest.

“That is my only promise,” he replied, his voice thick. “I will always find my way back to you.”

With a final, lingering look, he released her. Turning his back on the peace and the sunlight, on his weeping daughter, he began his descent down the staircase of shadow.

Each step took him further from the world of life and deeper into the realm of raw potential. The hymn of the paradise faded, replaced by the profound, humming silence of the depths.

The descent felt as though it lasted for an eternity. When he finally reached the bottom, he stepped out into the colossal, hollow sphere Rowan had carved from reality.

The sight that greeted him stole what remained of his breath, and his omniscience nearly combusted from delivering the truth of things to his consciousness.

He stood in an infinite, neutral space. And at its center, dominating everything, was a spear… the Spear.

It was a paradox given form, half of petrified grief, head of devouring annihilation, and that flame, that was so beautiful and felt so dangerous.

At the moment, the spear was the most terrifying and beautiful thing he had ever seen. It called to the consumed essence of the Demon within him, to his own stubborn will to survive, to the very core of what he was becoming.

And surrounding it, in perfect, silent concentric circles, was the Ebon Host.

Ten thousand demonic angels, their obsidian forms radiating a chilling, sacred purpose. Their blade-wings were perfectly still, their featureless helms all turned inward, towards the spear.

They did not acknowledge his presence and resembled statues of waiting violence.

A figure manifested beside him. Rowan, in his more concentrated form.

“This is your crucible,” Rowan said, his voice echoing in the vastness. “The spear is the anchor of your domain—Defiance. It is the ‘no’ shouted into the void, the will that endures past all reason. It is the power to break, and the spirit that refuses to be broken. My Reflection endured countless trials to build upon this foundation.”

He gestured to the silent legion. “And they are the Ebon Host. Forged from the martial order of the Demon you consumed and the unwavering purpose of a sacred duty. They are your first and most loyal servants. They are the unbreakable will you must possess, given external form. They are my gifts to you… for when you succeed.”

Telmus stared, overwhelmed. “They are… perfect.”

“They are necessary,” Rowan corrected. “Despite the walls of my Origin Land, your ascension will be a beacon to every hostile power in Reality and outside it. Memory, Light, and Life will sense it. The echoes of the slain Primordials will wail in envy. The things outside the walls will hear the tremor of a new Fundamental being born. To prevent all of that from happening, the Ebon Host is the wall that will give you the silence you need to conquer the war inside yourself.”

He turned to face Telmus fully, his expression grave. “The process is simple to describe, and impossible to endure. You must fully integrate the power you have consumed. You must wrestle the ghost of the Primordial Demon for supremacy. You must take the countless bloodlines and talents you have devoured and forge them into a single, cohesive, new law of reality: the Law of Defiant Ascension. You will be unmade to your very atoms, and you must will yourself back into existence, greater than before.”

Rowan placed a hand on Telmus’s shoulder. The weight was like a mountain, but it also served as a steadying anchor. “I can give you the stage. I can give you the guardians. But the performance… the agony, the ecstasy, the sheer, stubborn will to exist… that is yours and yours alone. I will be watching, but I cannot intervene. To do so would break the sanctity of this space and render your ascension flawed.”

Telmus looked from the terrifying spear to the silent, waiting Host, and then into Rowan’s ancient, weary eyes. He saw no guarantee of success. Only a chance. A fighting chance, which was more than he had ever had before.

He nodded, a slow, determined gesture. “Then I should not keep them waiting.”

Telmus walked forward, past the first ranks of the Ebon Host. They did not move, but he felt their regard shift, their singular, annihilating focus now locking onto him. He was the variable. He was the reason for their existence.

He reached the inner circle, standing only a dozen paces from the Spear of Defiance. Its energy washed over him, a corrosive wave of nothingness that was simultaneously met and challenged by the persistent, defiant flame at its core. It was excruciating and exhilarating.

He took a final, deep breath, drawing in the raw Ether of this marvelous space. He thought of his daughter’s face, of her tears, of her hope. He thought of the mountain-birds in Rowan’s hair, of the singing rivers, of the peace he was fighting for. It was small, yet it was everything.

Telmus smiled, and he let go of his last hold on mortality.