The Primordial Record

Rowan's consciousness was scattered in different dimensions, all striving to pursue the singular objective of eradicating the Primordials, not only inside of Reality, but outside as well, and for him to accomplish such a thing, he had to carefully craft and maintain many moving parts, and even those closest to him could barely discern the surface levels of his plans, their minds were too small to grasp it all.

He felt a nudge in his spirit, and Rowan's consciousness touched that part of himself as he acknowledged that the duel between him and Telmus had finally arrived. At this moment, many plans he had made for this battle began to activate.

The results of the duel were largely meaningless to him; only the consequences that followed truly mattered, and that was what he wanted to control and utilize. If there were any unexpected outcomes that may arise, he was ready for them.

This duel may also be a bridge for him to resolve the karma of the past and create a lasting legacy for the ones who were part of his growth up till this moment. The Primordials played a long game with Telmus, but they made this game without factoring in what Rowan might bring to the table.

This Reality had been under the control of the Primordials for too long, and they had forgotten what it was like to feel fear; even Primordial Soul only understood this at the point of her death. Now, the others were about to understand the same thing.

This occasion was extremely significant to Rowan, it was just that he had so many other important affairs ongoing at the same time that he no longer held even the most potent changes across Reality with any degree of significance more than they deserve.

His eyes opened, his sight crossed the endless separation between his realm and Eosah's Reality, and he instantly arrived at the Arena.

He already had fragments of his consciousness in the Arena, and so he knew of every single being who was here, and they were all here because his hands had touched all of their Fates and Destiny, bringing them to this place where a new Era would be decided.

His presence should have only been sensed by the Primordials, but somehow, Telmus, who was holding a large cask of wine, turned to a spot in the Arena and thrusted the cask at Rowan's silent gaze,

"I am here waiting for our fight, but you can take your time; let me savor this brew as long as possible. I don't know where she got this wine, but it is glorious. Trust me, I have tasted the wine from a thousand worlds and nothing matches this."

Rowan's sight paused over this man, and space unfolded into shattered geometries, revealing a scarlet eye the size of a sun.

In Rowan's eye was the eternal promise of annihilation and the end of all things. This eye held only the tiniest fragment of his will, but it was enough to freeze the entire Arena in place, and only extremely powerful Old Ones were able to perceive its presence.

The light from his gaze would easily kill Old Ones, but Telmus only looked up with a light of fascination in his eyes, shrugging off its influence, before he belched loudly and muttered with awe in his voice,

"I thought I had killed a lot in my life. I have ended entire worlds, but you… You must have killed entire realms! Damn, that demon deceived me. I need a stronger wine if I am to battle you. Say, Rowan, do you have something better in your inventory in the wine department, or do you go about just ending realms?"

The eye blinked, "Do you know the true reason you were made to fight this battle?"

The white-haired man shook his head and smiled, "I do not care. I am Telmus, and that is enough. Is there anyone more worthy to fight it in all of Reality? Let them step forward. This battle will be just one of the many I will fight in my lifetime."

"Oh, you do not fight because of the inducement of Primordial Demon?"

"Ah, he tried his best to make it all about him," Telmus laughed, "Xylos showed me the pathways to my Destiny, but he did not bother asking me what it was. I believe he thinks whatever happens in this fight, he will still win, and I do so long breaking the egos of the powerful. After I kill you, I will kill him and all the Primordials."

The sight of Rowan looked at the white haired man more deeply, weighing the worth of this being whose presence was shrouded by a Will that was so arrogantly potent in the belief of its invincibility, it made Telmus a truly frightening enigma, before he slowly asked,

"What is your Destiny, Telmus?"

The smile on Telmus's face vanished as he raised his left hand and grasped the air. His blade, made from his Intent as a mortal, appeared in his grip, crossing the vast gulf of time and space.

The blade was a single-edged sword that resembled a katana, but was eight feet long and gleamed like moonlight. Upon holding his blade of Intent, a drastic transformation began to reshape the foundation of the blade, evolving it towards the foundation of Will.

"My Destiny, Rowan, is Endless Victory, and with my blade in hand, I shall know no defeat."

A feeling of satisfaction emerged from the eye of Rowan as he said, "Tell me, Telmus, do you know of your true roots, not the one perverted by the Abyss?"

Telmus cocked his head to the side, "Is it not Minerva?"

"No, it's not. Minerva was a bastardized abomination of your roots. Your bloodline is Mategei, one of my lost brothers, and you do his name and bloodline great service."

Telmus was silent as he processed these words, and then he shook his head, "I do not care about my roots; they do not define who I am."

"Big words," the eye said, "then you shall prove it before the thrones of my brothers."

"Let them all come," Telmus said, his blade had grown thicker and brighter until it seemed he was holding on to a bar of light in the shape of a weapon, "they shall all fall before me."

"If you win Telmus," the eye said with a grave tone, "then their Destiny would be yours."

Telmus's eyes widened as he scratched his hair, "I don't think that is supposed to be a part of this battle."

"I know, but I don't care; this is an Agreement between us alone. Still, you should not take my brothers lightly, or your Destiny shall shatter before their throne, and you will not be worthy to challenge me."

Telmus grinned, "It does not matter how many come, my Destiny is one that cannot be shaken. The time when it was possible for me to lose has passed, and nothing, not even the demon, has any idea what I have become."

The eye peered deeply at Telmus for the last time before vanishing, leaving a hole in Reality.

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Inside the Origin Land, Rowan pointed a single finger, sending forth a fragment of his consciousness into Reality as a seed.

This seed vanished into Reality and appeared above the castle, Algorth, and a pulse emerged from it, rippling through the castle, drawing the attention of its inhabitants.

Circe, Noctis, and Archimedes emerged from the castle, and they barely had the time to understand the significance of the seed before it zoomed into Circe's body and devoured the weight she had been carrying for him all this time.

Circe shivered and nearly collapsed; a profound sense of transformation and replacement surged through her consciousness, and suddenly, the weight was gone.

The karma and Destiny she had been carrying for Rowan for millions of years had vanished, and she simultaneously felt a sense of freedom and loss at the same time.

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The hole in Reality inside the Arena vanished only to be replaced by something else; it shimmered, but it was not with light. Instead, it was the ghost of seven towering, spectral forms.

For a fleeting second, Telmus saw them—the majestic, terrible visages of the first Seven of Trion, the progenitors from whom all power in his world flowed. Truiplop, whose feet were roots and whose breath was the mountain wind. Hekaton, wreathed in silent lightning. Metagei, his own ancestor, a figure of unyielding stone and deep earth. Pyanop, whose form was a whirlwind of autumn leaves and harvest moon. Yuleti, a woman of glacial ice and clear, frozen streams. Maimak, a being of molten rock and volcanic fury, and Anthesterion, a symphony of blooming life and inevitable decay.

Behind them was a distant figure seated on the throne of epochs, Romion, the eighth and final child of Trion.

They were supposed to be echoes, an impression left on a ledger that was long vanished into history, but a supreme power that seemingly knew no limits had dragged them out of time, bringing them to the present.

Telmus grinned and then burst into laughter. He knew he was about to face the greatest battles of his life.