The Primordial Record

Chapter 1604: I Will Never Be Forgotten

Inside Rowan’s dimensional flesh, the final moments proceeded without any interruption. All of his defenses had been broken down, and his fortresses had collapsed.

Everywhere the golden spikes pierced, they became crystallized. Transforming into jagged, amber prisons. Light bent unnaturally, curving towards the spikes as if in worship.

There was intense divinity here that had been hidden behind the corruption of the Abyss, and they revealed themselves, and Rowan gritted his teeth and removed his perception from his body.

His dimensional flesh was lost.

Rowan’s only eye found the figure of Primordial Memory watching him die. There was a strange look in his eyes, as if he were admiring the last light of a dying star.

In the distance, Rowan could hear deep rumbles as if the heavens were breaking, and he knew it was coming from his Origin Ouroboros. Something was blocking them from getting to him, and he knew they would not save him in time.

Grunting with pain, Rowan stood up, spat out red blood, and took a step forward. Primordial Memory took a step back. Rowan grinned,

“Even now, you fear me.”

Glancing at his arm that had been cut off, Primordial Memory replied,

“I will be a fool not to. You have proven yourself beyond all reasonable doubt to be the most dangerous entity I have seen. There is no way I would allow you the chance to kill me.”

Rowan gasped as he gathered the last of his strength, slowly testing the range of motion he had with his body that was rapidly fading into mortality, with the stars of death overhead consuming his vitality in impossible amounts.

He was in bad shape, but when has that ever stopped him?

Rowan took a step forward, and Primordial Memory began to hurriedly retreat. He gestured towards the Archon in the distance, and the mighty war machine created to annihilate dimensions in a single blow came to life.

A hatch rippled open in its chest, and another Legion of Angels emerged from it. The lowest among them was Powers.

Three hundred thousand Powers, four hundred Cherubims, and twelve Seraphims.

This number of angels might be nothing but a drop in the ocean compared to the previous Legion that Rowan had slaughtered, but the power they held was a hundred times greater than the last legion, and that was not all.

Leading them were seven new Celestial Creators, and among them was Nariel, the Flame of Purity.

Primordial Memory gestured violently, “kill him.”

No words were exchanged, like jackals surrounding a dying prey, they circled Rowan before they descended on him, but this mortal had the sharpest teeth in existence.

His strength was failing, and so Rowan leaned towards skill. His defense was gone, and so it meant he could not be touched; if he did, he would fall. He could no longer kill with a single blow, and so it meant he had to deliver a hundred blows in the time he had previously used to produce a single slash.

Rowan fought with skills that had never been seen from the creation of Reality, and would never be seen again, because no one could match him.

Angels began to fall, at first in dozens, then in hundreds, as Rowan’s familiarity with his mortal body and fading life began to increase.

Freed from the constraint of planning for the future, Rowan fell into the dance of slaughter, and he began to laugh as his heart opened up, and from his laughter, a song bloomed as Celestial Blood poured like rain around him, and he danced through their number—the end of all things.

“To stand against my might, the pillars of heaven have revealed themselves to be cowards.

The heavens have torn open, and Celestials descend on me with wrathful might.

With golden spears and crowns so tall,

Yet here I stand, unbowed.”

Rowan fought and killed but his body was broken and despite his skill, a Celestial Creator’s Axe fell on his shoulder, carving it to the bone, but Rowan did not allow him the satisfaction of knowing he could touch him as the Destroyer plunged into the Celestial Creator’s skull before coming down and cutting him in two.

This was the first injury he had taken, but he had already killed two Celestial Creators and tens of thousands of Angels.

Withstanding the explosion emerging from their death, Rowan weaves through the Legion like a dancer, dealing death with every passing moment. Still, his second injury came not long after as a Celestial Creator’s lash lashed around his ankle, snapping tendons.

Rowan settled his weight on a single leg and continued his dance of death, as the third Celestial Creator fell, the fourth, and the fifth.

“See as the heavens cry before my blade.

I am but dust— but dust can rise!

With mortal hands I shall split the heavens,

And carve my name in your soul. Never to be forgotten.

I will not die on my back, and if I fall, the Primordials must dig my grave with their bare hands!”

Rowan was blind; his right eye was gone, lost to a Creator’s dagger. Yet still, he fought. Blindness meant nothing to him when the battle song was all he needed to perceive his surroundings. They fell, one by one, and no matter how much blood he had lost, there were barely a few drops left in his body. Rowan did not stop moving, and he did not stop killing.

He did not need sight to see the fear that had filled the hearts of those who battled against him.

As a seventh-dimensional immortal, killing an entire Celestial Legion with seven Creators was almost impossible to comprehend. It left them in awe, but now broken and beaten and in the body of a mortal, he could still not be stopped.

’What sort of man is this?’

If a part of them could understand an immortal killing them, nothing in the minds of the memories of these Celestials could understand how a mortal could be doing what Rowan was performing.

And his song, oh, how it burned the soul.

They wanted to shout in fury, but shame and shock bound their lips.

Apollyon, the Destroyer, sang alongside its master. It was no longer a sword—it had never been a sword but destruction taken shape.

It became a starved beast feasting on divine flesh. Every kill made it heavier, every fallen angel’s essence was absorbed by its hungry edge.

The reason Rowan could remain on his feet for so long was because the Destroyer fed him as much vitality as it could, and although it was a thing of destruction, not meant to nurture life. Apollyon began to evolve just to keep its master alive as long as possible so that he could kill every back-stabbing Primordial!

The last Celestial Creator fell, and the battlefield went silent. Rowan could hear the Archon walking towards him. Every step it took shook the space around them.

He heard the voice of Primordial Memory, and Rowan smiled when he heard the hint of barely controlled fury.

“You cannot win. The Will of the Primordials is eternal.”

Rowan coughed blood, swaying on his feet,

“No,” he admitted, “but I can make you all remember my name for all eternity. For me, that is enough.”

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