The Primordial Record - Chapter 1814: To Hold All Of Reality In Your Mind

Chapter 1814: To Hold All Of Reality In Your Mind

The gate of the Palace of Time opened in silence, and Vyraak stepped through. He took a couple of steps forward, and although he heard no sound or did not feel any breeze blowing, he knew the gate behind him had firmly closed shut.

At first, there was darkness all around him. Vyraak gasped as the Red Moonlight Blade exploded in radiance, and the Dragon God collapsed to his knees as information that should tear his soul to nothing streamed past him.

His consciousness was suppressed to a needlepoint, and he was dimly aware that if not for the blade in his hand filtering away nearly all the information he was receiving, then he should be dead.

Vyraak did not know how long he was on his knees, in this place; time did not seem to have any meaning, and a part of him silently died when a realization bloomed inside his consciousness that he had remained on his knees for many trillions of years; however, time remained frozen.

Warmth poured from the blade in his hand, and Vyraak could feel his connection with the blade growing deeper; it was as if a part of the weapon that had not been allowed to him before had opened up to him, giving him new eyes.

He gasped as he realized that he was kneeling on the solidified echoes of yesterday. This understanding was alien to his consciousness, yet still familiar when he looked at his surroundings through the blade, using it as his eyes.

Vast, crystalline pillars rose around him, and within their depths swirled the ghostly images of empires rising and falling, of stars being born and exhaling their last light in the space of a single heartbeat.

The air thrummed with a silent symphony, the collective whisper of every moment that had ever been, each note a life, a decision, a turning point in the gigantic web that defied all explanation.

Vyraak felt a pull from the blade as if there was something in the depths of the palace that called for it. The Dragon God knew at this moment that he could let the blade go and his task was completed, but there was no way he was going to be leaving his partner behind and allowing it to face whatever challenges were ahead.

“You have taken me through death before; surely you can take me through madness.”

Pushing himself to stand, Vyraak began to walk through a palace where no Old One should.

He moved through galleries of frozen instants. Here, a single tear hung in the air like a perfect sphere containing the grief of a universe. There, a laugh from a forgotten god echoed in a loop, its joy now rendered meaningless by repetition.

Vyraak witnessed libraries whose shelves were filled not with books, instead the very experiences of beings, bound in leather that seemed made of living memory. To touch one would be to live a lifetime in a second.

There were whispers emerging from this library, and he knew that these whispers were the voices of ages, compressed from the beginning of this Reality to its end.

The sheer, crushing weight of all this history, all this accumulated existence, pressed upon his soul. His own ten thousand years felt like a single grain of sand on a shore that stretched into infinity.

He knew that if he were to remain in this library and learn, the extent of his growth would reach heights he could not imagine, but there was still more for him to discover.

This was not a place of power as he understood it. Vyraak could understand the brute force of a storm or the consuming heat of a star.

What this was is the power of context; it was the profound, terrifying knowledge that every act, no matter how grand or trivial, was merely a stitch in a fabric whose pattern was too vast to comprehend.

The arrogance of his godhood, already battered by the Arena, crumbled to dust within these halls as he understood that he was not a player on the stage; he was a flicker of shadow upon its boards.

A great archway, framed by the intertwined serpents of causality and chance, loomed ahead. Passing through it, the ambient whisper of the ages faded, replaced by a profound, focused silence.

The chamber beyond was domed, with a ceiling that was a perfect, swirling model of many dimensions, its countless stars slowly turning overhead like fireflies. And in the center of this chamber stood a table.

It was not large so much as it was all-encompassing. Its surface was made from a material of deep, polished obsidian that seemed to drink the light, and etched on the table was a map?

Vyraak was not sure because to call this etching a map was to call the ocean a puddle.

“IT IS HERE… THE MAP IS HERE!” A voice that was not his own slammed into Vyraak’s consciousness, and his mind, still reeling from the journey, was flooded with a knowledge not his own. He understood. He was looking upon Reality, not as a collection of worlds or dimensions, but as a single, living, breathing entity.

The familiar planes and spheres were there, but they were merely the visible peaks of mountains whose roots plunged into layers of existence he had never dreamed of.

He saw the Land of Miracles, which held the Tree of Life —a nexus of vibrant, photosynthetic consciousness, or so he had first thought. But this place was more; it was the body of Primordial Life itself.

Heaven opened up for him as he viewed the Celestial Domain. A realm that he knew he had to reach to find his revenge.

The Great Labyrinth, usually hidden from sight, could be clearly seen here in all its glory. It’s shape like a massive inverted golden triangle.

He saw the bleeding scar where the Celestial Arena and the Great Abyss had been, a wound that pulsed with a sickly, unstable energy. And he saw, with a lurch of his heart, the tiny, flickering ember of Sanctuary, a desperate spark against the encroaching dark.

But beyond these, the map revealed deeper truths. He saw ley lines of Fate and Destiny, thick cords of probability that bound worlds together. He saw the broken body of Time stitched across all of Reality, and its nexus was this palace.

And at the very edges of the map, the skin of Reality itself, he saw the pressure points—the places where the seven frozen faces from the void pressed inward. Here, the map was not clear. It was blurred, fractured, as if the concept of “location” itself was breaking down under the strain. Thin, spider-webbed cracks radiated from these points, creeping inward like frost on a windowpane.

All of this knowledge was new and should have driven him mad, but the warmth of the blade persisted in his consciousness, showing him truths that should not be known.

He was looking at a Singularity. This map was not an object of power, but the ultimate expression of knowledge. To hold this map was to hold Reality in your mind.

Lost in the terrifying grandeur of it all, Vyraak did not hear the approach. There was no footfall, no displacement of air.

A voice, quiet yet filling the immense silence, spoke from the shadows pooled at the edge of the chamber. It was a voice of deep weariness, a voice that had counted the fall of every leaf in every autumn since the first dawn.

“How long would you remain in the shadows, Rowan?”

The voice was not addressed to him. Vyraak froze, his form tensing. The Red Moonlight Blade at his side gave a soft, almost imperceptible pulse, a recognition.

From a deeper pool of shadow, his shadow, a figure emerged. He did not step, so much as the shadows receded from Vyraak, granting him presence.

Recognition flooded across Vyraak’s mind. It was the same man from the Arena, if you can still call him a man. This was Rowan, the Killer of Primordials, standing in the heart of the domain of time.

His eyes, which had blazed with the light of dying stars during his speech, now held the deep, patient darkness of the void between them. He was looking past Vyraak, towards the source of the first voice.

The figure detached itself from the darkness near the great table. This one was different. Where Rowan was a river of potential, this being was a still, deep lake. His form was indistinct, shrouded in robes the color of a forgotten twilight. An air of profound, unsettling stillness emanated from him, like the silence of a decision perpetually postponed. He was Xyris, the Silent, Primordial Time.

“Like your sister, I have come to appreciate the view from the shadows, as it offers a unique perspective, Xyris,” Rowan finally replied, his voice smooth, devoid of emotion, before glancing at the map in front of him, “One sees the whole board, sees the pieces move.”

Primordial Time seemed surprised at Rowan’s words; perhaps it was the familiarity that he used in calling his name. He recalled that for a moment, he and Rowan had been one.

Rowan’s gaze was unwavering. “The board is cracking, Xyris. The pieces are aware of the players. Hiding will not unbreak the glass.”

“And your grand entrance has helped?” Xyris gestured with a languid hand, a motion that seemed to encompass the entire map. “You shattered the old order. A necessary purge, perhaps. But in its place, you have sown chaos and fear. You have given the cracks a focal point. Your very presence is a tremor they can now follow; the end is inevitable at this point.”

“They were always coming,” Rowan said, his voice flat, final. “The Primordials’ stagnant peace was a dam of rot and rust. It was collapsing on its own. I merely chose the manner of its fall.”

“You chose a manner that rang a dinner bell,” Xyris countered softly. He finally turned his head, and his eyes, the colour of tarnished silver, fell upon Vyraak. They held no anger for the dragon god’s intrusion into his domain, only a faint, distant curiosity, as a mathematician might regard an unexpected variable. “And you have brought a new piece to the board. A piece with a will of its own. How… unpredictable.”