The Primordial Record - Chapter 2133 Opening The Gates of Doom

Chapter 2133  Opening The Gates of Doom

The blackened scar in Limbo pulsed like an infected wound that was on the verge of explosion as the unholy labors of the six corrupted Ancient Primordials continued. Even without their presence, the creation and expansion of their unholy armies continued without ceasing, as the scar, the location of their cursed birthplace, was filled with the Wills of all the Ancient Primordials, and these creatures were born knowing nothing but pain and death and the desire to inflict that pain on all life.

The problem was that at this point in time, Existence was seemingly empty, and the only place in it that was filled with life was the Origin Realms.

And in the minds of these foul creatures, the Origin Realms blazed like the sun, and they could feel its light stabbing into their senses like a hot knife drilling into the brain, causing them anguish, anger, and a profound desire to consume that light.

All of this was deliberately designed by the Ancient Primordials to breed an attitude of untold hatred towards the Origin Realms and all of its denizens, and only their adamantite grip caused the growing army to remain inside the blackened scar.

Then, like a hammer struck directly to their brains, the order to attack the source of their pain and hunger arrived without warning, and chaos began to ripple across their ranks.

The sky above the blackened scar was filled with sickly green auroras writhing above the agitated hosts like dying nerves as the emotions of desolation arising from their endless number were beginning to tear Existence apart.

The ever-expanding armies, each a grotesque mockery of creation, forged from stolen essence, devoured hope, and the bitter dregs of End, coalesced into a single, apocalyptic host under the call of their master, and space itself recoiled, and reality frayed at the seams as trillions upon trillions of monstrosities gathered under their masters’ command.

The sky that had protected Existence from this army was broken in two with a loud crash that resounded all over Existence and caused the armies of the Origin Realms to go on alert. For a hundred million years, they had been preparing for this day.

If the arrangement had gone in the direction of the Agreement made, then they should have had at least three billion years to prepare, but they all knew that this Agreement was just a paper that could not cover the flames of greed and maliciousness from the Ancient Primordials, and a hundred million years was even more time than some of their projections had given them.

For a moment, the expansion of Existence slowed down, as if it were observing the conflict that was about to occur that would decide its fate.

Nyxara’s Soulwraiths formed the vanguard of this unholy host. They resembled an endless sea of translucent black mist that swallowed light.

 Their faceless vortices churned with the echoes of every betrayal ever suffered, their silent presence a suffocating weight that would make even the hardened guardians of the Origin Realms falter. They were the first outside the gates, and they began to transform into black mist, causing their presence to vanish as behind them slithered and scuttled Xylos’s Abyssal Brood.

These were writhing carpets of wolf-sized insectile horrors, their venom-dripping mandibles promising visions of infinite treachery.

When they merged into Brood Titans, the ground itself screamed as colossal amalgamations of screaming mouths and burrowing corruption rose like living mountains of despair.

Eldrithor’s Paradox Behemoths defied sight and sanity. One moment a towering six-armed colossus wielding weapons of fractured fate, the next a locust swarm that had always been a swarm, their forms looping through states of victory and defeat, fire and ice, existence and oblivion. Their laughter was cruel and recursive, and it echoed across the scar, unraveling logic wherever it touched.

Soldiers in distant realms would suddenly forget their oaths, their weapons turning inward, their own deaths replaying in endless, agonizing cycles.

Xyris’s Chronophages coiled like rivers of rusting brass and shattered glass, serpentine bodies segmented by mountain-sized hourglasses filled with stolen lifespans. Their maws of spinning clock-hands sliced not flesh but chronology itself, aging warriors to dust in heartbeats, trapping immortals in eternal infancy, or forcing fatal wounds to rewind and replay forever.

 The largest among them, the Eternal Loops, could erect temporal prisons across entire battlefields, grinding armies between forward and backward time until nothing remained but paradoxes of birth, agony, and death.

Elgorath’s Memorivores drifted as golden specters, their translucent threads pulsing with the worst recollections of existence, the first murder, the final scream of a Reality, even Asteroath’s bewildered last words.

Their mirror-eyes forced victims to confront every shame, every sin, paralyzing body and mind until the soul hollowed out and the creature fed.

The mightiest of them had evolved into Eidolon Legions, armies of golden ghosts wearing the faces of the betrayed, compelling entire civilizations to relive their own atrocities until self-destruction was inevitable.

At the edges of the gathering storm, if one could really find an edge to this endless army, were Vorthas’s Necroflores that were erupting in verdant blasphemy.

Forests of fused bone and screaming skin, leaves of living flesh that wailed in the wind, blood-dripping fruit that birthed tumors and grotesque overgrowth.

From these cursed groves marched the Verdant Reavers, hulking plant-beasts with thorny-vine veins and skull-crowned heads, spreading spores that transformed earth into living rot.

The greatest became World-Eaters, ambulatory jungles that uprooted themselves to devour landscapes, birthing endless cycles of corrupted life.

This army was a reflection of their creator, as the Soulwraiths whispered surrender, the Brood burrowed into hope, the Paradox Behemoths shattered reason, the Chronophages erased futures, the Memorivores weaponized guilt, and the Necroflores turned existence’s greatest gift into its cruelest curse.

As the corrupted auroras above flared brighter, the host began its inexorable march toward the borders of Limbo, toward the shimmering veils that separated their scar from the luminous expanse of the ten thousand Origin Realms. Ⓔ

The battle to decide the fate of all things began with a suddenness that was unexpected. At this time, there were always at least a few hundred billion combatants fighting in the space above the Origin Realms.