Eldrithor, Primordial Chaos did not need any forge, not when Existence itself and all the madness that it held was the best forge for him. He went to the center of this blackened scar, and he spun around like a black hole, his wings tearing the fabrics of this cursed place into a vortex of improbability.
Every rotation he made pulled in fragnts of shattered causality from the past and the probable future. He reached into tilines where Asteroath had lived, futures where the Primordials had lost, and pasts where they had never betrayed. He was chaos, and aning and truths ant nothing to him.
Eldrithor always had the potential to be the strongest of the Ancient Primordials, but there had never truly been a chance for him to shine, not when he was beset by madness, but those scales had fallen away, and now he could bring out the aning of chaos.
Every Ancient Primordial had millions of similar Origin Forces inside their bodies; even though all of these Origin Forces were the sa, they were not exact. This caused minor friction between all these forces, and usually led to a small diminishing in power, but Primordial Chaos did not have this weakness because chaos fed on these clashes and strengthened him. If not for the special talent of Nyxara, then Eldrithor had the potential of being the strongest and the most dangerous of all the Primordials.
From this chaos, he created, through the vortex of improbability, the Paradox Behemoths. They ca to life with a scream that would have brought weaker Primordials to the brink of madness.
These monstrosities defied form. One might appear as a colossal humanoid with six arms, each ending in a different weapon, then in the next heartbeat beco a swarm of locusts that had always been locusts.
Their bodies looped through impossible states: burning yet frozen, alive yet rotting, victorious yet defeated. Laughing, Primordial Chaos ford a massive realm and pulled in life from wherever he could find and unleashed his Paradox Behemoths on them to create a scene of terrible slaughter.
These creatures held the twisted madness of chaos, and they killed in ways that sickened the heart.
They could force their victims into a recursive paradox, where their death had already happened, yet they would still live it again and again, each cycle becoming more agonizing and brutal.
A single Behemoth could unravel armies by existing near them. Soldiers forgot which side they fought for; weapons turned on their wielders; ti looped until veterans aged backward into infants who died of old age in monts.
Eldrithor created thousands, each one a walking wound in logic. They road in nomadic storms, laughing the cruel laughter of their creator.
A single Behemoth could unravel armies by existing near them. Soldiers forgot which side they fought for; weapons turned on their wielders; ti looped until veterans aged backward into infants who died of old age in monts.
Eldrithor created thousands, each one a walking wound in logic. They road in nomadic storms, laughing the cruel laughter of their creator.
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Xyris worked in silence; he knew they could not equal the creating power of Eos or the endless armies of Death, but they had unique powers that could still tilt the board to their favor.
His purple bones creaked as he wove strands of stolen ti into vast hourglasses the size of mountains. The sand within was not silica but compressed lifespans that ca from every second of existence the Primordials had denied worlds.
While it was true that the Primordials could not create, they could bend the rules in ways it was never ant to bend, and the fact that they were using the power of End could no longer be denied.
Xyris chuckled, End was just a tool, and they were right to use it in this manner. From all of this stolen ti poured out his creation, the Chronophages.
They were serpentine horrors, with bodies composed of interlocking gears and hourglass segnts, their chanical heads holding a maw of spinning clock-hands that sliced through ti itself.
There was no need to summon helpless lives to be fed into the maws of his creation, but Xyris could not help but summon countless lives for his creation to feed upon.
It was the right practice for the ti when they would devour the Origin Realms.
Sent into a realm filled with life, the Chronophages began their slaughter. They did not bite flesh, instead they fed on the past of their prey. One strike would age a victim to dust in an instant, or trap them in infancy forever, minds aware but bodies helpless. Worse, they could rewind wounds, forcing enemies to relive fatal blows endlessly.
The largest Chronophages beca Eternal Loops, towering constructs that enclosed battlefields in temporal bubbles where ti ran backward during the day and forward at night, grinding armies into paradoxes of birth and death.
Xyris birthed legions that slithered across the blackened scar like rivers of rusting tal, devouring possibility itself.
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Elgorath, Primordial mory, did not need to summon any army, instead he rembered them and twisted those mories into nightmares.
He raised a mausoleum of golden bone, the shape of a gigantic pyramid; each brick in his mausoleum was a compressed mory of horror that he had carefully selected.
Elgorath took the mory of the first murder in this Existence, the last scream of a dying Reality, even his brother, Asteroath's final words… "I don't understand."
No mories were safe from the Primordial, and he made sure that everything he collected was the worst of everything.
From this archive of pain, he summoned the morivores.
These were spectral giants, bodies woven from translucent golden threads that pulsed with stolen recollections. Their eyes were mirrors reflecting every shaful act the viewer had ever committed. A morivore did not fight; it forced confrontation with mory.
It was a simple thing for Elgorath to create mories of countless realms and place his creation inside them, and he watched them commit havoc.
Victims relived their worst sins in perfect clarity, bodies paralyzed as minds shattered under guilt. The creature then consud the mory, leaving the victim a hollow shell that wandered mindlessly until it starved.
The most potent morivores beca Eidolon Legions, armies of golden ghosts wearing the faces of every betrayed soul, forcing entire civilizations to rember their own genocides until they tore themselves apart.
Elgorath's creations numbered in the uncountable, for mory has no limit.
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Vorthas, Primordial Life, fully accepting the corruption of End, planted seeds of green fire across the blackened scar's edges, and where they took root, forests of bone and flesh erupted.
These were the Necroflores. They were trees with trunks of fused skeletons, leaves of living skin that scread when wind touched them, fruit that dripped blood and induced uncontrollable growth. Eating one caused tumors to bloom, limbs multiplying, organs duplicating until the victim burst into a new tree.
The forests birthed Verdant Reavers, hulking plant-beasts with thorny vines for veins, heads crowned with blooming skulls. They spread spores that turned soil into flesh-mud, drowning armies in living rot. The largest beca World-Eaters, mobile jungles that uprooted themselves to march, consuming landscapes and birthing more of their kind.
Vorthas's domain beca a green hell, where life was the ultimate curse.
All the Ancient Primordials were busy creating their armies, but they knew that this was simply the first step; there was more work to do.
Ti beca aningless as the six worked, and finally their creation was complete, and they gathered at the center of the blackened scar.
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