The Grand Archives of the Primordial Academy had always been a sanctuary of knowledge. Rows upon rows of ancient tomes lined the towering shelves, their spines worn by the touch of countless seekers before. The air carried a scent of parchment and aged ink, mingling with the quiet hum of the arcane sigils that maintained the integrity of this sacred repository. Within these halls, the newly admitted students embarked on their next trial—to strengthen their Will.
Every Prime needed an unshakable Will. Without it, power was a fleeting illusion, bound to collapse under the weight of true adversity. The instructors had gathered the students and imparted upon them the three paths of strengthening one's Will:
1. Affirmation of Existence—A Prime must acknowledge and accept themselves fully. Their joys, their regrets, their pain—everything that made them who they were. Only by standing firm in their own existence could they withstand the trials of the cosmos.
2. Affirmation of Goals—Power must have purpose. A goal served as a beacon, guiding a Prime forward. Without it, strength was directionless, a storm with no destination.
3. Affirmation of Morals—A Prime's path was determined by their beliefs. Whether righteous or cruel, their morals defined their actions and shaped their destiny. Though the Primordial academy always prioritised Good morals and ethics.
The students dispersed, each retreating into their mindscape, a mental construct where they would face themselves. Question themselves. And face themselves.
---
Gary sat cross-legged in the corner of the hall, eyes closed as he meditated. In his mindscape, a golden sun loomed above him, radiating a comforting warmth. He could hear the echoes of his lineage—his noble birth, the expectations weighing upon his shoulders.
"Who am I?" he asked himself.
For so long, he had been defined by others—the pride of his House, the shining beacon of his family's future. But here, in the depths of his mind, he confronted the truth. Confronted himself. I am not just a son of nobility. I am not just a tool for my family's ambitions. I am more than that
His Primal Origin Light flared, growing stronger as he affirmed his existence beyond the legacy forced upon him.
---
Luna, the transcendent, found herself in a vast field of silver flowers under a moonlit sky. She had always lived for others—her people, her duty, her bloodline. And yet, standing here in solitude, she questioned it all.
"What do I desire?" she whispered.
The memory of childhood dreams surfaced—of roaming beyond the walls of her homeland, of forging a path for herself rather than walking one already set. For the first time, she allowed herself to acknowledge these desires. Her light blossomed, intertwining with the moon's glow, as if the cosmos itself acknowledged her newfound resolve.
---
Dawn, however, searched for something else. Answers.
Despite his awakening, despite the Primal Origin Light that flickered within him, a void gnawed at his very core. He did not seek strength through Will alone—he sought understanding. Of himself, of his nature, of the twisted remnants that clung to him like an unseen shroud.
He had scoured the archives for hours, flipping through scrolls on celestial resonance, texts on the Way of Primes, and records of past prodigies. None spoke of what he wished to find.
His fingers trailed across the spines of ancient tomes as he moved deeper into the archive's labyrinth. And then—
He felt a presence. He turned around and he saw an old man sitting at a low desk, scribbling meticulously on parchment. The man's presence was unassuming, his posture relaxed. His hair was silver-white, his robes simple and worn with age. To anyone else, he seemed to be just an assistant, tending to the records of forgotten ages.
Dawn barely spared him a glance, assuming him to be an assistant or a caretaker. With a polite nod, he was about to continue his search when the old man's voice drifted through the silence.
"You seem troubled, young one."
Dawn paused.
For the first time in hours, he looked up, meeting the old man's gaze. There was nothing extraordinary about him—no imposing aura, no celestial pressure—but something about his eyes held a depth that made Dawn hesitate.
"I am merely searching for something," Dawn replied carefully.
The old man smiled knowingly. "And yet, you do not know what it is you seek."
Dawn's fingers curled into his palm. He did not answer immediately. The weight in his chest grew heavier. Here, within the sacred halls of the Grand Archives, surrounded by endless knowledge, the truth could not be ignored.
"I..." Dawn exhaled slowly. "I am unlike the others."
The old man leaned back, folding his hands. "Go on."
Dawn hesitated, but the words came forth, unbidden, raw. "My body, my mind, my very origin—it is fractured. Twisted. The others strengthen their Wills through conviction, through belief. I have no such luxury. I remember the flames, the ruin. The war. I remember standing amidst the ashes, not as a survivor... but as something else entirely."
The Grand Archives felt still, as if the very air itself had paused to listen.
"The path ahead is shrouded. My Primal Origin Light flickers, but it is not like the others'. It is not merely light—it is also the absence of it. A devouring force. A thing that should not be."
Dawn met the old man's eyes. "How do I walk a path forward when I do not know if I was ever meant to exist in the first place?"
Silence.
The old man observed him, his expression unreadable. Something flickered in his gaze—understanding? Curiosity? A glimmer of something deeper?
And then—
"You—"
To be Continued....