The scent of the other Primordial's scattered essences was still sharp in the void, a cocktail of ruptured power and stunned pride. But Rowan's gaze, cold and absolute, fixed upon a single point of imploding darkness—the wound in reality where the Primordial Demon had been slammed downward.
The Great Abyss awaited, and his perception swept through it, knowing he was inside the Primordial Demon yet understanding that the Origin of Demon was inside the body that he had just punched.
With a glance, he understood the general situation of the Abyss. It was a thousand levels of absolute negation, a spiral of anti-creation designed to erode and consume all that was. It was the perfect prison for hope, for light, for meaning.
This would be a grand tomb for the demon.
Rowan did not dive or descend. He simply stepped off the edge of existence and allowed gravity—not the physical force, but the gravitational pull of his own focused vengeance—to draw him down.
