Primordial Man Novels & Stories

He took a deep breath, preparing himself to tell the most forbidden of legends, a tale that was the obsession of beings as powerful as Lord Dragon. "Long ago, at the dawn of the age of cultivation," he began, his voice now sounding like that of an ancient priest reciting from a sacred text, "There was an existence whose power surpassed all the levels we know. He was not a Sage, not a Saint, not even a Celestial. He was the first and only one to ever reach the absolute pinnacle of the cultivation path—the Primordial Realm." The name itself seemed to possess power, making the very air around them vibrate.

The voice slithers through the ruins, wrapping around my spine, curling like smoke through the cracks in my soul. Did you really think you could unmake me? That tearing their chains would silence me? The air freezes. The light flickers. And from the wound in the sky, it steps through. Not a shadow. Not a man. A god. No—worse than that. The Primordial. Its shape is a lie. A thousand forms at once, shifting like smoke and silk, eyes blooming and blinking and burning out in an endless cycle. Its smile is carved from the bones of night.

We were not copies—we were the master originals. Suddenly, a signal appeared on the shuttle’s radar. A massive ship was heading toward us. A message came from it— "Welcome Prototype-01 and 02. We have been waiting for you for a long time. Our God, the ‘Primordial Father,’ is ready to destroy the entire galaxy to bring you back." I looked at Lukas. If we are the original humans, then who is this ‘Primordial Father’? And why does he want us back? As a fireball launched from the pursuing ship, I realized— the battle is not over. It has only just begun.

—lighting up like a dying city. Only the Firstborn remained standing. He turned toward the dust-choked doorway, his arms open as if welcoming an old friend. A man stepped through the debris. He was ancient, but not frail. He wore a suit of charcoal silk that seemed to absorb the flickering candlelight of the villa. His eyes were not obsidian, nor hazel. They were a flat, matte gray—the color of a dead sea. This was Silas Vane. The Primordial.

"So I just don't shift." The analyzer chimed. She crossed to it, read the results. Her breath caught. "What?" he said. "Damon." She looked up, eyes wide. "Your gene. It's not just ancient." "Don't tell me I'm a demon." Worse. "You're a *primal*." The word meant nothing to him. The fear in her voice meant everything. "Aurelia." He took her wrist, gentle. "What's a primal?" "It's the first wolf. The original. The one all others descend from. They were the ones who *made* the Moon Bond. Who set the rules of matehood." She swallowed. "If you wake it up. If you fully express. You don't just become a wolf."

This was entropy in its most primal state, the original chaos from which all forms of life, consciousness, and meaning had fought desperately to emerge like flowers blooming in the heart of a cosmic storm. Kai Jr., his young face etched with the weight of knowledge, called it the Primordial Chaos. "It's the raw entropy from which everything we are, everything we've ever been, struggled to escape," he explained, his voice barely above a whisper. "For eternities beyond counting, it has slumbered undisturbed in the deepest foundations of reality, content to remain dormant." But our light, the brilliant harmony we had painstakingly created across species and realms had inadvertently awakened som

I said, “but you no longer remember why it was written. You call me an anomaly because I do not fit within the cages you built. You call me dangerous because I did not forget what you wanted buried.” One of the ancients stepped forward, his form massive, his presence pressing like a storm. “Then speak it,” he said. “What do you claim we buried?” I exhaled slowly. “The truth,” I said. “About the beginning.” The chamber stilled. “Before packs,” I continued, my voice steady, “before councils, before titles and bloodlines, there were Primordials. Wolves born not of hierarchy, but of purpose. Keepers, not rulers. Forces shaped by the land itself, bound to it, not above it.”

“Which means at some point, Primordials truly took on the form of humans.” His gaze sweeps across all three of us, and like a bullet, the implication of his words hit us square in the belly. “Oh, shit…” Rakim breathes. Shane exhales, his voice edged with certainty. “Dreadborn is the last living Primordial. And that means there’s a man beneath the monster." "If we find the man, we stop the wolf.”

Gigi cursed under her breath. It had been afflicted for some time, and its appearances had begun to mutate into a non-gender-specific sludge. Its eyes were darkish, sunken eyes that were expressionless, and a bloated abdomen. Its skin drapes loosely on its body, and even though it was naked, the rotten was so malformed that I couldn't determine if it was a man or a woman. All I knew was that it had spotted us and that it was ravenous.

"It's old. And it's been trapped for a long time. I think... I think it's in pain." Something flickered in Eron's eyes. Recognition maybe, or understanding. "The Primordial was the first thing the Moon created," he said. "Before the races, before the world as it exists now. It was part of her, the shadow to her light. When she decided she didn't want it anymore, she didn't destroy it. She couldn't. So she cut it out of herself and buried it." "In my mother. And then in me." "Yes." He paused. "The Moon didn't cage the Primordial because it was evil. She caged it because she was afraid of what she'd have to become if she accepted it."