Primordial Man Novels & Stories

The man tried frantically to escape the moment his primordial spirit was released. "Where do you think you're going?" There was a sinister look in Chase's eye. He grabbed at the man while his primordial spirit was trapped in Chase's grip. There was no way of escaping. The man's primordial spirit form was a small, short, and skinny old man. His skin was heavily wrinkled and looked particularly awful. He looked sharp yet ugly. He looked at Chase with hate and viciousness. Clenching his teeth, the man roared, "I'm the core disciple of the Sacred Sect. You'll suffer a horrible end if you dare kill me."

"Do you believe your father when he said primordial werewolves are extinct?" "I do not know. He might be right or wrong. The book says Mikazi killed them all. But my ancestors killed Mikazi. He was a Primordial by absorbing another Primordial's power. Although my father said the last primordial, a woman died not up to thirty years ago if I should take into consideration the number of years since he told me." When Aden said the last Primordial who died not up to thirty years ago. I knew he was talking about my mother.

The Primordial clutches its own head as if something inside it is speaking. “You introduce… contradiction,” it murmurs. Its eyes, those terrible, infinite eyes—shift. And then they focus on me. On me. Recognition flares. “You,” it says slowly. “You are origin.” The ground beneath my feet vanishes. I fall and the Primordial reaches down toward me with a hand that is no longer entirely alien. Its fingers are reshaping. Becoming smaller. Becoming human. And just before they close around me, the world goes completely, violently white.

Landry stroked his beard, smiling as he explained, “The inscriptions born with the Human Race are called the Human Race’s primitive inscriptions. They are referred to as the upper half. The lower half is the creation of the Primogenitor of the Human Race after he comprehended the Human Race’s primitive inscriptions during his birth. Since the time difference with the birth of the Human Race’s primitive inscriptions is not significant, it’s called the lower half.” “Who is the Primogenitor of the Human Race? Who was the first human born in the Anceralos?” James asked. “It was a lot. When other races were born, perhaps only one living being appeared, but the Human Race is different. Upon their

“Run.” The silver Source’s voice cut through chaos. Not a suggestion. A command wrapped in terror Lena had never heard from it before. She didn’t run. Couldn’t. Her eyes locked on the thing fighting the third Source. It was massive. Shapeless. Like darkness given weight. Where it touched, reality broke. Cracked. Bled something that wasn’t blood. “What is that?” she demanded. “The Primal. The thing that birthed all Sources. The original hunger from which all others descended.” The silver Source pulled her backward. “It should be sleeping. Has been sleeping for millennia. But we woke it. By changing. By evolving. By becoming something other than pure appetite.”

"What are you talking about? The Primordial is destroyed. I destroyed it myself. I watched it die." Elara's smile widened, cruel and knowing. "You destroyed a vessel, Elena. A shell. The Primordial was never a single being. It was a force, a concept, an idea that existed before the first light, before the first whisper of creation. It cannot be destroyed. It can only be transferred from one vessel to another. And it has found its new home." Elena's blood ran cold, her mind racing with dread. "Transferred to what? To whom? Tell me exactly what you mean."

Liora hesitated for a moment, her luminous form rippling with a cascade of colors before answering, "Yes, and more. It is not just a force but an entity, one that predates even the Song of the Ancients." Niamh, her fingers unconsciously fidgeting with a pendant she wore—a keepsake from her guardian initiation—asked, "An entity? One that's powerful enough to merge realms?" Liora's eyes, pools of ancient wisdom, locked onto Niamh's. "It is known as The Primordial. A being from a time when realms were but a singular existence. It seeks to return all to that state of oneness, but not in harmony. In dominance."

My hands trembled as I shielded my face. “Who are you?” a male voice called, sharp and cautious. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The only sound that escaped me was the shallow catch of my breath. As they drew nearer, shapes began to emerge from the shadows: five, maybe ten people, mostly men, their bodies tall and imposing. Their torches cast long, flickering shadows that danced across the clearing. They looked human but something was off. Their clothing was crude but intentional—rough hides stitched into tunics, leather boots wrapped with strips, belts jingling with trinkets. It looked primitive, caveman-like, yet oddly modern.

“Who are they?” Darius’s gaze darkened. “They are called the Primordials. Beings that existed long before your kind, long before the first werewolf. They are the source of true power, the origin of darkness itself. And they have been awakened by the surge of magic in Fiona’s bloodline.” My breath caught in my throat. Primordials? The origin of darkness? It sounded like something out of a nightmare, but the way Darius spoke made it clear that he believed every word.

“They may be awakening something dormant—something ancestral.” “Like what?” Tora whispered. Dr. Mira met her gaze. “There were rumors… old records buried in dragon sanctums and Lycan lore. About a time before the species separated. Of beings that were not one or the other, but both—perfectly balanced. Some called them ‘Primals.’” Jax’s eyes widened. “Are you saying our baby is…?” “I’m saying,” Mira interrupted gently, “you might be carrying the first true Primal to be born in thousands of years.”