The Primordial Record

Chapter 1722: The Arbor Mentis

Rowan did not know how long he stared at the skies, but when he came to, he noticed that his soul was changing. His skin was turning into gold, and his thoughts into amber.

“So, this is the danger of this place.”

The Sanctum of Eternity offered a serene heaven where Rowan could slowly comprehend its mysteries outside the pressure of time. For him, it should have been perfect, but there was a hidden danger here.

If he spent too long in this place, he would become a part of it. His skin would slowly merge with the walls, his thoughts would ascend into the skies to become colors, and he would forget everything—pain, doubt, time…

Rowan smiled, “The Sanctum of Eternity promises peace, but it erases growth. Interesting, but this is not the end of my road.”

With a burst of Will that shook his mind away from lethargy and cracked his golden skin, Rowan’s spirit erupted with a roar,

“I Am!”

“I Create!”

“I Endure!”

The entire sanctum began to shake, and as if his body transformed into a blackhole, everything here began to sink into his soul.

This situation was similar to acquiring Space Origin, but unlike when he collected only a small portion of the essence in the first layer of the void so he could avoid the attention of Primordial Chaos, Rowan was not going to hold back here.

Inside this timeless space, Rowan’s soul fed deeply and began to grow.

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Primordial Life had been staring at the flames without blinking for the past eight months; his aura was withdrawn, and if not for the movement of his chest as he breathed the life essence of all beings inside of Reality, he would appear like a statue made of flesh.

Seed alternated between watching the Primordial and looking at the depths of the universes that Primordial Life had gathered, and so he was not fully aware when it happened, but in the distance, precisely at the crown of the gathered universes, a tree had appeared.

It began as a sapling, but he had missed its early growth; Seed did not need to see it to know the significance of this growing tree.

Rooted not in soil but in the sands of forgotten dreams, its trunk was neither wood nor stone, but resembled a vortex of captured starlight and solidified mist, shot through with the veins of liquid mercury that pulsed with a soft, inner luminescence.

Seed was not aware when he stood up, desiring to walk towards the tree, but a formless power held him in place, and he could only observe the tree even as he distractedly fought to free himself.

Its roots were impossible to trace fully, even with the profound sight of a Throne. Some plunge into bubbling springs of primal chaos, drawing up raw potential and reaching depths that no other power should he able to touch in the lower realms.

Others thread through the libraries of the lower and higher realms, absorbing whispered knowledge and touching the realm of Memory in the Great Labyrinth.

Still more anchored themselves in the hearts of sleeping children or the silent studios of artists and mages, feeding on pure, unformed wonder. They glow faintly, carrying rivers of liquid inspiration – shimmering like molten opal –up into the massive trunk.

But it is the branches that defy comprehension. They stretch into infinity, not upwards, but outwards and sideways, piercing the veils between realities. Each branch forks endlessly, not into twigs, but into scenes, concepts, and entire nascent dimensions.

One limb might bear a forest of crystalline trees singing in a harmonic wind; another might drip with cities built on the backs of floating leviathans.

Seed thought he saw a branch heavy with glowing fruits that contain perfect, miniature symphonies, or another where shadows detach themselves and dance intricate ballets.

The leaves were not mere foliage. They were living canvases.

Some are maps of undiscovered continents, constantly redrawing coastlines. Others are pages torn from unwritten books, the text shimmering and changing with every breeze.

Many are windows, offering fleeting glimpses into impossible realms: oceans of liquid light, mountains of singing crystal, deserts where time flows backwards. In one of those visions, he would have sworn that he saw Rowan as a mortal man with a red blade plunged in his forehead. He blinked, and the vision was gone.

The leaves with the sound of a thousand untold stories, half-remembered melodies, and the soft hum of pure potential.

He was the Tree of Wrath, and so Seed was able to see many things that a dimensional being of his level would not be able to comprehend. This knowledge, even as it enraptured him, was slowly drawing him into the depths of despair.

This growing tree had a hold of his mind, and it would not let go of it, and Seed had to endure an infusion of knowledge that could not be denied.

A small part of his consciousness screamed, “No more,” and then it was silenced.

Sap, thick and luminous as captured dawn, oozes from fissures in the shifting bark. Where it drips onto the quicksilver sand below, it does not soak into Reality; somehow, Seed found that aspect of it to be strange.

Instead, it crystallizes instantly into shimmering geodes that crack open to reveal tiny, perfect sculptures of ideas– a knight’s helmet made of moonlight, a clockwork songbird, a ship with sails woven from storm clouds.

Seed was enraptured, and even the voice of Primordial Life beside him was not enough to break him from this sight.

“Ah, the Arbor Mentis, the Worldheart Sapling, the Tree of Imagining. When she told me she could resurrect this power from the depths our hunger had taken it to, I thought it was impossible, yet again I stand corrected.”

Seed had exhausted his power trying to fight against the influence that held him bound, but the words of Primordial Life carried endless vitality, and he turned towards the Primordial, shock and denial filling his eyes.

Primordial Life, seeing this look in the stoic face of his Throne, began to laugh. It was the first time Seed thought this being was truly showing him his heart, and like he had always feared, the laughter of Primordial Life was a thing of horror.

“You silly child, by now you should have understood that despite all our powers, we are burdened with a great curse… We cannot create!”

Primordial Life gestured grandly around him. Seed noticed that he, alongside the tree as well as the rest of Reality, was included in the sweep of Primordial Life’s arm,

“You, and that tree, were not made from this Reality. Sure, your roots draw nutrients from its blood, but your core came from another place much older than this Reality. I am the Primordial of Life child, not a tree. This shape I took from my stomach, implanted it inside of Reality to drag its Origin of Life into my leaves so I can slowly consume it in the darkness of Limbo.”

Seed did not know when he fell on his knees, but a pressure had been rising since the tree appeared, and it had grown to the extent that it was crushing him to the earth. Primordial Life did not seem to care about his plight, as his focus was on the tree alone. Seed gasped,

“Why are you telling me all of this, Vorthas?”

Primordial Life flinched as he heard that name, and he smiled,

“Because she won the bet, that bitch won, and the Arbor Mentis is hers. She wants to become the Primordial of Imagination!”