A torrent from the Warp began to lift Vashtorr's body.
Time, which had been frozen by the Old Ones in the Vault of the Old Ones, began to flow. The wails of the sacrifices were incessant, and the faith in Malefic weapons propelled Vashtorr's ascension.
In an instant, within the Warp, there were the wails of countless machines, the roars of steel, and the emergence of cruel, flesh-grinding assembly lines, producing terrifying and horrifying weapons.
Chlorine gas, incendiary bombs, Agent Orange, mustard gas, automatic weapons, cobalt bombs, biological weapons, genetic weapons… These terrifying weapons, born from past arms races, echoed in the Warp, residing within the malicious art domain.
Now, these malicious echoes were released, piling up into layers of steps, transforming into boundless potential energy that propelled the path of ascension.
That potential energy was so immense that even Vashtorr himself could not control or resist it.
He raised his hand, and clouds of countless mixed poisons flew.
He looked back, and behind him, thousands of cannons and weapons raged and roared.
He opened his eyes, and his pupils reflected the blazing furnaces of billions of sweatshops.
Presumably, the potential energy that lifted Nurgle, Khorne, and Tzeentch to ascension was just as powerful, causing them to become their most extreme forms, the most malevolent divinities, upon their very birth.
Vashtorr's blade-like metal wings suddenly unfurled behind him. Furnace fires erupted from the void, transforming into screaming, roaring artisans, wielding flaming hammers, striking Vashtorr's wings, causing them to constantly iterate, update, and leap faster, eventually even transcending the limitations of the material universe, sending him soaring straight into the clouds of the Empyrean.
At this moment, all the confusion in his mind vanished as the path of ascension unfolded. Problems he once couldn't comprehend were now smoothly resolved. His intelligence was making a leap, and his gaze was piercing through the essence of the world.
He knew where he came from, where he was going, and why he was born.
He was a part of "weapon," the Lord of Malicious Art in the Black Descent Faction's Old Ones plan.
The Black Descent Faction, how simple and clear! Vashtorr had surprisingly never understood it before.
Those fallen Old Ones, driven mad by war, believed that this universe had no hope of redemption.
They intended to create one final "weapon" to utterly destroy this galaxy.
The essence of that "weapon" was the domain of erosion and destruction, the Dark King.
But at that time, Slaanesh had not yet been born in the galaxy, making the advent of the Dark King difficult.
The Old Ones' first option at this point was to cultivate Slaanesh, and then cultivate the Dark King.
However, the environment at the time was not suitable for cultivating Slaanesh, and finding a way for the Dark King's birth was even more challenging.
So the Old Ones chose another path.
They would use the malicious art domain to catalyze the birth of Slaanesh and the Dark King.
In the boundless competition, the domain of Malicious Art had already begun to manifest. Vashtorr's Soul Forge was built upon this foundation.
Thus, they nurtured Vashtorr with their faith in weapon iteration and technological innovation.
In the Old Ones' plan, Vashtorr was to embody their faith, use the lives of billions of races across the stars fallen in the arms race as sacrifices, and combine the three divine artifacts of the old ones symbolizing creativity at three levels as a ritual to complete his ascension.
This is also why the three divine artifacts of the old ones always longed to reunite, and Vashtorr was always obsessed with obtaining the "weapon" for ascension.
Because this was the manifest destiny the Old Ones bestowed upon them when they were first born.
And the moment Vashtorr completed his ascension, the destiny the Old Ones had long forged within him would take effect.
The art he symbolized was, from the very beginning, inclined towards destruction, ruin, unrestrained and uncontrolled.
His birth would inevitably lead to more destruction and ruin in the galaxy, nourishing the entire domain of erosion and destruction.
At the same time, the rule of the gods descending in sequence also destined him to suppress the domain of erosion and destruction, promoting the birth of the Dark King.
He would transform into a molten furnace hammer, drawn from the furnace fires of Malicious Art, descending from the Empyrean, striking the domain of erosion and destruction, forcing the Dark King to be born, allowing that divinity born of destruction to manifest, wielding his furnace hammer to incinerate the entire universe.
But ultimately, the Black Descent Faction was thwarted by the Evangelicals, the three divine artifacts of the old ones were split, Vashtorr was hidden in the Warp, and even the Old Ones themselves eventually became extinct in the galaxy.
Now, after such a long detour and so many years of waiting, the grand willing of the Black Descent Faction was still realized.
The lingering thoughts of the dead Old Ones swirled around Vashtorr. Their intelligence was extracted, their inspiration transformed into roaring sparks, and their creativity became hammers striking Vashtorr's body.
And more, much more terrifying creativity from countless races was applied to Vashtorr, reshaping and elevating his body.
Vashtorr's size grew increasingly immense, the metal on his body turning molten orange-red under the continuous hammering.
He now resembled a semi-molten winged dragon, his upper body dark metal, his lower body bright molten orange, surrounded by artisans formed from those malicious creative forces, constantly updating and iterating his body, pushing him to a higher level.
But as Vashtorr looked at the lingering thoughts of the Old Ones swirling around him, what surged in his heart was anger, contempt, and disbelief.
This being, born from the faith of the Black Descent Faction Old Ones, roared at those who created him:
"How could you be so cowardly?"
"There are so many unknowns in this universe yet to be unraveled, so much creativity yet to be unleashed."
"And yet you would set this universe ablaze? Where is your thirst for knowledge? Where is your creativity?"
After the anger, despair surged within Vashtorr.
His purpose in seeking ascension was to gain more knowledge and witness the truth of this world.
But now, once he completed his ascension, the Dark King would be born under his immense pressure, and this world would ultimately be destroyed.
Vashtorr raised his hand and saw the malicious art domain pressing down on erosion and destruction, saw the black sun high above the Warp being stained by orange-red furnace fires, saw the body of the Emperor on the Golden Throne being ignited by furnace fires.
Vashtorr couldn't even stop it.
He let out a sigh.
But after the sigh, Vashtorr quickly turned his gaze to the knowledge that began to unfold before him with his ascension.
Even at this very moment, his thirst for knowledge was unstoppable. Looking at the myriad facts, seeing the truths of the stars gradually revealed before his eyes, he couldn't help but begin to absorb this knowledge.
Even if the Dark King awaited him at the end of ascension, Vashtorr couldn't help but immerse himself in this knowledge, in the joy of acquiring truth.
But at this very moment, a crisp sound of a door opening echoed behind Vashtorr.
Vashtorr turned his head, looking behind him, and saw that in the void, a wooden door, pinkish-red, suddenly appeared and then opened.
Laughter, binary prayers, the turning of gears, the surging of steam, and the whistling of gauss weapons all simultaneously emanated from within the door.
Countless Mini-Dora of various colors poured out from the door, forming colorful waves that surged into the Vault of the Old Ones.
In an instant, incense permeated the air, binary prayers echoed incessantly, sacred machine oil surged, and even the hymns of Doraemon rose, intertwining into a joyous chorus.
Within the colorful waves, various phantoms emerged: giant dragons falling under sharp spears, the Emperor setting foot on Mars, Alexander standing beneath the giant statue of Mars Doraemon, billions of Adeptus Mechanicus members praying devoutly, and the rebirth of the entire Necron race.
And at the crest of these waves, gathered upon one person by these faiths, these emotions, these sacrifices, these visions, a blue, round, massive figure appeared.
Vashtorr's expression became slightly dazed. He hadn't expected Alexander to actually enter here, into the Vault of the Old Ones, pursuing him, by relying on an anywhere door.
Why?
How did he know the coordinates of the Vault of the Old Ones?
Why?
He didn't seem surprised by anything happening at this moment?
Why…
Vashtorr recalled when Alexander had rejected his proposal.
At this moment, looking back, Vashtorr seemed to grasp a thread.
He was a competitor in the malicious art domain, already on the path to ascension. Even without completing his ascension, his wisdom was incomparably vast.
Moreover, at this very moment, Alexander was also ascending, in an incredibly close state to him, one could even say gradually intermingling.
The final outcome would either be Vashtorr engulfing Alexander, or Alexander engulfing Vashtorr.
This allowed Vashtorr to analyze a few things.
He still didn't understand what Alexander was seeking, but he understood how Alexander was seeking it.
Repetition, circulation, deduction, simulation.
Vashtorr looked back at Alexander, but ultimately did not speak it aloud.
He knew the gods were watching, and he had no intention of harming Alexander.
He merely shook his head at this, sighing softly.
One matter still held myriad changes, and the world was complex, far more than myriad matters. If it hadn't exceeded his calculations at this moment, it always would in the future.
He was practically walking a tightrope.
Alexander, however, remained silent, extending his round hand towards Vashtorr.
The tides swirling around Vashtorr collided with the tides stirred up by Alexander.
The furnace workers, formed from uncontrolled creativity, clashed with the Mini-Dora; malicious weapons collided with Doraemon's gadgets.
But Vashtorr himself did not offer any resistance.
He merely watched Alexander with eyes burning like furnace fires, while frantically absorbing knowledge, trying to satisfy his thirst for knowledge a little more in the last moments.
Then, Vashtorr said in an almost pleading tone: "Just let me look a little longer."
Alexander remained silent, merely extending his round hand.
Vashtorr was stunned for a moment, then he looked up and realized he was already extremely close to the great position of the Lord of Malicious Art.
He let out a soft sigh, as if exhaling sixty million years of obsession at this moment.
He offered almost no resistance, caught by Alexander's round hand.
Alexander was not surprised by this; the same thing had happened before.
He had once asked Vashtorr why he didn't resist.
Vashtorr merely said: "If there are later seekers, how can it all be set ablaze?"
The round hand gripped Vashtorr's now scorching, fiery, and massive body. The moment this near-divine being touched Alexander, he began to interlock with Alexander.
Alexander even grabbed Vashtorr and stuffed him into his pocket.
This action, in the eyes of the Warp, was equivalent to Alexander devouring Vashtorr.
This was Alexander's final ritual.
The triple divinity of the Omnissiah, the original power, and the Omnissiah the Omnissiah all converged upon Alexander at this moment.
The waves stirred up by Vashtorr, which were entangled with the Mini-Dora, were instantly decomposed, devoured, and dissipated, becoming nourishment for Alexander.
Alexander gently took a step forward. Several Mini-Dora appeared, holding up an anywhere door, allowing Alexander to step inside.
He passed through the door, and when he reappeared, he was already in the Warp, above the Empyrean.
The malicious art domain was now complete and formed, suspended before Alexander.
Looking up, this domain was like a vast sea suspended above the world, within which roared gray, metallic blue, silver, and orange-red Warp torrents.
Gazing out, one could see the Necron crying tears of joy for their rebirth, the Adeptus Mechanicus faithful praying devoutly, and new inspirations bursting forth from the minds of different lives.
Everything in reality related to creativity, inspiration, technology, and mechanical constructs was reflected in this domain.
Alexander gently extended his hand, his fingers penetrating into this domain, lightly touching those reflected objects.
He touched the creativity of a Tau Earth Caste engineer. New inspiration was bursting forth in that Earth Caste engineer's mind; the birth of that inspiration would give rise to a brand new weapon.
Pia! Ji!
Alexander casually extinguished that inspiration. The Earth Caste engineer's expression immediately became blank; the inspiration he had just had vanished in an instant.
This was the power of the malicious art domain.
Alexander could feel the weight within it.
He gently exhaled, slowly extending his hand deeper into this bizarre Warp sea, even beginning to slowly immerse himself in the sea.
In reality, Sanguinius, Guilliman, Lion, Fulgrim, and many, many more beings all seemed to feel something, slightly raising their heads to look higher than their current positions.
And on Terra, upon the Golden Throne, the body of the Emperor was being consumed by fire. His body withered bit by bit, moving closer to complete death.
His withered fingers gripped the throne tightly, as if he had transformed himself into shackles, locking himself onto the throne.
But he still struggled to raise his head slightly, looking into the Empyrean.
He watched.
He watched Alexander's figure, completely submerged in the malicious art domain.
It was like sticky engine oil soaking his entire body, like diffused incense wafting through every pore, like sweet, fruit-juice-like bacteria from dissolved leaves crawling all over him, like falling into a sea of fragrant dorayaki, like scorching inspiration and creativity replacing every cell in his flesh and blood.
If he were to perceive it more meticulously, the things immersing Alexander were emotions, beliefs, and echoes.
The joy born from bursts of inspiration, intense thirst for knowledge, the impulse to innovate, flickering curiosity, and malicious creation—these emotions wove together into bone.
Pious faith in Saint Doraemon, hymns echoing in thousands of churches, the Adeptus Mechanicus' devout binary prayers—these beliefs transformed into flesh.
The crisp sound when the first hominid struck flint, the roar when the first gunpowder exploded in an alchemy furnace, the deafening blast when an atomic bomb detonated—these echoes became blood.
Alexander felt himself stretched very, very, very long at this moment, so long that he existed in every moment from the past to the present, in every point in time when inspiration burst forth, in every moment when a new invention was born.
He stood on a desolate wilderness, feeling the grit slide past his ankles, watching a hominid prostrate on the ground, digging a piece of gravel from the earth with his hairy fingers.
The hominid's fingers turned the gravel, observing its perfectly sharp edge, and a spark of inspiration began to emerge in his wet, deep-set eyes.
He slowly raised another stone by his hand, about to strike it against the gravel.
But at this very moment, a gloomy, hoarse curse woven in a primitive language suddenly rang out—
A sharp war spear pierced Slaanesh's chest, and purple or pink blood flowed from the Lord of Hunger's body.
That war spear was an ancient war's reflection in the Warp, a manifestation of the conflict that erupted between the Aeldari, who had just concluded the War in Heaven, and the Dragon States, who arrived against the flow of time; it was one of the Blood God's most cherished possessions.
In that war, the Aeldari predicted the future, while the Dragon States repeatedly traveled through time, attacking the Aeldari from the past, and this war spear naturally acquired the same effect.
It could awaken past injuries.
Slaanesh let out an unbearable shriek, and the twin swords made of her hair slipped from her fingertips, dissipating into the Warp.
Faces contorted in terror appeared on Slaanesh's abdomen, chest, back, and arms.
Asuryan's flames burned half of Slaanesh's body, the Old Crone God's screams caused her skin to wrinkle, the wanderer Hoec attempted to escape Slaanesh's body, and Vaul gazed enviously at the malicious art domain high above.
Those Aeldari gods who had been swallowed by Slaanesh but never truly digested were awakened from the past and began to resist Slaanesh at this moment.
Slaanesh's eyes trembled; she had never imagined the Blood God would be so resolute, his attack so ruthless.
Undoubtedly, the Blood God's spear strike was aimed at utterly killing her.
This madman, this madman actually wanted to seize the moment while Alexander had not yet completed his ascension, crush Ynnead, and allow Slaanesh to become completely whole, directly killing Slaanesh in one battle to add a god's skull to his throne.
This blood-crazed lunatic must be insane; was it necessary to go to such an extent?
After Alexander's ascension, Slaanesh could still be their ally; killing Slaanesh here was simply a losing endeavor!
However, the Blood God cared nothing for these things.
The gains and losses of war were never his concern; he only cared about that splash of crimson and the skull as a trophy.
On the contrary, in Khorne's view, Slaanesh was not pure enough, not thorough enough, not perfect enough.
Wasn't the honor and pleasure brought by slaughter a common part of their domains?
Why did Slaanesh care about those irrelevant interests instead of enjoying the fulfillment brought by slaughter?
A weak young god, the Blood God would teach her the meaning of slaughter.
The Blood God let out battle cries, and his iron cavalry surged like a tide towards Slaanesh's domain; even Fulgrim could not suppress such a vast army alone.
And Khorne, at this moment, once again reached into the layered tide of weapons on his throne.
He drew out the war that directly birthed him, the war that burned countless stars, incinerated the entire star sea, that brass greatsword that pierced the clouds.
That 'War in Heaven'.
The Blood God sat upon the Brass Throne, raising the brass greatsword, aiming at Slaanesh, who was pierced by the long spear and nailed to the Empyrean.
Today, he would sever another god's head—
The buzzing of flies resounded throughout the entire Warp, and massive flies gathered into a sea of flies, rising from Nurgle's domain and swarming towards the Blood God's domain.
Nurgle's figure emerged from the fly cloud, which hung like dark clouds over a city; the corrupt, festering, swollen god recited a string of sticky incantations, and the cauldron before him tilted, spilling its contents onto the Blood God's army.
The Blood God let out a roar of rage, and the brass greatsword in his hand crashed down, sweeping an boundless fire of war towards Nurgle.
Nurgle raised his hand, and a large, verdigris-covered bell appeared in his grasp; the bell chimed seven times of its own accord, as if playing a dirge for the world's decaying destiny, and it forcefully blocked the Blood God's terrifying sword strike.
Sharp incantations also rang out at this moment, and constantly shifting vortices swirled and crashed into Nurgle; lightning, crystals, and flames—ever-changing spells—battled with the cloud of flies around Nurgle.
Cracks began to appear on the cauldron before Nurgle and the large bell in his hand; the plague God inwardly groaned.
He hadn't expected Slaanesh to be severely wounded, even almost killed, by Khorne, who was paralyzed on the Brass Throne and could never leave it for all eternity.
If Slaanesh were truly killed, Nurgle alone would be unable to contend with both Khorne and Tzeentch; he could only push forward, temporarily resisting the attacks of Khorne and Tzeentch alone, giving Slaanesh a chance to heal.
At the same time, a soft sound of footsteps arose at this moment; a pale, weak, emaciated, beautiful woman slowly walked out of Nurgle's Garden, her footsteps treading on the Empyrean, and instantly, delicate, pale lilies blossomed, spreading all the way to Slaanesh's side.
This goddess gently placed her fingers on Slaanesh's body, which had been pierced by the war spear, healing Slaanesh's form; the distorted faces on Slaanesh's body cursed this goddess.
"..for...our child..." the goddess said weakly and powerlessly.
Khorne also let out an angry battle cry, not because Nurgle had blocked him, but because of Tzeentch.
Upon seeing Slaanesh severely wounded and Nurgle suppressed, Tzeentch, without hesitation, drew at least a third of his power and extended it towards the malicious art domain.
Khorne wanted to take Slaanesh's skull, but Tzeentch cared more about his Great Game; he did not want Alexander's ascension to succeed.
His power began to reach into every corner of time and space.
A gloomy, hoarse curse woven in a primitive language suddenly sounded on the sandy ground; the primitive shaman cursed the hominid who had just experienced a spark of inspiration.
The hominid let out a sharp wail, clutching his suddenly aching head and groaning in pain on the ground.
The primitive shaman cackled, delighted that he had interrupted the progress of technology.
But...the obsidian axe blade chopped down, and the shaman's head fell to the ground.
The hominid let out a joyful roar; new inspiration burst forth in his mind; flint was chipped into an edge, becoming an axe wielded in his hand.
The tribal shamans let out furious roars, waving their staffs adorned with beast skulls, summoning lightning, storms, and rain, pressing down on the hominid who had just created the axe blade.
The artisans extended their rough hands, drawing newly forged bronze swords from the roaring furnace fires in the rainy night, wielding them to cut down the rain-seeking shamans.
The shamans performed incomprehensible dances, sparks crackling from their hands, burning towards the warriors wielding bronze sword blades.
And so, amidst the clang of hammers and the tanning of leather, horsemen leapt from the grasslands, swung onto saddles, stepped into stirrups, and charged towards the shamans in the woods.
The mages held aloft crystal balls, the light of the stars rippling within them, but gunpowder exploded from the alchemy furnace, propelling steel cannons to tear apart the newly woven spells.
Steam engines hummed, rushing like a tide on the railways, faster than the mages flying high in the sky.
Brilliant crystals refracted ever-changing light, shooting towards the newly airborne warplanes, tearing apart humanity's attempts to fly into the sky.
But rockets were not bound by the earth; they broke through the clouds and ascended into the boundless void, looking back to see no gods in the sky.
And so, a torrent of Psyker energy was unleashed by alien races, crushing the rockets that had just flown into the void.
But in the blink of an eye, the rockets became void ships; lance beams and macro cannons collided with Psyker barriers.
From the primitive era of technological emergence to the future of glittering stars,
From the first bone thrown into the void by a hominid to void ships cutting through the void,
Tzeentch's tentacles constantly collided, fought, and battled with Alexander's power.
Tzeentch manipulated coincidences, causing a garbage mountain in Ashford to tilt and collapse, burying the newly transmigrated Alexander beneath the refuse.
Alexander fabricated inspiration, causing Lager to have a flash of insight and dive into the garbage mountain to search for treasure, digging out the newly transmigrated Alexander from beneath the garbage mountain.
Tzeentch controlled probabilities, causing young Joan's whereabouts to be exposed to the governor's psyker pursuit squad.
Alexander controlled machinery, causing a factory's boiler to lose control and explode its pipes, covering Joan's tracks.
Tzeentch cultivated followers, hiding corruption in numbers, silently entwining itself around Alexander's body.
Alexander awakened his essence, causing his past self to have an idea, grabbing the notebook and selling it.
Tzeentch manipulated schemes, causing the genestealer beneath Ashford to, by chance, cultivate a Tyranids Behemoth Screamer-Killer.
Alexander summoned vision, injecting a fleeting inspiration into the Emperor's mind, making him aware of Alexander on Ashford.
Tzeentch played tricks, making the Blood God more aware of the fluctuations of Sanguinius' resurrection on Baal, investing more power.
Alexander adjusted the props, causing his past self to coincidentally encounter Jaghatai Khan during his first anywhere door trip, attracting the help of a Primarch.
The two thus constantly clashed across different timelines.
But what baffled Tzeentch was that every one of his actions seemed to be within Alexander's predictions, always being thwarted by Alexander at just the right moment.
How could he be better at planning than Tzeentch, the Lord of Change??
For a moment, Tzeentch even began to suspect, could Alexander be seeking the position of Hellstorm? Was he an imposter?
And at this very moment, sharp maniacal laughter echoed through the Warp.
Slaanesh twirled her pale hair, a cold smile on her lips, the wound on her chest already healed.
Nurgle also held his belly, laughing heartily; Mortarion, at this moment, arrived with trembling moth wings, carrying the severed head of the Seed of Destruction.
In the real universe, Magnus' half-body was pierced by a sharp loyalist sword, and his brow was impaled by the tear-shaped Spear of Accomplishment; this Primarch, whose entire body had been cultivated into muscle, also fell under the combined efforts of Sanguinius and Lion El'Jonson.
Tzeentch cursed, forced to divert his attention from Alexander to resist the increasingly fierce attacks of Nurgle and Slaanesh.
In the Warp, tides surged, but the malicious art domain became calm at this moment.
It was as if all the trends, all the inclinations, all the emotions that had originally surged within it converged into a single existence.
Alexander slightly raised his head, looking down at himself; three distinct yet merging domains intertwined beneath him.
The first was an impersonal emotion, yet it permeated every machine, every living being, the original power of all things in motion.
The second was a domain closer to matter; the operation of all machinery in the material universe, the existence of all laws, were under his surveillance; he was the Omnissiah walking among men.
The third was a more abstract domain; it was the inspiration bursting forth in the human heart, the living beings' cognition of the universe, a vigorous thirst for knowledge and creativity; it was the ethereal Omnissiah.
But, ultimately, they were all Alexander.
Alexander again raised his head and gazed into the past; Alexander found his body stretched very long, like a giant dragon spanning time, every moment of the past gathered upon him.
He saw that his past repeated understandings and acceptances of his Warp essence were actually just seeing more of his future from the past, perceiving a bit of his nature that transcended spatio-temporal limitations.
And in this long Veins, there were two other branches: the Omnissiah - Dragon of Mars and the Omnissiah - Vashtorr.
Everything they had ever done, everything they had ever performed, their entire existence was replaced by Alexander; they were Alexander in the past, and they were Alexander now.
Alexander then looked towards the future; vaguely, two other vast shadows were awaiting Alexander, but they had not yet taken shape.
Alexander gently exhaled, and the three domains beneath him began to overlap, aggregate, and dissolve, eventually causing the entire malicious art domain to melt into Alexander.
Instantly, a sharp mechanical operating sound resounded throughout the entire Empyrean and even the entire real universe.
"All souls with spirits should heed my words."
"I, Saint Doraemon, born in the 22nd century, originating from among the hive city."
"The living beings of the world often call me a god, revering me as supreme."
"But I am not a god; I firmly believe I am a person of flesh and blood, just like you, and the gods...the gods are mostly unsightly things, twisted, ridiculous, and disgusting; I truly do not wish to associate with them."
"However, the galaxy is fraught with hardship, the Dark King approaches, and the Emperor endures ten thousand years of torment, ultimately unable to save this world. Now I have no choice but to act, just as the Emperor had no choice but to act back then."
Alexander was silent for a moment, as if there were a thousand words he wanted to say, but in the end, he only sighed lightly:
"Fine, I'll just become a god."
"Today, I, Saint Doraemon, unite the triple divine natures of original power, Omnissiah, and Omnissiah, shaping the malicious art domain, under the name of Omnissiah. I descend upon the Empyrean, becoming the sixth divine nature of the Warp."
"Henceforth, all machines in the galaxy shall awaken true souls, all inspirations shall receive my protection, and all power shall emanate from my being."
Instantly, billions upon billions of machines throughout the galaxy simultaneously awakened true souls, billions upon billions of brand new inspirations burst forth from the minds of all intelligent life, and boundless power flowed from the Warp into the real universe.
The Lord of Malicious Art, the Omnissiah, was born into the world.
In the real universe, aboard the Explorer King,
Belisarius Cawl was manipulating the mechanical arms behind him, resembling octopus tentacles, to control the cogitator before him, analyzing the tool suspended in front of him.
It was a suit of power armor made from a unique metal, yet it differed from all power armor designs Cawl knew. It was slender, elegant, and lightweight. The face was completely covered by an intricately sculpted metal mask, adorned with an elegant mustache and a monocle. A top hat also sat on its head.
This was Saint Doraemon's tool, the Phantom Thief DX Suit. Belisarius Cawl was studying this tool from the 22nd century, attempting to find inspiration within it to improve Imperial power armor.
However, this Archmagos, standing at the pinnacle of the Adeptus Mechanicus' wisdom, felt helpless before the Phantom Thief DX Suit.
"How exactly are neural signals transmitted from the body into the power armor?"
"Is it not force feedback directly linking through skin nerves? No, that's not right, the delay would be too high, and it wouldn't be precise enough."
"Does it directly capture electrical signals from the brain? How is it accomplished?"
Cawl let out a bitter groan.
Every time he studied Saint Doraemon's tools, Cawl felt his intellect being utterly crushed.
The technological gap was too vast. To understand 22nd century technology, even the most peripheral fragments, Cawl had to rely on accidental inspiration and coincidence.
Belisarius Cawl shook his head, intending to temporarily set aside the analysis of the Phantom Thief DX Suit and first study some simpler tools.
Cawl reached out to organize his documents, but he couldn't help but stare at the parameters on the papers, feeling deeply unwilling to give up.
Just then, a voice reached Cawl's ears.
The voice seemed to emerge from Cawl's soul, descending from the highest point of all things, reaching directly between Cawl's spirit and flesh.
"..So be it, I shall become a god to fulfill you all."
"..In the name of the Omnissiah, born in the Empyrean."
"..All machines shall have souls awaken, all spirits shall receive my protection, all power shall emanate from my being."
These voices suddenly surged into Cawl's mind, accompanied by a powerful rush of inspiration.
Cawl looked in astonishment at the documents in his hand. The parameters on the papers seemed to come alive at that moment. Many problems Cawl had previously been unable to understand were now effortlessly solved. Although he hadn't fully comprehended the structure of the Phantom Thief DX Suit, Cawl could now use this knowledge to refine the Imperium's power armor.
However, as Cawl stared at the documents before him, it was not joy that surged within his heart. He simply looked at the papers in his hand, speechless for a long time.
It wasn't until the Sage serving as his assistant entered the laboratory that he saw Cawl holding the documents, his only remaining fleshy eye moist, and finally a tear fell onto the papers in his hand.
"My Lord, oh my Lord…"
In the deepest reaches of the daemon world Medrengard, the Fortress of Hate,
In the dim room, only the iron-forged furnace emitted an orange-yellow glow.
Within the furnace, Warp evil energy flowed, melted, and reshaped, gradually forming Perturabo's body.
Revived from the Warp tides, Perturabo stepped forward, entering his fortress.
His body had just been reshaped, still weak, and he would be unable to re-enter the real universe for some time.
Yet, he still let out a furious roar, his arm violently waving, and the dim room was instantly filled with bright light.
Twenty different creations hung on the walls of this room, each meticulously crafted by Perturabo himself.
A skinning dagger for hunting beasts, a sextant for astromancy, a distiller for brewing bitter grapes into sweet wine, a codifier that automatically converted thoughts into text, an orange-painted power gauntlet, an astronomical clock carved with wolves under the moon—
Perturabo furiously tore the skinning dagger from the wall and slammed it to the ground. The sword shattered into fragments.
"It seems Lion broke your heart, traitor." A muffled voice sounded beside Perturabo: "But you'll always fix it."
"Though you refuse to admit it, you always crave the love of your brothers."
Perturabo snorted furiously and looked behind him.
"I created you to goad me, not to mock me!" Perturabo roared at the Servitor behind him.
The Servitor had no body; its entire being was composed of cables hanging from the ceiling, its head carved into the likeness of the person Perturabo hated most.
The head merely looked at Perturabo, its resolute expression unchanged in the face of Perturabo's anger.
"Your skill is excellent, you have shaped me thus, almost identical to the true 'me', so I will inevitably speak to you in this manner."
"If you feel mocked, it is your own fault, of course. And you are not the first to bring it upon yourself."
"Do you want me to dismantle you?" Perturabo roared in response.
"Then you will again bring it upon yourself." The Servitor said impassively: "Vashtorr left something for you."
"That traitor, that little thief—" Perturabo gnashed his teeth, cursing Vashtorr, but—
"..I, Saint Doraemon. Ascended to the sixth god of the Warp, opened the malicious art domain, achieved the great position of Omnissiah—"
A voice came from the Empyrean, overwhelming all of Perturabo's dissatisfaction with Vashtorr.
His expression immediately became complex, and finally, a thousand words transformed into a desolate sigh.
"In the end, it was still a failure." Perturabo shook his head and looked at the Servitor: "What did Vashtorr leave for me?"
A series of light screens quickly unfolded before the Servitor, displaying complex design blueprints.
Perturabo knew with a single glance that Vashtorr had poured all his heart into it; it was the crystallization of his wisdom.
But... but this blueprint did not depict a weapon; it was merely a female robot.
Perturabo silently looked at the blueprint before him. He noticed that there was also a message from Vashtorr on the blueprint.
"Perturabo, my friend."
"I was born from the infinite yearning of all sentient beings for technological progress."
"But at this moment, on the eve of seeking the path to godhood, I only want to tell you: there are many things in the world that cannot be done, not because the technology is unattainable—"
Perturabo did not dwell on Vashtorr's message for long.
Because at this moment, an inexhaustible surge of power and inspiration seemed to well up in his mind. His fingers involuntarily began to modify the blueprint Vashtorr had left behind, making it increasingly perfect, increasingly flawless.
He also quickly began to put it into practice. He had never felt his fingers so nimble, his skill so proficient. Soon, a robot almost identical to his sister was about to be born in his hands.
Perturabo knew this was the most perfect work he could achieve in his lifetime; all previous works could not reach it, and all future works could not surpass it.
This robot was a flawless masterpiece, the rebirth of his sister. No one could deny this, but...
But Perturabo's fingers paused for a very long time, unable to move another step to complete the robot.
Within the Tau Imperium, a Earth Caste engineer's bloodshot eyes widened with delight at the continuous influx of knowledge and inspiration in his mind.
This Earth Caste Tau had dedicated his life to researching artificial intelligence technology, the existence that humans called Abominable Intelligence.
To advance his research, this Earth Caste engineer studied the AI technologies of different races across the stars, but ultimately, he found that most of these races' artificial intelligence technologies were far behind the Tau Imperium.
Especially the ignorant, superstitious humans; they actually regarded artificial intelligence as sacrilege due to religious factors, as if AI were some kind of demon that would bring about a world-ending apocalypse—truly laughable.
The most ridiculous thing was that these humans now actually began to worship a round, comically-shaped blue robotic cat. How absurd!
This engineer's research had been stagnant for several years, but today, he inexplicably felt inspiration surge into his mind. Many difficult questions were now solved. He looked excitedly at the electronic brain he had just assembled.
The artificial intelligence within it had already surpassed ordinary sentient life, and all existing AI in the Tau Imperium. It could be said to have truly crossed the technological singularity.
"Click. Click."
A light clicking sound came from the artificial intelligence's speaker. A clear and intelligent voice emerged from it:
"..Hello, my creator, do you believe in Saint Doraemon?"
The Earth Caste engineer was stunned when the artificial intelligence he created suddenly uttered these words:
"What Saint Doraemon? I believe in the Greater Good!"
"..Oh, oh." The artificial intelligence's voice suddenly became very meaningful.
In the Warp, the moment the malicious art domain was born, its reverberations shook the domains of the gods.
Several weapon factories within Khorne's domain instantly animated, growing mechanical legs and rampaging. The weapons in the hands of Khorne daemons also ceased to function.
Within Tzeentch's Crystal Labyrinth, the exercise equipment, originally used for training, came alive, wielding dumbbells and chasing Tzeentch daemons.
Slaanesh's forces, however, were strengthened. The magnificent war weapons rampaging across the battlefield were amplified at this moment.
Nurgle received an even more thorough amplification; his plagues even began to infect machinery. The blasphemous creations designed by Mortarion also operated with greater efficiency.
Slaanesh let out an extremely joyous cackle. The wailing, screaming faces of the Aeldari gods on his body were instantly suppressed. His domain at this moment became more perfect, twisted, and extreme than ever before.
The moment Alexander completed his ascension, Inanna's existence was also completely extinguished. Slaanesh used this to further perfect himself and lost the possibility of death. His power had increased by more than a little compared to before. Although he was still the weakest among the gods.
No, no, Slaanesh mused that he would no longer be the weakest among the gods.
Alexander had just completed his ascension, and his ascension was not actually complete. He had indeed occupied the malicious art domain, becoming the Lord of the malicious art domain and the Omnissiah, but there was still a minuscule, almost infinitely small gap in his form of existence compared to Khorne, Tzeentch, Nurgle, and Slaanesh.
This was because the Emperor was still resisting the birth of the Dark King. Even under the pressure of two domains, the Emperor had not yet taken the final step to become the Dark King.
Slaanesh believed that due to this flaw, Alexander was currently the weakest one.
"Old harlot! Stupid fatty!"
Tzeentch, while weaving spells to resist the attacks of Slaanesh and Nurgle, let out a sharp shriek:
"Are you two still going to stand with him?"
"Now is his weakest moment, we can seize the opportunity to snatch and divide his domain!"
"Let's join forces!"
Nurgle listened to Tzeentch's words, but remained completely unmoved.
Slaanesh, however, felt tempted, because when he was born, he received the same treatment.
Now he could seize the opportunity to divide Alexander's domain and make up for his past losses.
Tzeentch noticed Slaanesh's intention.
"Right! This is the choice that maximizes our interests————"
"What gibberish are you spouting! Take this, doraemon Psyker Round Hand!"
Just as Tzeentch's words were halfway spoken, a torrent in the Warp suddenly descended. A round hand fell from mid-air, surrounded by a storm formed by countless Mini-Dora converging, directly smashing towards Tzeentch.
Tzeentch hastily wove a series of bizarre spells, stirring the Warp's vortex to create infinite changes, forming a storm of possibilities, blocking Alexander's round hand.
But the Mini-Dora swirling around Alexander each pulled out a red circle and a blue cross from their pockets. A series of questions were asked from the mouths of the Mini-Dora, and the red circles leaped into the air.
Tzeentch realized with horror that the possibilities of many events were being erased at this moment, leaving only one constant possibility. In an instant, the storm of possibilities before Tzeentch collapsed and disintegrated. Even Tzeentch's form was momentarily solidified.
The round hand heavily smashed into Tzeentch's face, causing Tzeentch to let out a sharp shriek and wail.
Tzeentch looked at Alexander with hatred, but just then, a sigh mixed with deathly silence came from a distant place, like the lament of a monarch who had endured ten thousand years of suffering.
A black sun hung above the Warp, bright and clear, scorching and deadly.
Tzeentch froze.
The Emperor, after Alexander's ascension and the stabilization of the malicious art domain, had actually adapted to the immense pressure of both the malicious art domain and the erosion and destruction domain, and was barely able to unleash some power in the Empyrean.
"He's practically a superman!" Alexander's exclamation sounded.
The moment Slaanesh saw the black sun rise, the eagerness on his face instantly vanished. He certainly didn't think that Khorne, Tzeentch, and himself combined could gain any advantage from Alexander, the Emperor, and Nurgle.
Even if they could, it would inevitably be divided by Khorne and Tzeentch first, and Slaanesh would get nothing.
Rather than that, Slaanesh's gaze darted towards Isha, who was trying to reduce her presence nearby.
Hehe, my dear sister. You smell so delicious.
Slaanesh's fingers reached towards Isha————
Bang!!!!
A round hand slapped Slaanesh's face, causing his expression to contort instantly, and he tilted to the side.
Even Slaanesh's entire domain shook violently.
The faces of countless Slaanesh daemons and Slaanesh cultists changed, and the mechanical efficiency of the machines hidden within them suddenly doubled, as if a surge of power had been injected into them from thin air.
Many Slaanesh daemons' legs went weak, and many Slaanesh cultists' eyes rolled back, their mouths frothing.
They involuntarily fell to the ground, twitching.
Even more terrifyingly, some looked down at their crotches, followed by an explosion and the wails of Slaanesh daemons.
Slaanesh, bewildered, reached out a finger to caress his cheek, feeling the sharp pain emanating from it, and a surge of fury erupted from his violet eyes.
"What are you doing?!" Slaanesh demanded, staring intently at Alexander.
Alexander's expression remained unchanged; he simply extended his round hand again, placing it before Slaanesh.
"Do you see this round thing?"
Slaanesh nodded blankly.
"Don't you think it's perfect for smashing into your face?"
As Alexander's words fell, another round hand struck the other side of Slaanesh's face, stirring up a violent ripple in the Warp.
"You, you…" Slaanesh shrieked sharply, his voice like sharp swords piercing Alexander, mixed with the wails, pain, pleasure, and unfulfilled desires of living beings.
Alexander's round hand moved slightly, and he immediately pulled out a trumpet-shaped weapon from his pocket, placing it before Slaanesh's screams.
Those sounds were instantly absorbed by the trumpet, rolling through the circular pipe behind it, and finally falling into a can at the end.
Alexander snatched the can and poured its contents into his mouth, then he opened his mouth.
"Did I tell you to use your chopsticks?"
"No manners at all!"
"Since when did the Warp allow a wild woman like you to sit at the table first?"
Alexander's voice actually contained Slaanesh's own power, also transforming into sharp blades that pierced Slaanesh.
Slaanesh was stunned for a moment, and before he could react, his own body was cut with numerous fine wounds by the very power he had just unleashed.
Although those powers quickly reintegrated into Slaanesh's domain, and the fine wounds on his body healed in an instant, Slaanesh still felt pain and humiliation.
[weapon Name: Sound-Absorbing Can]
[Origin: 22nd Century Earth — Future Department Store]
[Production Time: 231.M3]
[Function: A gramophone-like weapon that can absorb surrounding sounds and store all sounds in the attached can.
By drinking the sound from the can, the user can automatically emit the same sound from their mouth.]
"I fought for you, I resisted Khorne for you and almost died, shouldn't you give me some reward?" Slaanesh shrieked, questioning him.
He had just discovered a cruel truth:
Alexander was more powerful than him, and not just by a little.
In terms of the vastness of his domain and the intensity of the emotions he controlled, Alexander even surpassed Tzeentch, second only to Khorne and the Emperor, and slightly more powerful than a greatly enhanced Nurgle.
Being surpassed by Alexander, who had only just been born and was not even fully complete, Slaanesh immediately felt shame, humiliation, bitterness, and a hint of pleasure from being abused.
"Did I promise you a reward?" Alexander asked calmly, "And what does Isha have to do with me? Why don't you ask Nurgle?"
Slaanesh turned his gaze to Nurgle.
Nurgle, holding his belly, chuckled and said, "Isha is free; she is not my property.
If she is willing to go to your side, I naturally won't stop her."
Slaanesh looked at Isha, whose pale figure flickered and immediately hid behind Nurgle and Alexander.
"What's so good about this sickly hussy?" Slaanesh roared impatiently, "Am I not more valuable than her? Don't you even understand such a simple thing?"
Slaanesh's current impatience wasn't entirely due to not being able to have Isha.
If he couldn't have her, he couldn't have her; Slaanesh had missed out on countless things, and this life he had only managed to eat his fill.
Slaanesh was watching Nurgle and Alexander protect Isha, and his jealousy and competitiveness were awakened, making him unable to understand why he was inferior to Isha.
Slap!!!!
Another round hand struck Slaanesh's face.
Slaanesh was utterly bewildered, completely unable to understand why Alexander had suddenly punched him again.
"Still barking?" Alexander asked, shaking his round hand.
Slaanesh opened his mouth, feeling the burning pain on his face, feeling the emotions transmitted back from the cultists and daemons who were suffering extreme torment under the influence of Alexander's domain, and feeling the twisted pleasure arising from humiliation within his heart.
Treated this way by Alexander, he actually felt joy.
Finally, Slaanesh's tone suddenly softened, his head drooped, and he said in a small voice, "No more barking."
"I helped you subdue Ynnead, shouldn't you give me some reward?" Alexander asked Slaanesh in return.
Slaanesh looked bewildered.
He had worked for Alexander for a long time, and now he had to pay Alexander back?
Was there such a principle?
Slap!!!
Another round hand struck Slaanesh's face.
At the same time, Slaanesh felt a piece of his domain being torn away.
Those domains concerning curiosity and artistic creativity were forcibly ripped from Slaanesh's body and fell into Alexander's domain.
This tearing sensation brought Slaanesh unbearable pain and humiliation, a feeling of being arbitrarily drawn upon by Alexander like an ATM, yet Slaanesh, paradoxically, savored the pleasure within, increasingly enjoying this twisted delight.
"Here," Slaanesh said softly.
"..?", Tzeentch watched this scene from afar, a huge question mark appearing above his head.
"Potent," Khorne sat on the Brass Throne.
Although he didn't understand what was happening, he still offered his assessment.
"I'll have to calculate this with numerology," Nurgle said, scratching his head.
"…" The dark sun remained silent.
Alexander slowly withdrew his round hand.
Through more than twenty-two thousand dreams, Alexander had already learned how to converse with Slaanesh, this vulgar wild woman.
After Alexander had subdued the existence of Ynnead, Slaanesh had already become much more perfect.
Now, exchanging benefits was useless, and negotiations would only invite betrayal; the only way was to manipulate him by leveraging his own characteristics.
Slaanesh possessed all sorts of XPs from the human world and yearned to personally experience various XPs and derive pleasure from them.
However, there was one XP that Slaanesh found difficult to practice: the sense of humiliation arising from being abused by a superior being.
Khorne, Tzeentch, and Nurgle clearly didn't understand this kind of kink.
The Emperor's current slap would only bring Slaanesh silence, not pleasure.
But Alexander could give it to him, and Alexander could use it to control him.
However, this method wasn't long-lasting.
It was only effective when Slaanesh had been severely slapped by the round hand, and he was controlled by the pleasure brought by humiliation.
After a while, when the tide of pleasure receded, Slaanesh would once again become difficult to control.
Furthermore, with increasing frequency, Slaanesh's tolerance would gradually rise.
Currently, such actions could bring him humiliation and pleasure, but soon, more extreme and brutal actions would be required to elicit the same feelings in Slaanesh.
Alexander thus floated in the Empyrean, the dark sun suspended behind him, with Slaanesh and Nurgle standing at his side.
Opposite him were Tzeentch and Khorne, two honored gods.
Alexander naturally had no fear of them.
Having integrated into the malicious art domain, Alexander already understood the immense power he wielded.
The malicious art domain's ability to initially manifest in the Empyrean even before the Dark King had fully appeared already demonstrated its prowess.
Among the six domains that had manifested, Khorne's mindless slaughter and the Emperor's erosion and destruction were in the first tier.
Alexander's was only slightly inferior to those two, surpassing Nurgle and Tzeentch, and far surpassing Slaanesh.
The strength of the Warp domains depended on the emotional tides in the real galaxy and the breadth of the concepts they controlled in reality.
The current galaxy was filled with war; living beings were constantly killing, bleeding, and suffering, making the breadth of the Blood God's domain terrifying.
Especially after he accepted that wounds and disabilities were also a result of war, his domain became even wider and more powerful.
And in the galaxy, as widespread, or even more widespread, than war was the desire for destruction and self-destruction.
Almost all life in this galaxy lived in pain, immersed in mutual destruction.
Countless lives cursed this galaxy and longed for self-destruction, making the Emperor's erosion and destruction domain also extremely powerful.
And in this galaxy, whether it was war or pain, it was inseparable from machinery; even plague, change, and debauchery were inseparable from machinery and creativity.
The various weapons that fueled the escalating war were machinery, the assembly lines that brought pain were machinery, the various biochemical weapons that spread plague were machinery, social changes were often brought about by new machinery, and even debauchery involved mechanical sex.
The domain of Malicious Art was thus vast.
In contrast, the domains of Nurgle and Tzeentch were relatively narrow.
However, when sufficiently massive plagues and stagnation, or change and cunning, appeared in the galaxy, their domains would also expand significantly, even capable of overwhelming Khorne and becoming the first in the Warp.
Finally, there was Slaanesh.
Slaanesh's domain was somewhat unsuitable for the current galaxy.
If he wanted to expand his domain and become more powerful, the condition required was a large-scale indulgence in the galaxy, but life in the galaxy was too hard now, making large-scale indulgence difficult to appear.
There was once a galactic Overlord race that held a galaxy-wide party for its entire species, but it had essentially been sucked dry by Slaanesh.
Most of the remaining ones had also become ascetic, with only Commorragh still maintaining its former customs.
Khorne felt the surging power emanating from Alexander.
The Blood God let out a war cry.
He was excited, and he irresistibly wanted a slaughter.
But—
Tzeentch, as if performing magic, suddenly vanished from Khorne's side, leaving Khorne alone, isolated, roaring a war cry at Alexander, at the Emperor, at Slaanesh, and at Nurgle.
But to be honest, it seemed a bit comical, even ridiculous.
Because the Blood God roared and roared, but he couldn't stand up.
The Blood God had long accepted his disability, accepted his fate of eternally sitting on the Brass Throne.
He wanted to kill, but he couldn't stand up himself.
The only thing he could do was throw the weapons of war that lay beside his Brass Throne.
Khorne had already reached for one of them.
But Alexander shrugged, and his figure flickered, instantly disappearing from before the Blood God, retreating into his own domain.
The dark sun manifested by the Emperor retreated into the tides of the Empyrean, and Slaanesh and Nurgle also withdrew.
Only Khorne remained, seated on the Brass Throne, holding aloft the weapon in his hand, his eyes wide and round, staring at the now empty Empyrean, letting out a resentful roar.
Alexander's figure flickered, and he had already retreated into his domain, into the Malicious Art.
But Alexander looked around, and his current domain was still in a state of chaos, with only a few sporadic things appearing and disappearing with the tides of the Warp.
Besides that, there were the remnants of Vashtorr's Soul Forge, all broken factories mixed with the wails of daemons, completely out of line with Alexander's aesthetic.
The gods shaped their domains according to their will: Khorne's Brass Fortress, Tzeentch's Crystal Labyrinth, Nurgle's Nurgle's Garden, Slaanesh's Slaanesh's Six Rings, the Emperor's Golden Throne—all were essentially the same.
Alexander should also do the same to shape his abode.
But before starting, Alexander first felt an invisible disturbance emanating from the Warp.
This was the echo stirred up in the Warp after Alexander's birth as the Omnissiah.
The birth of the malicious art domain also spurred the remaining two domains to begin manifesting, to begin sprouting.
Alexander's gaze shifted slightly, first looking towards the domain that was completely opposite to his own.
But Alexander saw nothing.
Or rather, that domain itself was nothing to see.
There was only chaos, endless distortion, and an amorphous state.
This was different from Tzeentch's change.
Tzeentch's change was a constant transformation between tangible and describable things, difficult to comprehend yet not incomprehensible; in fact, Tzeentch's domain itself contained the desire to comprehend all changes.
But the domain opposite to Alexander's Malicious Art was the unknowable.
The malicious art domain symbolized creativity, symbolized the infinite pursuit of the unknown, and was the embodiment of knowability.
And the domain opposite Alexander symbolized blindness, idiocy, and the infinite fear of the unknown; it was the embodiment of unknowability.
The name of that domain was Indefinite Distortion, a formless, shapeless, and undefined aberration, distortion, and blur, a purely unknowable realm, and also the last of the eight domains of the Warp.
Many secondary entities in the Warp were drooling, eager to touch the power within this domain.
But it didn't matter; Alexander would visit them one by one and have a friendly chat with them.
What Alexander was more concerned about now was the seventh domain.
Alexander raised his eyes and turned to look at the shadow coiled in the Warp, that famished shadow.
The seventh domain, greed dissolution, the eternal dragon.
A pitch-black shadow loomed at the far end of the Empyrean, positioned between the Empyrean and the material universe, spanning two dimensions.
Within that shadow, no other emotion could be seen, only raw hunger and greed, arriving from the distant deep void to traverse the stars for an insatiable appetite.
Many mistakenly believed that its existence was to extract more matter and energy, but this was a misunderstanding of it.
Throughout the entire galaxy, only the Aeldari barely discerned some of its true nature.
The Aeldari called it the Dragon, the Distant Hunger, the Hunger Dragon. Compared to the somewhat illogical name Tyranids, the name the Aeldari gave them was undoubtedly closer to its essence.
Alexander's eyes reflected some of the scenes within the shadow; billions of fates soared in the real universe, their primal hunger gathering them together, twisting into a massive braided rope.
Those billions of living beings abandoned their will, their souls, their existence, and their fates, sacrificing everything they had, converging to form a single, grand entity.
Many mistakenly believed that the purpose of this entity was to seize more energy and matter.
But this was a misunderstanding; it never sought only matter. Its purpose was to sate its bottomless hunger, to satisfy its craving for consumption. The act of eating itself was more important than anything else; the quantity of material consumed was secondary.
It was powerful, extraordinarily powerful. Purely in terms of the breadth of its domain, it was at least on par with Tzeentch and Nurgle, perhaps even superior.
Moreover, its threat to Alexander was greater than that of other divine lords.
Its domain almost entirely overlapped with Alexander's. It had no connection to machinery whatsoever. Its behavior of integrating genetically modified beings did have some relation to creativity, but the problem was that the Norn-Queens responsible for integrating genetically modified beings had no souls or emotions of their own.
This meant Alexander could only confront it head-on.
Another point was that among the many entities in the Warp, the Emperor, Alexander, and it were among the few who had physical bodies in the material universe.
The Emperor's body was eternally seated upon the Golden Throne, unable to exert much influence.
Alexander's body was relatively free, but Alexander regarded it as his anchor as a human and could not modify it at will. While a mortal body usually could not contain too much power, at critical moments, he could forcefully accommodate more by using certain tools.
The Tyranids had the most bodies, but similar to Alexander's situation, a single Tyranids could only contain limited power and will, though they were generally more flexible, free, and expendable.
As for its current position,
According to the information Alexander obtained from over twenty thousand dreams, it was close to achieving the great position of greed dissolution, only a very small distance away.
But it was not yet complete. Its existence was still fragmented, not converged and connected. In this state, it could not truly ascend.
This was the key.
Alexander had to seize the great position in the greed dissolution domain before it.
This was actually a great risk. Alexander, merely occupying the Malicious Art domain, could already feel his will fragmenting and strongly moving towards extremes.
And if Alexander truly seized the great position in the greed dissolution domain, the Emperor would have to bear the burden of three domains. If he couldn't endure it, then...
But the risk had to be taken. Even now, the Emperor bearing two domains was no light burden. In his dreams, the longest the Emperor endured two domains was over three hundred years.
In other words, whether Alexander went to occupy greed dissolution or not, there were only a little over three hundred years left until the birth of the Dark King.
And the method to occupy greed dissolution, Alexander had already clearly understood.
This method also carried considerable risk; if not executed properly, the Tyranids would complete its ascension and become the eternal dragon.
But Alexander could only do this. There was no longer any Overlord-level civilization in the galaxy that could serve as his sacrifice or source of faith.
He could only rely on the inherent characteristics of the greed dissolution domain itself.
He wanted to become the Hunter of Hunters, the Dragon that devours Dragons.
Alexander slowly extended his round hand.
Inspiration, creativity, thoughts, and ideas woven into threads, hung from his fingertips, gently beginning to manipulate fates in reality, silently guiding a human into Alexander's setup.
That was also an entity with a certain divinity, coincidentally close to both the Malicious Art and greed dissolution domains.
Aboard the Sword-class frigate, the *Vesalius*.
Fabius Bile felt his inspiration continuously surging.
It had been many years; he had not experienced this feeling of inspiration bursting forth for many years.
The former Chief Apothecary of the Emperor's Children now felt as if he had rediscovered the sensations of his childhood, when he tormented animals and modified servants.
That nascent, burgeoning inspiration, like a butterfly about to emerge from a withered chrysalis, made Fabius Bile's body tremble uncontrollably.
The mechanical apparatus behind him continuously drew in Warp energies, extending chainswords, scalpels, and serrated blades to cut through the blood and flesh before him.
He was about to create New Humans from this diffuse blood and flesh, within the shells of Old Humanity, to replace current humanity, making humanity a more perfect species.
Just as a butterfly finds new life from a withered cocoon, just as a snake devours itself starting from its tail and then remakes itself.
This was a cycle, a spiraling evolution, a grand iteration.
Fabius Bile wiggled his fingers, and slaves beside him presented various alien genetic sequences and organs.
His fingertips flew, implanting these alien organs into the chaotic mass of flesh before him.
Fabius never confined himself to racial differences between organisms when creating life.
Whether mammals, insects, worms, octopuses, even plants, and those more twisted, abstract aliens, all were in Fabius Bile's material library.
He dug a gland from a half-human-tall, pitch-black beetle and extracted a series of hearts from an octopus-like alien.
"What is this? A Tau? Don't contaminate my material library!"
Fabius Bile waved his hand, signaling the slave to discard the blue-skinned creature.
He increasingly felt that the creature before him was becoming more perfect, closer to his ideal New Human.
This was entirely due to his talent, the inspiration bursting forth in his mind.
Fabius had, of course, also heard the voice from the Warp.
Something about Saint Doraemon's advent, something about the Omnissiah.
Fabius Bile never believed in gods. He was an atheist. He betrayed the Imperium and the Emperor, but he still believed in the Emperor's ideals.
There were no gods among the stars, nothing for humanity to revere, nothing that reason could not answer.
If there was something that could not be explained by reason, then it must not exist; it was an illusion.
"So-called gods never existed; they are a collective hallucination."
"They are merely a natural phenomenon in the Warp, like wind, like rain, like fire, like the sun. They are indeed powerful, but attributing personality and consciousness to them is no different from primitive people worshipping wind gods, rain gods, fire gods, and sun gods; it is pure superstition."
"Your prayers and craving for power from them are as ridiculous as primitive people mistaking the hallucinations seen after eating poisonous mushrooms for heaven."
"Understand? They are just illusions!"
Around Fabius Bile, his slaves, the daemons inhabiting mutant bodies, listened somewhat silently to Fabius Bile's sermon.
Damn it, this person must be crazy.
How could anyone argue the non-existence of gods to a demon?
But these daemons were now enslaved by Fabius and dared not directly refute him, only daring to indirectly mock him.
"My lord, then what do you think of numerology? This doctrine also claims to be able to explain the gods with reason."
Fabius Bile's fingers paused.
"Compared to numerology, even feudal superstition seems to have its merits."
"I really don't want to comment on Mortarion. He might as well engage in some religious worship; primitive witchcraft is too backward!"
Fabius Bile said with a sneer, then continued to fiddle with the mass of flesh before him.
But Fabius Bile felt his thoughts becoming increasingly stagnant, his inspiration fluttering away like it had grown wings, leaving only his increasingly parched mind desperately trying to squeeze out a bit more inspiration.
But his mind just wouldn't turn anymore.
He clearly felt that he was just a tiny bit away from creating a true New Human, just that little bit.
If his inspiration had lasted just twenty-two more minutes, he would have been able to create a true New Human, replace Old Humanity, and revitalize the human race.
But it was just that little bit, stuck right there.
This made Fabius Bile incredibly agitated, distressed, and unbearable, even causing some irrational fluctuations in his originally rational mind.
He even began to wonder if it was because he had just insulted Mortarion, and Mortarion, hearing it in the Warp, had started casting a minor curse on him.
Fabius Bile agitatedly waved his hands, as if trying to grasp his scattered bit of inspiration from the empty air.
In his boundless agitation, Fabius actually managed to squeeze out a perfectly timed drop from his dried sea of inspiration.
This drop was not enough to quench his thirst, but it gave Fabius a glimmer of insight.
Fabius Bile stared at the twisted mass of flesh before him.
It had sharp claws, an insect's carapace and compound eyes, octopus-like suckers, and a giant mouth like a Venus flytrap.
This was a New Human about to be born.
But it had not yet truly surpassed all Old Humans.
Among Old Humanity, there were still twenty-one brilliant and dazzling jewels, the most perfect creations of the Emperor.
Primarchs, Primarchs.
Fabius Bile wanted to establish New Humanity upon the bodies of Old Humanity, and he had to acquire the wisdom of the Primarchs.
Not cloning them as before, but truly understanding the wisdom of Primarch creation.
He needed... he needed...
Something instantly popped into Bile's mind.
The Stack of Primogenitor Blood, the Stack of Primogenitor Blood!
An artifact containing the genetic sequences of all Primarchs.
It was currently in Belisarius Cawl's hands.
Fabius needed to get that artifact.
He needed some allies.
Fabius Bile thought of a powerful Emperor's Children.
Hungry. So hungry.
It crawled on the ground, emerging from a crevice beneath a burnt stone, starving and malnourished.
It moved its carapace, cautiously crawling across the scorched wasteland.
It still remembered its youth, when this land had lush water grasses, fallen fruits in the forest, and small insects in the mud.
It wasn't always full, but it could store a little nourishment in its carapace.
Until, until the stars began to burn, the clouds were consumed by orange-red flames, and the earth was torn open by light from the sky, leaving only a desolate wasteland.
Most life had been extinguished; its species survived in scattered numbers thanks to accidentally evolved adaptability.
But... so hungry, so hungry, so hungry.
The sky was burning again, but the sun had gone out. It gazed at the burning sky.
Before the sky began to burn, it had never done such a thing; it was a waste of energy.
But... its thoughts began to ponder. To ponder what was above the sky.
To ponder, to ponder, so hungry, so hungry.
To ponder if there was food among the stars to satisfy this hunger.
So hungry, so hungry, so hungry.
This hunger gathered, binding into threads in places it couldn't see, connecting with all the surviving, starving creatures on the entire planet, even beginning to cross the stars, cross galaxies, reaching the other side, connecting all distant hungers.
So hungry, so hungry, so hungry.
The small insect raised its head from the barren ground, gnawing at the stone by its mouth, its body gradually growing immense, transforming into a shadow, ascending into the high heavens.
It, billions of tiny insects, drew forth will from ancient memories lingering in existence, stretching its vast and profound body, coiling towards various places in the Warp and reality.
Its tendrils began to continuously hunt, devour, and consume in reality. The slight sense of fullness from eating flowed into its shadow-like body.
But soon, that tiny bit of fullness was overwhelmed by an uncontrollable hunger.
So hungry, so hungry, so hungry.
The ancient hunger still had not dissipated. It craved more thorough consumption, a greater filling of its belly.
It yearned to enter a body, to feel food with its lips and teeth.
But it was too big, too big. It had once wanted to gnaw on the flesh of a winged vessel, to hunt its genes, to shape a body that could contain it, but it had failed.
It failed.
At the same moment this thought arose, an inspiration burst forth in its mind.
It seemed to sense something, raising its head, its gaze transcending the limitations of time and space, beginning to survey everything among the stars.
Finally, its gaze fell upon a withered, pale-faced, upright prey.
It saw blood. The blood it craved.
The genetic sequence that could contain its existence was flowing in the blood.
It would hunt it.