Lion El'Jonson turned his head and looked at Azrael, who was trying to slip away silently.
Azrael's steps were light, like a small black cat escaping from a terrifying beast, tiptoeing, his body trembling slightly, as if he would fall to the ground, four paws in the air, revealing his belly to beg for mercy if discovered.
Needless to say, Azrael knew this behavior was an evasion, even carrying some disloyalty to his genetic father, but after facing the Lion in person, Azrael had to admit a fact:
He was afraid.
When facing the Lion, all sophistry and all reasons vanished. Only pure fear surged from Azrael's body. He simply couldn't muster the courage to face the Lion directly.
"Leave quietly, no shooting."
"Where do you want to go?" A gloomy questioning voice sounded, and a hand covered in dark green armor rested on Azrael's shoulder.
Azrael's power armor instantly dented. A wave of soreness surged from his shoulder, mixed with the terrifying fear emanating from the person behind him. Azrael's knees buckled, and half of his body fell, while the other half was lifted high by Lion.
Lion reached out with his other hand, grabbing Azrael's helmet. His fingers tightened, and Azrael's helmet exploded. The face, somewhat similar to Lion's but without the usual melancholy common to Calibanites, instead carried a roughness akin to Fenrisians, with a strange sense of humor in his eyes.
In fact, many Chapter brothers had lamented that Azrael's personality was not very Dark Angels. He always liked to crack sarcastic jokes, his words and actions carrying a peculiar humor, enjoying provoking and teasing teammates and enemies. Azrael also always believed that one of his responsibilities included mediating the Chapter's gloomy atmosphere.
It's just that with the current atmosphere, Azrael felt he couldn't mediate it no matter what.
Azrael faced the Lion's countenance, a deeply awkward smile gracing his lips.
He felt death approaching rapidly. Azrael felt he had to say something, as it might be the last words of his life, his dying words.
But looking at the Lion's face hidden behind his gray-gold beard, Azrael's mind went blank. Finally, he slightly parted his lips.
"Glorious, Father," Azrael blurted out.
"Hah!" The Lion let out a furious growl, the searing killing intent stinging Azrael's skin. In Azrael's eyes, the Lion's figure grew larger and larger, until it filled the entire space, transforming into a ferocious Caliban beast. His breath became a scorching hot wind, smashing into Azrael's face, making his skin ache.
Azrael saw the Lion raise his fist. In Azrael's view, death was already certain. Who could stop a Primarch's killing intent?
Helael met him with a sword, its sharp blade cutting through the air, intercepting the Lion's fist. The finely crafted power sword actually twisted and deformed under the Primarch's fist.
But even so, Helael truly blocked one of the Lion's punches. Azrael couldn't help but look astonished. He looked at Helael's back, as if not seeing a brother of the same era, but a hero of the Great Crusade.
The Lion, however, seemed less surprised, slowly withdrawing his fist.
"Move aside," the Lion said in an undeniable tone.
Helael slightly shifted his body, adopting a half-yielding, half-unyielding posture.
Helael understood that he absolutely could not refuse a furious Lion; that would only further enrage him and make him even less persuadable. But completely obeying the Lion was naturally also not feasible. He had to grasp the balance between refusal and obedience, finding that just-right point.
"My lord, I fought alongside him for several months. I can vouch for his loyalty. He retreated simply out of fear."
Helael was not a fool; he could sense that the Lion's rage had a reason. But he deliberately acted clueless, pretending to believe that Lion's rage was due to his brother's cowardice and retreat:
"As Fallen Angels, we have been hunted for ten millennia by the current Dark Angels Chapter. Caution has long been ingrained in our bones, and it's hard to accept the change in identity for a while. You may not know how cruel the hunt we endured was, especially in recent years, after the new Chapter Master named Azrael took office, their methods became even more ruthless."
Listening to Helael's words, Azrael's head tilted slightly, his gaze flickering.
The Lion's expression also changed slightly. Although his anger hadn't subsided much, it was no longer as violent as before.
It worked. Helael breathed a sigh of relief. This was a method Luther had taught him many years ago, truly the wisdom of the old Lion tamers.
It's just that Lion's expression at this moment made Helael feel a bit unfamiliar. Lion looked at Helael with a strange, even somewhat playful, gaze.
This was very unfamiliar to Helael; he had almost never seen the Lion show such an expression.
"He is Azrael," the Lion said, raising his voice slightly.
".?" Helael tilted his head slightly, seemingly not quite understanding what the Lion was saying.
"He is not a Fallen Angel; he is Azrael, who persecuted you," the Lion said with a sneer.
Helael's body stiffened, staring intently at the flickering-eyed Azrael.
"I was only for the benefit of the Chapter, to protect the secrets of the Dark Angels, Helael, brother. Only a few Fallen Angels like you remain loyal and can turn back." Azrael gave a bitter smile and said, "The Unforgiven have indeed become increasingly extreme, but I am actually a moderate, and I have tried my best to suppress them to prevent excessive extremism."
"...You are right." Helael sighed slightly, nodding to acknowledge Azrael's words, then looked at the Lion: "My lord, I do have some dissatisfaction with him, but he truly shouldn't die for this. The fault is not his, but fate. It was the destruction of Caliban that tore our legion apart, leaving us to a state of mutual slaughter. It is not the fault of one person."
"Caliban was destroyed by him," Lion said indifferently.
".Ah?" Helael looked at Lion in confusion. What was the Lion saying? Azrael couldn't possibly be linked to the destruction of Caliban, no matter what.
When Azrael was born, Caliban had already been destroyed for nearly ten millennia. How could he...
Helael looked at Azrael. He noticed Azrael's guilt and wavering. The keen observation and judgment honed by the Dark Angels' gene-seed and long training instantly confirmed to Helael:
The Lion wasn't joking; the true culprit behind Caliban's destruction was indeed Azrael.
"Hah!!!"
Helael let out a low growl, and the twisted blade in his hand, warped by the Lion's fist, directly slashed at Azrael's face.
The power sword was damaged, leaving a deep bloody gash on Azrael's face, but it failed to kill him.
Helael directly threw down the power sword and punched Azrael's face. The sound of bones cracking echoed from beneath Azrael's skin. He staggered back a few steps, only to be grabbed by Helael again.
"What exactly did you do?" Helael demanded in a low growl.
"I had no choice," Azrael said hoarsely. "What choice did I have? Cypher, Cypher gathered the three divine artifacts of the old ones, tearing open a spacetime rift leading to Caliban, which was in the midst of battle ten millennia ago."
"I originally wanted to follow Cypher closely, hoping to reverse the past and change the outcome of Caliban's destruction. But Ezekiel, based on prophecy, judged that Cypher was destined to lead the Fallen Angels back to the past, assassinate the Lion, create a Fallen Angels legion, destroy Caliban, and make the past even worse."
"If we didn't stop him, everything would be irreversible. I could only choose to blow up that spacetime rift. How could I have known that the collapsing spacetime rift would actually tear apart the past Caliban? Time and fate, like an ouroboros, bit their own tail, thus forming a closed loop."
"...No!" Helael interrupted Azrael's narration: "You said Cypher wanted to go back to the past, assassinate the Lion, bring back a Fallen Angels legion, and destroy Caliban?"
"No, that's impossible. I know Cypher. Although I don't know his true purpose, based on my understanding of him, this is definitely not what he wants."
Azrael's expression wavered slightly.
"But, but Ezekiel's prophecies are almost never wrong. He truly saw it... saw Cypher heading into that spacetime rift, then saw the Lion's figure burning in flames, saw the Fallen Angels legion born from the roaring Warp storm, saw Caliban shattered."
"Wait, the Lion severely wounded, the Fallen Angels born, Caliban destroyed, this..." Helael reached out to interrupt Azrael: "This... isn't this exactly the true history, everything that you brought about?"
Azrael's eyes widened slightly, and the Lion's eyebrows also twitched a little. Helael's expression twisted.
"Oh!" The three Dark Angels simultaneously let out a sound of sudden realization.
This was a classic self-fulfilling prophecy. All three were well-informed, and now that the information aligned, they naturally understood its profound meaning, as there was no lack of precedents.
The Eldar once created a classic self-fulfilling prophecy. They predicted Angron would grow into a Khorne Daemon Primarch bringing boundless slaughter, so they unhesitatingly intercepted the still young Angron, only to be killed by the young Angron in return.
But Angron was also severely wounded by the Eldar's actions, eventually captured by the slave masters of Nuceria, leading to all the tragedies that followed, and the birth of the Khorne Daemon Primarch Angron.
The prophecy made by Ezekiel was the same. It wasn't Cypher going back to the past that led to the Lion's severe injury, the birth of the Fallen Angels, and Caliban's destruction. Instead, it was Azrael preventing Cypher from going back to the past that led to this tragedy.
The ouroboros thus bit its own tail.
"Then what did Cypher want to do by going back to the past?"
Azrael's heart sank, and he asked with a hint of dread in his voice:
"He couldn't possibly have wanted to go back and save the Lion, save Caliban, could he?"
"...It's not impossible," Helael's tone was tinged with an indescribable emotion.
Azrael's expression was complex, but he also realized at the same time:
The burden on him seemed to have suddenly lightened.
Instead, it was Ezekiel... Ezekiel, what kind of damnable prophecy did you make?
"But this is still speculation. Whether it's your fault, Ezekiel's fault, or Cypher's fault, it is still unknown."
Helael turned his gaze to the Lion.
The Lion's face was no longer as angry as before. He said nothing, merely nodding slightly, then turned his head to look in the direction of the flesh-and-blood psychic lighthouse, as if sensing something in that direction.
He made a combat gesture, signaling Helael and Azrael to follow.
Azrael took a slight breath. Helael received a replacement power sword from the Mini-Dora that appeared from the void, and at the same time, his fingers quickly and subtly signed to Azrael.
"You should be grateful I saved your life," Helael signed to Azrael.
Azrael was slightly stunned, then his eyes widened a little.
It still takes the wisdom of the old Lion tamers!
Fulgrim could also vaguely sense a summons emanating from within that fleshly spire. It was a summons from deep within the gene sequence.
Some powerful existence was being born, an entity that used his gene sequence, but not only his gene sequence.
Twenty, a full twenty Primarch gene sequences were being mixed and reshaped into one, forming a unified existence.
The gene sequences of the Primarchs all came from the Emperor. If the sequences of twenty Primarchs were fused together, what would be born from that?
With just a little thought, Fulgrim could arrive at the answer to this question, understanding what the Tyranid was incubating.
Fulgrim was heartbroken; he believed this was all due to his failure, which resulted in the source-blood stack falling into the hands of the hive mind.
He did not know that all of this was originally part of Alexander's plan.
The possibility of Fulgrim's fall was fifty-fifty, something Alexander had never hidden, telling Fulgrim directly. On some crucial matters, Alexander also did not inform Fulgrim.
Especially in recent days, Alexander had been sharing less and less information with Fulgrim. Fulgrim naturally noticed this. His heart was therefore filled with some fear.
Was he already on the path to corruption?
Fabius's words made Fulgrim even more horrified.
Indeed, if he truly was a perfect creation, then he should theoretically be exactly like the true Fulgrim. The more he walked the path of perfection, wasn't he also getting closer to Fulgrim?
In the end, would there truly be a distinction between him and Fulgrim?
At least before the moment of destiny arrived, he had to first atone for past failures.
But just as Fulgrim was about to head into the flesh spire, he suddenly felt his body as if wading through slime, and a sticky, obscene laugh slowly echoed in his ears.
At the same time, a twisted, extreme song, like millions of noises mixed together, began to play. Fulgrim seemed to see a blue-haired woman in sheer gauze singing loudly before him.
Some memories were awakened in his mind; he recalled the name of this song. "Maraviglia," the song of the Phoenix's fall.
In the Warp, on the Steroid Planet, sweat poured from Magnus's crimson skin as he gazed at the Lord of Change, Tzeentch, suspended in the air.
Tzeentch's treacherous form constantly shifted, twisted, and displayed different guises, each change revealing nearly infinite knowledge.
If an ordinary person were to witness this knowledge, their mind would likely be torn apart on the spot, their spirit shattered, and their flesh distorted.
Even a sufficiently wise person capable of comprehending this knowledge would have their mind twisted instantly, becoming a puppet, a plaything of fate.
But the current Magnus was different; this knowledge was like water to him, and his mind was an IP68-rated waterproof, extremely smooth stainless steel lump. The knowledge splashed on his head and flowed away, leaving not even a trace.
Magnus's very existence had been twisted. The bacteria that devoured knowledge from the magnus's book, which Alexander had previously cast into it, were at work.
The power of those bacteria exceeded Tzeentch's expectations. They acted not only on the present magnus's book but also on the past, present, and future magnus's book, completely distorting Magnus's existence from beginning to end. Even Magnus's link to Tzeentch's domain was being peeled away little by little.
The former Magnus was an insatiable thirst for knowledge, absorbing all knowledge, good or bad, into his self.
The current Magnus was a domain of absolute ignorance, rejecting all knowledge, good or bad, from his self.
He still possessed the ability to understand and perceive things, but he could not store the results of this understanding and perception as knowledge.
However, this was not necessarily a bad thing, at least not for Magnus. Without the distracting threads of knowledge pulling at his body, he became much clearer-headed.
His gaze towards Tzeentch proved this point. Although devoid of knowledge, his single eye was exceptionally clear.
"Coach!" Magnus's voice boomed like thunder, but Tzeentch's body recoiled in disgust.
Intolerable, truly intolerable.
The current Magnus had completely overlapped with his essence; he was already a sub-god of the Warp, but not the divinity Tzeentch desired.
The current Magnus was the god of ignorance. Tzeentch touching him was like touching a scorching fireball, burning his fingers with pain.
If Magnus continued to grow like this, he might even turn against Tzeentch, causing him immense harm.
Tzeentch could only control Magnus through that faint, ethereal, yet seemingly real muscle god authority, like a thread.
But Tzeentch was now truly the muscle god, yet Magnus's muscles were his own figment of imagination, not real.
Once Magnus realized the deception, this fragile thread would instantly snap. No, he had already begun to realize it.
"You've noticed?" Tzeentch's voice echoed in Magnus's ear, sharp and piercing.
But Magnus's face remained impassive, seemingly unaffected by Tzeentch's voice.
"I can discern what is a lie and what is truth," Magnus said.
"That's quite remarkable for someone who cannot acquire knowledge," Tzeentch's form continuously twisted. Dense tentacles, bizarre birds, and treacherous flames all tried to reach out to Magnus.
But these powers swept past Magnus's body without affecting him.
"Knowledge does not equate to wisdom. A knowledgeable person can be foolish due to arrogance, while an ignorant person can be wise due to humility."
Magnus gazed at Tzeentch, his voice thundering: "Without knowledge, I see some things more clearly."
"Coach, you use me as a puppet, and I am not angry about that. I only regret my past foolish arrogance."
"But you use my sons as puppets; you conspired to turn my sons into puppets through Ariman's hands. I cannot tolerate that."
Tzeentch looked at the nearly snapped thread. He understood that Magnus had lost control. He could no longer use Magnus as a puppet.
Indeed, Magnus had ascended to daemonhood by him, and his body and soul had been thoroughly tainted by Tzeentch's evil power. If he wished, he could utterly destroy Magnus in an instant, but this was not what Tzeentch wanted.
He still needed Magnus. The vessel nurtured by the hive mind was nearing birth, and Alexander was about to become entangled with it.
The Lord of Change needed a tool to help him seize Roboute Guilliman.
The Lord of Change raised one of his nine hundred ninety-nine thousand arms. Tens of thousands of threads extended from his fingertips, connecting to every Thousand Sons, weaving a dense net. Each Thousand Sons was like a small insect caught within it.
Spider silk entangled, fate imprisoned; every Thousand Sons could not escape Tzeentch's grasp.
Magnus let out a soft sigh.
Ariman, who was doing push-ups, suddenly trembled. He felt a sense of liberation; some threads connected to him had snapped.
His body shuddered, and he looked up with a touch of bewilderment.
He... he was no longer Tzeentch's chosen.
Not only him, but for many Thousand Sons around him, their links to Tzeentch also snapped with a roar. All the Thousand Sons looked around with confusion and bewilderment, not understanding what had happened, not understanding why they had been released by Tzeentch.
Why?
Ariman's thoughts froze, and a hint of fear appeared on his face. He recalled some of Magnus's strange behaviors in recent days and formed a conjecture.
His psychic power spread into the Immaterium, and he saw it.
The Lord of Change, that figure changing over ninety million times in an instant, was perched high in the Warp, hovering around the Steroid Planet. Just looking at his figure, Ariman felt his thoughts chaotic and his flesh surging, but he still gritted his teeth and looked at the figure in front of Tzeentch.
That figure was immense, yet so tiny before the Lord of Change, like a dim sixth-magnitude star in the treacherous night sky, emitting a faint crimson glow.
But just by looking at that crimson star, Ariman seemed to regain his sanity, finding a sense of reliance.
That crimson back was so reliable, like a wall built before Ariman.
Ariman remembered the rainy night that engulfed Prospero, the sky full of black water, the howling wolves, the shattered pyramids, and the broken Crimson King.
He remembered the Crimson King's last glance at him with his broken eye.
Fenris's frost winds were sharp and biting, but Prospero's Crimson King chose to bear it alone.
As always.
"Why!" Ariman roared, demanding, "Father, why again..."
Magnus was being dragged into Tzeentch's domain, towards the Well of Eternity.
The Crimson King turned his head and looked at Ariman with his broken single eye.
+ Does a father need a reason to protect his sons? +
"Father!!!" Ariman roared, but Magnus raised his hand at that moment.
Boundless Warp energy surged like a tide, washing over Ariman, instantly forcing Ariman's will back onto the Steroid Planet.
In an instant, space-time shifted, everything twisted, stars tore apart. The Steroid Planet trembled and shook under Magnus's Warp power.
Ariman could feel the entire Steroid Planet detaching from the Warp, being sent into the real dimension.
Finally, the surrounding Warp currents vanished, leaving only silent void.
Ariman's will erupted again, reaching out to perceive the surroundings.
Then he saw himself in a star system within the Imperium, perfectly embedded in the system's gravitational embrace, without creating a single ripple, as if the Steroid Planet was meant to be in this system.
Ariman saw another planet standing beside the Steroid Planet's orbit. It was a planet full of cold winds, ice, snow, scorching lava, and various monsters.
Fenris. Magnus had pushed the Steroid Planet into the real dimension, into the Fenris system.
Ariman's will, accompanied by powerful psychic energy, tore through the veil between reality and the Warp, but he only saw Magnus's figure engulfed by Tzeentch's boundless evil energy, dragged towards the Well of Eternity.
+ Wolves, I implore your will to protect them +
Vaguely, Ariman seemed to hear Magnus saying something into the depths of the Warp, but he couldn't hear it clearly.
Magnus looked at Ariman, shaking his head at him.
+ This is my last gift to you. +
Tzeentch's boundless evil energy engulfed Magnus.
Ariman's teeth trembled slightly, and an unspeakable bitterness and sense of powerlessness surged in his soul.
He felt as if he had truly returned to that cold, rainy night, back to the day Prospero fell.
How many times had it been? Whenever he felt he finally possessed something, he would always lose everything.
The Burning of Prospero, the red word, the second red word... and now the father who loved them as he did ten thousand years ago was also lost.
"All is dust."
Ahriman murmured: "How true."
Everything will inevitably collapse, everything will eventually vanish, everything good will turn bad, everything possessed will eventually be lost, and even eternity itself will meet destruction.
But... but Ariman would not accept it.
Warp energy, so vast that it made one doubt if Ariman was truly human, overflowed from beneath his armor. That psychic power was so magnificent that even an Astartes Librarian would be incinerated if they touched a bit of it.
The Rune Priests on Fenris were the first to sense that terrifying psychic energy. It was more formidable than their combined strength. The snow and wind on Fenris, affected by that psychic energy, actually shattered into dust inch by inch. Bjorn, sleeping in the Fang, also awoke with a dull thud under the influence of that psychic energy.
This elder was also shocked by that psychic energy; even he had never sensed such immense psychic power from an Astartes.
On the Macragge's Honour, Tigurius, who was helping Mortarion with state affairs, slightly raised his head. Ariman's figure was reflected in his eyes.
Then, blood surged, and Tigurius let out a muffled groan, covering his eyes and kneeling on one knee.
Mortarion, beside him, watched this scene, sneering twice and saying, "Psychic witchcraft is indeed not as safe as Numerology."
In the Rock, Ezekiel's lips also bled. The psychic energy released by Ariman disrupted the future he could see. In his eyes, the future was covered in dust, everything collapsing.
On the Red Tears, Mephiston's eyes shed blood tears. Only by relying on his psychic link with Sanguinius could he barely make out Ariman's figure and see what was happening to Ariman.
He was ascending. Ariman was ascending.
Vast psychic power instantly covered the entire Steroid Planet. Ariman wove complex spells, protecting the entire planet. Then he wielded his black staff, and a Warp rift was forcibly torn open. He stepped into it, instantly arriving in Tzeentch's domain.
The moment he entered the Crystal Labyrinth, the domain sensed him as an intruder. Strange storms, flashing lightning, and blinding flames simultaneously rose from the crystals, mixed with a large number of Flamers, Pink Horrors, and Blue Horrors, rushing towards Ariman.
Ariman raised the black staff in his hand, and a bright darkness was born from his staff. In an instant, those storms, lightning, flames, and Tzeentch Daemons were swallowed and annihilated by the darkness.
Nine Lords of Change revealed themselves from the crystal jungle. They condemned Ariman's transgression and shamelessness. The Lord of Change had abandoned him, yet he dared to step into the Crystal Labyrinth.
Accompanied by insults, the Lords of Change also chanted nine different spells, attempting to tear Ariman's soul apart.
But the Eye of Nemunos on Ariman's forehead merely gazed at them coldly.
Then the Lords of Change shrieked and wailed, horrified to discover that the spells they chanted were turning back upon themselves.
Ariman had no mind to entangle with these Lords of Change. He controlled immense psychic power, rushing like a brilliant blue meteor into the depths of the Crystal Labyrinth. The riddle-chanting doorways tried to stop Ariman, but they were all directly crushed into fragments by Ariman's psychic energy.
Countless Tzeentch Daemons shrieked in terror; never had a human been so bold.
A colossal Lord of Change, taller than mountains, vaster than the earth, and more insane than truth itself, suddenly appeared in the shattered crystals, blocking Ariman's path.
Ariman, with his knowledge of daemonology, instantly identified this Greater Daemon's identity.
Soulrender, Aetaos'rau'kerres, the most insane and powerful Lord of Change. This Greater Daemon's mind had been deliberately driven mad by the Lord of Change. In a sense, this monster was an embodiment of the insane aspect of Tzeentch's authority.
Azure and crimson flames surged from the beast's hands. These flames, like the arms of madmen, reached out, coiling with the very power of Tzeentch's domain, pressing down densely on Ariman.
Those flames wrapped around Ariman's body, forcibly pushing Ariman into the constantly flickering and shifting Crystal Labyrinth, tearing at Ariman's armor, destroying Ariman's weapons, burning Ariman's body, and tormenting Ariman's soul.
Cracks appeared on his helmet, his power armor warped under the scorching flames, and the black staff in his hand shattered under the evil energy of Tzeentch's domain.
A small pouch hanging from the black staff burst with a pop, and a wisp of ethereal ash swept past Ariman's face.
That was the ash of Prospero, which Ariman had kept hanging from his staff for ten thousand years.
At the same time, Ariman's helmet also shattered under the flames released by Aetaos'rau'kerres, turning into fragments that fell to the ground.
However, what was exposed beneath Ariman's helmet was not his former Central Asian face.
Above Ariman's shattered armor, on his neck, only a bright, pitch-black star was exposed.
"Look at those towering spires, those opulent palaces, those solemn temples, the great gods themselves."
"All of them will eventually vanish like an ephemeral feast, leaving not the slightest trace."
"All is dust. All things are dust."
A pitch-black sun rose above Ariman's neck. Inside the armor, there was no longer any flesh and blood, only a screaming void, a pitch-black star, and a wisp of dust.
Threads condensed from ash radiated outward from Ariman, extending to every Thousand Sons Sorcerer, every Scarab Occult, and every red word, weaving a vast psychic network.
Ash, ash, ash.
The same emotion surged in the hearts of every Thousand Son; even the red word constrained within the armor let out similar wails.
The mutations that devoured their bodies, the judgment at the Council of Nikaea, the sharp discrimination, the rampant wild wolves, the Burning of Prospero, the twisted flames of the Wizard Star, the roar of the red word spell, and the failure of the Second red word.
Ash, dust, destruction.
They were the Sorcerers of Prospero, people cursed by fate, whose destiny outlined the bleakest conclusion: to turn into ash and dust amidst bloodshed.
"No."
Ariman's voice traveled along the red word network to the ears of every Thousand Son.
"Enduring one's fate is noble, but I prefer to defy it."
Wails transformed into roars, sorrow turned into hatred, and the ashes that could no longer burn ignited once more, dust splattering into points of starlight.
The psychic power of the entire Thousand Sons, from past to future, from the edge of the galaxy to the depths of the Warp, throughout all time and space, the psychic energy of all Thousand Sons converged upon and burned toward Ariman.
The pitch-black star used hatred as its source and the most extreme changes of fate as its fuel, burning destructive ash, so bright, so dazzling, so terrifying.
Centered on Ariman, a pitch-black ring of fire began to spread. Wherever the flames scorched, crystals shattered, demons disintegrated, storms vanished, and psychic power dissipated, leaving only scorched earth.
The Soul Butcher, Aethel 'Rao' Kaires, let out a frantic scream. It stretched out its arms burning with blue and red flames, pressing down on Ariman.
But the moment its fingers touched the ring of fire surrounding Ariman, they were ignited by the bright, pitch-black flames, instantly turning into ash and vanishing.
Kaires retreated in terror, but before it could take a few steps back, its body was washed over by the pitch-black light emanating from Ariman, turning into ash and dissolving into the air.
The demons wailed in terror; they had realized that Aethel 'Rao' Kaires had just met utter death. He had been completely incinerated, as if slain by the flames of the cursed one.
The Warp surged violently, and a minor Warp godhood was already faintly appearing on Ariman's body.
Ariman slightly raised his head—that burning, pitch-black sun—looking toward the heights of the Crystal Labyrinth, toward the Lord of Change.
"Do I just need to jump into this?" Magnus asked Tzeentch, who was coiled behind him, staring at the deep, gloomy well before him.
The Lord of Change smiled and nodded.
The Well of Eternity was a part that Tzeentch had cut away, yet Tzeentch himself could not reclaim it.
Tzeentch's domain is Change, and Change is an exceptionally vast domain—vaster than War, vaster than Decay, vaster than Corruption, vaster than Artistry. Only the Destruction represented by the Dark King can contend with it.
But Change is embodied in contradiction. Contradiction is one of Tzeentch's intrinsic natures. His domain itself is in infinite self-subdivision and infinite self-contradiction, and he himself has undergone multiple splits and weaknesses.
Whether it was the shattering of the scepter back then or the cutting away of the Well of Eternity, both were the result of Tzeentch's self-division.
To utilize the authority he had separated, Tzeentch had to create or use individuals to bear some of the power that had been divided away.
The Blue Scribes carried 'Magic,' represented by the shattered scepter; Kairos bore 'Fate,' represented by the Well of Eternity; and the Soul Butcher, Aethel 'Rao' Kaires, bore 'Madness.'
But most of these individuals were too weak, capable of carrying only a very small fraction of the power.
Magnus, however, was different. As long as he entered the Well of Eternity, he would certainly be able to bring out a large amount of power and become the host of the Well of Eternity.
"Hmm?" The Lord of Change, who was adjusting the tides within the Well of Eternity, suddenly looked back at his domain. He sensed something being born, something rising.
He turned his head, and his eyes reflected that pitch-black star: bright, scorching, and deathly silent.
Ariman slightly twisted his body, and the pitch-black star replacing his head reflected the faces, souls, and screams of one Thousand Son after another.
Tzeentch's body abruptly leaned backward, and a sharp wail escaped his mouth, echoing throughout the entire Warp.
Both the Gods and the minor entities were drawn by this wail, casting their gazes toward the domain of the Lord of Change.
The dazzling light of the pitch-black star burst forth from one of Tzeentch's ninety million eyes. Ariman's shadow, illuminated by the star, grew long, piercing Tzeentch's eye like a pitch-black spike, running through his body.
In the material universe, many of Tzeentch's followers screamed and covered one of their eyes.
The ability to glimpse the future granted to them by the Lord of Change shattered at that moment. Their eyes held no visions of the future, only a burning pitch-black star, a world full of dust, and a fractured destiny.
The scorching star burned Tzeentch's very existence. Ash sprinkled down from the Lord of Change's body, and even the future before the Lord of Change became blurred, chaotic, and incomplete.
The Thousand Sons' strong impulse for self-destruction, fused with hatred for the unfairness of fate, propelled Ariman and the minor godhood he was about to ascend to toward Tzeentch, tearing a rift in Tzeentch's existence. Behind Ariman, the power of the erosion and destruction domain was faintly pulsating.
But after one wail, Tzeentch let out a maniacal laugh.
Within his body, distorted crystals stabbed out around Ariman, reflecting his figure. Each reflection corresponded to every moment of Ariman's life from childhood onward; all of his past, future, and present fears and arrogance, pain and hope, dreams and demons, reality and fantasy, madness and confusion were mirrored within them.
It was as if Ariman's existence had been dismantled, torn apart, and sealed within different crystals.
The Raven's form cackled strangely. Every reflection of Ariman in the crystals seemed to come alive, living out his life within the crystal, each tilting toward a fate that was either happy or painful.
Ariman felt himself being stretched long, long, long. His sense of time became disordered, his thoughts spiraled and twisted, and his body struggled to move.
Tzeentch was capturing Ariman with his own body. He was ecstatic, having never expected such a significant gain today.
The minor godhood Ariman was stepping onto lay between corruption and destruction and the Hellstorm, symbolizing the cruelest aspect of fate.
All that is possessed shall be lost, all that is good shall turn bad, all high towers shall collapse, and all greatness shall turn to dust.
This was the darkest change, the inevitable conclusion toward which fate must tilt.
Tzeentch had always been trying to seize this godhood to expand his domain, and Ariman was the tool he had chosen to acquire it.
Among all the Astartes, only Fabius and Ariman had the talent to become minor entities in the Warp, capable of reaching the realm of the Primarchs.
A single mortal naturally cannot bear the power of Warp godhood.
Fabius relied on his creations, his so-called New Men, who united through faith, elevating him to become the progenitor, symbolizing the distortion and mutation of mind and body—a minor position situated between Malicious Art and greed dissolution.
Ariman, conversely, relied on the red word network. All Thousand Sons, regardless of past, present, or future, centered around Ariman, linked by the red word, forming a network. The destruction, hatred, self-destructive tendencies, and rejection of fate from all the Thousand Sons combined, elevating Ariman to that godhood.
Whether it was the tragedy of Ariman's own fate or the tragedy of the Thousand Sons, Tzeentch was the one manipulating events behind the scenes, intending for Ariman to use all the Thousand Sons as sacrifices to complete his ascension, but it had never succeeded.
Unexpectedly, at this very moment, success was achieved. Ariman had actually embarked on the path of ascension on his own, without Tzeentch's manipulation.
The godhood he achieved was named Ahriman, and in older human myths, this godhood was also known as Angra Mainyu, the God of Two Springs and Ten Winters, the God opposed to the concept of Happiness. He makes the beautiful ugly, the healthy sick, the living dead, water salty, and flames dim, and is ultimately destined to fall into endless darkness himself.
More and more crystals were born around Ariman, tearing and imprisoning his existence, trapping him in different crystals to experience different lives. Tzeentch used this to slowly digest and devour Ariman.
But after experiencing different lives, all the Arimans in those crystals eventually tilted toward the worst possible outcome: ash flying everywhere, the pitch-black sun suspended, and all the Arimans in the crystals had their helmets shattered, exposing the pitch-black sun above their necks, bathed in dust.
Regardless of the process, the conclusion of fate was singular.
In an instant, the Arimans in the crystals recombined. The pitch-black star fiercely burned, scorching a void within Tzeentch's body and piercing through his form.
Tzeentch's body was perforated, and lines of black ash began to burn across his domain. The future before Tzeentch became increasingly gray, distorted, and ruined.
But the Lord of Change merely let out a shriek, and the wounds on his body rapidly healed in the blink of an eye. Simultaneously, millions upon millions of flocks of birds flew out of his body, crashing into Ariman's form.
Ariman's body instantly displayed hundreds of changes. These changes, like chains, imprisoned Ariman in mid-air. Tzeentch stabbed out tentacles once more, reaching for Ariman, attempting to devour him.
But a crimson fist blocked the Lord of Change.
Magnus gently shook his head at the Lord of Change.
Tzeentch hesitated.
Ariman was indeed precious, and expanding his godhood was tempting, but Ariman was currently leaning too heavily toward corruption and destruction. Even if Tzeentch devoured him, it would take a vast amount of time to digest, and he would lose Magnus and the chance to reuse the power of the Well of Eternity.
More importantly, Tzeentch was trying to seize 罗伯特.基里曼 through Magnus.
His time was not plentiful; there was no time to waste.
Tzeentch removed the restraints on Ariman, but the flame of hatred burning on Ariman still urgently pointed toward Tzeentch, only to be blocked by Magnus's outstretched arm.
Magnus motioned for Ariman to look behind him.
The burning pitch-black star above Ariman's head twisted slightly.
Ariman saw it. Following the red word network, he saw the souls within the Red Letter Warriors slowly being burned away. He saw some Thousand Sons who had not been killed by the red word originally were also slowly being burned into ash.
He was ascending, but the sacrifice was all his brothers. Once he completed the ascension, all Thousand Sons, past and present, would be burned into ash, melted into his armor, their souls consumed as fuel, turning them into mere puppets.
Yet, the emotions of those Thousand Sons contained only a strong tendency toward self-destruction, only hatred, and only defiance against fate.
Just as Ariman had once told them.
Instead of enduring fate, they chose to defy it.
Ten thousand years ago, when the wolves descended from the sky, the Thousand Sons chose this way.
Ten thousand years later, now, the Thousand Sons still chose this way.
If everything must turn to dust, they wished to become ash through incineration.
But Ariman hesitated. He could not burn his brothers into ash again.
In the Warp, will was everything. It was Ariman's increasingly extreme will that had just propelled him toward godhood.
The instant Ariman hesitated, the divinity on his body rapidly receded, and the pitch-black star dimmed.
The shattered pieces of helmet flew from a distance, piecing themselves back together over Ariman's head, restoring its original appearance.
Magnus smiled, seemingly satisfied with Ariman's choice.
Before Ariman could speak, the crimson Primarch placed his hand on Ariman's chest, gave a fierce push, and sent Ariman back into the material dimension.
"Begin," Magnus said, nodding slightly toward Tzeentch.
Tzeentch healed the slight injuries Magnus had inflicted on him while adjusting the Well of Eternity.
A vortex interwoven with millions of colors erupted from the Well of Eternity. Magnus closed his eyes slightly and leaped into the well.
Magnus felt himself being stretched very long, like a rubber band, growing longer and thinner, until he was only one molecule, one atom, one Planck length wide, yet his length reached infinity, stretching back from the far end of time and space, turning him into an ouroboros, a Mobius strip coiling in the eternally falling well.
His will was being torn apart. Every moment of eternal time and space, past and future, unfolded before his eyes.
He looked down and saw a Lord of Change falling ahead of him. That Lord of Change was screaming in terror, clearly driven mad by everything it saw.
The past and future of that Lord of Change overlapped on its own body, as if two heads had sprouted from its form.
Then, Magnus felt something and looked upward.
Some time after he had plunged into the well, it seemed something else had been tossed down.
He saw it.
A pocket. A pocket had been thrown into the Well of Eternity, falling from above.
The ground was sticky, covered in biomass and large amounts of foul-smelling secretions that rose past Azrael's mid-calf.
Every step was extremely difficult, as if countless microscopic organisms invisible to the naked eye were dragging at his legs within the yellow, translucent suspension, making it particularly disgusting.
As an Astartes seasoned by countless battles, Azrael naturally would not let the external environment affect his fighting spirit.
What truly made him uncomfortable was the surrounding atmosphere.
The Absolvers followed the Lion silently, but their gazes toward Azrael carried a hint of hostility.
Helael was also completely silent.
Azrael vaguely sensed that his brother likely harbored many secrets as well.
His superb swordsmanship, his understanding of Cypher, and his relationship with the Lion all suggested that his brother's identity within the former First Legion was likely extraordinary.
Facing the Lion again, coupled with the stimulation of the illusion released by The Scourge of Macragge just moments ago, seemed to have made his thoughts chaotic and heavy.
He had said almost nothing along the way except to kill enemies.
As for the atmosphere among the Deathwatch Black Shields, it was even more fraught with awkwardness.
Most of these individuals had committed unforgivable mistakes, some even originating from renegade or fallen Chapters, and a few were outright descendants of traitor Legions.
Following a Primarch renowned for his ferocity, keenness, and terror inevitably made them nervous.
Azrael couldn't help but wonder if a few of his Black Shield brothers might actually be Fallen Angels.
"With all these disgusting liquids, we haven't burrowed into the Tyranids / Tyranid's reproductive glands, have we?"
Azrael attempted to lighten the mood, speaking humorously.
But the air was filled only with awkwardness, stillness, and silence; no one responded to Azrael's joke.
Only a few Absolvers eyed Azrael up and down with suspicion, and some even cast glances bordering on threats, signaling him to shut his mouth.
Azrael shrugged his shoulders helplessly, lamenting that his brothers were all too rigid, serious, and gloomy.
He racked his brain, trying to come up with a joke related to the gloomy atmosphere of the Dark Angels.
But the Lion stopped at that moment, turning his head to look at Azrael.
Azrael trembled violently, thinking his words had angered the Lion again, and he quickly fell silent.
"You are perceptive," the Lion said in a low voice.
Azrael blinked, not understanding what the Lion meant.
The Lion brandished the power sword in his hand, named loyalty, splitting open the pus on the ground and exposing the vascular, flesh-like conduits beneath the translucent fluid.
Within those fleshy conduits, some maggots could vaguely be seen rapidly wriggling.
The Lion swung the loyalty sword down, shattering the pus-encased vessels, and the maggots spilled out.
Azrael could clearly see that the maggots carried sacs on their backs.
The Lion sliced down with one stroke, instantly shattering the maggots into fragments.
The sacs ruptured, releasing some flocculent material.
For some reason, Azrael's heart pounded a few times upon seeing the flocculent material destroyed.
"Is this... transporting some kind of genetic material?"
Combining this observation with the Lion's previous words and examining the form of the flocculent material, Azrael instantly made his judgment.
This was clearly some kind of genetic material.
The Tyranids / Tyranid hive was transporting this genetic material to produce some kind of creature.
Azrael's joke had actually hit upon the truth.
"I thought you were just joking inappropriately, but it turns out you detected the xenos' purpose."
Helael turned to Azrael, his tone carrying some gratification, and patted Azrael's shoulder in a gesture of acknowledgment toward a junior.
The Absolvers' hostility toward Azrael also relatively diminished, seemingly ashamed of the threatening looks they had just given him.
"Yes, I saw at a glance that these despicable bugs were transporting this blasphemous, disgusting, hideous, and twisted xenos aberrant gene!" Azrael demonstrated the psychological fortitude expected of a Chapter Master, speaking almost without hesitation.
"...That is my gene-sequence," the Lion said to Azrael in a low voice.
"Huh?"
"And my brothers' as well.
Even... the Emperor's and the Primarch Mother's," the Lion said, glancing at the shattered flocculent material on the ground.
"Primarchs have a mother?" Azrael blurted out.
The Absolvers behind the Lion glared fiercely at Azrael.
But the Lion remained expressionless, merely continuing: "The source-blood stack, the thing Fulgrim's clone failed to protect.
It contains the complete gene-sequences of me and my brothers, or rather, all Primarchs were born from that gene-sequence."
"The gene-sequence resulting from the union of the Emperor, the Emperor, and the Primarch Mother, Eldar.
The Tyranid Swarm stole that gene-sequence and is using it to synthesize a creature to host itself."
The Lion's words caused the atmosphere to sink heavily.
As they delved deeper, they encountered fewer and fewer obstacles, as if all the creatures nearby had been broken down into biomass and gathered to nurture the creature deep within this spire of flesh.
If the Lion was correct, then the Tyranid creature awaiting them inside this spire of flesh would be—
Everyone's mood instantly became somewhat suppressed.
Besides suppression, there was anger and distress.
They found it unbearable that the gene-sequences of their gene-father and the Emperor were being defiled, altered, and twisted by xenos.
Azrael also felt the heavy atmosphere, believing that such a state of mind would clearly affect everyone's combat effectiveness.
"My Lord, we have all heard your holy words: 'loyalty needs no reward; loyalty is its own reward.'"
Azrael looked at the Lion and spoke.
The Lion cast a slightly puzzled look toward Azrael.
"And yet, your current sword is named loyalty.
So when you use this sword to kill enemies—"
"...doesn't that count as rewarding the enemy?"
The atmosphere instantly grew heavy for a moment.
The Lion displayed an almost cruel smile.
He slightly raised the loyalty sword in his hand.
"I need to reward your loyalty."
Azrael silently took a step back.
The Lion ignored Azrael further, turning instead to Zabriel beside him: "Can you contact that clone?"
Zabriel slightly shook his head.
The Lion nodded lightly, seemingly unsurprised by this.
"We will either usher in a flamboyant new Phoenix."
"Or we will usher in a new traitor, a new viper."
"But regarding the coming fate of the galaxy, it is already irrelevant."
Azrael actually sensed a strong confidence in the Lion's words.
He didn't quite understand why the Lion was so confident.
The Lion seemed to sense Azrael's thoughts, and he sneered two or three times:
"Because of Guilliman."
"During our small council meeting, Guilliman expressed a certain degree of opposition to Alexander's plan, believing it was too reckless, too much of a gamble, and the risk was too high."
"Heh, once I saw Guilliman object, I knew Alexander's plan was correct."
"I have to say, Guilliman can always make the right judgment on many things, but when it comes to major issues concerning the Warp, the Emperor, and Chaos, Guilliman's judgments are almost always wrong."
A single phrase flashed through Azrael's mind: Second Empire.
At the beginning of the Great Heresy, Guilliman, believing the Emperor was dead, brazenly established a separate seat of power.
He pushed Sanguinius, who only wanted to be Regent, into the position of Emperor, and nominated the Lion as the Protector of the Second Empire.
Both roles clearly indicated the establishment of a separate central authority, while Guilliman himself only took the seemingly uninvolved position of Border Governor-General.
But what the Lion said next was not what Azrael had been thinking:
"Ten thousand years ago, after Horus was killed, I rushed to Terra.
Guilliman told me: The Emperor would stand up and resurrect immediately."
"...Huh?" A question mark appeared above Azrael's head.
"It turns out 'immediately' was longer than ten thousand years," the Lion said with a grim expression.
"And if the Emperor really did stand up, that would be the disaster."
Azrael grew even more confused, not understanding why the Emperor standing up would be a disaster.
"Guilliman also insisted: The Four Chaos Gods had been killed by the Emperor along with Horus, and the Imperium and Humanity were safe."
Azrael blinked, understanding less and less what the Lion was saying, or what Guilliman had said.
"Furthermore, Abaddon was personally let go by Guilliman."
The Lion recalled the past, veins slightly bulging at the corner of his eye:
"Dorn demanded at the time that we resist the pressure and immediately send troops to purge the traitors, but Guilliman believed it didn't matter even if Abaddon escaped."
"'Where could he possibly run off to?' Those were Guilliman's exact words.
It was as if he was completely unaware of the existence of the Eye of Terror."
Azrael slightly opened his mouth.
He now felt he wasn't humorous enough.
True humor belonged to Guilliman!
"Then, you, and Vulkan, Dorn, Khan, Leman Russ... couldn't so many of you veto Guilliman's decision?"
"Defeat Guilliman politically? I'd rather challenge a hundred Horuses on the battlefield."
The Lion sneered:
"Unfortunately, Corax wasn't present then due to his mental state."
"The Raven King could politically contend with Guilliman?" Azrael asked curiously.
"No.
If Corax had been there, we could have at least quietly assassinated Guilliman and then framed the traitors," the Lion snorted, glancing at Azrael as he spoke.
All the Astartes present stiffened.
"We're here," the Lion growled, addressing the sphincter-like fleshy tissue before them.
Azrael, Helael, the Absolvers, and the Black Shields quickly raised their weapons, unleashing dense firepower upon the sphincter, instantly blasting it into a shower of torn flesh.
The group stepped into the gap they had blasted open, entering the deepest part of this flesh lighthouse.
The air here was extremely thick, humid, and hot.
Even with Astartes' superhuman organs, Azrael felt his lungs burning unbearably hot after taking a breath without his helmet on.
This wasn't due to any toxicity in the air; it was purely because the air in the chamber was too hot, too scalding.
This was a vast hall, stitched together from countless organisms.
Embedded in the walls of the hall were massive numbers of brain-like creatures.
The limbs of these organisms had atrophied, leaving only enormous brains that pulsed with blinding psychic light.
This intense psychic energy even scorched the creatures themselves.
Scalding psychic flames burned one brain-bug until it shriveled and turned to ash.
Then, some secondary Tyranid organisms would climb up the flesh wall, pry off the burnt brain-bug, and embed another intact one in its place.
The vast psychic energy thus surged into this spire of flesh, gathering at the top.
But when gazing at this beacon from within the Warp, what was seen was not blinding light, but profound shadow.
Azrael's throat bobbed a few times.
He didn't know how to describe this place.
Or rather, he knew exactly how to describe it, to the point where he struggled to utter the word.
"Astronomican," Azrael said with difficulty, forcing the word out of his slightly dehydrated mouth.
His words resonated with the Astartes around him.
This place truly resembled the Astronomican standing upon Terra.
The Astronomican's function is to navigate ships within the Imperium.
Then... what is this Tyranids / Tyranid version of the Astronomican navigating?
Or, what is it being used to summon, or link to?
The answer was almost self-evident.
The Tyranids / Tyranid swarms in the distant reaches, the hive mind in the distant reaches—
The distant hunger was responding to the call, coming to feed on the galaxy.
And beneath the Astronomican, Azrael looked with dread toward the depths of the hall.
Four Norn Queens floated in mid-air, connected by numerous tubes.
Their organs used for producing Tyranid organisms were extremely swollen and distended, connecting to an enormous incubation pool.
That incubation pool protruded more than ten meters from the ground, surrounded by copious fleshy tubes, tentacles, and meat-pumps made of chitin, resembling a Golden Throne composed of flesh.
And at the apex of this throne, there was an orange-yellow ovum sac.
Vaguely visible within the ovum sac was a pitch-black humanoid existence.
Although humanoid, it had six limbs growing from its body; four arms were curled up along the sides of its torso, making it look like a gigantic bug.
It was nearly fully formed and seemed ready to burst out of the egg and be born into the world at any moment.
Azrael stared at the humanoid creature inside the embryo, and he had a feeling.
This creature was far larger than what he could see.
Within its seemingly small shell, an entity larger than an entire star system, or even the whole galaxy, seemed to be compressed.
"That thing is..." Azrael felt his breathing become labored.
Just as he spoke, the creature in the ovum sac suddenly twitched a few times.
It slowly raised its head, seemingly looking in the direction where Azrael and the others stood.
One eyelid of the creature slowly lifted.
The creature in the amniotic sac slightly raised one eyelid.
Azrael instantly felt dizzy, and everything around him seemed to dim, enveloped by a shroud of shadow.
An intense hunger surged from its abdomen.
He felt the nutrients in his body slowly draining away. His stomach was empty save for cold air, his blood vessels shriveled from lack of sustenance, his fat rapidly consumed, and moisture vanished from his lips and teeth.
So hungry, so hungry, so hungry.
Heat dissipated within him like a phantom, and the external cold pierced his body like needles.
He curled up, dragging his tattered fur, and peered out from the cave.
So hungry, so hungry, so hungry.
He could no longer recall when he had last eaten.
Was it the withered little bug he dug out from under the rubble last time?
He missed the sensation of that small bug cracking against his gums. It was bitter, almost entirely dry, like eating a piece of grit, yet it had left him profoundly satisfied.
His last tooth had fallen out last night, seemingly having atrophied from long disuse.
He couldn't bear to part with it, swallowing the tooth whole, praying that this broken fragment could provide him with even a sliver of nutrition.
Prayer. What was prayer? Who did one pray to? God?
He only remembered black metallic skeletons falling from the sky, bringing with them raging emerald lightning.
He saw the sky ignited by flames from another world, as pointy-eared specters, green beasts, giants, and skeletons fought fiercely together.
Planets were torn apart, continents flung into the sky, and ancient temples seemed so fragile before true divine power, instantly crumbling into dust.
He didn't know why his home had suffered such a catastrophe, nor why those skeletons, pointy-ears, and green beasts wanted to destroy his planet.
He no longer even knew how to hate them. Now, only hunger remained.
When his muscles still possessed some strength, he would look up on clear nights.
Every day, new stars were extinguished, and bright spheres of light flickered in the night sky.
Eventually, when he gazed up, he saw only vast, black voids, as if an invisible hunter were feeding on the stars.
Feeding on the stars.
He couldn't help but fantasize about the feeling of swallowing the constellations, trying to conjure up a sense of satiety, but he failed.
He had already forgotten what it felt like to be full.
He nearly collapsed onto the snow.
The strength in his muscles was rapidly fading. He knew clearly that if he fell now, he would likely never get up again.
Yet, he felt no fear.
Instead, he developed a fantasy: that after he fell, bacteria, beasts, and bugs would gnaw at his body, feasting on his flesh and blood.
He fantasized—fantasized about the feeling of satiety surging from the bellies of the creatures that fed on him.
He no longer clung to life, no longer felt anger, no longer prayed for hope, no longer yearned for pleasure, and no longer desired revenge.
He only wanted that single moment of satiety.
A sharp blade pierced his shoulder.
Dull, gray blood flowed from the wound, his knees buckled, and his body partially slumped down.
Trembling, he raised his head and saw a beast covered in chitinous armor standing before him.
It slightly opened its maw, and thick, hot air sprayed onto his face.
He looked into the beast's eyes and felt a strange resonance.
In those eyes, there was only hunger—raw, naked hunger, exactly like his own.
His shoulder was bitten off by the beast's sharp teeth.
The flesh was gnawed away and crammed into its mouth.
Eat, eat, keep eating.
Eat everything you can see until we find the satiety we have forgotten.
The face of the Lion pressed close to his eyes, staring at him with cold, grim intensity.
Azrael let out a wild howl.
Blood erupted from his mouth, teeth fell from his gums, and the nutrients in his body rapidly drained away.
He abruptly staggered back two or three steps, finally breaking free from the recent hallucination.
Azrael struggled to raise his head and look around.
He saw that the Absolvers had wounds similar to his own, to varying degrees, but they and Helael were all still standing and conscious.
About half of the Black Shields had collapsed, and the remaining ones bore similar wounds.
"You possess my gene-sequence," the Lion murmured. "My spirit extended to you through it, protecting your minds."
Azrael nodded slightly. So that was why: they inherited Lion's gene-sequence, and Lion's spirit used it to protect their minds.
Hmm?
Azrael blinked, suddenly realizing something, and looked toward the Black Shields who were still standing.
Those Black Shields, who had fought alongside Azrael for several months, looked away, appearing slightly guilty.
Truly, each of them possessed exceptional skills.
"Watch out," Lion's voice suddenly rang out.
A tendril formed by twisted shadow stabbed toward them at extreme speed.
Lion swung the kite shield in his hand, attempting to block the appendage.
But the tendril twisted rapidly, circumventing the Emperor's Shield, and lunged toward Lion's back.
Helael and Azrael managed to dodge based on their reaction speed, but the others were not so fortunate.
Two Absolvers and two Black Shields were impaled by the tendril before the Lion could sever it with the Sword of loyalty.
They were instantly drained of all nutrients, turning into ash that scattered on the wind.
The severed appendage twitched a few times and violently retracted back toward the egg sac.
The creature inside the egg sac writhed, curled its four arms, and fixed its gaze upon Lion El'Jonson with its single open eye.
The moment Azrael saw that eye, an intense feeling of hunger surged within him.
Various roars sounded in his ears, and numerous illusions flashed before his eyes.
He recalled the things he had just witnessed, and in a daze, he understood what he was facing and what the Tyranid Swarm were.
They were... survivors.
Survivors of a war.
The War in Heaven, the War in Heaven millions of years ago.
The war between the Old Ones and the Necrons spanned beyond the galaxy, covering the entire universe.
Stars fell during that conflict, planets were easily shattered, the torrents of the Warp destroyed reality, and the roars of the C'tan twisted the laws of physics.
Everything in the universe outside the galaxy, which served as the fortress of the Old Ones, was set ablaze.
Even the planets that miraculously survived underwent earth-shattering changes in climate and environment, making the existence of life nearly impossible.
Those surviving creatures were starving.
One branch, or perhaps several, began to evolve, transforming into Tyranid-like organisms.
They rose from their planets, searching for food among the desolate stars, consuming the biomass and gene-sequences of other survivors, constantly evolving and expanding.
It was like an ark, carrying the gene-sequences of all survivors, and also carrying the final emotion of all survivors: hunger.
Those emotions, that hunger, mixed together, rising from the bodies of those who ate and those who were eaten, became the hive mind, the Great Devourer, a distant hunger.
Now, those fractured limbs were spreading toward that body.
That four-armed humanoid entity alone was already larger than the Tyranid that were still scattered in the void, yet to converge on the galaxy.
More of the hive mind was converging on Him, making Him increasingly complete.
Lion El'Jonson turned into a blurred afterimage, charging toward the incubating egg sac.
The figure in the egg sac twisted a few times, and shadow-formed tendrils lashed out at the Lion from all directions.
Concentrated firepower erupted from behind Lion.
Azrael, Zabriel, and Helael tightly gripped their blades, rushing out from the ranks to guard the Lion's side.
The sharp tendrils clashed against the power swords.
The immense strength contorted Azrael's face, reminding him of Khârn, the Chosen of Khorne.
Azrael once had an earth-shattering battle with Khârn—which was actually Azrael rushing forward to chop off the bunny ears on Khârn's helmet after Khârn mocked the comical wings attached to Azrael's Lion helmet, and then immediately turning to flee.
But even that brief engagement had left Azrael with a deep impression of Khârn's terrifying strength.
Now, the power released by this single small tendril was nearly a match for Khârn's.
Helael, beside Azrael, abruptly severed a tendril.
Zabriel, though slightly slower, also managed to hack through one with difficulty.
Azrael had only rushed forward because he saw Zabriel and Helael, two Fallen Angels, charge ahead, and felt it would look bad for him, the Chapter Master of the Dark Angels Chapter, not to follow.
Azrael slashed and severed several tendrils approaching him, moving closer to the Lion alongside Helael and Zabriel.
This demigod of the forest displayed the extraordinary power granted to him by the low growl.
The Emperor's Shield flashed with specks of psychic light, stubbornly deflecting the majority of the tendrils.
At the same time, Azrael heard the sound of flowing water near his ears, and a deep forest shimmered into existence beside the Lion.
The Lion fiercely swung the Sword of loyalty, forcing back the encroaching tendrils, and then stepped into the shimmering forest.
Zabriel followed immediately.
Azrael and Helael, having long heard about the Lion's power, followed suit, stepping into the woods after Zabriel.
Instantly, the air was no longer scorching hot, the faint buzzing of insects vanished, and the feeling of hunger that had enveloped their bodies dissipated.
The air was cold, the sunlight dim, and dense tree canopies blocked out the sky.
A thick layer of fallen leaves covered the ground, and the faint sound of a stream could be heard in the distance.
It was as if they had reached another dimension in an instant.
"Is this a new power you have acquired? It's truly miraculous," Helael said, somewhat astonished.
"Is this some kind of psychic power?"
"It is not newly acquired," Lion said, moving swiftly through the woods with the three of them.
He seemed to be relying on instinct to find the path.
"Perhaps it is psychic, or perhaps something else."
"I only know that both time and space in these woods are different from the outside world."
"The flow of time here is slower.
Exactly how slow seems to depend on my mood."
"One step taken here is equivalent to many steps outside, and I can even use this to move between different planets."
"This place is practically a reflection of Caliban," Helael said, looking around the woods.
Suddenly, his steps slowed for a moment.
Through a gap in the woods, he saw a lake shrouded in a thin mist.
The lake was vast, stretching out of sight; only distant mountains could be faintly seen.
And in the center of this expansive lake, a small wooden boat was visible.
Standing on the boat was an old man, draped in tattered robes, thin and withered like a skeleton.
The old man held a fishing rod, angling for something.
Azrael's gaze was also drawn to the old man.
He noticed the old man seemed to be wounded; blood flowed ceaselessly from his body, dropping into the water and spreading across the surface, staining the lake a black color tinged with red.
From a distance, it looked like a pitch-black sun.
Beneath the surface of the lake, Azrael seemed to perceive the shadows of five massive beasts.
Green, red, blue, purple, and metallic blue.
Five beasts lurked beneath the lake, while the old man's small boat was rotten and precarious.
Furthermore, Azrael saw things dragging at the small boat, trying to pull it beneath the surface and force the old man to join them.
Some of the dragging force came from the black sun formed by the old man's spreading blood, and some came from the metallic blue shadow.
The two forces combined had already made the old man's boat unstable, and he was barely holding on to avoid falling into the lake.
What exactly was this?
Azrael felt his scalp prickle just by looking at it.
Lion El'Jonson glanced at the old man, his brow slightly furrowed, seemingly troubled by the old man's condition.
But he said nothing, simply continuing to move through the woods.
"Hmm?"
Just as the Lion's speed began to slow, indicating he was nearing his destination, a sharp, grating rustling sound suddenly echoed through the woods.
Azrael felt the air become scorching hot, a wave of hunger surged from his abdomen, and the nutrients in his body rapidly drained away.
Szzzzzt!!!!
Tendrils like sharp blades suddenly stabbed up through the leaf-covered ground, slicing past Azrael.
Not only the ground, but even the tree canopies were instantly sliced open by the tendrils, exposing the gloomy sky.
Tendril after tendril tore through the sky, then dropped down from above, stabbing toward Lion El'Jonson with sharp points.
The Lion wielded the kite shield in his hand, blocking the rain of falling tendrils and spikes.
Azrael also noticed that the Lion's expression was somewhat grim.
The will of the Great Devourer had actually infiltrated this domain, these woods, directly attacking the Lion who was moving through them.
Clearly, as more and more of the hive mind converged within that body, the power the Great Devourer could unleash across the galaxy was growing stronger and more complete.
For a moment, even the power of Lion El'Jonson was suppressed by the hive mind.
More and more tendrils began pouring into the woods from all directions.
Hunger raged through the forest, even beginning to spread over the lake that Azrael and the others had just seen, reaching toward the old man.
The old man's weak, withered body slightly straightened.
He tightened his grip on the hook in his hand.