Warhammer: I don't want to become a stinky can!

Page 321

"Correction: It was Hades who saved the empire."

The sage calmly interrupted the data panel.

"603, you have one more chance."

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O boundless ocean of endless changes, O wondrous and mysterious shore, O convergence of countless ingenious ideas, O abode of boundless wisdom, O beautiful supreme heaven, O exquisite and vast ocean, why are you restless? Why are you turbulent? Why do you stir up ripples in the river of fate with your plump arms?

Billions of intelligent beings flickered with firelight, the Milky Way shimmered, the sun fell, and a dark haze shrouded the corners of the eyes.

If no wise person stops it, if no brave person steps forward, if no benevolent person dissuades it, if no skillful person advises it—the Pure Land will collapse, and Paradise will never be restored!

The first cry, a sound that was neither a laugh nor a smile, rang out from the ever-changing labyrinth. A strange light swept across the sage's lens, dripping into the ocean of wisdom. The ever-changing king smiled and placed his hand on his skin. The scales that shimmered with nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine kinds of light quickly faded, and hair composed of nine and nine hundred and ninety-nine kinds of fibers grew up in a flurry. The nine nine hundred and ninety-nine fibers twisted and intertwined with the hair, weaving a shimmering blue bird feather.

The Heavenly Emperor laughed merrily, his sharp claws brushing against the light feathers again and again. He shrieked towards the distance, and the distance responded with a roar, a whisper, and a soft sigh.

With a sharp whistle, nine bird feathers silently drifted down.

A sigh from the wise man's contemplative moment blew by, nine feathers rising from the depths of the labyrinth. The light feathers drifted down, trembling, and would fall shakily into the eighth pool of blood—

A giant hand raised nine feathers, surrounded by an eternal blood aura. On the eight trillion skulls of the bronze throne, eight hundred and eighty-eight skeletons cast their gazes toward the Father of Blood. Warriors struck their battle axes, weapons clashed with a deafening roar, and war drums thundered.

On the bloodied skin, the brass dagger sliced ​​through, drawing eight drops of blood. The pale bones were exposed, and the eight drops of blood dripped onto them, slowly turning the white bones bright red.

Nine feathers suddenly took flight, and after a faint cry, blue feathers stuck to the end of the white bone, their feathers unfurling like small fans.

With a roar, the skull master threw out white bones, which swirled and startled the garden with gasps of surprise.

The loving father muttered softly, panting as he gestured for the garden crowds to quiet down. He put down the spoon that had been stirring the cauldron, grasped the bones of the Blood Lord, and plunged the other hand into the stenchy maw.

With a soft sigh of discomfort, the loving father withdrew his hand with satisfaction. On his sticky palm lay a decayed tooth, its tip rotten yet sharp. The seven cavities indicated its good fortune. The Plague Lord muttered seven times, smeared the sticky substance on the tooth, and then carefully used his swollen hand to bind the tip of the tooth to the other end of the bone.

He raised his hand with satisfaction, and now the Father held an arrow in his hand. The Lord of Changes provided the fletching, the Lord of Blood provided the shaft, and the Lord of Plague provided the arrowhead.

He slowly looked toward the Silver Palace, and three gazes pierced in at the same time.

Within the graceful, light bed curtains, amidst the soft singing and dancing, a strand of tangled hair slipped down, and a lazy, complaining yawn rang out.

Birdsong echoed through the labyrinth, a roar came from the throne, and the benevolent father shook his head in displeasure.

He reached out his hand, and the arrows fell from the plague-stricken swamp.

Between the silk ribbons, the flawless serpentine feet slid down, and the Lord of Pleasure's slender tongue wrapped around the arrow shaft, licking it gracefully and slowly.

The Dark Prince, who had destroyed billions of spirit beings, was naturally the one chosen to shoot the arrow. With the ultimate arrow technique, the Lord of Pleasure cried out in delight. He reached out and stroked his serpentine body, like a noblewoman carefully selecting her favorite treasure, and a tendon was pulled out.

The tendons bent and gradually twisted into the shape of a bow and arrow.

The Lord of Joy drew his bow with delight, then lowered the arrow and spoke coquettishly.

+Not enough~+

That's not enough. This strike must hit its mark, this strike must kill it, this strike will complete the reversal of the river of fate.

He lowered his long eyelashes, his eyes as bright and lively as those of a pure fawn.

Ah!

The Lord of Pleasure cried out in surprise; He knew what else He needed—

The death of a Primarch!

The altar was grand and bustling. They needed the death of a Primarch, a Primarch who died before it, a Primarch whose fate it had intervened in—to use it as an anchor point to firmly fix the warp around it.

The realm of the four gods erupted in commotion, as if celebrating the death of the cursed.

The arrow, sharp as it was, rested loosely on the Dark Prince's arm. The Lord of Pleasure stroked it, languidly awaiting the command to fire.

Which darling could it be? The Lord of Pleasure chuckled and clapped for His dancer, but it couldn't be the little bird He had his eye on.

My writing about Slaanesh got blocked immediately. This is the third time I've revised it. Some sentences in the Slaanesh section are grammatically incorrect, but that's not my fault.

Chapter 387 The First Traitor

The gods are watching their agents on earth.

Their agents also watch over them.

Now, they echo each other from afar.

he came.

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He imagined the bow of the Ironblood reflecting the chaotic and eerie light of the Star Eye, the waves of the warp far more dazzling here than at Mandeville Point.

Nobody believed him.

Peturabo thought silently.

The last conversation was with Phenusmanus, where he posed a perplexing question to his counterpart, who resembled him, only to be ruthlessly interrupted.

The Lord of Medusa also refused to acknowledge the visions that Perturabo had seen, just as no one, not even the Primarchs, could see the sights that Perturabo had seen.

That eye.

He is different.

Unlike his other brothers, Peturabo lost his childhood memories. From the moment he became conscious, he was shocked to find himself standing on a mountaintop with tears streaming down his face, the sky looking down at him, and he responding to its gaze.

Eyes of Fear.

After yet another failed dialogue, Perturabo named this galactic rift to himself, wherever he may be—whether in the deepest crypts of Olympia or deep within the palaces of Terra; wherever he may go—whether leading his Iron Warriors into the warp or his entire fleet dwelling in the Stormy Starfield—

He could feel its gaze.

The Steel Lord's intuition told him that this was a wound large enough to tear the entire world apart; it was Pandora's box, containing something that no intelligence could even imagine.

But nobody paid him any attention.

The Empire rejoiced at the appointment of the Warmaster and was astonished by the hasty end of Nicaea. Even conspiracy theorists would focus on the sudden fall of the perfect city—rather than an unnamed celestial phenomenon.

For the sake of the Empire's expeditions, Perturabo and his Iron Warriors have been busy fighting on all sides. It is clear that the Iron Lord cannot tolerate a break, nor would he stop the operation of an entire legion just to satisfy his own curiosity.

But now he's very close to the Eye of Fear... Ulanor is just below the Eye of Fear, and with just a short jump... he can find out more.

New orders have not yet been issued. The Emperor has returned to Terra, while the Warmaster seems to be held up by Baal's Archangel. The Wolf God is busy dealing with a flood of affairs, and for the Iron Warrior, who is always silent and reliable, the Wolf God simply lets Perturabo decide on the expedition on his own.

Perturabo remained silent about how much had already happened in the Empire while he was leading his army in various remote star sectors.

The Lord of Steel and the Crimson King had always been on good terms, but when Perturabo finally burned away those rude green creatures, he discovered that Magnus had been condemned as a sinner.

...?

There's also Luo Jia. Peturabo was worried about Luo Jia's condition after the burning of the Perfect City, but it seems that Luo Jia has fallen into an abnormal frenzy.

?

And then there's Dorn... The Imperial Fist has been appointed as Terra's defensive legion.

Perturabo took a deep breath, feeling the rage churning within him. While he and his offspring were being thrown into various remote battlefields, the heart of the empire had already been turned upside down. They were the forgotten, the abandoned, excluded from the center of the empire.

The Primarch moved his large hand, crumpling the letter of commendation bearing the Macado emblem he was holding into a ball.

His thoughts were as chaotic as this crumpled piece of paper.

Hollow fur.

Peturabo thought,

Now he has to go and do some things for himself.

------

According to the contract, you may not escape again without authorization.

Steam roared, electric arcs leaped, and its grotesque body of steel and iron hunched over, with blood mixed with engine oil flowing from its feet.

Vashtor, supporting its heavy hammer, stands on the parched earth, while in the distance, the black spires stand silently on the plain.

The Death Guardian's traitorous apothecary, Rodan, stood beside the Forge Master. His originally pale power armor, as if soaked in slime, began to ooze green from the bottom up, and some cute little mushrooms sprouted from the gaps in the power armor.

He slowly stroked the head of the local man in his hand; it was a freshly plucked head, and the wild man's purple eyes seemed like inorganic matter.

"Will not."

He spoke slowly, then carefully fastened the head to his waist.

"You really made a covenant with my Lord?"

Radon asked cautiously,

Vashtor lowered his body, his eyes, filled with the heat of the furnace, staring with hatred at the young apothecary.

This concerns the fate of the High Heavens—after which there will certainly be deceit and renewed war, but the celebratory war will only begin on the condition that the Cursed die.

No warp creature would be ambiguous about this.

"But you still haven't answered my question."

Vashtor stirred, and the jagged metal wings on his back unfurled.

No,

it says,

They invested far more in the death of this cursed one than you know, sacrificing even their own minor interests for it… They hate things getting out of control, but this had to come at a price.

Vashtor seemed to be talking to himself, his voice gradually fading as he flapped his bone wings. After a moment of spatial distortion, the Lord of the Hearthfire departed from the place.

"Okay... I still don't understand, but have a nice day anyway."

Radon muttered to himself as he pulled the potion from his waist. The small, rusty red color looked exceptionally beautiful inside the glass bottle. After countless improvements, iterations, and blessings, it had become a rather nice gift.

"Out of control?"

He muttered to himself.

"So...who is going to gain freedom?"

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A plague struck the fleet of the Iron Warriors.

The final leap toward the Eye of Fear failed, and all the ship's navigators strangled themselves to death amidst agonizing screams. Those whose hands were broken by the Iron Warriors died bleeding from all seven orifices.

The ship, now without its navigator, drifted in the warp. They could have used a series of complex and precise mathematical coordinate calculations to complete an emergency jump, but the chaotic psionic field near the Eye of Terror made the task extremely difficult.

Just as the Lord of Steel locked him in his tool room, engrossed in calculating warp coordinates, a strange plague began to spread throughout the fleet.

This is not a plague targeting people; it is a carnival for steel and iron.

Blood-red rust climbed the steel warrior's ship as if it were alive, the exhaust fan stopped spinning hoarsely, and the engine came to an abrupt halt after a mournful cry.

When the repairmen removed the fragile outer shell, they were astonished to find that the intricate internal structures of these machines had all decayed into fertile sludge due to corrosion from rust.

Turning the war machine into fertile ground may be the dream of pacifists, but it is certainly not the outcome that the Lord of Steel desires.

The rust spread rapidly, and the longer it went on, the weaker the Geller force field, which protected the ship from the turbulence of subspace, became.

When Peturabo was finally summoned from his workshop by his panicked offspring, the sudden and rapidly spreading plague had already left a third of the fleet stranded in the rivers of the warp.

The ships' vital structures were corroded by rust, making it almost impossible for them to jump out of the warp. Realizing that humans could also carry diseases onto the ships, the Iron Lord decisively ordered these irredeemable ships to move away from the main force.

The abandoned ships had no choice but to find their own way out. They helplessly tried to follow behind the main force, but most of the fleets whose protective force fields had disappeared vanished into the warp turbulence in the next instant.

Perhaps the plague had already infected the entire fleet of the Iron Lord. The previous lack of obstruction was merely a long incubation period of the plague, while the warm and humid warp near the Eye of Terror made these pervasive spores realize that it was time to grow and reproduce.

Even the hardest steel will corrode. The abandoned steel warriors, the steel warriors who witnessed their comrades being abandoned, and the people who witnessed all metal decay, their inner fear began to ripple through the warp, which further accelerated the revelry of the rust spores.

This is a long imprisonment with no end in sight.

Initially, Perturabo maintained his stern attitude, decisively cutting off most of the infected and beyond-recovery fleet. However, realizing that this was still insufficient to eliminate the source of the spread, he began ordering the main force to fire on those ships that refused to leave. This caused a small disturbance within the Iron Warriors, but Perturabo suppressed it with his usual iron fist.

During the suppression campaign, the Lord of Steel accidentally discovered that flames, smoke, and blood could slow the spread of spores.

So the remaining ships, which still looked intact, began to dump their ammunition inside and smear the rust with the blood of their mortal servants and crew.

The once neat and orderly cabin of the Steel Warrior began to become chaotic, with rust, gunpowder smoke and dried blood everywhere, like the beginning of some grand sacrificial ceremony.

But the futile struggle could not stop the rust slowly devouring the metal heart. The lack of mortal servants and the spread of rust caused problems with the ship's internal communications. Some steel warriors could not even contact their superiors, and it seemed that it had been a long time since Peturabo himself had last appeared in person.

After berating the Trident for interrupting his calculations that would allow the entire fleet to warp out of the warp, the Primarch locked himself back in his workshop. Perturabo once again picked up paper and pen, attempting to calculate the next opportune moment when the fleet could warp out of the warp turbulence.

Peturabo repeatedly agreed to the Tridents' requests to mimic him and cut off the infected fleet. He calculated irritably, something he was best at, but despair, madness, and agitation interrupted him time and again.