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

Page 309

On the other side of the door were the Emperor and Magnus.

The archangel's eyes flashed, and then he resolutely walked away, away from that place of trouble.

If the Mortalian, who was completely indifferent to the internal politics of the Empire, would still contact the Space Wolves for the sake of the Nicaea's victory, then there is no need to say more about the other Primarchs.

Even before the meeting, Saint Gilles had privately contacted Khan, Fugen, and Horus.

Since the Emperor declared that he would return to Terra after this meeting and completely hand over the reins of the Great Crusade to Horus, the Archangel knew very well that the content of this meeting was definitely not as simple as it appeared.

His first thought was to warn Magnus—the Thousand Sons had overstepped their bounds, and the Emperor might hope to use this meeting to remind Magnus.

But—but the course of the meeting far exceeded the angel's expectations. The moment he saw the seating arrangement, the archangel concluded that this meeting might not be just about reprimanding Magnus. He recalled the Emperor and Macardo's veiled warnings to Horus... This meeting was far more complicated than he had imagined.

Then everything seemed like a farce.

The sudden intrusion of Angron, the abrupt end to the recess, Magnus being forced to prove his innocence—thinking of this, the archangel's brow furrowed involuntarily again. He knew Magnus had gone further than any of them...

But he crossed the line.

The archangel remained silent as the patrolling nuns of silence walked past him. He arrived at the side door of the main hall, where he saw the kneeling Thousands, looking somber and disheveled. Mortarion and Lemanrus stood beside them, weapons in hand, the two Primarchs whispering amongst themselves, in the posture of victors.

Saint Gilles did not like this feeling, brothers killing each other.

When Saint Gilles arrived, Mortalian's wrinkles around his eyes twitched playfully beneath his hood, but Saint Gilles ignored him.

The archangel raised his head and stared at the hole in the ceiling.

He was unaware of the story above, but the angels who knew some psychic spells knew that it was definitely related to Magnus's spell.

That's...that's a subspace creature.

This thought made Saint Gilles' soul tremble for a moment. He did not blindly believe in the Emperor, nor did he blindly believe in the Empire, because the Archangel knew the truth of the Empire's truth, which said that there were no living beings or demons in the warp... No, that was wrong.

Life exists in subspace.

Saint Gilles knew this, and Horus knew it too; as the Legion campaigned far and wide, the battles against the psionics inevitably gave them glimpses of unsettling truths.

Warp beings possess warp magic, and they are more adept at using sorcery than psionic beings in the physical universe, which grants them powers that are difficult to comprehend.

But this is by no means a reason for Magnus to form a pact with the warp creatures.

The angel stared silently at the kneeling children, his eyes unfathomable.

Just how tempting were those warp creatures to the Thousand Sons Legion, allowing them to cross that most taboo red line?

The angel's heart skipped a beat; perhaps he should have known—

As early as the beginning of the Great Expedition, the Thousand Sons was the legion with the most severe flesh mutation, and its number even dropped to one thousand.

Later, after Magnus led the Thousand Sons on an expedition, the size of the Thousand Sons' army gradually expanded. Magnus claimed that he had cured the Thousand Sons' flesh mutation.

Saint Gilles swallowed.

Perhaps the Primarchs wouldn't normally make this connection, but as Saint Gilles, as the Legion Commander of the Blood Angels, the Archangel was always on the lookout for news about curing the Legion's genetic disease.

The perfect archangel, yet a shadow always lingered in his heart...

...thirst.

Saint Gilles paused for a moment, the archangel pulling his mind away from the matter and beginning to look at the bigger picture from another angle.

He recalled that blue figure from just moments ago, a figure that was absolutely unacceptable and unforgivable.

Magnus was well aware that it was unacceptable, and Saint Gilles knew that Magnus was the most arrogant among them, but even the most arrogant person would not abandon their dignity to associate with such a creature.

The angel remained silent. Was Magnus deceived by appearances and lies? Those who are arrogant are most likely to fall into the abyss of lies.

Saint Gilles slowly paced the boundaries of thought, and at the cost of Magnus and the Thousand Sons, he might finally see where the red line between the Empire and humanity truly lay.

This will also give us a glimpse into just how terrifying the subspace truly is.

But before that, perhaps Saint Gilles could have done something more. He did not choose to communicate with Fugen or Donne, even though archangels usually speak with these Primarchs at gatherings.

For the sake of the Legion, and to better see the future, the Archangel calmly stepped forward. He carried no weapons, his arms slightly outstretched, and walked to the front of the stage. He saw the mocking smile in Mortarion's eyes growing more and more obvious.

He controlled his pity, ignoring Senko kneeling at his feet.

Let's see who's here!

Mortarian hissed and whispered, while Ruth snorted rudely and crossed his arms, eyeing the archangel.

Saint Gilles gently shook his head.

I meant no harm. Magnus, too, concealed too much from me, and those who were originally on his side also felt deceived.

Why choose to believe a sorcerer who practices witchcraft, you birdman?

The angel's brow furrowed deeply, but he quickly regained his composure and spoke calmly.

If you want to see me lose my composure—you'll be disappointed, Mortarian. I'm not trying to stop you; I just want to know… to know…

The angel paused for a moment, then lowered his head slightly. Mortarian and Ruth looked at him with suspicion and wariness.

Saint Gilles raised his head again, and the two Primarchs could clearly see the unease and confusion that flashed in the archangel's eyes.

The angel shook his head again and spread out his hands.

I hope we can still be brothers—so, my brothers who know the truth, are you willing to offer me some advice?

No longer the archangel with the perfect mask, no longer the archangel who always seemed aloof, Saint Gilles looked at them earnestly, his wings lowered and trembling slightly.

Mortarion stared in astonishment at Saint Gilles, feeling abrupt and bewildered. For a fleeting moment, he saw the figure of Horus, and the archangel and Guilliman at the banquet trying to pull him into the Primarch's circle.

The Pale King slightly opened his mouth, uttering a barely audible monosyllable, and then…

Stay away from the warp and don't believe in it at all.

The Lord of Death said.

Ruth nodded irritably, while the Wolf King scratched his head and added rudely,

Everything else is negotiable, just look at Luojia.

The archangel's long hair obscured his vision. Saint Gilles nodded meekly, then said nothing and turned to leave.

His unease and confusion vanished in an instant, replaced by a victorious smile.

He wouldn't go back. The Primarch's next destination was the World Eaters' lounge. He had originally thought he would see Angron at Mortalian and Ruth's place.

There's another one after that.

Chapter 373 Inside the Room

a mess.

Everything was broken, reduced to rubble. Large chunks of wood chips from the desk were scattered on the floor, books lay overturned, their wide-open pages trampled and crumpled, and sharp ceramic shards were soaked in water, mingling with the swollen, white tea leaves.

The carpet was torn to shreds by wild beasts, its threads tangled and sprawling on the ground like messy hair, then turned up to reveal its pale inner lining.

The blood pooled in a small puddle on the undulations of the carpeted corpse, slowly and irresistibly seeping into the fur.

Magnus convulsed slightly, unable to control himself. He dared not breathe, but uncontrollable sobs still leaked from the tip of his nose, dripping onto his knees along with blood. He trembled slightly, looking down, and saw his knees, pale to black, cold and bloodless.

He was wrong, he was wrong… Father, forgive him, he was deceived, he didn't know, he didn't know… Forgive him… He only wanted to save his offspring… Forgive him…

Magnus tried to shrink himself, tightly covering his mouth to keep quiet. He wanted to vomit, the sticky, sweet taste of his internal organs lingering in his mouth, but he dared not move an inch, not even swallow. The lukewarm liquid gradually cooled in his mouth, then was squeezed and slowly slid down his esophagus.

The uncontrollable sobbing made him feel the pain of the sobs constantly choking him. His split fingernails dug into his face, the sharp edges piercing his skin and drawing blood.

His slightly trembling, disheveled hair obscured his vision; this was Magnus's last futile act of pretense. He dared not raise his gaze even slightly; he dared not—he dared not—

The most ferocious beast was staring intently at him, its eyes unblinking.

The only intact piece of furniture in the room was a human-sized chair. It was perfectly intact, without a single crack, and its legs were spotless, standing out starkly from the chaotic surroundings.

He sat there.

Directly opposite the kneeling Magnus, he sat there like a statue, his body bent like a fully drawn bow, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands crossed to cover his lower cheeks.

He tilted his head slightly, his black hair cascading down, obscuring one eye, leaving only one unblinking, inorganic, emotionless, inhuman eye.

He tilted his head, staring intently at Magnus's deeply lowered face, which he was trying to hide.

Magnus let out a soft sob.

No, no, no, he wished he could disappear immediately, no longer have to endure all of this, no longer be watched, and be far away from all this pain.

The monster remained motionless, blood mixed with tears flowing over it, soiling his boots.

"traitor,"

He says,

"Failure,"

Golden light shone from the depths of his eyes.

Magnus suddenly convulsed violently, his hand that was tightly covering his mouth twitched and loosened, and he uncontrollably vomited blood and fragments of internal organs, but this was far from the true source of the extreme suffering in hell.

His soul burned.

Golden light pierced the vast sky, and a blindingly hot force descended, flames sweeping and surging forth, causing everything to sway and scream with nowhere to escape.

The flames raged fiercely, engulfing the entire room in a golden inferno. Magnus struggled, bobbing up and down in the sea of ​​fire, the flames scorching his bones and licking his brain—

Sakaria, the Immortal, the Kinslayer, the Vengeful One, the Hollow Skull, Olpeson, the Warmaster, the Spell of Babel, the Betrayer, the Intervener, the Iron Man, the Eldar, the Storm Howl, the Whisperer, the Spellweaver, Moro Ohm, the Messiah, the Thunder Warrior, Tzeentch, the Lies, the Sacrifice, the Healing, the Twenty-One Deceptions, the Black Hole, the Contract Network, the Betrayer, the Price of God

No—no!

He was wrong! He was wrong! Forgive him! Forgive him!

Let him go!!!

Tyrant! Forgive him!!!

Magnus roared, tears of blood streaming from his eyes. He gasped for breath, frantically clutching his disheveled hair, and glared at him furiously—

Magnus coughed up a mouthful of blood, the first drop splashing onto the perfectly pressed carpet, blooming into a flower shape.

Magnus, incredulous and trembling, raised his head.

He saw that everything here was intact; the room was magnificent and undamaged, the tea in the cups emitted warm, moist steam, and the books were placed securely in their original positions.

He was sitting on the only broken golden throne, his eyes fixed on him.

My son,

He says,

My pride.

Magnus's eyes throbbed with intense pain, burning fiercely in their sockets. He gasped for breath, roaring out broken syllables, and scratched at his eye sockets with both hands.

Magnus sat up slightly, looking at the person opposite him with saliva dripping from his mouth, staring at him in terror and despair.

He trembled, and with a trembling voice, he gently opened his mouth and whimpered like a wounded animal.

【Father?】

He spoke in a hoarse voice, then Magnus clutched his head in agony, his fingernails scratching his scalp, tearing flesh, and a piercing scream ripped through his vocal cords.

[Father?! Father!!! No—no!!! No!!!]

【don't want!!!!】

[I didn't mean to?! I'm so sorry, so sorry, so sorry, please forgive me, please forgive me, I didn't mean to—]

Magnus's voice abruptly stopped, and he burst into a heart-wrenching, shrill laugh, his single eye twitching as blood and tears streamed down his face.

Magnus gasped for breath, stroking the smooth skin of his face where his other eye should have been.

Magnus abruptly lowered his head, staring at his hands—

Then he plunged his finger directly into his last eye, and crimson darkness immediately enveloped him. Wet liquid soaked his fingertip, and the muscles in his finger tightened. Magnus curled up and collapsed to the ground, struggling like a dehydrated fish.

His hand twitched, soft, moist flesh lying gently caressing him, but gradually grew cold and hard.

Just as he himself had hoped.

Magnus squeezed himself onto the carpet, using his last bit of strength to push the broken eyeball forward in his hand, the carpet's rough edges pricking him.

The perfectly round crystal lay in his palm, staring straight at the judge, the executioner, the victim, the father, the tyrant, the emperor.

[Dedicated to you, dedicated to you...]

Blood flowed from Magnus's mouth as he whimpered.