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

Page 862

Mortarian said softly,

Instead, I calmed down, no longer feeling the panic I once had. Was it because this time I was finally on the front lines, while he was in the rear? Or was it simply that, regardless of the situation, the outcome couldn't possibly get any worse?

"..."

"You're just tired."

"I can't breathe," Karas said sullenly, raising his head to gaze at the bright, rainbow-like starry sky.

"I'm just tired. I've lived this long... I've seen all kinds of storms."

You want me to let you go?

"That's always been my opinion."

Karas took a deep breath.

"Among our generation, only you, me, and Hades are left... Vox has also become more taciturn within your psionic domain. Death, after this battle, let me go. You really don't need me anymore. Give the new generation a chance."

+……+

"Still unwilling to make a commitment? It doesn't matter, at least it's better than a lie, but sometimes you really are too harsh on me, Mortarian... I'm just a mortal."

Mortarian whirled around as if he'd heard something incredible. His face, twisted like a ghost, still betrayed his astonishment. To admit he was a "mortal"—these words had come from the most stubborn of them.

Karas shrugged and gave a cold laugh.

"Your perception of time has become strange since you ascended to godhood, Mortarian. Think about it carefully."

+...I will.

An uncertain voice drifted in the air, then they fell silent.

Gazing at the undulating mountains in the distance, Mortarian suddenly spoke again.

+You...you can talk to Hades about these things. +

"You're still indecisive."

Karas laughed. Ten thousand years later, Mortarian was seen as a living devil by others, but Karas knew that this guy was still the same as before, favoring his relatives and friends.

Yes, that's me.

Mortarian readily admitted this without any qualms, and then, as a corner of the starry sky above them was torn apart by a tremendous force, they both tacitly stopped the conversation and gripped their scythes tightly.

....................................

pain.

pain.

nothingness.

Tarasin had thought it would suddenly gain a lot of power, then expand, and with a wave of its hand it could emit shockwaves like some kind of strange creature, or simply become so big that it could kick a planet like a ball.

But this is not the case. The Death-fearers feel an indescribable confusion, as if they are confused about why they are Death-fearers—a tiny individual of a tiny race.

It looked up and saw billions of universe dimensions, and countless points of light, like stars in the Ganges. Those intelligent beings seemed so small, so... insignificant.

The brilliance of the entire Milky Way unfolded before its eyes, like a lotus flower blooming on a mirror. It saw the vast and complex world, and realized that its previous troubles were nothing more than a speck of dust. Before the beautiful symphony of the Milky Way, everything was in vain.

At this moment, amidst immense relief, Tarachin suddenly remembered why Orikan considered himself a superior being and thus abandoned the Fear of Death to become the Star Master.

It instinctively turned its head and saw the equally splendid Star Master. The fate of thousands of stars was measured before that blinded deity and placed in the right position. The silk threads beneath its feet were like water, each one reflecting the splendor of the ephemeral world.

It can take a more magnificent path.

+Now you finally see, after wasting so many treasures and energy,+

Orichen's voice was clearer than ever.

+Now do you understand my choice? Tarachin, look at this true galaxy, this true destiny. The fearers of death are nothing but nothingness, merely the soil we nurtured, while we are ultimately gods above the stars. The fearers of death should not hinder our progress. +

+……+

Tarachin was in tears—it was certain it should be crying, in whatever form of ghost it was. Seeing the real world made it tremble, as if it had just gained real vocal cords.

Haha, really?

It heard itself speaking in its usual, completely off-key voice.

+All I see are artifacts waiting for me to collect? Euricen, what are you saying? +

Before Orikan's furious roar arrived, Tarachin had already resolutely turned around and raced down the path it had chosen, which might be terrible.

+All troops, listen to my command!

Tarasin shouted,

+At this critical juncture of racial peril, a moment of life and death, the final battle of destiny has arrived! All belongs to those who fear death—we scorn death! We conquer death!!! Charge with me!!! +

Chapter 862 [304] Towards Life and Death

Sometimes, I feel pain for no reason.

But Tarachin knew it was an illusion; its true pain had long since vanished along with its life and soul.

Those who fear death are ultimately buried deep in their graves, where the ghost fire burns silently. It is time for an end.

..............................

Forward! Forward! Forward!

Tarachin heard its voice tearing through the galaxy, but its army didn't need its roar; more efficient and ruthless radio waves had already been sent out first.

Even worse, the AI ​​that took over the bodies of the undead in space had already acted before Tarachin's orders.

Tarachin looked toward the distant, destined enemy chosen by the dead, his outstretched mechanical fingers pointing fearlessly at the gods.

+We've shot down gods before! We can fucking shoot them down again! In the name of Tal Rashin, the Infinite King! +

The tyrannical monster that filled the entire galaxy was there, a vast expanse of white, roaring wildly—that monster, that monster fed on the flesh and soul of the fearful, that filth filled with the tears and desires of the fearful, was there, just like the star-god monsters that Tarachin had once glimpsed.

Tens of thousands of years have passed in the blink of an eye. The Endless Ones have seen countless star gods, some tyrannical, some cunning, but the only constant is their eternally greedy and cruel core.

The one on the outside was roaring, its huge sphere of light burning, like an adult charging into a group of children and wildly swinging an axe. It clearly and arrogantly knew that it was the only strong one here, the only "god" with the ability to crush everything.

With a single axe blow, the dazzling white light that permeated the entirety of destiny easily devoured the ships that charged towards it. The crescent-shaped midnight shroud glided through the Milky Way, spewing out antimatter bullets towards the outer edges.

Space is distorted, and the starlight is confined and twisted within tens of thousands of hyperdimensional arks. The edges of the crescent moon are smooth, and violent energy hisses within it.

The Silent King had already disintegrated the final megastructure, so the Necromancer no longer possessed a weapon that could truly contend with a complete Star God. Fortunately, the spear that the Silent King had vowed to leave behind pierced through the outermost one.

Now they face a star god that has already begun to crumble, which is their last and only hope.

Every hundred Super Arks arrayed together, enormous, dazzling pearls that seemed to suddenly gleam in the Milky Way, with destructive energy converging within them—if Guilliman had seen this, he would likely have been speechless. This proved to be the full-force Necromancers of space, whereas when they fought the Empire, the Silent King was still pondering the issue of post-war recovery.

Tarasim no longer cared about those things. The cowardly Silent King was unwilling to face the true annihilation of his race, preferring to leave this mess to the Endless rather than bear the name of "the king who annihilated the Death-fearing race".

In reality, the Fearless had long been destroyed under Szalak's rule, and the Space Necromancers were merely echoes of the Fearless civilization, but the Silent King continued to deceive himself—until he could no longer deceive himself.

Therefore, it entrusted this damned, great, glorious title to Tarachin, asking him to make a decision, to answer the question, "Do the Fear of Death truly have to face extinction?"

The answer should be Tarachin, who is recognized by all the space necromancers as the most neurotic, shameless, and disgraceful, yet also the most sentimental, interesting, and closest to the "fearful of death" chosen one!

What was Tarachin's answer?

Let's do it first!

The Thousand-Armed God, having briefly ascended to a higher dimension, reached out to his army. From afar, the star field of the Eye of Silence resembled a beach after the tide had receded, with specks of light falling onto the sand, each carrying the breath of destruction enough to destroy an entire galaxy.

Tarachin felt as if he possessed billions of eyes; he could clearly see his army's deployment throughout the galaxy, the internal structure of every ship, the silently running engines, the stars confined within their energy chambers—all the knowledge he had ever possessed was revealed at this moment.

The Endless One, who used to like to create clones and roam the entire galaxy, seemed to have truly reached the other side of the endless world. It existed in every corner at the same time, maintaining the ship's engines at maximum efficiency and adjusting the angle of the cannons to the best. Then, Tarachin realized that "it" did not appear out of thin air.

Now, it, and all its billions now, are the shells of every space ghost that has lost itself.

The "Endless One" descended into the soulless bodies of its kind, giving these metals a final touch of color that resembled a soul, thus becoming the true Endless One.

In a daze, Tarasin seemed to hear the echoes within those metal bodies, the final complaints in the minds of nobles, the dying loyalty of generals, and the cries of commoners forced to separate—not all those who feared death were willing to undergo the bio-transformation ritual; a considerable number of them were dragged into the altar by Szalak and his allies' army.

Compared to the emotions of the former two, the wailing that followed seemed even more immense, like a tsunami or a forest fire. These common people who feared death were never taken into consideration by the ruling class. Even their resistance and struggles were conducted within the nobility.

Now, by sheer chance, Tarasim has become the first member of the royal family to truly acknowledge and acknowledge these commoners and slaves.

These intermittent echoes lingered within the bodies of those "malfunctioning" space necromancers, escaping system updates and cleanups time and again. They lay quietly in an inconspicuous spot in a storage module, until one day, at some moment, a space necromancer suddenly let out a mournful cry before being swallowed up by the merciless green light.

In an instant, Tarachin suddenly understood too much. Perhaps now was not a good time for enlightenment, but Tarachin was certainly not a good general. Therefore, it was distracted for a moment—it made sure that it was only for that short moment and did not delay the battle at all.

What did it remember?

The Endless Tarachin recalled a small dynastic porcelain jar it once owned, on which a commoner's daily life was depicted in rough strokes; it recalled a small hand-woven doll it once owned, from a child of the Death-fearing; it recalled a pen it once owned, which had written countless histories, from... from that former Death-fearing Tarachin.

It suddenly understood its obsessive hobby of collecting those artifacts. The former historian Tarasin had been stubbornly trying to glimpse the history behind them through those artifacts—but now it finally understood that what it was looking at was not history, but those who had once lived, those who had struggled to live under the immense fate of the world and the galaxy, those who feared death.

History is nothing more than the ordinary days of the past.

What Tarachin truly wanted to grasp were those moments—those past moments he once thought were commonplace, every pulse, every breath, every thought, when the Death-fearers could still think freely, their race had not yet perished, everything was still possible, they could still be arrogant, they pointed their swords at the ancient saints, and challenged the star gods—because they were still alive, and a living race always possesses infinite possibilities.

Now, everything has vanished, leaving only a sudden, mournful cry from the shell of some undead being in space.

They are programs, and only programs. The historian Tarasin, who once laughed and swore, is long dead. What remains is a machine that imitates him perfectly, stubbornly trying to hold onto the last fragment of his personality—Tarasin's last dream—to give the fearful dead a good ending.

A tremendous, overwhelming grief and indignation exploded in Tarasin's heart. He vaguely felt that he was not a dog. He was a historian in the past... why did he not take a second look at the joys and sorrows of his own race? Why did he not try harder to persuade Szalak?

+……+

Taracin felt itself trembling. Could even gods tremble? It could only look at the outsiders attacking them—even if Taracin was an incompetent general, it could not fall like this—that would be like the irresponsible King Silent Szalak.

The "junk code" buried at the very bottom of the Necromancer's mind module was unearthed by Taracin. Piece by piece, it created a huge echo. The Endless heard the anger of the entire Fear of Death. The machines that were originally controlled by cold intelligence and the Endless seemed to have a kind of self-awareness in a daze.

The resentment and anger that those who feared death stubbornly clung to for tens of thousands of years are now gone, nothing else remains.

They turned toward the Silent King—who was already dead—and then toward the Star God—the one who had deceived them with his words, devoured them bit by bit, gnawed at their spirits, and ate their bones.

The anger and resentment surged like a tidal wave, and the fate that had been hanging in the balance for tens of thousands of years was finally about to come to an end. The outsiders who had fled in disarray from the stage tens of thousands of years ago were once again illuminated by the spotlight of the fearful dead. Hundreds of millions of pairs of luminous green eyes lit up, like a pack of hungry wolves—it was time for the curtain to fall. They had already paid the price and died, but why was the murderer still at large?

The grave was broken open, and the deceased, buried for tens of thousands of years, stretched out his hand from the soil and crawled out of the tomb in a ferocious manner.

Tarachin shuddered as he watched the flames in front of the cannons grow even brighter, and as the giant, distorted hand of the outer being slammed down, only to be dodged by the suddenly accelerating space necromancer warship.

It seemed to hear Orikan's quiet sigh—Tarachin, you've got some skills—no, Tarachin was still that unreliable space necromancer, but now the Outer Ones were facing not just Tarachin, but the entire Fear of the Dead.

But Eurycan, who stubbornly fled from the fear of death, would never understand that this astrologer, day and night, held his head high, his wise gaze sweeping among the stars, questioning fate to himself.

But never before have they bowed their heads so deeply, buried themselves in the mud of the land, and cleaned away the mud from the evidence of civilization and life that once existed, placing them in the museum.

This is the biggest difference between Tal Rasin and Orikan, and also the biggest difference between Tal Rasin and the other royal families of the Deathbringers.

A dazzling light shone, blurring Tarasin's vision—but Tarasin felt as if tears were blurring its vision, even though it couldn't shed tears now—the raging spear hurled by the Fear of Death pierced precisely into the broken gap in the outer world ring, sinking into its soft core.

The outer beings shrieked and lunged greedily and furiously at the ships of the space undead—just as the trees had done tens of thousands of years ago, the Star Gods would wantonly devour the souls and bodies of the Fearless Ones whenever they pleased—as long as they didn't touch the most powerful and influential members of the Fearless One royal family, these actions were tacitly permitted.

But this time the outer creature would not get its wish. It screamed in anger, fear, and mockery. The fruit it had swallowed not only failed to replenish its sweet juice, but instead exploded in its belly, stinging it. What it had swallowed was nothing but garbage in the eyes of the former star gods, soulless and empty. How pathetic, yet it was the result of the star gods' own actions.

In the battle against the Necromancers, no race will receive supplies. The vengeful dead will not allow any race to remove the emerald-encrusted gold bracelet from its withered arm. No civilization can make good use of them—not the Tyranids, not the Orkkins, not the Eldar, not even the Celestials!

Tarasin watched as a vast expanse of grayness descended before him—some vibrant ancient emotions vanished, destroyed by the Outer Ones, and the memory stores that held fragmented recollections were annihilated.

It felt a pang of heartache and saw large chunks of Star God fragments splashing out from the gap on the outside. The fragments spewed out like gushing lava, and the more intact ones nearby had already begun to merge together.

Then, the fragments suddenly seemed to be captured by some strange gravitational net and began to fall toward the three nearest planets, which were rich in psionic energy.

But the largest piece—Taraxin's description of the outer being changed from "still complete" to "the largest piece"—still exists, and remains angry.

Then let’s fight!

Tarasin roared!

Fight! Fight until their graves are ablaze! Fight until their bones are completely reduced to ashes in this fire! The dead crawl out of their graves and throw bright flames, symbolizing no turning back and no compromise, into their magnificent tombs. Then they dance! They dance a final dance beside the grand bonfire—a dance representing regret, anger, resentment, and relief.

Space Necromancers! They are the dead, fearing death! They are the dead of the entire galaxy—now they will drag the culprits who caused their deaths down with them to hell!!! With absolute obsession and determination—they die for life, for the dead cannot die again, but they can use the fire of their own rotting flesh and withered bones to tightly embrace their mortal enemy—and then fall! Together they will plummet into the abyss of civilization and race destruction, never to be seen again!

Tarasin's vision blurred as he watched the brilliant lights flash before him again and again. Further away, long-range weapons rose before the graves of countless space undead. At this moment, the cannons on billions of planets converged on one point. Those controlled by Tarasin, those not controlled by Tarasin, those who had been declared utterly destroyed—the dead all stood up.

Although standing up had exhausted all their strength, they lost all support a few seconds later and collapsed into a few bones.

Perhaps Tarachin is a key, representing the last glimmer of starlight of the fearful dead's conscience, humanity, and soul. Among all the Necromancers, only two successfully ascended to godhood: one was Orikan, who voluntarily separated himself completely from the Necromancers, and the other was Tarachin, who buried his head and embraced the suffering and the insignificance of the Necromancers.

Tarachin's ascension resonated throughout the entire Necromancer civilization of space—though the Necromancers themselves were not fully aware of it.

To be honest.

It was certainly not a good general—but fortunately it chose the Necromancer, and the Necromancer chose it in return.

Space Necromancers – The Fearful Ones will take their own revenge.