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

Page 861

From a rather peculiar perspective, Mortalian might indeed be the best candidate, as he was originally a Primarch who abhorred psionic power to an even greater degree than Guilliman, who viewed it objectively.

+You've been ignoring it, you've been telling yourself it's not the right force, you've been telling yourself it violates logic and laws… Guilliman, you can't keep running away and denying it. +

Your retreat has put your army, your friends, and your people at a disadvantage. They need your strength, yet you have abandoned it. You must take up your sword…

These words may have been said to Mortarion before, or Hades may have said something similar to Mortarion.

Accept it.

+Awakening to the nature of the subspace requires enlightenment, and it will be painful—but you can endure a year-round workday, Guilliman, so I don't think I need to worry about you not making it through.

Death joked.

Let me guide you there… Don’t dawdle, Guilliman… Let me see your psionic traits… Reason, control, ruthlessness… Remember them.

The voice of the Pale Lord grew more distant and ethereal, and Guilliman realized that he was no longer seeing the altar, but a vast fog.

He should now have entered the Pale Lord's domain—that is, somewhere in the warp.

Silence fell around him, all was quiet, which made the sound of his own heartbeat seem even more piercing to him.

What should I do now, Mortarian?

He said he felt as if he hadn't made a sound at all; it was a silent place.

Killieman waited for a while, and time seemed to pass very slowly, so slowly that Killieman wondered if he had been forgotten.

The Primarch then realized he couldn't do that, and he hesitated before taking a step and walking in a certain direction.

As he walked, Guilliman saw a faint golden light appearing and disappearing in the mist.

The light did not become clearer as he approached; instead, it remained hazy and seemed to be moving further and further away from Guilliman. The Primarch had no choice but to run. A certain mystical intuition told Guilliman that this was what he wanted.

Then, the road began to ascend. At first, it was completely flat ground, then it began to rise slightly, then became steeper, rising, rising, rising, until it finally became a staircase leading to the heavens. The golden light shone even brighter, and some kind of verdant vines meandered up to the words and laws carved in fine gold beside the staircase.

Guilliman, however, seemed to still be in a fog. A thin layer of white cloud covered his azure eyes, but the golden light in the very center still shone like stars in the sky.

He simply climbed upwards, stepping hurriedly on the golden ladder to heaven.

As he climbed, countless voices rose behind Guilliman, calling out, encouraging, expecting, loving, and supporting him—though Guilliman couldn’t hear them at first, the emperor was startled as the white mist that had been covering his eyes and ears dissipated.

Those voices were so familiar they felt comforting. In an instant, he recognized his parents' voices among the thousands of voices—no, not that bastard Neos, but the voices of Macurag.

Guilliman's breath hitched, and he almost stumbled as he walked upwards. He instinctively wanted to turn back, but then he remembered what Mortarion had told him. The Primarch felt something was amiss; Guilliman didn't believe he would encounter those old acquaintances here.

He gritted his teeth, forcibly focusing his thoughts on the approaching Outer Being, and then continued climbing upwards.

Robert Guilliman may have realized this long ago, but he avoided talking about it. However, his brothers' repeated comments that "you are very much like the Lord of Mankind" forced him to face reality.

Since ancient times, emperors have been ruthless.

Neos chose him perhaps because he was number thirteen; reason and anger were the vines that entwined around his sword of power, while the sword he held in his hand was sharp and merciless.

Awakening to the nature of the subspace means that they are getting closer to their original, primordial form.

The other Primarchs might be more accepting of their Warp nature because their daily lives are closer to their origins, but Guilliman was not. The days on Macragge were too bright, shining so brightly that they gave him dazzling blond hair and crystal-clear blue eyes.

The teachings there were so profound that they continued to shape him even ten thousand years later.

Those hands remained around his eyes, gently urging him not to walk that bloody path to heaven.

However, emperors have always been ruthless.

Guilliman continued climbing, the golden staircase taking on a colder hue under the golden light, then growing even colder, reminiscent of burial goods in a tomb, or the dark, sunless halls behind layers of palace gates.

The nature of the warp is mostly insane and chaotic, not perfect in the conventional sense. Saint Gilles, who is mired in the golden and black hells, and Mortarion, who turns into insect bones in the white mist, awakened the nature of the warp, which made them powerful, but also made them more out of control.

There's no time... He has to speed things up...

Guilliman could only think of these things. He gritted his teeth, blood seeping from between them, and focused all his attention on this one thought in order to avoid the whispers from the High Heavens.

The golden light was interspersed with the blue of Macragge, and the gale in the sky blew around Guilliman, scattering the words behind him and making Guilliman's blond hair fly wildly.

Guilliman looked up and saw golden light stretching across the sky like threads, binding him to his body in strands.

Is it fate, or something else?

He finally stepped onto the last step, on which was engraved his treaty with the emperor, the final cornerstone that would build his throne.

Guilliman stepped forward and grasped the sword, the power entwined with reason and fury.

In an instant, his brilliant blue eyes, shining with golden light, reflected countless souls.

Those were given to him by the Lord of mankind.

Those subjects he was responsible for.

And... those souls, tied with golden threads.

Killieman blinked in surprise, looked down, and saw that among the countless fine threads, there were several very obvious thin ropes with a different color from the other threads.

He looked down along the thickest rope, and then Guilliman looked up and naturally saw Mortarian standing before him on the altar, his face calm and deathly.

The rope pierced directly into Mortalian's body, trembling with the Primarch's actions, but the Pale Lord seemed not to see anything, waving his hand at Guilliman.

[…It worked! Pretty fast.]

Killieman swallowed the gasp that almost escaped his lips—now he knew exactly what the Emperor had entrusted to him.

Chapter 861 [303] Gods, you're nothing special.

As Mortarian moved, the slightly pale rope trembled.

Killieman felt his heart tremble with fear, along with the rope.

What did the Lord of Mankind entrust to Guilliman? He entrusted him with a treasure that was heavy and plentiful enough—only that Robert Guilliman had never seen that treasure with his own eyes before.

Now he sees it.

Guilliman instinctively looked along the thicker rope, and his eyes, gleaming with brilliant golden light, lit up with countless flames, some bright and some dim. He looked at the souls, and as he was immersed in the wonder before his eyes, the souls seemed to rise and fall with the breath of the Emperor of the Empire.

He saw everyone's greed and desire, everyone's abilities, the values ​​clearly marked, the objects that could be contracted, and the tools that could be controlled.

He could make a pact with any human loyal to the Empire—and dominate them, if he so desired.

Meanwhile, amidst those billions of flames, several large fires suddenly ignited, each with a different luster—the radiance of Guilliman's brothers, the Primarchs.

Killieman felt his brain trembling.

He truly and realistically realized what the treaty he had forced the emperor to sign had brought him. The emperor initially thought it was extremely convenient to require others to fulfill their obligations and responsibilities according to the contract, but now he realized that the contract itself could be neither fair nor just, because he was born with the right to dominate.

This is the psychic nature of Robert Guilliman—he had previously wasted all these talents on paperwork, assigning tasks to every official and reading the mind and desires of every person who wrote a note.

But now, Guilliman realizes that his true nature is colder, more cruel, and more domineering. It is not a direct attack, not a scythe to be held to the enemy's neck, not fangs to be bared, but a more advanced and civilized ability. His ability is built on civilization and race, on class and domination.

Guilliman swallowed hard, his eyes glazed over as he looked at Mortalian, who was holding a scythe in front of him. His brother seemed to want to ask Guilliman about the situation, unaware that Guilliman was staring in terror at the rope that symbolized "domination."

Deep down, Guilliman still resisted being "dominated" by his friends, his brothers, and the people he trusted.

【How about it? 】

Mortarian raised his head, his gaze calm.

Try releasing your psychic power, Guilliman. Infuse your power into the altar. This doesn't require you to manifest your psychic power in a more concrete form—that's too difficult for you.

Is it really that difficult?

Killieman stared at the non-existent rope, deep in thought. He longed to touch it, but he refrained—at least for now, he wouldn't use force on his brothers; perhaps he could try it on others.

He dared not, nor did he want to, tell Mortalian what he had awakened. Guilliman did not believe that this could ease the tension between the Primarchs, nor was it the right time to bring it up. Any Primarch would be unhappy if they knew that they were tied together like dogs on a leash, with Guilliman on the other end of the leash.

Guilliman simply nodded silently and tried to release his psionic energy as Mortalian had instructed.

A dazzling golden light shone beneath Guilliman's azure helmet and boots, then swiftly climbed up the blood-written threads. The crimson net shimmered with gold from its center, the gleaming gold rapidly spreading outwards, reaching the edge of the altar in an instant, and beginning its ascent towards the Blackrock Spire.

On the thirteen main towers, layers of golden runes lit up. On the outer side of the runes on the surface of the black tower, twelve more runes floated in the air and lit up. Countless numbers and twisted characters wriggled and echoed each other, and in an instant, half of the entire planet became golden and magnificent, like a paradise bathed in holy light.

The templates for these runes were provided by the numerology master Mortarion—if Magnus were here, he might exclaim in surprise that such powerful and beautiful magic arrays were actually created by Mortarion, and that these magic arrays looked far more pleasing to the eye than the original.

Guilliman breathed calmly. He had thought that releasing his psychic energy would make him feel tired, but the opposite was true. As he released his psychic energy, he felt a sense of relief and ease, like someone who had been holding their breath suddenly learning how to breathe.

Layer upon layer of psionic resonance allowed Guilliman to hear the deepest desires of each person—some yearning for glory, others for survival—the whispers echoing and being heard by the Lord of the Empire.

A sacred golden light enveloped his ever-growing figure. Guilliman instinctively raised his hand to respond to the souls. The flames seemed to appear before him in an instant. His fingers gently teased the flames, and the soul fires became even more exuberant, brighter, and more powerful.

Seeing the sparks grow stronger, Guilliman felt a faint sense of relief. He shook himself and looked at Mortarian in front of him again.

He must have now entered the so-called "psychic perspective," and Guilliman saw a pale, emaciated scarecrow, like a tall scarecrow haphazardly constructed from skeletal insect helmets in a rice paddy.

Killieman opened his mouth.

Leave this to me.

He spoke with a tone more firm and unquestionable than usual. Mortarian, who was holding a scythe in front of him, glanced at him with a look in his eyes that Guilliman could not understand. Then the Pale Lord nodded without hesitation.

The main battlefield is yours.

He said, then raised his chin and gestured towards the army and the souls behind Killieman.

When necessary, I think you can use the power at your disposal—this is what you deserve for fulfilling your duties.

The hidden meaning in those words sent a chill down Guilliman's spine. He stared at Mortalian in disbelief, only to see Mortalian still acting as always. The Pale Lord had been prepared to sacrifice everything and burn everything from the very beginning of the story, after all, he started with nothing and the worst that could happen was that he would return to the beginning.

Mortarion turned around, raised his hand and waved. As a cloud of white mist rose in front of Guilliman, the tall, thin Primarch disappeared from the battlefield.

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

And then it's you.

Mortarian said calmly, glancing at his defeated opponent, the First Rebel, who stood inside the altar with his arms outstretched, as if showing Mortarian that he was no longer afraid.

Compared to the massive crowds at Guilliman's side, the First Rebel's side was completely deserted, with only the chain-like altar runes binding him tightly. Fourteen black stone towers stood in the distance, their height and the fineness of their runes seemingly inferior to those at Guilliman's side.

[Hold this position tight, I know.]

"The First Rebel said, his eyes fixed on Mortarian as if trying to see a hole through him.

Don't worry, I won't slack off.

After all, my ultimate goal isn't to destroy everything.

The first rebel gritted his teeth and said each word slowly, the fire in his eyes burning again. His backup plan was with [Herrera]. How could he let everything be destroyed by the outsider before that?

The first rebel went through countless hardships and traveled across mountains and rivers just to tell a story that was not very sophisticated and full of pain and loss. How could he be willing to let everything be destroyed by an external force at the end of the story?

[But it's a real shame I couldn't use my power to kill Guilliman—or you.]

【Ah. 】

Mortarian sneered, his movements undiminished. Fourteen daggers were plunged into the body of the First Rebel, their ends tied to black chains connecting to the altar. Dark blood flowed down the sharp blades like thin black lines.

The pitch-black, chaotic color spread across the earth, like a flower of sin blooming.

【alright. 】

Mortarian clapped his hands, as if brushing off non-existent dirt. He was utterly ruthless in his treatment of the First Rebel, partly because the man was still an “enemy,” and partly because Mortarian knew he wouldn’t abandon his post because of this minor difference in treatment.

[Transformation of form.]

He said the chief rebel gave him a glare, and the two Mortarians stared at each other with tense faces and a tense atmosphere for a moment before the black flame ignited.

Mortarian gave a dry laugh.

Flames roared, supporting the tall, thin armor. Chaotic and filthy tricolored flames danced within the black fireballs, like veins, continuously supplying power to this colossal creature.

[Your side... utilizes chaos in this way...]

Mortarian's meaningful words vanished in the wind, while the giant beast, wounded by fourteen daggers, stared at him angrily, making no attempt to conceal the malice deep within its soul.

The pitch-black flames roared, burning on the previously dripping black blood. In an instant, the entire continent where the altar was located seemed to have fallen into a living hell, with the shrill black flames flickering.

【gone. 】

Mortarian waved his hand, and seeing that the altar had been activated, he was too lazy to waste another word on this trash. He left amidst the wisps of white mist.

In an instant, the smoke descended beside the raised, waving sickle.

Karas, holding the mistletoe aloft, remained silent, taking a step to the side while holding the scythe that was far too large for him. In the center of the altar beside him, a wisp of white mist rose, and pale white helmet boots stepped out from within it.

[Finally... this is it.]

Mortarian muttered to himself, without uttering a single wasted word. Karas beside him began chanting incantations, and Mortarian's figure began to swell, with white mist gushing out like a gushing spring, extending outwards along the veins of the altar, and then climbing up the fourteen towers on the edge of the altar. Wisps of white mist dissipated from the surface of the black stone towers, like the sky weeping.

Seeing the last black stone tower shrouded in white mist, Karas decisively stopped chanting. Beside him, the pale monster was breathing softly, its voice sounding like a hiss.

+That's strange, Callas,+