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

Page 674

[Long time no see, Amit, how have you been?]

"I ask with concern," Guilliman asked, dismissing those around him as he left. He seemed oblivious to the fury burning in the Flesh-Tearer's eyes toward Mortalian, and to Mortalian behind him, who was already gripping his scythe.

Amit felt the grip on his shoulder armor was so strong that he could barely move, but Guilliman's tone remained concerned, and the Space Marine felt a suffocating pressure—as if he were being urged to submit.

As the tongue licked between the teeth, beads of blood seeped out.

he does not.

“This is terrible, sir.”

Amit said maliciously.

“Letting his offspring sleep alongside their tormented father in the blood-soaked soil, I often hear his pain and resentment.”

Almost immediately, a golden light flashed before Amit's eyes. His intuition told him that he had been seen through, but then everything returned to normal, with only the sound of Dante's disheveled footsteps behind him.

I'm sorry for what happened to you.

Guilliman continued, golden flames igniting in his azure eyes, making his face instantly inhuman—Amit believed that the bone worm Mortalian couldn't unleash golden psionic energy.

But that's exactly why we're here, and we hope you understand.

Guilliman continued, his gaze shifting to Dante, who had been slow to arrive, and his eyes seemed to light up.

[I think you just gave your new generation of comrades a history lesson... he doesn't look too good.]

Killieman said quietly, seemingly feeling somewhat helpless.

I hope you can get along well.

Amit grinned, looking at Dante, the Blood Angel in full armor exuding a bloodthirsty aura.

“I was just telling him how our father was abandoned in the Baal underground.”

I think Saint Gilles didn't teach you polite language, or perhaps he died too young to do so.

Killieman took a deep breath and frowned as he stared at Mortalian.

Don't say that, Mortarian.

The Regent turned around and saw a pale, horrified face. Mortarian's tall, thin body bent over, his eyes fixed on Amit from above.

Amit's face turned red with anger, his veins bulged, and his eyes protruded, but he was unable to move at all due to the spiritual pressure of the Pale Lord.

The sound of rustling footsteps rang out, and Amit's pupils contracted. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a smiling but pale-faced man in black armor walking past him. Then darkness surged up, enveloping Dante, who was panting behind him.

"Suspected Black Fury"

An unfamiliar voice rang out—was that Hades?!

Amit tried to turn back, but Mortarian's psychic power pressed him down to the brink of unconsciousness, and white mist spewed from the gas mask, hitting Amit's face.

“I can’t be sure—but it is indeed similar psionic energy.”

Hades said, "Reclaim the Dark Realm." At the edge of Dante's pale golden soul, red and black psionic energy had just ignited like the tail of a flame.

[Are you trying to tell us... that your master's millennia-old rage and pain still exist?]

Mortarian spoke hoarsely, bowing even lower, with Hades in the background comforting Dante, who had just recovered from a semi-chaotic state.

I think if his offspring are as wicked as you... then he has no chance of redemption.

Amit grinned.

"You—you really intend to save him?"

【madness--】

"Time is of the essence, so I think you can put your reminiscing aside for now."

Mortalian's words were abruptly interrupted. The Primarch rose in displeasure, turning to glare at the arrogant, glittering figures. He loathed them.

"The light of the Apollo Spear gleamed in his palm," said Constantine Waldo, commander of the Imperial Guard, as a squad of men as yellow as he was followed behind him.

Waldo's gaze was fixed on Hades, but not on Mortarian.

Mortarian opened his arms.

【how? 】

He asked sarcastically,

[Are we, the Imperial Guards, who are always busy with our own tasks but actually accomplishing nothing, finally starting to feel the urgency of time?]

[The matters of Angron and Saint Gilles are more important—the World Eater and the Golden Blood Church have just informed me, so we shouldn't delay. We can discuss this further once we reach the church.]

At this moment, the great Guilliman finally jumped out. Before Hades could utter his first laugh, Guilliman led everyone away from the reception port with a chuckle.

……

"Are you ok?"

Hades asked, he could see that Dante was exhausted from extreme anger and shock. Hades lowered his voice.

What exactly did he say to you?

“I told him the truth.”

Amit's voice rang out from Mortalian's left. It was eight o'clock in the morning. The Golden Blood Church, which was facing away from the sun, cast a shadow over them, enveloping them in its shadows.

The World Eaters' forces escorted them along the way, but due to the battle with Abaddon a thousand years ago, and the World Eaters' lack of interest in managing their legions, the Twelfth Legion had not produced enough outstanding individuals in recent years.

Mortarian sneered.

Directly in front of them, a golden angel relief, its entire body gleaming, looked down at the Primitive from the outer wall of the cathedral. Its empty, golden eyes held a spear high above them.

That's how he viewed Mortarian back then.

[The truth? Then let me tell you how I watched him scream and bleed beneath me.]

Motalian chuckled; sometimes, he did indeed feel a schadenfreude that was no different from grief.

…………

Terra

8:00 AM

The crowd was full of people.

With Pope Saint Gilles of the State Church at the head, Regent King Guilliman on the right, and Imperial Commander Angron on the left, the three Primarchs who held up the empire amidst its dire straits appeared before the people's eyes.

The hazy golden halo is a veil bestowed upon him by the gods to partially veil his face, so that his perfection may not hurt the world. The sun must shyly withdraw its light before him, for he himself is far more ardent and warm than this golden circle.

Gold ornaments and red diamonds peeked out from between the fluffy wings, but at this moment, they were the green leaves that set off the wings. The most dazzling and brilliant blood diamonds paled in comparison to the simple white feathers.

Without flaw, simply by having such a deity stand before you, you know that he is a god, the son of God.

He is the center of attention.

He is...the sun.

Cheers! Round after round of ecstatic cheers! The cheers of the people almost pierced the sky. Some even fainted from excitement at the first sight of Saint Gilles, or screamed and gouged out their eyes, thinking that their cloudy eyes had defiled the angel.

This made the two Primarchs behind Saint Gilles almost pale in comparison. In the presence of a true archangel, the gap between the two Primarchs and him was far greater than the gap between a Primarch and a mortal.

But Gilleyman and Anglon had no time to attend to this.

Killieman maintained a polite smile, responding to the crowd with a smile, while mentally rehearsing his speech and the flow of the proceedings again and again, all the while vigilantly observing his surroundings.

Angron frowned, snorted, and looked around as if searching for something. His left hand hovered over the battle axe at his waist, as if he would draw it at any moment.

……

8:30 AM

Winding along the steep ridge of the Himalayas, on a high platform, brown vultures hovered above the densely packed crowd.

Four teams, each representing a different color—blood red, azure blue, radiant white, and radiant gold—stood neatly on the hillside. Nobles, high-ranking officials, and devout believers alike craned their necks, while floating cameras and megaphones, decorated as cherubs, danced in front of the rooftop.

Guilliman's speech finally came to an end, and after what seemed like the umpteenth cheer, the crowd erupted in cheers once more.

In the distance, atop the pure white mountain peak that everyone could see with a glance, the golden palace seemed to be covered with a layer of floating gold, its blurry and enormous golden outline appearing on the horizon.

"Isn't it time yet?"

Amidst the rushing water beneath their feet, a restrained voice rang out.

Mortalian made a shushing gesture. He was now only seventy-seven meters away from the drainage outlet built by the Mechanicus, and he could see the hazy light dancing on the surging water.

This is not easy; it requires our patience.

The Primarch was stuck in the underground riverbed in a strange position; Mortarion was so tall that he now had to fix himself in a fracture-like position.

He heard the cheers of the people, cheers for Saint Gilles, cheers for Gilles, cheers for Anglom, cheers for... the God-Emperor.

The Emperor is not a god, yet no one acknowledges it; the truth has long been buried in the shadows, serving the needs of reality—but to atone for the lies, Mortarian is forced to err like them.

People were still cheering.

Singing praises of their virtues and achievements, of their dignified and handsome appearance, of their embellished reality—how come no one other than the Death Guard has ever expressed such gratitude to Mortalian?

Motalian was puzzled by this.

This immense and frenzied power of faith was squeezing everything on Terra, almost suffocating Mortarion, who felt a sense of oppression and anxiety.

The Pale Lord's power does not come from the Emperor, nor is it of the same origin; he is simply himself.

He will change history once again.

This time, he is fighting for humanity.

The Pale Lord lowered his eyes and heard the sound of horns echoing from where the sunlight shone. Angels ascended the high platform to greet the people with cheers.

A series of soft crackling sounds rang out as he grew once more, fully unleashing his true nature. He only had one chance—otherwise, the human world would be transformed into a divine kingdom on earth.

This time, salvation still comes from darkness.

8:59 AM

The focus of everyone's reverence, the one who stood on tiptoe and looked up, was the saint chosen from among mortals who raised his crown and slowly walked toward the angel.

At the same time, swarms of moths, transformed from bones, flew up from beneath the feet of the unnoticed.

Donning the crown, the giant leaped high into the air, the cold wind howling through the sky, and the angels seemed to reach out to the stars.

In Saint Gilles's gaze, the sky above Terra was magnificent and dazzling, the sun seemingly never setting. His golden eyes swept across Baal's heavens, so beautiful, so pure. The past is always worth remembering.

In a daze, Saint Gilles believed he was still standing above Baal, alone admiring the sunset over Baal, letting the gale ruffle his wings.

He was unaware that a drop of blood, reddish to black, was spilling from the corner of his eye; he was unaware of the fangs growing from his mouth; he was only dazed for a moment.

For the first time after the empire was torn apart, the archangel revealed a genuine smile.

He missed Baal.

I was so happy back then.

Then, the sun, which almost filled the entire sky, turned towards him, revealing its dark side.

Yay! That's it!

Bad news: I need to take a long leave of absence.

I racked my brains all day, writing and deleting, sitting in front of the computer all day, but I still couldn't capture that feeling.

In addition, I am about to embark on a long voyage, which makes me even more exhausted. I can still manage to write transitional chapters, but I really can't write these plot chapters anymore.

Let me report to you all.

I am about to participate in a longer summer learning program organized by the school.

I may not be able to get a stable internet connection at that time.

Therefore, updates will be unstable from today until August 8.12th, and I may intermittently update some side stories.

Ugh.

Let me speak from the bottom of my heart.

Since the later stages of the Great Rebellion, up to the current plot, I always feel that the story I've written is lacking something. I've tried to recapture that initial feeling, but every time I think about it, I feel exhausted.

At the time when my thoughts were flowing smoothly and the book was at its climax, my physical condition was relatively poor because I always had the habit of brainstorming plots late at night, which led to insomnia, and I often couldn't fall asleep until three or four in the morning.

However, with a compelling storyline to support me, I managed to finish writing it.