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

Page 496

But Magnus was certain that he had, over the long years, held onto a sliver of what appeared to be Makado's psychic energy.

Magnus blinked quickly, clearing his mind of distractions. The important thing now was not that cunning mortal psionicist.

Sure enough, after Hades got away, Blake seemed much more reliable.

After giving Blake a final reminder of the precautions and procedures, Magnus left the altar, his ethereal figure floating in mid-air descending, stirring up a small gust of dust beside his bare feet.

"Let's begin, Blake Butcher," Magnus said solemnly.

Upon hearing this, Blake, who had already removed his arm armor, knelt down on one knee, gripped a dagger, and raised his hand towards the southwest.

"Blake Butcher, son of Hades and a member of the Death Guard, beseeches to give a glance to your offspring, for the deaths of 77,777 aliens."

Blake spoke sincerely, the dagger in his hand flashing coldly. Without hesitation, Mingzi raised the dagger and slashed at his arm, making seven cuts, leaving seven wounds, and dark, thick blood flowed down in the dead of night.

Following the curves of his arm muscles, drops of blood splattered onto the silent corpse beneath him. Beside him, Magnus's crimson figure blurred, and the Crimson King murmured those strange tones.

The wind, like a hurricane, howled past Blake's ears. Following Magnus's instructions, Blake tightly closed his eyes, sketching the image of the Lord of Death in his mind. Then he realized that what he was hearing was not the sound of the wind.

The torrent, like a deep ocean current, rushed past his cheeks, screaming, aching, rough and intermittent, no...no...

...This is subspace.

Upon realizing this moment, Blake abruptly found himself no longer standing on the ground; his senses were deceiving him, squeezing him, and he was falling rapidly!

"Don't open your eyes, Blake..." The Prince of the Underworld tightly restrained his instincts, calling out to the Lord of Paleness with his eyes closed, immersing himself wholeheartedly in responding to the Lord of Death.

In the distance, Magnus stared intently at Black in the center of the altar. The kneeling child, with his eyes closed, was unaware that his blood was already flowing in threads along the shape of the altar.

Finally, the bloodline stopped at Magnus's feet.

Magnus stared intently at Blake as he reached out his hand; a bead of blood rose and trembled, pausing in his palm.

Magnus took a deep breath, his voice trembling. Things hadn't gotten worse, nor had they gotten better. Relying on Black alone wasn't enough; that brat hadn't learned anything about warp-based search.

Magnus opened his mouth slightly, a shiver running down his spine. [Hades, remember to block the faith of the alien races.]

By invoking Hades, Magnus successfully concealed his unique psychic aura for the time being.

The Primarch clenched his fist, and blood began to climb up Magnus's phantom like newly formed veins. Magnus recalled those ancient chants, usually interspersed among the fragmented ancient books, describing decay, life, and death in a daze.

With his head bowed, Magnus plunged into the vast ocean.

roar!

A furious roar exploded before Magnus, shoving him like a storm. The Primarch felt the howls of two emerald beasts, but he remained silent, his soul tendrils pointing towards the dark void not far away, severing a sliver of bait.

Darkness slowly and foolishly crept in, which frightened away some of the gaze, allowing Magnus to continue deeper.

Large clumps of emerald green death rose like bubbles from the seabed, dragging their consciousness higher. Magnus touched Blake's fragile and insignificant aura, and the Crimson King quickly bound Blake to prevent the little fellow from getting lost in the warp.

He didn't want to get into trouble with the little guy's father.

In the chaotic, mysterious, and wondrous vast ocean, Magnus's soul sang, shone, and shrieked—

He pulled Blake away from the area, leaving the chaotic and violent green behind. Magnus unleashed his psionic energy back to their previous position and was pleased to see the black and green entangled.

He withdrew his attention from the areas that made him instinctively shrink back; they were completely immersed in the chaotic and disordered region. Magnus tugged at Blake, saying that the spirit of the Underworld would guide them.

The great Magnus meticulously manipulated every bit of psionic energy, wasting not a single drop of death—even if it was tainted with other energies.

As night fell, Blake knelt on the pile of corpses, a light mist gradually rising around him.

At the edge of the altar, a blood-stained crimson stone lay on the ground, gleaming with a blinding red light.

“WAAAAAGH!!!”

In the distance, faint shouts erupted, but they sounded like Hades shouting.

found it……

Magnus reached out his hand, and the closer he got to the other side of the concrete concepts, the more concrete they became.

Barefoot on the earth.

The withered plants drooped their heads, a thin layer of mist covered the ground, and in the distance, Magnus heard the buzzing of bees and butterflies fluttering their wings.

He turned around and saw Blake, who was barely holding on. On Blake's feet were green shackles, the chains connecting Blake to something further away.

That was Magnus's journey home, built with the death of the greenskins—and the source of their power.

Magnus also possessed something similar, but instead of shackles, it was a green light stone resembling a reddish stone.

"Waa—no," Magnus began, kneeling down and extracting something from Blake. "You can go back now."

Magnus said, patting Black. The Red King's psychic power flickered on Black. The son of Hades gritted his teeth, trying to say something, but was slapped hard by Magnus and quickly fell off the earth.

Having given Blake some power, Magnus had less of his own color left. Without hesitation, Magnus waved his hand, mixing the aura he had borrowed from Blake with it.

The Primarch concealed himself as much as possible; the Crimson King's crimson skin dimmed, and his figure became thin and short. He did not want the other beings here to notice him, this uninvited guest.

The Pale Lord was within the garden—Magnus certainly knew why the Death Guard's summoning had failed.

The garden isolates their presence; to find Mortalian, one must enter the garden.

Magnus was certainly not a fool; he was well aware of the dangers of this journey. Therefore, the Crimson King only unleashed a portion of his power, and now, most of the power that made up Magnus here still came from the Greenskins.

He has no intention of returning this part of his psionic energy. Only a trace of the psionic energy that makes up Magnus needs to return to transmit messages.

Tot was already a fragment of a fragment, and Magnus was already adept at splitting his own psychic powers.

Magnus's figure continued to shrink until the withered grass at his feet turned into a lush jungle, and he was completely hidden in the weeds. The scent of Magnus was masked by the scents of Black and Greenskin.

Magnus took a deep breath, carefully sensing the guidance from the Black bloodline, deep within the jungle… The Primarch lifted his foot and headed towards the garden.

----------

Pain, pain, pain.

Crying, begging, bewilderment, pleading, collapsing, pleading, holding on, roaring, defying, holding on.

anger.

Mist swirled around, and the giant beast in the shallow swamp remained silent; it was a corpse, slumped in the swamp.

Flies crawled over his pale, lifeless eyes. The sewage that had just reached his mouth and nose was icy cold. Every now and then, rotting flesh and the corpses of insects were pushed to his side by the water flow, and then gently moved away.

The hem of the garment, corroded for millennia, sways precariously, yet it will never vanish into nothingness.

He will never compromise.

Even as He tormented His surviving offspring, He heard their breakdowns, their confusion, their pleas for mercy, their anger…

But he would never compromise.

Time is nothing but eternal time; it can remain silent forever, just like Him.

As long as He does not yield, He will continue to suffer, never to heal—He is His wound, and He will suffer forever, just like Him.

Pain made His hand, which He had reached out to humanity, shrink back.

This will be eternal, the end is already decided. He knows how many lives his perseverance saved, but he is also unwilling and angry—he could have saved even more.

Now we're trapped here, with no end in sight.

He felt his resentment, but those emotions drifted away with the flowing water, leaving him only death, pure death—death belongs to the corpse, not to any living, moving being.

Death belongs only to the corpse.

He plundered death, and was devoured by death.

He needs life, or something else.

Other forces could help him break free and shatter this stagnation.

Let's get back to work.

He rejected the death of every one of his descendants from that year. The living still lived on, generating emotions, positive and negative, which slowly flowed towards the corpse, allowing him to still remember the feeling of being alive.

Remember why you didn't compromise.

He wants to kill the god.

He wants to seize God's authority.

He wanted to finish the journey his comrades had not completed.

He wants humanity to truly live in a world where wizards do not exist.

He wanted the beings of the warp to know that humanity was not something they could toy with at will—even though they had repeatedly scoffed at it.

He succeeded and failed.

This living garden struggles to breathe, neither alive nor dead, just rotting, rotting, endlessly rotting, until it has to slow everything down to its fullest extent, eternity.

And so everything continued to decay eternally.

Including himself.

His giant scythe still lay quietly in his clenched hand, but the scythe, once made of solid wood from Barbaros, had long since rotted away. A handful of rotten earth lay softly in his palm, slowly dissipating with the water and flowing into the distance.

Flies buzzed around him; he was pale and lifeless, yet still looked as if he had just died.

It's just because he rots very slowly.

He refused to rot.

He knew this was the final outcome; all existence was trapped, including the traitorous fools. Nurgle's Garden was eternal... and nothing could break it.

The power of the corrupt heavens is all-encompassing, and there are few beings in the supreme heavens who do not belong to or conform to the corrupt.

Perhaps his former comrades could break through... but he scoffed at such a fantasy of getting something for nothing. He had already embarked on the road and reached the end. He had no regrets about his decision... but he was furious at the stupidity of the foreign race.

He failed because he reached the end of his own life but did not finish the path his comrade had walked, nor did he fulfill his own expectations.

But he will remain steadfast at the finish line.

Waiting... waiting... waiting for the next star to slowly rise from among humanity and illuminate the universe.

He will never compromise.

He felt the pain, the coldness of the swamp water, the flies crawling on his skin, and the passage of time. He might have fallen asleep and glimpsed his past hallucinations in a fleeting dream.

He slowly recalled the events of that year, the terror and resolve he felt, and the first hallucination where he lay in the garden, just like before, but as a slave.

No... He will never kneel down.

I'd rather be dead for millions of years.

He felt pain and despair every second, but he also knew that He felt pain every second as well, that their time was the same, aligned, and harmonious.

He and the false gods exist in the same river of time.

He tormented him, hoping he would compromise, but he also tormented Him—he simply wanted to torment Him.

He was like a thorn, deeply embedded in the garden. Centered on him, the earth swelled, taking on an abnormal sheen. The blood of the Death Guardian turned the place a sickly red, like a real sore.

He listened to the sound of flowing water, the buzzing, and the sounds of his offspring still fighting. Nurgle had hidden him away, and his still-guarding offspring had not found him for a long time.

He might sometimes sigh... He should have sent his old friend who had some knowledge of witchcraft, so that they might have found his body, fought in front of him, and finally fallen.

An unusual rustling sound came from near the corpse's ears.

He did not react at all. His eyes, shrouded in white mist, stared blankly at the spot where he had fallen. He saw the weeds, which had not been touched by wind for thousands of years, tremble, and a pair of small, almost invisible hands reached out from them.

He remained lying there quietly.

He saw... his soul began to stir... he saw Magnus.

A small Magnus that is entirely green.

+Motalian?! !!! +

How did he get here?

Why did he come looking for me?

It wasn't until Mortarian sensed that Magnus possessed an aura that was completely different from the Chaos that he realized the truth.

That's... a green one?!

???

Three question marks appeared on the corpse.

+Motalian! Next!!! +

Magnus, one of the Empire's greatest psykers, made a decision when faced with Mortarion, known as "Death."