bookbashuk Page 453
Page 453
He grinned maniacally, but that bloodthirsty laugh grew increasingly chilling. Finally, contrary to his usual self, Conrad spoke softly.
Saint Gilles once fell into my prophecy.
[Guess who Saint Gilles saw?]
Horus stopped, staring menacingly at Conrad, who slid down the wall and appeared before Horus like a shadow.
Conrad gracefully trudged through the pool of blood to Horus, who for a moment mistook him for Fugen.
Koz approached, his claws slicing across Horus's face. He whispered, "Saint Gilles saw you... You ultimately caused the archangel's fall; you are the culprit."
Conrad shook his head. He felt that Horus had gone completely mad, but this, all of this—was just—too wonderful!
This is the prophecy! I was right!
Conrad laughed again, but this time, Horus's warhammer sent him flying.
Conrad coughed up a mouthful of blood, a huge eye of terror staring at him; he understood everything now!
He is the darling of prophecy!
Not Mortalian, not Saint Gilles, but him, Conrad Coz!
[Motalian transforms into the moth he despises most, and Sanguielles falls into ruin, pushed by his closest friend!]
Conrad coughed up blood, and then he laughed loudly.
Those who disregard the prophecy will fall into the abyss—only I, only I, will attain ultimate purity!!!
Accept the trial!
Those who commit crimes will be punished!
I updated 10,000 words today! Yay!!!
Chapter 534 It took flight!
boom! boom! boom!
Countless torpedoes rushed toward the Vengeance Soul like moths to a flame. Brilliant fireworks exploded, and huge plumes of smoke and shockwaves created a chaotic storm on the outer side of the giant ship.
boom! ! !
On the side of the slowly swimming dark whale, another ball of blazing orange fire exploded, its flames roaring as they plunged into the void, sending up countless fragments of buildings. These fragments, large and small, transformed into projectiles that hurtled rapidly toward Mortarion!
Damn Conrad!
The close-range explosion nearly set Mortalian's eyes ablaze, while the massive shockwave disrupted the Primarch's center of gravity.
In the desolate void, beside the enormous, seemingly endless Vengeance Soul, the Pale Lord was like a grain of sand, pushed and thrown into the stern of the Vengeance Soul by the turbulence generated by the various torpedo explosions.
In less than a second, a barrage of rapid and dense shrapnel rained down, tearing through the original body's armor. Mist seeped from the wounds, carried away by the shrapnel, drawing countless white lines in the void.
Thick frost quickly climbed up the wings and onto the skin, drawing away warmth.
Mortalian felt himself disappearing, which brought him to his senses. He was returning to a world of illusion, the physical world expelling him with its most extreme laws: extreme cold, oxygen deprivation, and high radiation.
As it rolled, the Primarch's suddenly contracted pupils reflected this battlefield.
The giants are fighting.
Countless battleship and cruiser corpses were slowly sinking, while carrier-based aircraft and escort ships, like schools of sardines, almost covered the entire boundless void. The faint light of the void shields spread in layers, and the flashes of torpedoes and light spears even dimmed the stars.
Fleet members' corpses were scattered everywhere, so densely packed that they affected gravity in the void. Occasionally, a pattern would flash with an eerie light on them—perhaps the only trace left by humanity in this naval battle.
Those flashes of light exploded one by one, drop by drop, each explosion a tiny spark that swayed across the battlefield before being torn apart by the horn of the adamantine ramming and dissipating into the void.
After that, behind the colossal ships that fought to the death, behind the dazzling sea of flowers, Kadia, shimmering faintly with fluorescent light, turned around.
Several layers of thin gauze wrapped around the Cadia, representing the tides of the subspace and the aurora produced by the chaotic magnetic field.
Beneath the aurora, the thick clouds were torn apart by the storm, and light spears as thin as grass stalks pointed towards the earth. The small beams of light seemed to have no effect on the planet, but with each flash of the beams, Mortalian's pupils dilated a little.
He drifted through the void. Mortarion recalled Horus's words: at this moment, the battlefield belonged to the warships. He had made a mistake—
He failed.
Mortarian failed.
He could have easily killed Horus.
But the gap is too big.
The difference is too big!
This difference doesn't belong to Mortarion and Lupecal as individuals; it belongs to their fleets. The Warmaster's army blots out the sky, stretching from one end of the void to the other, with countless different banners fluttering together under the banner of the Son of Horus.
In Mortalian's eyes, the various ships under the Warmaster's command were reflected.
He saw weapons and modified engines he had never heard of before.
This is not a war between individuals. From the first murder in human history, to the struggles between nobles, to the religious wars against heretics, to the First World War, and even to the Iron Man Rebellion in the eternal darkness, the scale of war has been expanding step by step, until this race burns out its last grain of food and its last life in the flames of war.
This is the graveyard of billions of lives lost.
This is also a battlefield that spans the long river of human history.
From the discovery of universal gravitation to the Wright brothers' invention of the first airplane, to Gagarin's journey into space, to the first step on the moon, to the extinguishing of the flame of reason, the Martian cult launched a renewed expedition to seek knowledge across the shattered galaxy. Tens of thousands of scraps of paper were used to build the smallest of escort ships, and a magnificent battleship could even reduce the weight of its home planet by 1%.
This is the war on the physical side, where, before the laws are mastered, the scales of victory tip toward the side with the accumulation of mass and information.
Absolute quantity, coupled with absolute technology.
Now, the scales of victory are tipping in Horus's favor.
If it weren't for Tarasin... Mortarian couldn't imagine what the outcome would have been, but even though the strange alien had made a pact with him, the Pale Lord still despaired about whether the pact could be fulfilled.
He cannot trust people of other races.
He only trusts himself.
Mortarian's outstretched arm toward Kadia froze, the thick frost almost completely engulfing him. Above Kadia, the perfectly round, concave plain, like a pupil, coldly stared at him through the thousands of warships.
He was too arrogant.
He entrusted Vox with an almost impossible task, pinning all his hopes on a boarding maneuver and decapitation. He thought that once Horus was dealt with, all that would remain were defeated soldiers, but Horus mocked him with absolute reality.
Why would Horus choose to decide the outcome of a war with a one-on-one duel when the warlord's fleet was almost overwhelming him?
Mortalian's achievements in psionicism blinded him, and the warp gave him illusions.
He is not yet capable of shaking the entire battlefield on his own.
He watched as White Scar and the Midnight Lord's fleet joined the naval battle, but it was but a drop in the ocean—perhaps he should wait for the Ultramarines—no, but that would be too late—
—Damn it…why…why…why?!
The anger of being tricked and defeated burned fiercely. Surrounded by the physical world, Mortarian felt immense resentment and shame. Defeat was like a drooping scythe, pressed against his neck.
Mortarion always accepted his losses—except this time—he could have killed Horus—damn Conrad—why?!
He refuses to accept this defeat!
Amidst the raging flames, the Primarch's vision caught that decisive spark of light: a faint glow appeared on the battleship amidst the floating wreckage of the Deathguard warships.
Around it, the Death Guard warships that tried to intercept it were all sunk, their mangled wreckage drifting aimlessly in the air, as if mocking the Pale Lord.
There are no more warships available to intercept that torpedo.
Mortarion watched as the torpedo slowly but resolutely hurtled toward Cadia.
He reached out his hand, trying to stop the sparks in the sky, but it was all in vain.
The Primarch's brain was calculating that in forty-seven seconds, the torpedo would make contact with the atmosphere of the Cardia. If it was an atmospheric incineration torpedo, then all of this would end at this moment—but if it was some other torpedo… the time of death would be delayed by two or three seconds.
But the final outcome remains unchanged.
Could Tarasim successfully take Hades away? With the magnetic field and warp on Kadia completely chaotic, could any teleportation device truly function properly? Mortarian dared not think about it; he didn't even want to pray—he was simply furious, furious at his own weakness.
If the Death Guard had 50,000 more men, would they have been able to stop Horus before the end of all things? If the Death Guard's fleet had doubled in size, could they have defeated Horus's fleet and intercepted the torpedo?
If Guilliman's fleet were any faster... no, the Ultramarines' engines were already at their limit.
At this moment, will Mortarion regret neglecting the construction of the warships? Will he regret not demanding more from the Mechanicus? If he had lowered his standards a little more—become even more ruthless—and been even more politically astute, the Legion would certainly be much larger than it is now.
At this moment, Mortarion deeply understood the various policies Hades had implemented within the Legion.
Mortarian's past arrogance, prejudice, and laziness have finally brought him to his doom. Weakness remains the original sin, and now it's all too late. He must place his only hope on others—waiting for them to grant him victory... No... no, no no no no no no.
He was furious and resentful—Motalian could do nothing more, but there was one thing he could do to console his tormented soul—he would kill Horus!
He's going to kill him!
He offered his blood as a tribute to his fallen comrades and descendants!
Only blood can extinguish Mortarion's rage!
Mortarion must die! He must die Horus! He must etch Mortarion's defeat into Horus's head, and he regrets that he realized too late—he could have been much stronger!
Beside the massive hull of the Vengeful Spirit, the shattered and dissipating mist began to coalesce again. Having adjusted to the void, Mortalian resumed absorbing death.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the warp tides surging up on the battlefield, helping Mortarion resist the physical world's expulsion—perhaps the false gods had once again entered the fray to participate in this naval battle, but Mortarion knew this was no longer a battlefield he could reach.
In the storm, the ice shell cracked, and the butterfly began to flap its wings again.
From a macro perspective, it is a slowly moving giant ship, but to an individual, it is a raging storm. Mortarion chases the storm, flying through the void—even though there is no airflow to support his wings.
1.4 seconds after Mortarion was thrown from the Soul of Vengeance, he regained control of his body.
It hurts, it hurts terribly. The butterfly is torn apart by the storm, and then heals itself through immense willpower.
Rapidly moving pebbles swept past him, leaving a trail of scratches. Mortarion sped forward, his giant scythe re-formed in his hand. He saw the window that had thrown him out, and with a flick of his wrist, he hurled the Annihilation Scythe!
He's going to kill Horus!
------------
Terra
In the chilly wind, Dorne's platinum blonde hair swayed slightly on his forehead.
He was looking up, gazing at the starry sky above the Hollow Mountains of Terra with Vulcan.
At this moment, perhaps due to the large gathering of psionicists, the sky they saw was in a more hazy state, with the sharp-edged stars transforming into something even more indistinct, distorting with the light of the Void Shield.
Countless shades of black and deep blue twisted and turned in the sky, their texture resembling the wild brushstrokes of an oil painting.
Dorn frowned. He didn't believe the "prophecy" Vulcan spoke of could be seen with the naked eye. The Primarch strained to look in the direction of the Eye of Fear, but only saw a few dim black lines.
He turned to look at Vulcan, only to see the Lord of Fire Dragons staring intently at the sky, muttering incantations, his eyes blazing with fire.
Dorn paused, then turned back to Vulcan with his arms crossed.
Do you think he will be kind?
When Vulcan blurted out those words, Dorn's eyebrows almost furrowed together. [Who is "he"?]
Our father.
Dorn raised an eyebrow. "Now is not the time to discuss this, Vulcan. You need to make sure the timing is right."
Vulcan hesitated, lowering his eyes. His words were hesitant. "Alright… I just… you can rekindle the Star Torch now. It will take a little time."
Dorn turned and left almost immediately, giving Vulcan a disgruntled look as he went, but Vulcan only sighed and said nothing.
【…】
He stared at the sky, but the fire dragon's eyes no longer saw the starry sky, but a surging, vast ocean. He saw the light that had been extinguished and then flickered.
Vulcan stamped his foot awkwardly. Beneath him, deep beneath the palace, sat their father, the Emperor's Sword resting on his lap, ready for battle.
No, he has been fighting all along.
Vulcan told himself.
but……
【cruel……】
Vulcan muttered, no… He remembered the archangel he had seen in the Web of Destiny… Why was he so cruel… Did he not love his offspring…?
Behind him, the endless mountain range trembled. The Lord of Fire Dragons seemed to hear the cries of the psionicists. Boulder rolled down the ridge, like debris shaken off when a giant stood up.
Dorn moved quickly.
A vast amount of energy accumulated, and specks of golden light floated up like fireflies. The snow melted and roared towards the buildings at the foot of the mountain. After a brief period of darkness, the star torches would be rekindled.