Chapter 252: Dad! You

Abaddon was wrapped in flames of fury, blasphemous warp energies surging from his body,

the myriad faces on Dranikorn screamed in unison, singing of death, corruption, and destruction,

to be mocked by a mere mortal, to be subdued before the elite of the Black Legion—Abaddon could not endure it,

the Black Legion was ultimately a loose institution,

if he showed even a hint of weakness, his subordinates would turn traitorous, the Legion's strength would wane, and the goal of toppling the Empire and slaying the False Emperor would grow ever farther away,

this he could never tolerate,

he must kill this mortal here—

seeing Zhou Yun no longer swing his dimmed toy sword, Abaddon's eyes flickered with insight—he knew it was true,

it was the sword, all the problems stemmed from that toy sword,

though he did not know why Dranikorn had failed to detect the sword's anomaly,

nor why such a simple toy could resist a weapon born of humanity's first murder,

but clearly, that toy sword had a time limit,

now, Abaddon could easily take the mortal's life!

Dranikorn now cooperated with Abaddon more than ever, furious over its recent failure,

it was the enemy of all humanity, even the Emperor himself should fear its authority,

it was Death to Humanity, an inescapable murder,

Dranikorn roared, unleashing its warp energies toward the mortal named Zhou Yun,

suddenly, Abaddon felt Dranikorn hesitate,

and a chilling dread seized him—he noticed Zhou Yun's white pouch on his belly had swollen inexplicably,

a standard precision power sword pierced through the snowstorm, its pale blue energy field roaring with potent psychic force, melting the falling snow,

in an instant, the blade seemed to carve a wound through the frost of Krassus,

Abaddon could not follow the sword's speed—even with his focus narrowed solely to the power blade, he could not track it,

Dranikorn seized control of his arm, snapping back to intercept the power sword aimed straight at Abaddon's chest,

but Abaddon's own physical frailty hampered the demonic blade,

"AHHHHHH!!"

a scream of excruciating pain tore from his throat; Abaddon staggered backward,

his power armor's chest plate was ripped open, grotesque, tentacle-like cables writhed from the tear,

at the same time, the old wound left by Sigismund was exposed to the icy wind, bleeding profusely,

now, a roaring power sword was embedded in that wound, its surface charged with potent psychic energy, burning Abaddon's flesh and soul,

and the blade had precisely pierced one of Abaddon's two hearts, inflicting unbearable agony,

the black sword hanging at his waist trembled faintly, its machine-soul seemingly reawakened, mocking him,

perhaps a fragment of Sigismund's consciousness lingered within the blade, or its machine-soul had absorbed Sigismund's personality and emotions,

that was why Abaddon insisted on wearing it—he wanted Sigismund to witness his gradual destruction of the Empire,

yet now, this black sword witnessed only his clownish, consecutive failures,

Abaddon raised his face, snarling, locking his gaze on Zhou Yun,

Zhou Yun gave a slight shake to the pouch on his belly, smiling at Abaddon,

"Warlord, could you do that trick again?"

"You know, that one… the Age of the Primarchs is over!"

as Zhou Yun spoke,

a tall figure clad in a linen robe emerged from Zhou Yun's pouch,

the cold wind stirred the robe like flowing water, sweeping across the snow and leaving faint trails, outlining the figure's form,

the robe shaped a towering, indeterminate silhouette, hovering between reality and myth, like marble,

he might be over three meters tall, or five or six,

he might have wings, or none,

he might wear armor, or merely a robe,

nothing could be confirmed—it seemed the robe concealed only a shadow,

yet unquestionably, even a shadow, it was a divine one.

The air was quieter than at any moment before,

both the Black Legion and the Expeditionary Force had frozen in place,

the combatants on both sides involuntarily turned toward the figure standing beside Zhou Yun,

they did not know who it was, nor what manner of being it was, yet all sensed a presence far above mortality standing there,

Saint Celestine let out a cry of joy and wonder—her wound from Abaddon had healed, her pure wings gently rested on the ground, her eyes filled with disbelief and reverence,

"Who are you?!"

Abaddon shrieked in fury,

that sword, that stature, that power, that transcendent holiness—

as an Astartes who had survived the Great Crusade and witnessed many Primarchs,

Abaddon knew without doubt that the figure before him was—

"This is impossible!!!"

"Your age is over!!"

"Are you an illusion? Or the False Emperor's sorcery?"

Abaddon roared, condemning the figure before him,

yet the figure only uttered a sigh of near-pity,

Abaddon suddenly recognized the voice—it was familiar, as if belonging to someone he could never forget,

he violently yanked the ordinary power sword from his chest, hurling it onto the snow, blood instantly staining the ground,

yet his wound did not heal through the regenerative cells of his Leman Russ organ—it kept bleeding, as if the psychic energy embedded in the wound continuously ravaged his body,

dizziness flooded Abaddon's mind; he stared at his chest wound,

and saw not only the Emperor's power, but also the energies of the four Chaos Gods intertwined within it,

Abaddon let out a bitter laugh, speaking to the unknown figure:

"Look how hypocritical you are—claiming loyalty while already fallen into the abyss of Chaos!"

"I merely use Chaos; how pitiful you are, to have submitted to them!"

"Abaddon, what has blinded your eyes?"

a slightly muffled voice issued from the linen-robed figure, his fingers silently taking the Hot Take Board & Robot Director from Zhou Yun's hand and pressing it lightly,

"You were once a member of the Council of Four, swearing by Luna to advise the Primarchs."

"Yet you erred again and again, blinding yourself."

"You knew the Great Betrayal was a mistake, yet you persisted, committing ten thousand years of error upon error."

"You knew the Gods manipulated the Warmaster—and you—yet you shut your ears, ignoring your own corruption."

"Ezekiel, what have you become?"

the figure's words held no hatred for Abaddon, only pity, regret, and deep self-reproach,

and Abaddon felt the voice grow ever more familiar,

"No!"

Abaddon stumbled back, screaming in terror:

"You cannot be him! You're a fraud!"

"Does the False Emperor think this will frighten me?!"

Abaddon roared in rage, ignoring his wounds, raising Dranikorn and charging like a madman toward the linen-robed figure,

the figure held no weapon,

while Ezekiel—Abaddon held the demonic blade Dranikorn—

yet Abaddon was wounded, moving far slower than before,

the linen-robed figure evaded the demonic blade with astonishing grace, the flowing robe brushing against Dranikorn's glowing blue blade, the fabric igniting as if mocking Abaddon,

then the figure's powerful arm seized Abaddon's wrist, lunging forward,

before Abaddon's mind could process the situation, the linen-robed figure reached toward his waist,

"Ezekiel, this does not belong to you."

the black sword was drawn, its machine-soul roaring in ecstasy, igniting a night-black energy field along its blade,

the black sword, forged from fragments of Sigismund's blade, was held by the robed figure and brought down in a straight slash,

"AHHHHHH!!"

Abaddon screamed as his face was split cleanly down the middle—his forehead, nose, and mouth severed into halves,

yet Dranikorn surged, seizing control of Abaddon's arm to block the black sword's second strike,

instantly, a thunderous crack echoed through the void, shaking the souls of all present,

they all seemed to glimpse a vision: a man killing another with a stone weapon,

then Abaddon scrambled backward several steps, while the linen-robed figure stepped back slightly,

"No wonder Father feared you so much, Dranikorn," murmured the linen-robed figure.

Abaddon forced himself to rise, trying to lunge at that figure again, but his legs buckled and he collapsed onto his knees in the snow.

He gasped for breath, lifting his head fiercely, and the robed figure walked slowly to stand before Abaddon.

A cold wind stirred the linen robe, briefly revealing the figure's face — Abaddon happened to see it.

He drew in a sharp breath, his pupils trembling uncontrollably, his mouth gaping, his tongue spasming; after great effort, he managed to utter a single complete sentence.

"Father?"

"Why aren't you dead?!"

(End of Chapter)