Chapter 276: Fuegian, You

"No!!!" Karlago's roar echoed through the temple,

not just him—all present Space Marines let out a cry of agonized rage,

the same emotion, similar fury, bound bloodlines, even stirring ripples in the Warp,

but roaring alone could not stop the black blade descending simultaneously from the highest heavens and the material realm,

death descended from the void; the tall, blue, round figure and Zhou Yun from the material universe drove their blades together into Roboute Guilliman's chest,

hot blood poured from the Emperor's son's chest, vaporizing upon the black blade burning with death,

Roboute Guilliman let out a low, pained roar,

"No! What have you done!"

Karlago's voice was nearly hoarse as he charged forward again, reckless,

yet the teardrop-shaped spear sliced through silently, shattering the power armor on his leg before he could react,

the spear technique filled Karlago with shock even in his fury,

he crashed heavily onto the steps before the throne, staring in disbelief at the figure in the linen robe,

that figure swung the teardrop spear like an old farmer reaping wheat on Macragge, cutting down the Black Legion's lives,

each flash of the spear's tip sent a Black Legionary's head flying into the sky,

its tip struck with flawless precision at every Black Legionary's neck,

such divine skill.

Karlago's vision swam; he vaguely felt the teardrop spear looked familiar.

As if he had seen it once—in a mural, a legend, a fragment of history.

Karlago saw the figure in the linen robe slowly turn its head, gazing at its dying gene-father,

the black blade slowly withdrew from Roboute Guilliman's chest, pulling out blood and the Primarch's life,

the linen-robed figure's lips seemed to curl into a faint smile,

"Late King, now it's your turn to die."

"Father!" Karlago could only let out a cry of anguish.

Death.

Roboute Guilliman stared blankly at the scene before him,

had Fuegian's blade cut his throat?

No, that had long passed—perhaps it belonged to ages long gone,

this time, death came from a black blade,

the blade seemed to hunt his death itself, piercing from beneath the veil of reality, driving through his chest, stealing his life,

it hurt—intense agony flooded Roboute Guilliman's chest, blood gushing uncontrollably,

the blade severed his ribs, pierced his heart and vital organs, leaving behind a fire of death—hot yet cold—in his chest,

Guilliman tried to raise his hand to clutch his chest, but he could not,

his once-powerful arms refused to lift; vitality drained from his flesh, scorching machinery like tentacles coiled around his body,

Death.

"Father!"

Roboute Guilliman seemed to hear a cry of grief,

a Space Marine in blue armor knelt before him on the steps—perhaps one of his gene-sons,

Guilliman wanted to speak, tried to lift his head,

the figure in the linen robe before him noticed his effort, slowly turning to face him,

a clear, familiar laugh rang out,

"Late King, now it's your turn to die."

The words carried mockery, resentment, and perfectly measured scorn,

Who are you?

Roboute Guilliman wanted to ask that question,

but his entire being was crushed under the weight of death, sinking deeper and deeper,

No,

Roboute Guilliman's soul screamed in agony,

No,

who will protect them now?

who will aid them now?

who will save our cause now?

No.

But death was merciless; Guilliman clearly felt his organs weakening, his heart ceasing its beat, his brain's electrical signals halting,

he stood on the cliff where reality met the Warp, hearing the gods' mad laughter,

cold, slimy scales coiled around his body, mocking moans rose from the void,

"Finally."

"The most arrogant one."

"The most boring one."

the rustle of velvet brushed Roboute Guilliman's ears, like a serpent gliding over his skin,

tightly pressed lips revealed fangs; intense pleasure, delight, and ecstasy dripped like poison onto his neck wound,

the serpent would emerge from there, tearing apart Roboute Guilliman's glory, dragging him into eternal corruption and mockery,

a scaled creature—like an eel, sea serpent, slug, and ouroboros combined—slithered from his neck wound,

but then the serpent noticed a fresh wound on Roboute Guilliman's chest, wrapped in a power utterly unlike its own,

that was—was—was death,

the serpent suddenly realized, trying to recoil,

yet Roboute Guilliman's chest wound suddenly widened, and a blue arm with a white, round hand reached out, gripping a black blade entwined with thick death,

the serpent shrieked in terror, but the round hand's black blade struck without hesitation, killing Roboute Guilliman—and killing the thing dwelling within him,

the black blade entwined with death pierced straight through the serpent's body, searing agony engulfing it,

it was pain without pleasure or stimulation—cold, dull, hollow—offering no mental thrill, only an overwhelming urge toward self-destruction,

the serpent dwelling within Roboute Guilliman let out a cry and dissolved into death—

"Ahh!!!!"

in Slaanesh's palace, Fuegian let out a piercing, agonized scream,

his body slid from the velvet throne, and the fifth, scalding, trembling Sword of the Hag slipped from his cloaca,

a pain hotter and colder than the Eldar Death God's power surged through Fuegian's entire body,

what Fuegian could not endure most was that this pain, this death, was purer and colder than the Eldar Death God's,

untainted by hatred or any other emotion—only hollow destruction and pure death,

Fuegian vaguely saw the World-Ender,

unquestionably, his corruption left upon Roboute Guilliman had taken effect,

but something was wrong,

this cold death and destruction could not come from the Eldar Death God,

Fuegian urgently turned his gaze,

he saw—

Guilliman's soul lingered on the cliff where reality met the Warp, then the cliff collapsed, and Roboute Guilliman's soul roared uncontrollably,

his blood, flesh, spirit, and essence were stripped back to their most primal form within the Warp's death storm,

it was a furious storm of blue and gold, operating with a unique, strange order, reflecting the celestial motions of the five hundred worlds of Ultramar,

then Fuegian saw—

the blue, round figure rose from the Warp's ripples, its head enormous, like a badger's, a pocket of deathly stillness hanging from its belly, as if the pocket's other end held the galaxy's end,

the figure extended two round hands and seized the storm that was Roboute Guilliman,

instantly, the storm regained soul, form, body, and matter, slowly reforming into Roboute Guilliman himself,

yet simultaneously, the blue, round figure's power seeped steadily into Roboute Guilliman's body,

It was corrupting Roboute Guilliman!!

Fuegian let out a sharp, low growl,

Who is this? What being has arisen from where, daring to act before him?

Suddenly, the blue figure seemed to instinctively sense Fuegian's gaze, slowly turning its head,

its round eyes reflected Fuegian's image—twisted, fallen, deformed,

"You're watching, aren't you?"

in the material universe, Zhou Yun seemed to sense something, quietly turning his head,

but he found his gaze did not fall upon the material realm—it passed directly through the Warp, landing on a—

a creature coiled beneath the velvet throne, like a mix of eel, sea serpent, slug, and white fat maggots; its upper body still bore faint human traces, yet sprouted a pair of grotesque, thin fleshy wings, beneath which hung four needle-thin arms,

its face still held traces of former beauty, but the marks of debauchery, drugs, and corruption were far more prominent, stretching its features to an unnatural length, bathed in unhealthy pallor and exhaustion—a pale serpent-spirit indeed.

Beside the fallen behemoth lay a blade forged from pale finger bones, glowing with a deep blue heat, humming violently atop the velvet carpet, coated in unknown viscous fluid.

Zhou Yun glanced at the pale blade—clearly the Fifth Hag's Sword—then at the demon primarch, clearly Foggrem.

Foggrem was also staring blankly at Zhou Yun.

The Fifth Hag's Sword lay on the ground, hot and searing, humming softly.

Zhou Yun suspected this might be an inherent ability of the Hag's Sword—to burn and actively attack beings blessed by Slaanesh.

But... it seemed Foggrem had developed some different usage.

For a moment, the air grew awkward.

Finally, Foggrem let out a shrill, terrified scream, withdrew his gaze, and twisted his serpentine body into the Warp, vanishing without a trace.

(End of Chapter)