Chapter 292: I Am Slaanesh!

Zhou Yun's consciousness infused into the body of Fat Tiger the Great Demon, using Fat Tiger's form to survey his surroundings.

He stood atop a marble platform, sculpting Fat Tiger's clay body into the likeness of Guilliman, mimicking his voice with voiceprint candy and his behavior with robot directors and hot-shot cue cards—nearly indistinguishable from the real Robert Guilliman.

This was the plan Zhou Yun and Guilliman had devised: use Fat Tiger the Great Demon to impersonate Guilliman and trick Fulgrim into placing the Crown of Glory, the artifact of Slaanesh, upon Zhou Yun's head.

The illusions woven by the Crown of Glory were specially crafted by Fulgrim for Guilliman; their temptation held little power over Zhou Yun, and his spirit would not be corrupted, while Fat Tiger's body, composed of vast warp energy, could withstand material corruption.

Worse still, Zhou Yun could use this to turn the tables—to pollute Fulgrim with his own essence and make Fulgrim taste what it meant to be corrupted.

Unfortunately, Slaanesh had poured too many blessings into Fulgrim; according to Sanguinius's speculation, Fulgrim might be one of the most blessed, most twisted, most fallen of the Chaos Primarchs, and Zhou Yun could not fully corrupt him—only leave behind wounds too deep to cleanse.

Zhou Yun steadied his mind; the procession continued. War machines carried the heavy marble platform through the entire city, stepping over every brick of the Extremis Avenue.

Cheers erupted from all sides as people exhausted their imaginations to devise the most moving words to praise the Lord of the Ultramarines.

The Imperial Creed's hymns rang ceaselessly through the city; within the songs, the Astartes formations stood as unyielding as steel, marching upon roads paved with pale stone.

Each sight stirred honor in the heart: mortals felt pride at witnessing this moment, the Imperial Guard and Auxilia felt pride for having joined the Primarch's procession, and the Astartes felt honor for standing beside their Primarch.

Especially the Ultramarines—though they fiercely suppressed their inner feelings with reason, seeing other Chapters' representatives watching from the grandstands still stirred pride within them.

Who, pray, has returned as their gene-father?

This emotion, faint and barely perceptible, subtly overflowed in every warrior's heart.

Among the other Astartes present, many could not help but think of their own gene-fathers, wondering if theirs too might return.

Had the figure upon the dais truly been Guilliman, even his Primarch's soul would have stirred with honor.

This had nothing to do with Guilliman's thoughts—it was simply human instinct, easily swept along by atmosphere.

And this was Fulgrim's trick.

Honor is a fine thing, but like all emotions, it can become a crack through which the Chaos Gods invade.

The more honor swelled in their hearts, the stronger the Hunger God grew, and the more Fulgrim's power strengthened within the material universe.

And the corrupted Magos-Administrator of Macragge, under Fulgrim's influence, would surely wait until the procession reached its grandest peak—the moment when honor surged highest in the crowd—to place the Crown of Glory upon Guilliman's head.

Zhou Yun slightly withdrew his awareness from Fat Tiger, returning his vision to his own fleshly body.

"Fulgrim is still waiting," Zhou Yun whispered to Guilliman beside him, whose form was hidden by the Blindspot Star.

"He is like a venomous serpent, coiled in his cold, sticky burrow, writhing impatiently, waiting to strike and inject us with rotting poison," Robert Guilliman said in a low voice.

Zhou Yun nodded in agreement.

He imagined Fulgrim, equally impatient, writhing within Slaanesh's palace.

Just as Zhou Yun and Guilliman eagerly hoped he would fall into the trap—though Zhou Yun had another urgent matter.

He looked up at the void ships in the sky, seeing only the fiery glow of their engines through the atmosphere.

Among them were several vessels carrying the goods he needed—billions of credits, just thinking of it made his heart itch, and he longed to go up and see them.

He hadn't expected the fleet's arrival to coincide exactly with the procession—forcing him to focus here for now.

Though, as things stood, there was no need for his physical body to remain here.

"Let me go with you to inspect the cargo," Guilliman proposed.

Zhou Yun, sensing the Blindspot Star, cast a strange glance at Guilliman: "This is your procession, and Fulgrim is about to strike."

"I know Fulgrim. He is, at heart, a coward—he will not enter the material universe, as you and Sanguinius have confirmed."

Guilliman spoke in a steady tone:

"Your Great Demon here is enough. And I simply cannot endure this moment any longer."

As he spoke, Guilliman involuntarily sighed.

The long, grueling labor had shown him the true face of the Imperium; this glorious spectacle only deepened the darkness within him.

He truly wished to escape, if only for a moment.

Zhou Yun raised an eyebrow.

Guilliman was right—they could leave briefly without consequence.

If anything went wrong, Zhou Yun and Guilliman could instantly return via the Gate of Anywhere.

Even if they couldn't return in time, Sanguinius possessed a Gate of Anywhere as well.

Zhou Yun nodded slightly and pulled the Gate of Anywhere from his fourth-dimensional pocket.

Better to see his soon-to-be-deposited credits than sit here watching the ceremony.

Zhou Yun opened the Gate of Anywhere and stepped through with Guilliman.

It was a Wastrel-class freighter, one of the most common models in the Imperial Merchant Fleet—two kilometers long, five hundred meters wide, forged from thick metal, crude, sturdy, unremarkable, yet reliable.

But as Zhou Yun and Guilliman entered, they immediately sensed something was wrong.

Silence. Too much silence.

This ship, meant to carry nearly twenty thousand crewmen, was unnervingly quiet.

Machinery still hummed, steam still hissed, engines still rumbled—but no human voices.

Only the ship's own ambient sounds echoed, making the silence around them feel stranger still.

Even the narrow corridor they entered had its lights extinguished; only the orange-yellow sparks from running machinery faintly illuminated the surroundings.

This dim glow was useless against the darkness that had consumed the corridor.

Guilliman, hidden by the Blindspot Star, subtly placed his hand on the Emperor's Sword.

Zhou Yun did not speak, but both knew: something had gone wrong on this ship.

Who had attacked it? Fulgrim? Gene-thieves? Or some other faction?

Whoever it was, Zhou Yun's brow tightened.

This is my money!

Zhou Yun gave Guilliman a slight nod.

Guilliman silently guarded Zhou Yun's side as they moved swiftly toward the metal bulkhead of the narrow corridor.

Zhou Yun pressed his fingers against the bulkhead, composed of rivets and square metal plates, and attempted to seep his will into the ship.

It was a power he had gained from the Domain of Malice.

His will became tendrils, spreading through the entire vessel, sensing every steam-spewing pipe, every current-churning cable, every sparking machine.

Then, Zhou Yun heard a faint song—a melody praising growth, shaping, and reconstruction, light and soft, half-sung, half-chanted.

As the song sounded, something within the freighter began to grow.

Zhou Yun stepped back sharply, distancing himself from the ship, watching pale, bone-like tendrils sprout like branches.

Though seemingly frail and delicate, these bones effortlessly tore through the ship's thick steel plating, filling the corridor in an instant, shrinking the space around them.

Yet upon seeing these bones, Zhou Yun's expression eased—even his lips curled into a faint smile.

"Spiritbone," Zhou Yun murmured.

The pale, bone-like substance was a warp-pliable material used by the Eldar to construct their Craftworlds, warships, and weapons—solidified warp energy, shaped by Bone-Singers into any form.

Clearly, the Eldar had implanted spiritbone within this freighter, completely dismantling its original structure and replacing it with spiritbone to support the hull, suppressing its original machine-spirit.

This was clearly an Eldar trap set for Zhou Yun.

Finally—they had come. Zhou Yun had almost guessed who would ambush him.

"Gigglegigglegiggle."

Laughter, filled with delight, joy, and mockery, echoed through the corridor, bouncing off the spiritbone-covered walls.

"The Death of Man is well-traveled indeed—not unworthy of 'me' going to such lengths to foresee this fleeting moment, when you stand alone upon this freighter."

"Guilliman is parading, Sanguinius is far away—I only needed to keep you from using that gate that lets you traverse the galaxy at will."

A pale Eldar jester, dressed in lavish robes, face painted with intricate designs, wearing a grotesque grin, leapt into view at the corridor's end. He bore no mechanical gear, only two Jester's Blades in hand.

"I am Slaanesh! I am the Jester, the Madman, the Fool, the God of Laughter and Revenge!"

"This body is my avatar, my actor, my mask walking among mortals."

The jester's voice rose in an aria as he laughed wildly, calling himself Slaanesh.

He was not the true Slaanesh—he was clearly an Eldar jester, a High Avatar, an actor in the Jester's Play who portrayed the Laughing God himself.

He was equivalent to Slaanesh's own avatar in the material universe, his will's agent.

"And me!" A high, lustful trill echoed from the other end of the corridor; a jester in a hooded cloak, wearing a grotesque demon mask and sprouting horns, stepped forward with feline grace from the darkness.

She emitted lascivious, seductive gasps; beneath her robe, her figure was lush and alluring, exuding an intoxicating scent that stirred carnal desire.

"I am the Lord of Hunger! I am the Dark Prince! I am the Destroyer of the Eldar! I am Desire! I am Craving!"

"I am—"

The jester's voice suddenly rose to a shriek as she shouted the name forbidden to all races:

"I am Slaanesh!"

(End of Chapter)