Chapter 294: I Just Thought

The sun of Macragge cast its scorching, blinding light upon the crown of pure gold, caressing every tiny, intricate carving upon it, and the dazzling golden radiance it reflected bathed the Path of Extremes and the surrounding architecture, enveloping the entire marble platform along with the Fat Tiger Daemon disguised as Guilliman.

The mortals on the nearby marble buildings let out a cry of astonishment.

The dazzling golden light swept over them, illuminating the walls, its shifting shadows as if projecting the carved scenes from the crown onto the stone.

Within the ever-flowing radiance, both mortals and Astartes beheld visions brimming with honor: the triumph of a great crusade, a duel worthy of historical remembrance, the coronation of a great Emperor, the dawn of a new age, the submission of a thousand worlds.

All the honor, glory, and power in this world seemed carved into that crown—whomever wore it would become its master.

People marveled at the crown's exquisite craftsmanship, at its beauty, at the visions of honor it displayed.

People marveled at the exquisite craftsmanship of the crown, at its beauty, and at the scenes of glory it displayed,

This longing was born from the hearts of all beings—not that they wished to wear it themselves, but that they wished Robert Guilliman to wear it.

After all, such a crown, such honor, belonged only to Robert Guilliman.

After all, such a crown, such honor, was worthy only of Robert Guilliman,

This yearning formed ripples of emotion, stirring waves within the Warp.

But none noticed that within these ripples lurked the slithering of serpents and lewd laughter.

But no one noticed that within this turmoil lurked the slithering of snakes and lewd laughter,

The crown itself whispered thus:

"Only you are worthy to wear me, Robert Guilliman!"

"The Emperor's most perfect son! Ruler of Mankind! Embodiment of Honor!"

"Wear me! Wear me! I shall grant you all honor and glory!"

The blinding golden light seemed to transform into slender serpents extending from the crown, slowly coiling around the Fat Tiger Daemon's hands, tempting him to lift the crown.

Wear it! Wear it! Wear it! Wear it! Wear it!

A million voices cried in unison, ten million voices cried in unison, a hundred million voices cried in unison, a hundred million voices cried in unison.

This longing was so intense it could compel an Primarch to act on instinct.

Had any Primarch with clear perception of the Warp noticed, they might have sensed it—but Guilliman could not.

The Warp's lewd, colossal serpent writhed, emitting a creaking, leering laugh.

He watched Guilliman reach out and lift the Crown of Glory.

He saw Guilliman slowly lower the crown onto his golden hair.

He saw the golden radiance of the crown flash once, seeping into Guilliman's mind.

He let out a piercing cheer and slithered through the crown into Guilliman's consciousness.

Sylandrie Veilwalker nearly vomited; she felt her innards twisted into knots, displaced from their proper positions.

To prevent time from running out, her clown siblings had fetched a Bloodletter from Ghar to remove the Lockheart Saint Beetles from her body.

To prevent insufficient time, his clown siblings went to Gorm and fetched a Blood Singer to remove the Heartlock Sacred Beetle from her body.

The most repulsive, cruel, insane, sadistic cockroaches, scum, and perverts in the entire galaxy!

Their ancestors were the most lewd, deranged, and pleasure-addicted madmen of the ancient Eldar Empire.

These people reveled in torture, delighted in the screams of blood and flesh, loved pain and terror, and were masters of fleshcraft.

The Bloodletter indeed demonstrated astonishing skill, removing the Necron nanotech Lockheart Saint Beetles in mere minutes.

Yet even recalling the process made Sylandrie Veilwalker shudder.

Her body had been almost disassembled—literally torn apart piece by piece, then reassembled by the Bloodletter.

What tormented Sylandrie Veilwalker most was that after assembly, there were still extra parts left over!

She clearly saw the Bloodletter finish reassembling her body, yet still had several chunks of flesh, organs, and glands remaining.

This was definitely wrong!

Sylandrie Veilwalker wanted to protest, but her weakened body could barely speak; she could only let the clowns carry her swiftly through the cities of Macragge.

They brought her to a city built among narrow mountains—far more dilapidated than Magna Macragge.

Few pure white marbles adorned it; most was built of rough granite, dotted with savage tombs, temples, and halls.

"Irym," Sylandrie Veilwalker whispered the city's name.

Ten thousand years ago, it had been a barbarian settlement on Macragge, the last land conquered by Guilliman's father, King Konor.

Later, it had become a stronghold for Konrad Curze's ravages.

Recently, traces of the Plague God's followers had been found here.

In Zhou Yun's words, it was a place teeming with talent.

"Why are we here?" Sylandrie Veilwalker asked weakly.

"There is a Webway entrance on Macragge too—hidden beneath this city, Irym."

"But to avoid revealing it to humans, and because the city was then occupied by the Black Legion, the Laughing God guided us to another exit."

The clowns carried Sylandrie Veilwalker into Irym.

The clowns carried Sylandrie Veilwalker into Illirym.

The Chosen Avatar, battered and bruised, shouted at the Unicorn, whose half-body was scorched by meltagun fire.

Zhou Yun's marksmanship had opened the clowns' eyes wide.

Both clowns were divine incarnations; their bodies had long surpassed the physical limits of the material universe.

Merely by their flesh, they could effortlessly dodge bullets, never struck.

But Zhou Yun never missed—each bullet struck the Unicorn precisely.

Only because the Unicorn had endured immense Slaanesh corruption and blessings—effectively becoming Slaanesh's mortal avatar—did she survive Zhou Yun's relentless meltagun barrage; any ordinary clown without armor would have been reduced to ash.

The Chosen Avatar fared no better; his opponent was Robert Guilliman—a Primarch whose form vanished completely.

Even as the Laughing God's avatar, he could not withstand the sudden, crushing fist of Ultramar.

And Guilliman deliberately targeted his face, leaving him black-eyed and swollen.

The Chosen Avatar had had enough.

Yet the Unicorn's behavior grew stranger—each time struck by the meltagun, she involuntarily moaned in pleasure, as if savoring it.

Her expression grew increasingly deranged; the Chosen Avatar felt unease.

To counter Zhou Yun, Xiggy had specifically chosen this near-mad Unicorn.

The closer one drifted to madness, the closer one drew to Slaanesh—and the stronger one became. This Unicorn's power had already surpassed many Slaanesh Daemons.

But now, if this continued, the Unicorn's condition might not hold.

Why did it feel as if Slaanesh's gaze upon Macragge had grown so numerous?

At this moment, Sylandrie Veilwalker had reached the Webway gate—they must flee.

The Emperor's Sword, burning with the Eternal Flame, illuminated the dark corridor covered in bone, slashing down toward the retreating Chosen Avatar.

The Unicorn shrieked, her form twisting wildly in the dark—briefly matching Robert Guilliman's movements.

Two blades crossed, blocking Guilliman's strike before the Chosen Avatar.

But only that one strike.

Guilliman understood Zhou Yun's intent: if the Eldar were retreating, Sylandrie Veilwalker had escaped.

Then he could exert a little more effort.

The Unicorn cried out as her entire body ignited with the Emperor's Eternal Flame, a grotesque wound gushing blood across her chest.

No one saw when Guilliman struck the second time.

Not even the Laughing God's avatar saw it; even as he pondered what had happened, Guilliman's attack was already upon him.

The Chosen Avatar felt only a hurricane rushing toward him, then a steel fist crashing into his chest—his organs twisted, his body hurled backward, slamming into the bulkhead, shattering even the bone-covered walls.

"Destroy this entire freighter!!!" the Chosen Avatar roared through the pain.

This was their plan—if escape failed, they would destroy the freighter.

Even the God of Death and the Primarch would struggle to move in vacuum.

Then the Unicorn, the Bone-Singer, and the Chosen Avatar, all prepared for vacuum, could escape.

As if hearing the command, the bone tendrils woven through the ship's interior began to grow and reconfigure, surging from the walls like branching trees through the corridors.

"Yes! Exactly! Destroy the entire freighter—Puhh! What are you doing?!"

Before the Chosen Avatar finished speaking, bone tendrils suddenly pierced his body, pinning him rigidly to the bulkhead.

Not just him—the Unicorn suffered the same fate; bones stabbed into her flesh like traitors, each thrust drawing a moan of pleasure from her.

The Chosen Avatar stared, utterly bewildered.

He realized his communication with the Bone-Singer had severed—only the Bone-Singer's final, agonized scream remained.

"I just thought about something."

Zhou Yun, standing among the pile of bones, scratched his head and smiled at the Chosen Avatar.

"Don't you think bone is a kind of mechanical construct?"

"And if it's mechanical, doesn't it have power and a machine spirit?"

The Chosen Avatar stared blankly.

(End of Chapter)

(End of Chapter)