Chapter 338: Lu Se Gives Magnus a Back Rub

Translucent sacred beetles crawled through the Flame Lord, while horned beasts and mortal servants cowered in the shadows, trembling as if these tiny insects were the true masters of the vessel.

Alemann's expression shifted uneasily; he sensed a familiar presence and gaze upon those sacred beetles.

It was he.

The emotion in Alemann's eyes was complex—grief, pain, revulsion, and guilt all intertwined.

He clenched his teeth and strode toward the command chamber of the Flame Lord.

Outside the command chamber, the Sons of the Wandering Warlock wizards knelt and trembled, their bodies pressed to the floor; faint traces of battle lingered on the ground, and crystallized ash drifted through the air, within which the wails of the dead could barely be heard.

Alemann scanned them quickly and confirmed that those kneeling were all veterans of the Thousand Sons Legion.

The Sons of the Wandering under Alemann's command were not entirely drawn from the Thousand Sons; many came from other warbands, traitor chapters, or apostate legions of the Librarius.

Among them were many young, restless souls who had previously attempted to seize knowledge and power from Alemann, challenging his authority.

Clearly, the most foolish among this group of ambitious ones had dared to challenge the authority of the intruder upon the Flame Lord—and had become sacrifices to his sorcery.

They did not understand who it was; this was not because they did not know its name, but because they could not possibly comprehend its nature.

But Alemann knew—and the veterans of the Thousand Sons knew too—exactly how terrifying the Crimson King truly was.

Ten thousand years ago, within the realm of the High Heaven, only a handful among his twenty-one brothers could match him.

And ten thousand years later, the former master of Prospero was likely far stronger, his mind brimming with even greater knowledge.

The vast majority of the Sons of the Wandering's warlocks were as feeble as children before him, their knowledge no more substantial than that of fools.

"My lord," the trembling Thousand Sons warlocks saw Alemann.

Alemann did not rebuke their cowardice; he merely nodded slightly to them and walked through their ranks toward the command chamber's door.

The exiled one drew a deep breath, as if bracing himself, then slowly pushed open the Door of Duat.

Vast, overwhelming psychic energy surged against Alemann's body—like a storm of gales and rain from another dimension, like the thunderous roar of primordial deities, like the scorching wind exhaled by the ancient Egyptian god of wind and air, capable of drying the world.

Alemann moved as if wading through thick sludge; he barely managed to take one step forward, into the command chamber.

The command chamber of the Flame Lord was twisted beyond recognition; all concepts of space—up, down, left, right, front, back—had been erased and warped, everything swirling like a kaleidoscope, countless crystals, lightning, and mirrors raging within.

The mortal servants and horned beasts who had failed to escape were trapped within the endlessly reflecting mirrors, appearing as ghostly afterimages.

For an instant, Alemann felt he was not standing in the command chamber of a vessel within the Webway, but had entered the deepest labyrinth of the Chaos Crystal Palace of the High Heaven.

All matter within the space seemed twisted by a powerful will into a pure psychic pocket dimension.

Alemann remained silent, stepping forward into this void where the flood of the High Heaven drifted.

Matter formed beneath his feet; the world stabilized around him; reality itself coalesced around his presence.

His will carved a path through this mad storm of psychic winds; the illusory visions receded from his sides like retreating tides.

Alemann saw the towering crimson figure he had not faced in countless ages.

Broken—still broken.

In the long years spent exploring the Warp, Alemann had learned to seek truth through will, not through the senses.

Especially since he knew well: the Crimson King before him, like his father, wore only a psychic illusion as his form—not his true self.

He immediately recognized that the being before him was as shattered and soulless as it had been ten thousand years ago.

And far colder now; the Crimson King's humanity seemed to have leaked out through the cracks in his soul, transforming him into something cold and heartless, indifferent to all things, reduced only to an insatiable hunger for knowledge and submission to the gods' grand game.

Alemann felt his own soul tearing apart; once, this wise king had loved his children so deeply, had been so full of humanity.

Now he was broken, cold, and controlled. Alemann saw it—the blue shadow, constantly shifting, twisting, convulsing, crawling atop the Crimson King's shattered soul.

The blue shadow emitted a shrill, mocking laugh, circling the Crimson King as if delighting in Alemann's rage.

"Lord of Change!" A low, furious roar tore from Alemann's throat.

Each of the Four Gods had their Chosen.

Khorne was Ka'Bandha, second-in-command of the World Eaters; Nurgle was Tiberius, First Company Captain of the Death Guard; Slaanesh was Lucius, a nameless mongrel from the Great Crusade.

And the Chosen of Tzeentch was Alemann himself.

But Alemann was unlike the other three Chosen—he did not remain loyal to his master.

Alemann despised, loathed, and even hated Tzeentch.

"Alemann, the one I banished." A flat, cold voice spoke.

Everything before Alemann gradually took form.

Wings of violet and deep blue fluttered faintly, swirling with arcane runes Alemann could not fully comprehend, wrapping around the mighty, mythic body of the crimson giant.

Beneath the demonic, grotesque horns, a single eye glowed with the corrupt radiance of the High Heaven, fixed upon what lay before it.

Amid the crimson tide, ninety-nine crystallized Adeptus Astartes psyker corpses floated, assembled into a bizarre divination device.

Alemann recognized among those bones members of his own Sons of the Wandering, even some from the old Thousand Sons Legion.

"I need your space," the Crimson King spoke in a cold tone, "and I need the materials you have gathered."

"Where is the one who once defied Leman Russ for his children? The one who, when offered a new legion by the Emperor of Mankind, chose us instead? The one who sacrificed an eye for his children?"

Alemann trembled, his voice cold and grim as he demanded:

"Magnus! Magnus!!"

The gene-seed Primarch of the Thousand Sons, Magnus, responded only with a cold glance.

"I summoned you, Alemann. I granted you pardon. I invited you to join me in attacking Fenris to avenge myself upon the Wolf."

Magnus's voice was low, like the whisper of a sage; each word he uttered became a translucent sacred beetle, fluttering through the air.

"Yet you ignored my invitation. You played cat-and-mouse with the Eldar rats within the Webway."

"I have found a chance to correct my mistake," Alemann answered, gripping his staff tightly.

"I am here to give you that chance."

Magnus let out a cold laugh.

"Everything you do is part of the Lord of Change's plan."

The vast psychic energy swirling around the Crimson King surged into the divination device forged from the ninety-nine Adeptus Astartes psyker corpses.

At the same time, Alemann felt a crushing pressure in his chest; his own psychic power surged uncontrollably toward the device.

"Your obsession, your pursuit, your search, your longing—all will serve as my compass to find the new being emerging from the Warp."

"The Warp is such: when will and obsession are strong enough, even the forms of gods may be glimpsed."

Under the combined psychic force of the Crimson King and Alemann, and fueled by Alemann's ten-thousand-year fixation, the flood of the High Heaven began to swirl around the ninety-nine crystallized corpses.

A strange, shifting radiance flared, reflecting a series of figures—shadows of past and present intertwined.

Alemann saw a group of Space Wolves sitting by a fire atop the snow-capped peaks of Macragge, roasting wild boar meat until the exterior charred black and the inside bled.

Beside them sat a blurred, indistinct figure.

Sometimes human, sometimes a blue lynx, constantly shifting, impossible to discern clearly.

Alemann saw the figure lift a flask of Fenrisian mead, sprinkle something into it, then drink it all down.

Instantly, the wolf pack erupted in cheers, applauding the figure's bold drink.

"Your obsession with that being has influenced the divination," Magnus said flatly,

"as has your hatred of the Wolves."

"This is a scene from the past—not what I seek—but still useful for reference."

As he spoke, Magnus's gaze remained fixed on the vision before him.

Alemann, having had part of his psychic power forcibly drained, clutched his chest and watched the scene in silence.

"Dorala! Your joke belongs in Russ's hall!"

"In return, let me tell you a Fenrisian myth!"

The wolves laughed heartily, as if thoroughly at ease with the indistinct figure:

"Ten thousand years ago, in the Dawn Age when the world was young, the shameless Dark God Horus ravaged the entire world."

"Horus mated with the ravenous Dragon Goddess Slaanesh, and gave birth to Gork and Mork."

"Gork and Mork ambushed Angron, raped him, and birthed countless Greenskins."

The wolves roared with laughter again.

The indistinct figure, Magnus, and Alemann fell into a deathly silence.

"Wild! Too wild!" The indistinct figure clapped enthusiastically. "I'll propose to Sanguinius and Guilliman that we replace the Ecclesiarchy's nine demons and nine Primarchs with the Fenrisian version of the Horus Heresy."

"But I have a question: how do your Fenrisian myths describe Magnus?"

"Oh, Magnus?"

The wolves, drunk and giggling, replied:

"Every Fenrisian child has heard the bard's tale of Magnus."

"His spine is weak. Russ always gives him a back rub."

(End of Chapter)