Chapter 349: All is Dust, Only Dust Remains

Ahriman stared in utter confusion at the grand translocation ritual he had performed with ten thousand and eighty sacrifices and nine stars.

It made no sense—completely nonsensical.

The moment Zhou Yun, Sanguinius, and Guilliman appeared, Ahriman had immediately activated his ritual, engulfing seven Imperial forces and the Webway they occupied.

Logically, they should have been instantly transported to the Dream Hell, falling straight into the killing trap he had prepared.

But nothing happened. A dry, grinding, rusted-gear-like stagnation surged from the seven Imperial forces and each of their three commanders, corroding Ahriman's ritual and making its operation agonizingly difficult.

If that were all, it might have been bearable—but the ritual itself was now failing.

At the seventh second of activation, seven of the nine stars suddenly dimmed; the entire ritual became paralyzed, as if stuck in viscous pus, as if a man's body had been infected and weakened by a plague.

Then the entire ritual collapsed. The warp energies summoned by the ritual began to roar back, devouring the ritual itself. The brilliant colors on the seven dimmed stars faded, turning instead into a sickly, leaf-dead hue of yellow-green. The solar flares erupting from their surfaces became choked with unbearable toxins.

The souls bound to the stars emitted dry coughs, writhing like pale, dying worms across the stellar surfaces.

Ahriman hastily hurled the seven stars—hard-won from the material universe and painstakingly inscribed with blasphemous runes—into the tides of the warp, lest they destroy his Sons of the Lament and the Dream Hell he had so painstakingly seized.

It's utterly nonsensical! Utterly nonsensical!

This isn't sorcery at all!

Sorcery is gone!

Ahriman glared at the seven stars plunging into the warp, his face twisted with fury.

The stagnation affecting the entire ritual—undoubtedly, it was the power of Nurgle's realm.

Yet the manner of it didn't resemble the Plague God himself.

Ahriman paused, recalling the Imperial army's bizarre, numerological arrangement of forces.

The only one in this world who used numerology was Mortarion, that fool who deceived himself.

It must have been Mortarion!

How vile is Mortarion! He's tangled himself again with the Empire!

Ahriman gritted his teeth.

Ten thousand years ago, Mortarion allied himself with Horus, who wasn't even alive.

Ten thousand years later, Mortarion has tangled himself again with the Empire, a corpse-like thing.

Is that damned barbarian from Barbarus a necrophile?!

In the Garden of Nurgle, Mortarion twitched his nose slightly; he felt a sudden urge to sneeze.

But he paid it no mind—Father's blessings flowed constantly within him; countless diseases bred in his body; sneezing was normal.

Hm?

Mortarion suddenly frowned. Had he forgotten something?

Had something happened in the material universe?

Oh—Guilliman and Sanguinius had been resurrected and were on their way to Terra to meet the False Emperor?

Mortarion then remembered he had once intended to intercept them.

But now he had no interest in taking time to stop them.

Ten thousand years ago, Mortarion had held no particular hatred for Roboute Guilliman or Sanguinius.

Guilliman was ambitious, a noble, a slave-owner, an oppressor—but even among oppressors, he had a conscience, and he had not been warped by the warp into a monster.

Sanguinius's flaw was sentimentality, clearly because Bal's natural environment was too generous; perhaps a few years on Barbarus might have cured him.

If they wished to remain slaves to the False Emperor, let them walk that path to its end.

He now had a truly important task to pursue—one far more significant than humiliating two brothers who had become slaves to the Number Twenty-Two, destroying a corpse-like dying Empire, or oppressing mortals.

He was teaching Father Nurgle numerology.

A pure, rigorous, rational science!

He was liberating the thoughts bound by superstition in the warp—starting with a god.

It was a great endeavor, filling Mortarion with a long-forgotten sense of honor and fulfillment.

Especially when Father respectfully called him Professor Mortarion, Master Mortarion.

The last time he had felt such honor and fulfillment was when he fought to liberate Barbarus.

If the Khan returned, Mortarion might temporarily set aside this work to humiliate him.

But now, Mortarion shook the twenty-sided die inside his shell.

Hmm. Nine, fifteen, twenty-two. The Primarch of the Fifteenth Legion, the Thousand Sons—Magnus—was blocking the Number Twenty-Two, Guilliman, and Sanguinius from reaching Terra?

Then Mortarion had even less desire to intercept them. His two least favorite brothers were Magnus and the Khan.

After setting down the shell, Mortarion turned his gaze back to the rotting scroll before him.

It was time to prepare the lesson plan for the next class.

In the Dream Hell, Ahriman clenched his staff, staring at the two remaining blazing stars before him.

He had severed the ritual in time, casting the seven stars corrupted by Nurgle's power into the warp, preventing these last two from being tainted.

Otherwise, all the centuries of accumulation by the Sons of the Lament would have been wasted.

"My lord," Astartes leaned close to Ahriman and whispered, "They've reached the second relay point. According to our prophecy, they need only use that gate two more times to reach Terra directly."

Ahriman gasped heavily, trembling all over.

If this was true, the only force left to stop them was Magnus, stationed near the Webway.

But how could Magnus, alone, oppose two Primarchs and a god?

Even if Sanguinius still bore wounds from ten thousand years ago, even if Roboute Guilliman knew nothing of warp power, even if the god now dwelled within a mortal vessel,

Magnus—even the incomplete Magnus—could not defeat them.

Ahriman glanced at the nine sorcerers beside him, then at the Red Letter warriors who followed them.

These warriors stood like puppets; their armor contained no flesh, only ash and bound, unconscious souls.

All because of his error, his failure, his sins.

But he could still undo it all—seize the power of the Death God, reverse life and death—and this was his only chance.

After this, Ahriman would never again gain Magnus's or the Changer's aid.

Ahriman stared at the hollow armors, trying to identify the souls bound within them, to recognize his brothers from ten thousand years ago.

But the more he tried, the more pain he felt.

"All is dust."

!

Ahriman whispered softly, then slowly placed his hand upon his horned helm:

"What wise words. What prophetic words."

The nine sorcerers recoiled a step in fear.

They felt only how Ahriman was multiplying, swelling, twisting, expanding—like the Thousand Sons in their flesh mutations of old.

But Ahriman was not growing flesh—he was growing something deeper, stranger, closer to the High Ones of the Apex.

His flesh blazed fiercely, radiating a sapphire glow that turned all around him into glass.

The souls of the Red Letter warriors beside him surged and pooled, gathering around Ahriman.

He removed his helm. The nine sorcerers let out a terrified gasp, daring not to look at Ahriman's face—if indeed he still possessed anything worthy of being called a face.

The screaming void gazed at the two blazing stars before it.

Itself, too, was a cold, profound star, devouring all light and heat, leaving only darkness and cold.

Gggggg

A sharp bird cry echoed through the void—the Changer laughed.

He had never enslaved Ahriman; he had even considered granting Ahriman the freedom of his soul.

For he knew Ahriman would inevitably take this step.

From the deaths of Ahriman's own brothers, to the Burning of Prospero, from the First Red Letter to the Second Red Letter, from the Horus Heresy to the Forty-First Millennium,

Ahriman had always acted exactly as the Changer foresaw, sinking deeper and deeper into the warp, bit by bit.

Now, he had chosen a path from which there could be no return.

"All was planned."

The Changer whispered—and this time, he meant it.

In the Webway, Zhou Yun swiftly opened the Gate of Anywhere, passing through to the second relay point.

As the Oracle of Right and Wrong had predicted, according to Roboute Guilliman's plan, they had encountered no attack at the first relay point.

That was precisely the ideal location for Magnus and Ahriman to strike.

Or perhaps there had been an attack—but somehow, in a way they did not understand, it had been stopped?

Zhou Yun could not judge; Guilliman knew nothing; Sanguinius seemed to sense something, but now there was no time to discuss it.

After passing through the third relay point, Zhou Yun would reach the Webway gate leading to the Moon, then proceed directly to Terra.

Zhou Yun swiftly reached out and opened the gate again, heading toward the planned third relay point.

Guilliman and Sanguinius followed close behind.

Then—

Fire and heat erupted from the other side of the Gate of Anywhere.

"All is dust, only dust remains."

"Dust and void—I know not what I am."

(End of Chapter)