Chapter 350: Alaric: He

The fiery blaze of stars raged through the Warp, their light dyed into twisted, grotesque colors by countless profane runes woven into sorcery.

Two stars crashed violently against the veil separating the Webway from the Warp; the ancient creation of the Old Ones let out a low, mournful groan.

The world between matter and the Warp began to tremble, and all that met the eye shattered into fragments.

Time destroys all; all shall return to dust—even the ancient, mighty Webway forged by the Old Ones.

The Sea of Souls roared, surging like white blood cells purging a foreign invader toward the Webway's cracks under the stars' crushing weight.

Waves of light, dimension, and pure energy surged, chaotic aether seeping into the woven lattice of light, widening the fissures carved by the stars.

That stretch of Webway shattered in an instant, dissolving into scattered specks of light swallowed by the Warp's torrent, leaving only a few barely intact shards floating in the Sea of Souls, slowly crumbling.

Alaric, his horned helm now back in place, panted as he stared at the scene; flickering, humanoid lights danced across his body, as if his physical form could no longer contain his essence.

He watched a shattered, pink-tinged wooden door drift apart in the void, knowing his deed had succeeded.

Since he could not teleport the two Primarchs and the God of Death into the Realm of Dream, he would teleport himself, the Nine Sorcerers, and the two profane stars directly to their side.

To achieve this terrifyingly powerful spell, Alaric had to step further into the Warp, drawing greater power from it into his body, nearly ascending into a Warp entity.

After all, Alaric had already offered sufficient sacrifices to the Warp.

Fortunately, at the final moment, Alaric restrained his existence, barely binding himself within his physical form, avoiding transformation into a Warp entity—else all would be irredeemable.

With the immense power gained, Alaric, emulating Magnus the Red, shattered this stretch of Webway using the two profane stars.

It was far easier than before—this stretch of Webway had no protection from the Emperor's psychic might.

The crushing pressure of the two stars directly ruptured the Webway's fundamental structure, allowing the Warp's torrent to flood in.

"My lord, even a Primarch should not survive such an assault," Astaroth said, still shaken as he gazed at the broken Webway.

If one could endure the impact of stars, the shattering of the Webway, and the Warp's tidal assault…

Alaric glanced at Astaroth—the Sorcerer-Lord of the Rogue Sons, born after the Great Crusade, a Traitor Legion's Librarian chosen by Alaric and given the name of a former pupil. He was born too late to have witnessed the Primarchs' might.

Even such an assault could not kill a Primarch—

BOOM!!!!

A sharp, tear-drop-shaped spear pierced the void, stabbing straight toward Alaric and Astaroth.

Alaric dodged instinctively through his precognition; Astaroth had no time to react.

The spear pierced his helm, shattered his skull, leaving only a corpse tumbling into the torrent of the Empyrean.

White wings trembled; Alaric swiftly maneuvered his hover-disc, unleashing psychic flames that propelled him backward.

But the wings moved faster than the Disc of the Changer of Ways—within a blink, the beautiful face beneath golden hair stood before Alaric.

After ten thousand years, Alaric saw again the flawless visage of Sanguinius, saw the sorrow in his eyes.

Sanguinius seemed to sigh softly, as if mourning Alaric's fate—but his spear did not pause.

What stunned Alaric was that Sanguinius had suffered not a single scratch from the assault.

Neither the searing stars nor the Warp's torrent had harmed him at all.

To withstand a Primarch's damage was one thing; to suffer no harm whatsoever was another. The surrounding Warp currents pulsed with Tzeentch's profane corruption—mere mortals who touched even the faintest trace would instantly mutate into grotesque monstrosities.

Even a Primarch should not be able to stand unscathed within such a tide.

But before Alaric could ponder further, Sanguinius's spear tip pressed against his brow.

Profane incantations rang out; Alaric and the eight sorcerers behind him channeled their psychic energy, forming a barrier.

The spearhead of the Spear of Vengeance glowed with searing psychic flame, like a fire Liuxing fallen to earth, colliding with the barrier raised by Alaric and the Eight Sorcerers.

Psychic energy howled through the void; Alaric let out a low, agonized psychic shriek, barely holding back the spearhead.

The Red Corsairs under Alaric's command raised their Hellfire guns and unleashed volleys of explosive shells wreathed in profane psychic fire at the Archangel.

The Archangel's wings trembled slightly, forming a shield that absorbed the barrage—only feathers fell away.

Such tactics could not harm the Archangel standing amid the Warp's tides—will is all in the Warp, and none present possessed will stronger than the perfect Primarch.

Alaric muttered a rapid, urgent incantation; the malice in his words made even the Warp itself shudder.

He forged a potent arcane focus upon his Black Staff; psychic chains roared from the entire Red Corsair network, converging upon the focus, disintegrating all matter around it into molecules.

But before Alaric could unleash the focus's power against Sanguinius, he suddenly felt the air around him grow unbearably hot.

He whirled around—and saw one of the two stars plummeting toward the Webway now hurtling directly toward him.

Alaric frantically redirected his psychic energy to counter the star's gravitational pull.

Then, in his psychic vision, he saw a human and an Eldar God of Death hovering in the void, a propeller spinning atop their head, a scrap of red cloth drifting past.

Alaric had assumed Sanguinius would avoid the incoming star—its heat, even for a Primarch, was perilous.

But Sanguinius showed no fear; his form blurred, instantly closing the distance to another Sorcerer-Lord behind Alaric. Alaric frantically summoned the combined psychic might of the nine sorcerers and the entire Red Corsair network, forming a barrier before Sanguinius's spear.

The psychic shockwave from the Spear of Vengeance nearly shattered Alaric's soul.

Yet he still chanted a few profane incantations; his arcane focus exploded violently, engulfing him, the eight Sorcerer-Lords, and the surrounding Red Corsairs in a surge of psychic energy.

In the space of a blink, their presence vanished from the Warp's raging tide.

Zhou Yun's eyes twitched slightly as he watched the two stars and the shattered portal drift through the Warp's torrent.

Such an extravagant assault—thankfully, he had already irradiated himself, Guilliman, and Sanguinius with the Adaptation Lamp.

Suddenly, a scorching psychic flame erupted—Alaric's Black Staff unleashed a spearhead blazing like a star, stabbing toward Zhou Yun's back.

But before the spear touched Zhou Yun, his precognition screamed a warning.

Alaric spun around; the psychic spearhead clashed against the Emperor's Sword, wreathed in the Emperor's psychic flame.

Yet Alaric's eyes still could not locate Guilliman—the man seemed to exist in Alaric's blind spot, detectable only through precognition.

Intense psychic flame surged toward Guilliman's position; Alaric rapidly retreated, aiming to reach the eight Thousand Sons Sorcerer-Lords and Red Corsairs who had also been teleported here.

But psychic blade-light, slicing through the Empyrean from all directions, struck him—its power and precision even earned Alaric's reluctant admiration.

Then came a crude, heavy, primitive psychic blow—like a caveman swinging a club—so poorly controlled it made Alaric nauseous. If this were one of his students, he would have smashed her skull with a textbook.

!

Mephiston and Leina, irradiated by the Adaptation Lamp, emerged from Zhou Yun's fourth-dimensional pocket, along with Fat Tiger the Daemon wielding a golf club.

Then came Laphen of the Blood Angels, Captain Fenner of the Crimson Angels, Sicarius of the Ultramarines, the Cursed Dreadnought Kassos of the Death Company, and the Shadow Seer Hylendre the Curtain-Walker.

Alaric watched more and more figures emerge from Zhou Yun's fourth-dimensional pocket, frozen in place—was he too reckless? Should he have waited for Magnus and Abaddon to arrive before acting?

But when the massive Glory Queen-class battleship, Glory of Macragge, also emerged from Zhou Yun's tiny pocket, Alaric finally snapped.

He had seen the Chaos Gods and near-divine entities display their power—but for a Glory Queen-class battleship to emerge from a belly? That was too abstract.

At that moment, amid the Warp's surging tides, Sanguinius fluttered his wings, staring at the void-ships now appearing.

Most prominent among them: a Tzeentchian pyramid-shaped vessel, and another ship unmistakably familiar to Sanguinius.

Once a sturdy, ancient iron anvil—the Glory Queen, Horus's bride, the home of the Night Lords—now stood before him, ugly, twisted, and monstrous.

The Soul of Vengeance tore through the void, standing beside Magnus's flagship, Vengeance of Tzeentch.

(End of Chapter)