Chapter 352: Abaddon

The Song of the Emperor seems nearly imperceptible, but in truth it is gathering strength.

Upon the nearly sealed metal tower, Latarth As Kellaprin, Master of the Astropathic Choir and one of the Twelve High Lords of Terra, gazed at the shattered sky.

This was an extremely dangerous act, for the Rift had already opened in the heavens; should the Inquisition discover it, they would likely attempt a secret, private, and unauthorized investigation to conceal it from Kellaprin.

Yet Kellaprin had grown somewhat accustomed to it—he had never been popular among his peers, and the current Inquisitorial representative, Lady Ils, had become positively courteous toward him.

After all, Kellaprin himself knew he was perpetually gloomy and often delivered untimely prophecies and news.

As an Astropath, he was bound to the Emperor's psychic essence; even the tiniest fraction of the Lord of Mankind's power far exceeded mortal flesh's capacity to bear, and the binding process permanently altered Kellaprin's optic nerves, rendering him nearly incapable of seeing the world with his own eyes.

But Kellaprin thus saw more—foul, cursed visions often came to him.

Yet the Emperor's power preserved the purity of his mind, allowing him to perceive countless truths without corruption.

It was he who, before Cadia was attacked, secretly urged Imperial Chancellor Tiruien to mobilize the Imperial Guard to reinforce Cadia—unfortunately, it ultimately failed.

Yet in these days since the Astronomican extinguished and the Day of Blindness descended, Kellaprin was astonished to find himself the most optimistic of all.

Perhaps because Kellaprin could clearly sense that the Song of the Emperor had not faded, but was instead gathering strength, awaiting its explosive climax.

And because his gaze could see hope igniting.

The Grey Knights' prophetic abilities were at work; they were advancing toward the Moon, and Kellaprin had persuaded Inquisitor Ils to suppress doubts regarding the Grey Knights' actions.

The Sisters of Battle were also moving; though Tiruien had suffered a heart attack from fright, under the assurances of Grand Abbess Mo Wen, Lady Ils, and Kellaprin, he still agreed to mobilize resources to prepare for the actions of the Imperial Guard, the Silent Sisters, and the Battle Sisters, concealing it from most of the High Lords.

Hmm, the Grand Master of the Assassinorum, Fadix, likely did not miss it—if he stood against hope, Kellaprin could only hope his aging body could still match him in combat.

"Stay away from me for now," Kellaprin murmured, lowering his head slightly toward the two Non-Psykers behind him.

The two Non-Psykers, gifted with anti-psychic abilities, bowed slightly to Kellaprin and exited the room.

Kellaprin's psychic power, now unimpeded, flooded the entire chamber, and instantly the entire metal tower began creaking and groaning.

Cracks appeared across his shriveled, emaciated frame, and immense psychic energy surged forth uncontrollably.

Kellaprin was among the most powerful mortal psykers on Terra; even the grotesque, non-human entities within the Inquisition were no match for him.

But as his age increased, his psychic power grew ever stronger, while his body grew ever weaker—until he could no longer contain his own psychic energy.

Should any mortal stand in the same room with him, they would be shattered by his psychic leakage within moments; thus, he could only ever carry two Non-Psykers with him to suppress his overflowing power.

Yet this was only a temporary fix; over time, Kellaprin's ever-growing psychic power would inevitably destroy him.

He often felt the day of his return to the Golden Throne drawing near.

In his blind eyes, the stars reflected—he saw through the light emitted by the Rift, and beheld the chaotic heavens.

Since the ancient Chaldeans invented astrology, humanity has believed the stars' movements were linked to fate; fate's threads, mediated by the stars, descended upon mortals' clavicles, guiding them along destiny's path.

But Kellaprin knew the stars were merely a medium—just as all divination, including the Emperor's Tarot, was merely a medium.

True wisdom resided within the Warp, within the will of the Lord of Mankind.

"The Crimson King has begun his actions; the Changer of Ways' schemes are eroding the remnants of the Old Ones' domains."

"The star of the Great Devourer trembles, nearly split in two; the seed of the Plague God is sprouting within his legions."

"Abaddon's fate this year is cursed by the Year Star!"

"The Seven Kill Star collides with the Sun? It is the Blood God—the Blood God has set his gaze upon Terra."

Abaddon stared at the colossal snail crouched before the bridge of the Revenant Soul; its body radiated blasphemous power from the Plague God.

Upon the snail's shell sat an unremarkable, emaciated, one-eyed Nurgle daemon, clutching a pair of garden shears, fixedly staring at Abaddon.

The air was deathly silent; the daemon possessing Kahn drew a quiet, hissing breath.

Yet Abaddon's eyes flickered with disdain.

The Nurgle daemon before him was clearly not a Great Unclean One, but merely an ordinary Nurgle daemon.

Before his injury, even Kurgan would not have frightened him; now that he was wounded, did the Plague God truly believe an ordinary Nurgle daemon could stop him?

He was wounded, his strength diminished—but he was still not to be mocked by some common Nurgle daemon.

"Sssss, I think I recall this old daemon—I've heard other daemons speak of him. What was his name again?" the daemon possessing Kahn mused aloud.

"Don't charge, brother, don't charge."

Abaddon snorted, ignored the daemon's warning, rose from his command throne, and drew his demonic blade, Drakonion.

The enemy had reached his very front—what reason did Abaddon have to retreat?

Scorching blasphemous psychic flames roared from Drakonion; the demon, born from humanity's first murder, awoke and let out a low, guttural roar.

Abaddon leapt high into the air and swung his blade toward the ordinary Nurgle daemon seated atop the snail's back.

The twisted faces upon the blade turned their gaze toward the point of his strike.

"Holy shit! The shea—" Drakonion cried out.

Before he could finish, the enormous garden shears struck Drakonion with astonishing precision.

The clash of metal rang endlessly, echoing throughout the Revenant Soul.

As if summoned by the sound, Abaddon felt the wound carved into him by Saint Guilliman's blade flare with agony—the portion of power belonging to Father Nurgle within him stirred awake, and a crushing wave of weakness swept over his entire body.

The shears came down hard; Abaddon felt a sharp pain in his arm—his power armor had been cleanly sheared apart by the rusted-looking shears, ceramite torn, his arm bleeding.

He roared and hastily retreated from the seemingly ordinary Nurgle daemon.

"I remember now—he's Senior Gardener Slimux, one of the oldest daemons in the Warp, the very first daemon created by the Father."

The daemon possessing Kahn suddenly recalled, speaking as if struck by revelation.

"Nearly everything in the Nurgle Garden was cultivated by him alone; he holds a unique status within the Plague God's domain. He is not a Great Unclean One simply because he predates the very concept of 'Great Unclean Ones'—his exclusive title is 'The Great Cultivator.'"

"But strange—it's rare for him to leave the Nurgle Garden. Why would the Father allow him to appear now?"

"It seems your new master has great influence, Kahn—let's surrender!"

Abaddon panted, clutching his shoulder wound, his face—split in two by Guilliman's blade—twisted into a grotesque snarl.

But before he could speak, the entire Revenant Soul shuddered violently.

The plague corpses, Nurgle daemons, and the tiniest fungi, bacteria, and viruses hidden in the ship's dark corners suddenly stirred, writhing; skull-roses, witch-thorn shrubs, layers of rotting meadows, and giant mouth-trees erupted from their bodies—plants born of the Nurgle Garden began ravaging every corner of the Revenant Soul.

As if seeds sown long ago by the wind had finally bloomed and fruited.

Around Slimux, everything trembled; the flora and fauna of the Nurgle Garden surged forth, as if the very space had been replaced by a fragment of the Nurgle Garden.

!

Far away, atop the pyramid of the Vengeance of Tizca, Saint Guilliman gazed at the distant Revenant Soul, watching its interior sprout monstrous trees and flowers of the Nurgle Garden, as if it had gone moldy.

Magnus sat upon an Egyptian-style chaise, reading an ancient tome.

He glanced toward Abaddon's direction.

"Senior Gardener Slimux? What price did your new master pay the Plague God to earn such powerful aid?"

"My new master claims it was all due to sincere emotional exchange," Saint Guilliman replied, a faint smile touching his lips. "If you could drink an entire pot of thick broth in one gulp, the Plague God would surely favor you too."

Magnus snorted, placing the ancient book on the table beside him; his crimson form rose slowly from the chaise, his magnificent wings unfurling, arcane runes floating upon them.

"Saint Guilliman, returning from death was never easy—why seek it again?"

Magnus spoke coldly.

"But it matters not—I shall prove, as the Changer of Ways foretold: I am the strongest Primarch."

"Huh? Pfft!" The Archangel burst into laughter.

(End of Chapter)