Chapter 357: I Love You, My Child

"Ariman! Don't save me! Do what you must!"

"What is going on here? Ariman! Where is our legion?"

"Why have the other brothers become mindless puppets? Do you know what's happening? Ariman?"

"Who did this! Who turned our brothers into this? Give back our legion!!!"

Ariman was nearly driven mad; his power armor was riddled with bullet holes and scorch marks, and nine of his hover-discs lay dead beneath his feet.

Around him, four resurrected Thousand Sons warriors stared blankly at their surroundings, frantically demanding answers from Ariman about what had occurred.

How had they ended up standing on a shattered Webway?

Why had the other brothers become puppets bound to their power armor by trapped souls?

And who exactly were they fighting now?

In the face of these questions, Ariman chose silence.

He was as mute as a stone, yet the words of these four resurrected warriors continued to hammer his soul, tearing it apart from within.

"Ready, Professor A?"

A mocking voice rang out from afar; Ariman glared with bloodshot eyes at the monstrous, vile bastard over there.

Zhou Yun grinned as he placed his hand on another Red Sorcerer captured by Fat Tiger Demon.

Zhou Yun had repeated this trick four times already.

He would seize a Red Sorcerer, resurrect him, then hurl him into the nearby Warp current, forcing Ariman to rush to save him,

then he'd unleash a barrage of fire at Ariman, while his Astartes troops simultaneously launched assaults on the positions held by the Eight Sorcerers and the Red Sorcerers.

He'd even carefully calculated the distance each resurrected Thousand Son was thrown—just far enough for Ariman to barely reach him.

Yet Ariman had no way to stop Zhou Yun; he couldn't even recall the Red Sorcerers,

because, after all, Zhou Yun was genuinely resurrecting the Red Sorcerers.

If he could save even one of his brothers, Ariman would willingly risk his own life.

But Ariman didn't know how much longer he could hold on.

He could only hope that Carlos, Magnus, or Abaddon would win their battle and come to his aid.

Suddenly, Ariman heard a sharp, cackling bird cry—he felt the power of the Changer of Ways surging across the battlefield.

"Throw him!!!"

Before Ariman could fully sense it, Zhou Yun's voice rang out again.

Fat Tiger Demon hurled the resurrected Thousand Son into the Warp current.

Ariman dashed out of his barrier.

"ROAR!!!"

Guilliman, standing on Carlos's body, let out a pained roar.

Just as Guilliman was about to sever Carlos's head,

the spell woven from eight incantations on Carlos suddenly surged in power—as if some higher force were manipulating fate on the battlefield.

More and more negative emotions surged from within Guilliman—not just those born from his resurrection,

but deeper, older sorrows, pains, regrets, and struggles accumulated over eons, all bursting forth from his core.

The rage and grief of Kost's burning pierced his ribs; the constraints, shame, and fear of the Second Empire rooted into his legs; the hatred, guilt, and anguish of failing to reach Terra bound his hands; the despair and sorrow of watching the Emperor burn upon the Golden Throne choked his throat; the terror, agony, and silence of being slain by Fulgrim numbed his mind.

The piercing bird cry circled Guilliman; the potent spell dragged forth every sorrow, pain, and fear from his entire life.

The spell itself seemed alive, digging out the single fear most capable of shattering Guilliman's mental defenses.

Guilliman's vision filled with a horrifying scene.

He saw an elderly woman with golden braids, dressed in Macragge robes, burning fiercely in death's flames; he saw Khorze's claws gripping her throat; he watched her slowly die.

It was the scene most capable of breaking Guilliman's mental barriers—unearthed by the Changer of Ways to utterly crush him.

"Mother..."

Guilliman struggled and roared in agony, yet his body felt utterly powerless. Carlos let out a sharp laugh, flinging Robert Guilliman off his chest—now the Primarch lay limp as a ragdoll on the ground.

The fate woven by the Changer of Ways was unstoppable; Guilliman's defeat was already sealed. The Chief Daemon of Tzeentch could not help but laugh arrogantly.

He raised the Staff of Tomorrow high; searing witchfire blazed fiercely.

"You dare!!!" roared a furious voice from nearby—Mephiston.

But the moment the Changer of Ways' power descended, it struck Mephiston too; the two versions of himself summoned by warped time-space dissolved instantly under the Changer's twisted fate.

And the three Greater Daemons of Change immediately surrounded Mephiston, holding him back for those few precious seconds.

Carlos raised his staff, unleashing a torrent of azure witchfire toward Robert Guilliman.

Guilliman felt his body weak and aching; those dark emotions clung to him like chains, pinning him motionless, even as his senses dissolved in agony—his vision filled only with sorrow and darkness.

He strained with all his might to raise his hand, to lift the blazing Sword of the Emperor—but his arm felt cold, stiff, as if dead.

Yet at that moment, a faint, gentle pair of hands rested upon Guilliman's arm.

Those hands were tiny compared to Guilliman's, their strength weaker than even a mortal auxiliary soldier of Ultramar.

Yet Guilliman felt a faint warmth surge through his arm.

The illusion, unearthed from Guilliman's soul by the Changer of Ways to destroy him, now stood before him.

The slender, aged woman gently lifted Guilliman's arm.

She knew she was not the woman he remembered; she had no true form—only a phantom, a shadow, a weapon forged from Guilliman's deepest fear.

Yet perhaps the woman in Guilliman's heart would have done this; perhaps the Changer's spell had a tiny flaw; or perhaps even in death, she had always protected Guilliman with her feeble strength—

the phantom moved, lifting Guilliman's arm gently.

The phantom seemed to speak to Guilliman; he did not hear the words, yet he felt their tenderness, understood their meaning.

"I love you, my child."

Then the phantom shattered, leaving behind only the faintest trace of strength.

Carlos screamed in fury, striking Guilliman's Sword of the Emperor from his grasp with the Staff of Tomorrow.

He had no idea how Guilliman still had even a sliver of strength left to raise the Sword and block Carlos's attack.

Tzeentch let out a furious bird cry—this was a minor deviation, unforeseen.

But it didn't matter; everything was still within plan.

Thanks to Khorne holding the Cursed One, Tzeentch had been able to pour his power onto the battlefield.

He strengthened Carlos's spells, weakened Mephiston, and reopened Sanguinius's wound—shifting the tide of battle.

!

But that was all he could do.

Even if Khorne and the Cursed One were locked in a stalemate, Nurgle had already proven his domain's strength; while Slaanesh had not yet moved, Tzeentch felt the serpent-like gaze of the Prince of Pleasure fixed upon him.

If Tzeentch dared unleash more power or attention onto the battlefield, Slaanesh and Nurgle would strike his realm without hesitation.

But it was enough. Fate was already impossible—

"Gaa?" Tzeentch stared blankly at the fate before him, watching it shift inexplicably and silently.

Mephiston broke through the blockade of the three Greater Daemons and lunged toward Carlos and Guilliman.

But the two Greater Daemons who had been guarding Carlos immediately charged forward, hurling a barrage of spells to intercept Mephiston.

They could only hold him for a few seconds—but those seconds were enough. Enough for Carlos to kill Guilliman.

Carlos knew, even without his prophetic sight, that victory was his.

Unless the enhanced spell suddenly weakened drastically—or halted entirely,

unless new hope, joy, or positive emotions surged within Guilliman's soul,

unless the power of all seven other Greater Daemons of Change suddenly collapsed—

Robert Guilliman would fall beneath his hands—

Carlos suddenly noticed one of the eight spells surrounding him had vanished—now only seven remained.

"ROAR!!!!"

A powerful, guttural roar echoed nearby—Leina tore off the head of a Greater Daemon of Change.

Her psychic power, amplified by high-efficiency pills and a portable pyramid, was overwhelming; to control it, she had sacrificed most of her cognitive ability.

She didn't even notice the crisis unfolding beside her—she fought the Greater Daemons purely on instinct.

The Greater Daemon whose head she ripped off instantly disintegrated, vanishing on the spot.

And the spell it sustained naturally dissolved.

Carlos stared in shock. Even with one gone, seven spells should still have been enough to suppress Guilliman.

Yet for some reason, as if the number seven itself held power, Carlos felt the entire spell become sluggish, clogged, and weakened.

Hss. He even felt a slight stomachache. Strange.

(End of Chapter)