Chapter 383: Innately Evil Blue Cat

Intense light filled every corner of this golden hall.

The searing, blazing, thick radiance swept in, carrying the silent screams of hundreds of millions of psychics.

No,

not just psychics',

in an instant, Luo Bote Guilliman seemed to hear a million voices roaring, wailing, whispering, moaning, and weeping all at once beside his ears,

the voices were indistinct, each one utterly different, every utterance contradicting the others, tormenting and unbearable,

until the thunderous roar of the Eternal Gate closing snapped Guilliman back to himself, and he turned his gaze to what lay before him,

he saw the massive machine, as colossal as an Emperor-class Titan, surrounded by savage, crude, complex, chaotic machinery and cables,

Guilliman knew these cables and machines were merely the outermost layers of that terrible machine, products of ten thousand years of failed attempts to repair and sustain its operation—these were only the parts exposed above ground, like the tip of an iceberg above the water,

beneath the Throne Hall, the auxiliary components of that terrible machine likely extended tens of kilometers,

and above the Throne Hall, these cables and machines climbed endlessly up a colossal structure shaped like an Aztec pyramid,

searing light poured from the pyramid's peak, as if a cruel sacrifice were being offered to the Sun God, to the First Sun, to Tezcatlipoca, to the Smoking Mirror, to the Black Sun,

then, Guilliman saw the offering of this ritual,

a withered skeleton, a dead king, a spirit emperor,

a mummy, a mummy without eyes, staring at Luo Bote Guilliman,

for an instant Guilliman wondered whether the being seated on the throne had long since died,

"Emperor."

Guilliman could not help but speak, addressing the former master of humanity, the savior who once walked among men, the ghostly shadow of the Golden Man,

his voice heavy with profound sorrow, pain, and confusion, as if forcing out the word were unbearable:

"Father."

"We've come—what do you want us to do?!"

Luo Bote Guilliman stepped forward first, confronting the withered corpse upon the throne.

Then, Guilliman regretted it,

that withered corpse—that thing barely deserving the name of living being, or even of corpse—turned its gaze upon Guilliman,

in an instant Guilliman was certain: this thing was not the former Emperor, nor even the charred remnant left after the Emperor's burning,

"Son," it? he? or He? said to Guilliman.

"Number Thirteen." It continued.

"Master of the Ultramarines."

"Demon Prince of Doraemon."

"Regent of the Second Empire."

"Redemption."

"Destruction."

"Hope."

"Disappointment."

"Liar."

"Ambitious."

"Thief."

"Traitor."

"Guilliman."

Tens of thousands of contradictory voices roared in Guilliman's ears,

He praised Guilliman, He cursed Guilliman,

He glorified Guilliman, He humiliated Guilliman,

He commended Guilliman, He condemned Guilliman,

He was gentle as a father, He was majestic as a sovereign,

He was filled with emotion, He was cold and heartless.

"Son." "Not a son."

"Existence." "A tool."

"Name." "Not a name."

"A name, a tool, a product."

Guilliman was tormented by the agonizing emotions revealed in those words.

Compared to Luo Bote Guilliman, Saint Guilliman saw even more,

he saw the withered, gray, aimless corpse, the sacrificed remains,

but Saint Guilliman also saw, suspended above that corpse in the Warp, the cold, dead Black Sun,

this was a sacrifice lasting ten thousand years: the living offering known as the Emperor was given to Himself, to the Black Sun that reflected across the entire Warp, to the Sun like obsidian, mirroring death, oblivion, and the end of all things,

the wind of the Eternal Night blew from the inevitable future across Saint Guilliman's face, as if carving jagged wounds into his soul,

yet Saint Guilliman pressed forward, staring directly into the hollow eyes of the withered corpse.

"Son," he said.

"Number Nine," He said.

"Lord of Baal."

"Demon Prince of Doraemon."

"Emperor of the Second Empire."

"Perfection."

"Flaw."

"Archangel."

"Mutant."

"Death."

"Hope."

"Gold."

"Darkness."

"Saint Guilliman."

It said:

"Son."

"Tool."

"Chicken paste?"

Those contradictory, abstract, twisted voices—like a billion people singing in unison—pounded against Saint Guilliman's will,

he saw the Emperor's power, saw all sorrow, death, loss, failure, and pain, saw the potential equal to all Chaos Gods,

"You've been corrupted."

Saint Guilliman resisted the onslaught of that will and barely spoke:

"Emperor." "Father." "Withered corpse." "... ing of Darkness."

Through their connection, Zhou Yun perceived what Guilliman and Saint Guilliman had seen,

but Zhou Yun saw far more than both of them combined,

the withered corpse upon the throne was like an endless ocean, and the three of them were merely vessels,

Guilliman was a basin, Saint Guilliman a reservoir—they each glimpsed only fragments, like peering through a tube at a leopard, through a window at the sun, like blind men touching an elephant, seeing only a piece,

but Zhou Yun saw the entire ocean, saw the truth beneath the remains, saw those blasphemous, twisted things,

"Six arms, four legs, two divine emperors above," Zhou Yun cried out in shock.

The blasphemy of "Six arms, four legs, two divine emperors above" paled beside the abomination Zhou Yun now beheld,

the thing had a thousand arms, ten thousand hands, a hundred thousand mangled bodies, a hundred million skulls—as if the corpses of every dead person from ten thousand years ago had been piled together in the most grotesque, self-destructive, darkest manner possible,

they were all sacrifices—not only the Emperor was a sacrifice, all of them were,

from the distant past to the distant future, everything that could be called human or derived from humanity was,

the Emperor was the first to have his heart torn out and offered to the King of Darkness; his son was the second; his father, the third; his father's brother, the fourth,

the Emperor killed his own son with his own hands; his son then killed the Emperor with his own hands,

the Emperor's father was killed by his uncle; his uncle was then killed by the Emperor himself.

Then more, more, more—human corpses piled like mountains, stacked like stars,

all of them sacrificed,

yet like the Aztec pyramid's victims who longed to be sacrificed, these humans also yearned,

their corpses all reached upward, hands stretching toward the Black Sun at the summit,

reaching, wanting to deliver this Sun into the material universe,

that Sun was the Emperor, was humanity, was the corpse of the King of Ages, was the King of Darkness.

The hundreds of millions of corpses twisted in unison, their hollow eyes all fixed upon Zhou Yun,

the chorus of hundreds of millions of voices rang in Zhou Yun's ears,

A blue marten cat!

".?" Zhou Yun paused slightly, then roared back, "A yellow weasel!"

But the corpses seemed not to hear Zhou Yun's roar; more voices, more contradictory words spilled from different corpses' mouths.

Twenty-two!

Blue marten cat!

Stinking mouth!

Malicious art!

Primordial force!

Greedy dissolution!

Eternal Dragon!

Corrosive destruction!

Death god of humans and spirit folk!

Naturally evil blue childcare robot!

These noisy, chaotic voices poured relentlessly into Zhou Yun's ears, sharp and piercing, indistinguishable:

Zhou Yun!

Ryan Ruth!

Brother Zhou Yun!

Corrupting god who defiled Saint Guilliman and Kiriman!

Twenty-second century!

Demon trafficker!

Countless pieces of information surged from Zhou Yun's mind,

too much, too mixed, too convoluted, as if containing everything of billions of people,

the starving poor in the hive city, the peasants crushed under knightly iron hooves, the young women raped to death at noble banquets, the Emperor playing Four Loves with Erda, the Neizheng Force official who dropped dead at his post, the crewmen who perished with their warship, the Emperor who stole Orl Peisong's sheep

countless scenes echoed in Zhou Yun's mind,

Zhou Yun could not make sense of what the corpses were trying to express.

What do you want!

Zhou Yun roared back at the desiccated corpse on the Wang Zuo:

Yellow weasel! What the hell is going on with you now!

My ass itches!

Intercostal inflammation hurts!

Spinal disease is about to flare up!

Does sitting too long cause constipation?

Everything has failed!

Everything still has hope!

I really want to die.

I still want to live.

That fool Horus!

I forgive him!

Why must we suffer such torment?

Why didn't you look for your own reasons for the Great Crusade's failure?

If Chaos and aliens kill your whole family, still look for your own reasons, okay?

Divine Emperor! Save us!

Divine Emperor! We hate you.

Blue marten cat! Talk! Talk!

Get out! Get out! Get out of my throne hall!

Don't leave! Save us!

Deathlike screams filled Zhou Yun's ears, voices on the verge of collapse,

yet amid these voices, Zhou Yun heard a single middle-aged man's voice—tired, bearing a strange Central Asian accent, the only one speaking Chinese:

Talk! Talk! Talk!

Language! Blue marten cat! Language!

Tool! Tool! Swallow it!

Translate! Talk! I want to speak!

Speech device!

Speech device! Speech device! Speech device!

You! Eat!

Speech device! Urgent! Urgent! Urgent!

(End of Chapter)