Chapter 396: Only the Uniqueness of Goodness, the Goodness Not Obvious

The Crimson Angel is a title belonging to the Primarch of the World Eater, though it suits him poorly; yet the Lord of Red Sand is indeed known to all as the Crimson Angel.

But seeking guidance from Angron, using Angron himself as the tool to reveal the future—isn't that too abstract?

Angron is now in a state of left-brain attacking right-brain, where the Butcher's Nails have replaced thought; he can barely speak coherently—seeking guidance from him is no different from seeking it from an Ogryn.

"My prophecies never fail; they will come to pass, though I am uncertain in what form they shall manifest."

"Just as I foresaw the Great Betrayal would come, yet could not determine which Primarchs would turn."

The brown-haired boy spoke softly.

"Perhaps Angron still retains some vestige of wisdom."

"Perhaps you can heal the Butcher's Nails and restore Angron to the form I originally hoped for."

"Perhaps you must return to the past via a time machine, or use a TARDIS to reach a world where Angron's mind is whole."

"Perhaps some artifact obtained by selling Angron could guide us to the right path."

"Or perhaps, in searching for Angron, we shall find our own reward."

Isn't that the same as saying nothing at all? Zhou Yun couldn't help but frown.

Yet finding Angron is indeed far simpler.

Khorne's attitude toward Angron differs utterly from the other three gods' attitudes toward their own Daemon Primarchs.

Tzeentch sees Magnus as a useful tool; in truth, Tzeentch sees everyone as tools.

Slaanesh sees Fulgrim as a favorite concubine and a favored courtier to please himself.

Nurgle sees Mortarion as family, a child in a bad mood.

And Khorne—Khorne treats Angron like a giant bomb.

Since the Great Rift opened, Angron has frequently appeared in the material universe; each time he is banished, he resurrects eight days, eight nights, and eight hours later, re-entering the material realm to rampage again, repeating this cycle endlessly.

Compared to the other three Primarchs who remain holed up in the Wizard Star, Nurgle's Garden, and Slaanesh's bedchamber, Angron is no different from a rabid dog kicked out of Khorne's door and biting wildly.

Finding Angron is not difficult; the question is, what should one do once he is found?

Heal Angron? Pull the nails from his skull?

But what meaning would that hold? Even if removed, Angron would remain a Daemon Prince of Khorne.

Zhou Yun had no clear direction yet; he planned to discuss it further with Sanguinius and Roboute Guilliman later.

"Can you foresee anything more? What should I do once I find Angron?"

"Or any other details?"

Zhou Yun lifted his eyes and asked the brown-haired boy.

The brown-haired boy responded with silence, then began shuffling the cards in his hands again.

One by one, the cards fell onto the table as he shuffled them.

Only after four cards had landed did he stop, fixing his gaze upon them.

The first card showed a man kneeling before an altar, his body covered in whip marks, his face filled with guilt, as if offering devout repentance.

"The Penitent—he repents for his sins, yet through repentance itself, he walks a path of further error."

The brown-haired boy spoke softly, then turned over the second card.

The second card depicted a figure shrouded in shadow, his face twisted with envy, staring with jealous eyes at those blessed by fortune.

"The Envious—he cannot enjoy greater blessings, cannot attain higher status, and so envies those who progress."

Then the third card was turned over by the brown-haired boy.

It showed a man wearing a false smile, outwardly courteous, yet his eyes brimmed with the most primal and pure malice.

"The Primordial Evil—none is more wicked than he; his very existence serves to embody the utter chaos and malice of the Original Destroyers."

Finally, the fourth card was turned over in the brown-haired boy's hand.

On it stood a man drenched in blood, his eyes filled with bone-deep hatred, embracing the corpse of a friend.

"The Avenger—his heart and blood flow with unyielding hatred; if he may avenge himself, he willingly forsakes all else."

Four cards, four types of men, laid before Zhou Yun, who frowned slightly.

"Fate is unclear; many things I can no longer see."

The brown-haired boy spread his hands, pointing to the four cards on the table.

"But in the near future, these four shall be nodes of destiny."

"Then who do you think they are?" Zhou Yun asked, staring at the four cards.

"The other three—I am uncertain."

"The Penitent—there are too many sinners in this galaxy; many commit greater sins under the guise of atonement."

"The Envious—nearly every follower of Slaanesh fits this trait; even among Daemon Princes, jealousy is common."

"The Avenger—who in this galaxy does not harbor hatred? Whose hands are not stained with blood-debt?"

"But the Primordial Evil…" The brown-haired boy shrugged, as if the identity of the Primordial Evil were self-evident.

"None is more wicked—he doesn't need to tell me; I already know who it is," Zhou Yun muttered, his lip twitching.

The Black Blade Ritual Dagger, reforged from the shattered relic that slew Horus, pierced the corpse of the final man.

Blood writhed and dripped downward; a million lives had slipped through his hands, sacrificed within his ritual.

The crimson sky twisted endlessly; four radiant hues—red, blue, purple, green—wove through the swirling black mists above, forming eerie symbols that enveloped the entire planet.

The souls of a million lives shrieked in agony; a million human bodies burned in the flames of Chaos.

Sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice.

The Word Bearers and Chaos mortal devotees shouted the words of sacrifice.

He withdrew the Black Blade Ritual Dagger from the corpse, watching the blood drip from its edge, murmuring blasphemous incantations.

He offered these sacrifices to the Dark Gods, to Chaos itself, and received Chaos's will and blessings in return.

How many hated him? How many cursed him? How many loathed him with every fiber of their being?

All because of what he had done? All because he was the originator of it all?

They cursed him—called him vile, fallen, traitorous, cowardly.

But he knew these were merely their prejudices.

He was not the true originator; he was merely a tool of those wills.

He was born blessed by those wills, born cursed by those wills.

He was not vile—he was merely uniquely good.

He was not fallen—he was simply born this way.

He never betrayed—he remained loyal only to Chaos.

He was never cowardly; every act of survival served only to better serve Chaos.

Some called him a dog, a dog of the Four Gods.

But they were wrong—he never served any single god.

As for Lorgar, he scorned him utterly.

His loyalty belonged only to Chaos—to the very essence of the Warp's endless madness.

His goal was to spread Chaos's will and power further, to let the Warp utterly crush reality.

If someone asked him why he was so loyal to Chaos, why he served it with such frenzy,

He could only answer: because he was thoroughly, utterly evil.

He craved pleasure, he seized by force, he brimmed with malice, he embraced his fall, he praised violence—just as Chaos itself grew ever more chaotic within the minds of all beings.

Yet the material universe imposes limits; his malice was constrained by matter, unable to flow freely.

Only the Warp, only Chaos, only there was malice real—in Chaos, will was everything, will was all.

Only Chaos could crush reality utterly, allowing his endless malice to be fully unleashed, completely free.

He was perfectly aligned with Chaos—he was the Child of Chaos.

From Chaos's perspective, he was a good man—only his goodness was not obvious.

Some strive relentlessly for good, seeking to forge a rational, luminous world, and thus seek to sever Chaos.

He strives relentlessly for evil, seeking to forge a world filled with malice and chaos, and thus worships Chaos—simple as that, no other reason.

No fall, no complex psychological shift—he was born this way.

In this sense, he was the destined enemy of the Master of Mankind.

The thought surfaced, and he could not help but feel a flicker of pride.

What thrilled him further was the emergence of a new great being within Chaos.

Doraemon—the magnificent metallic-blue, cat-like entity.

How magnificent he was—he occupied three of the eight points of the Chaos Star, a candidate for three positions.

If this being could ascend, or even merely stall at the final threshold of ascension, Chaos's power would surge dramatically.

The only thing that angered him was that this exalted being had been corrupted by the Master of Mankind.

He kept saying, "I am not a god," denying his Warp nature, dwelling within a fragile mortal body, pretending to be human, and standing on the side of the material universe.

How vile—the Master of Mankind, the innately evil Master of Mankind, corrupted the great Doraemon.

Doraemon must be made to recognize his true nature; he must accept Chaos's chaos and madness.

Doraemon must abandon all reason; he must sever all ties to the material universe.

"Great Doraemon, my lord, I shall free you."

He murmured to himself, certain he would succeed.

Not only because he had gained two allies, but because of himself—

He had once completed the magnificent work of the Horus Heresy—how could he not complete the ascension of Doraemon?

After all, he was the Child of Chaos, the Hand of Fate, the great Airebas.

(End of Chapter)