Chapter 437: The Nine-Headed Serpent and the Little Emperor

Right here.

Fadix's words were as cold as a lightless, endless night; both Ilto and the other two High Lords shuddered.

A cold blade emerged from the darkness, pressing against Ilto's throat, and against the throats of the other two High Lords.

"By decree signed by Robert Guilliman, Regent of the Empire and Imperial Marshal."

"When you commit undeniable acts of treason, you become targets for the Assassinorum."

Fadix pronounced Ilto's fate in a dull, rasping High Gothic.

The High Admiral and the Minister of the Fawu Force stared in stunned silence, utterly unprepared.

They trembled all over, gripped by terror.

Not because of the Calidus Temple assassins emerging from the dark, nor because of the blades at their throats,

but because they felt a pair of invisible hands—Robert Guilliman's hands—

always shadowing them, always looming around them,

all of them jumping within those hands, believing they resisted Robert Guilliman, yet never escaping his grasp,

until the hands closed, death near, and they realized every action had been controlled all along.

What a terrifying political monster, what an audacious move.

Their hearts shattered, faces ashen as the dead.

Yet Ilto, facing the dagger at his throat and the coming death, felt a strange release.

He calmed, his body no longer trembling from his neural and psychological afflictions, his voice growing steady.

"I lost."

He said calmly:

"But don't kill me yet—let me first recall the orders I gave the Minotaur Chapter."

"There's no need to cause more damage."

"No need," Fadix said calmly to Ilto. "Lord Guilliman has already used the Gate to visit the Minotaur Chapter. They have submitted."

Ilto looked at Fadix, his gaze nearly sorrowful.

"I never thought you'd betray me. I thought we shared the same values. I thought we were friends."

This was Ilto and Fadix's secret.

Long before the Primarchs returned, Ilto and Fadix had formed a private friendship.

They held identical values, both believing Imperial law was the Emperor's will, and the Emperor's will was perfect.

It was this that forged their mutual admiration, their understanding, their friendship.

Such a bond was rare among High Lords; Ilto had always cherished this hidden friendship.

He never imagined Fadix would betray him.

"I am indeed a conservative, Ilto."

Fadix's voice carried a trace of sorrow—he had truly been Ilto's friend:

"Like you, I take the Emperor's will as my standard, believing it flawless."

"But perfect reform does not exist; thus, reform within the Empire can never succeed."

"Then why?" Ilto's voice was bleak and low.

"Because this is not all. The Primarch's arrival has shaken Terra; men like you naturally resist."

"But your resistance is meaningless. You cannot defeat the Primarch. Perhaps in your youth you might have matched him—but Ilto, you are old. Your era is over."

"More importantly, even if you did not resist, Guilliman could never succeed. He may reform freely, but all his efforts are useless—destined to be crushed."

"For his enemy is not others, not the outside world—but the Empire itself: ancient, vast, heavy."

"Even the Primarch grows weary. Even the Primarch's will can be driven mad. The Empire will break him. Stagnation will prevail. Imperial law will naturally return."

"This is what the former Grand Master of the Assassinorum, Vagorich, taught us. This is why the Assassinorum remains in sacred silence. This is why I lean toward conservatism."

Fadix's tone was heavy with sorrow:

"This is the only truth, the only outcome. Neither opposition nor reform can overcome the Empire itself."

"In twenty years, perhaps thirty, Lord Guilliman's reforms will inevitably fail."

"Then why choose Guilliman's side?" Ilto leaned back in his chair, settling into a more comfortable posture.

"That Lord, Saint Sanguinius, convinced me. Resistance is for survival. If we do not resist, we die today—without even a grave."

Fadix whispered:

"It has nothing to do with whether we win or lose. The point is we cannot accept annihilation without resistance. Even if death is certain, we must still believe hope endures."

Ilto accepted Fadix's words without resistance, nodding gently with a smile.

The other two High Lords stared in shock, disbelief.

"You're mentally ill," said the High Admiral.

The Minister of the Fawu Force nodded: "You're twisted."

"Be silent," Ilto adjusted his posture and spoke to his two colleagues. "Enough. Let it end here."

"It's not so bad. We're all exhausted. We've shouldered burdens beyond our strength. It's time to rest."

Then Ilto looked at Fadix and nodded.

"Let me rest," Ilto said. "Thank you, Fadix."

"I have one final request: my assistant minister, my son Nethos, is innocent. Spare his life."

"He merely followed my orders."

Fadix's expression grew slightly strange. He did not answer Ilto, only raised a hand and waved lightly.

The Calidus Temple assassins swept their phase blades in smooth arcs, severing the throats of Ilto and the other two High Lords, taking their lives.

Fadix gazed sorrowfully at Ilto's corpse.

"Where has the proud, brilliant Ilto gone?"

"The office of High Lord is cruel. It twists us all into grotesque shapes."

Fadix sighed, leaning back in his chair.

"Report on the other targets."

A Vannus Temple agent, tasked with intelligence gathering and acting as a living search engine, approached Fadix.

The Vannus Temple assassin extended his wrist; glowing, floating windows appeared beside him.

"We have purged spies, traitors, cultists, and demons embedded in the Neiwu Force, the Fawu Force, and the Navy's high command."

"We uncovered three Changer Lords. Two were exiled by Qulissas Temple assassins; one was exiled by the Inquisition and Grey Knights."

"We also discovered a Great Keeper who had infiltrated Terra's nobility. The Keeper accused us of negligence for only now exiling him—he has since been exiled by Qulissas Temple assassins, aided by Iverson Temple assassins."

"Within the Neiwu Force, the Adeptus Astra's human-psyker-specialized clowns uncovered a famed demon-shifter under the Changer Lord's command. The shifter was exiled by the clowns after completing his handover."

"What of Nethos, the unknown spy embedded beside Ilto?" Fadix asked in a lowered voice.

Nethos was the highest-placed infiltrator in Terra's entire administrative system, and his true identity remained unknown.

"All assassins we sent have been killed by him. The clowns are pursuing him, trying to corner him."

Fadix's expression darkened sharply.

Nethos moved like a flexible venomous serpent, slithering through the palace.

Clowns and assassins darted like shadows around him.

But Nethos was not in a hurry. In his hand glowed a short blade, shimmering like snake scales—part of some greater weapon.

He flicked it lightly, movements swift, fluid, effortless.

A strange, piercing shriek echoed from beyond the real universe, like the chorus of a nine-headed serpent.

The blade in his hand flickered constantly, as if leaping between the material universe and other dimensions.

In an instant, the clowns and assassins surrounding Nethos screamed.

Their necks bore fatal wounds—no blood flowed, no torn flesh, no tearing marks. Instead, their flesh dissolved into strange oily smoke that drifted into the air.

He twisted his body, vanishing deeper into the streets, his entire form glowing with a deep blue radiance, flesh, face, and stature shifting continuously—as if he would become someone else any moment—

"A splendid trick," came a mocking voice suddenly before Nethos.

A clown, face painted thick with greasepaint, clad in the long robe of a clown troupe leader, flipped into view.

"The Exalted Avatar," Nethos recognized the being.

"I am Xigochi," the clown bowed lightly to Nethos.

He was the Exalted Avatar of the Clown Troupe, portraying the Laughing God Xigochi—the Laughing God walking among mortals.

Then, a colder, more lewd, more blasphemous power slowly surged from behind Nethos.

Another clown appeared, wearing a horned demon mask, her figure alluring and seductive.

"I am Slaanesh!" she sang in a dazzling coloratura.

She was the Horned One, the clown who impersonated Slaanesh, stealing her power to walk among mortals.

Nethos tightened his grip on the serpent-tooth blade, lowering his body slightly.

He believed he still had a chance to break free.

But then, a desolate, dead, annihilating presence surged forward.

A clown emerged from his left side, bare-chested, skin painted brown, long hair flowing, face styled like a Mesopotamian.

"Hooks for sale! Hooks for sale! Sir… will you buy a hook?"

(End of Chapter)