Chapter 492: The Lord of Night is Despondent

The Night King's skin cloak rolled up shadows to shield himself and Titus from the sandstorm and the blazing sun, hiding them from the Blood God's gaze.

The pale, ghostly man's eyes burned with madness as he lowered his head, fixating fiercely on Titus.

Intense malice, cruel indifference, disillusionment with humanity, and an extreme yearning for justice—fragmented emotions flooded Titus's mind; countless terrifying pasts, presents, and futures unfolded before his eyes.

Had there been even a fraction of fear in his heart, those scenes would have driven him mad.

Had he committed even the slightest sin, those lightning claws would have severed his head.

But Titus felt no fear, and bore no guilt.

He met the eyes of this mad Primarch, staring into his pale irises.

In an instant, Titus perceived the Night King's thoughts.

From the moment Titus first saw him—the faint, blurred shadow he cast upon the material universe—the Night King had chosen him, marked him.

The Night King died; ten thousand years ago, he willingly accepted death, embraced punishment, submitted to execution.

Though his physical body perished, his warp essence did not.

Extreme, primal, instinctive longing for simple justice—that is he, the Night King.

The Night King instinctively craves to punish the guilty and proclaim justice, but he has lost his physical form.

He needs a new body, a representative, a host to bear a portion of his power.

He needs a man to become his chosen one.

That man must be without sin; only the innocent can endure the Night King's judgment.

That man must be without fear, uncrushed and unmadened by the terror the Night King brings.

Titus is a suitable choice; he can bear a small fraction of the Night King's power, becoming his chosen one, acting as his agent.

But the Night King does not seek Titus's worship, does not demand Titus obey his commands, does not require Titus's loyalty.

The Night King wants nothing; he wants only justice—he wants only for Titus to punish evil and execute the guilty on his behalf.

If Titus agrees, he may share the Night King's power, moving unseen through midnight, evading the Blood God's gaze, escaping this desert.

If Titus willingly accepts the Night King's power, becoming his elect, becoming the blade of justice.

Titus stared at the pale, mad midnight wraith before him.

He shall grant Titus midnight—henceforth, midnight shall be Titus's cloak; none shall catch him in the dark.

He shall grant Titus eyes—henceforth, the future shall rise before Titus's gaze; none shall escape his hunt.

He shall grant Titus terror—henceforth, terror shall be his name; the guilty shall tremble before him.

But if one day Titus cannot bear it all, the Night King shall give him only fear, madness, and self-destruction. Titus closed his eyes slightly; he was no fool, and he had heard from Saint Dora that the Night King now stood on their side.

He could accept the Night King's power, fulfill his mandate to punish evil—as long as he fought for the Emperor, for humanity.

As for the future the Night King had described, the fate.

"I fear nothing," Titus said to the Night King.

And so, profound midnight surged into Titus's body.

The Warp, deepest layer of the sixth ring, within Slaanesh's pleasure chamber.

Lewd voices echoed endlessly through the chamber; desperate pleas spilled from millions of mirrors.

This was Slaanesh's twisted Mirror Palace, where bizarre, opulent mirrors stood, reflecting and refracting one another.

Each mirror reflected a world unlike the last; each palace within was more splendid than the one before.

Whoever—mortal, daemon, or Astartes—gazed into one of these mirrors would see their own image reflected endlessly.

Each reflection grew more beautiful, more perfect, more flawless, until after countless iterations, the gazer became a trapped, ornate phantom, adorning Slaanesh's holy sanctum.

Yet now, a figure neither beautiful nor even remotely graceful—pale, ugly, hunched—walked through the Mirror Palace; not a single mirror among the millions reflected his form.

He was like a ghost, a phantom thing, something that could only approach infinitely yet never be seen or touched.

Not only the mirrors, but even the chamber's master, the Hunger Lord, could not see him.

For he was the collective yearning of all beings for absolute justice, and absolute justice lies behind the veil of ignorance—something one may only draw nearer to, yet never reach.

Even the gods cannot shed their biases or positions, cannot reach out to touch absolute justice, cannot see its form—so even the gods cannot pass beyond the veil of ignorance, cannot see him.

It was precisely this ability that allowed him to snatch from the Blood God's jaws the chosen one the Blood God craved, turning him into his own elect.

Yet this ability was not without flaw; when hidden behind the veil of ignorance, he could evade all sight—even that of the gods.

But when he stepped beyond the veil and acted, he became visible.

That was why he had lingered in Slaanesh's chamber, Chichiweidong.

The Night King gazed at his twisted brother.

Each time he gazed upon that monstrous, sin-laden form, the Night King marveled that the one right thing he had done ten thousand years ago was to never fully turn to the Chaos Gods.

Fulgrim lay curled upon a velvet bed, his serpent-like, slug-like tail coiled in a knot, drenched in sweat that still exuded the lingering scent of revelry.

The Hag's Blade—the weapon forged from the finger bone of an Eldar crone—was planted within his cloaca.

This weapon, already infused with the power of the Eldar Death God, was Slaanesh's bane, the enemy of ecstatic sensation; it needed no wielder, for the Hag's Blade itself attacked and burned Slaanesh's daemons.

Now, driven by Eldar hatred, the Hag's Blade labored fiercely against Slaanesh's daemons.

It trembled and vibrated, its blade searing hot, occasionally spitting arcs of lightning.

Fulgrim's massive body shuddered from the Hag's Blade's assault, savoring extreme sensory stimulation.

Konrad Curze watched this scene in silence.

The Night King claimed his foresight had shown him many things.

But he had never seen anything like this.

And more importantly—

The Hag's Blade is stuck in that position—how the hell is he supposed to steal it?!

(End of Chapter)