Chapter 513: Come to My Pocket for a Chat

"What I intend to cut off is Angron's head." Kahn slowly raised the Bloodaxe in his hand, pointing it at Angron above the sky.

Over countless years, under the torment of the Nail of the Butcher, Kahn's heart held nothing but two things besides rage.

One hatred, and one love.

Hatred for the death of Angral the Tyrant, and love for the Primarch.

How could an Astartes not care for his gene-father?

Even though his gene-father had destroyed his legion—yet Kahn could not blame his Primarch for it, for he himself bore responsibility; driven by love for his Primarch, he had implanted the Nail of the Butcher into his own skull, into his brothers' minds, merely to understand his gene-father.

Ten thousand years, the Nail of the Butcher had tormented Kahn for ten thousand years.

Kahn finally understood.

Angron had long been dead—dead in the final battle of slaves against their masters, dead the moment the Emperor teleported him onto the ship, dead upon the crimson sands of Nuceria.

Since then, what existed in the world was merely a enslaved corpse, bound by the Nail of the Butcher, bound by the Emperor, bound by the Blood God.

So when the Blood God freed Kahn and demanded he sever the head of a Primarch,

Kahn made his choice.

Angron—he would challenge his gene-father.

If he died in this battle, it would be his due, an execution for the crimes he committed against his legion.

If he—by some fluke—won, then he could liberate his gene-father. What greater reason could there be to swing his axe?

Thus, Kahn raised his great axe, pointing it at the Blood God, issuing a challenge for Angron's head.

Of course, beyond these reasons, Kahn remembered the words spoken by Erebus at his death.

The Blood God, too, was one of those who murdered Angral the Tyrant.

The Blood God could not help but laugh.

He had not felt this way in so long.

He felt his blood surging, felt overwhelming exhilaration.

Perhaps, beneath all his schemes, calculations, and strategies, he had secretly hoped Kahn would make this very choice.

Kahn clearly knew that by doing this, he would lose the Blood God's blessing, and face Angron alone, blessed by the Blood God.

This was nearly tantamount to a direct challenge against the Blood God himself.

What could possibly stir the Blood God more?

But the Blood God grew slightly calmer.

The domain he had stolen from Tzeentch was now at work—the part concerning tactics and strategy.

Let Kahn and Angron fight.

If Kahn lost, the Blood God could reclaim his soul—neither gain nor loss.

If Kahn won, Angron's essence would fuse with Kahn's. This fusion would be far more fitting than any other Primarch's essence merging with Kahn's; though the Blood God lost Angron, he gained an unparalleled demonic Primarch—massive profit!

But the Blood God had just been deceived by the Emperor; he would not fall for the same trick twice in quick succession.

He distrusted the Emperor, distrusted the Master of Mankind—he saw Him as a deceiver no less cunning than Tzeentch.

Could Kahn's choice now be the Emperor's will? His design?

Once the Blood God released Angron, Laine, Kahn, and Daxiong would strike together, subdue Angron, and stuff him into Doraemon's pocket.

That would neither satisfy the Blood God's desires nor serve his interests.

As if sensing the Blood God's doubt, a door of pink-tinged red wood suddenly appeared from the bridge of the Blessed Lady, slamming open with a bang.

Zhou Yun stepped out, his belly bearing a half-moon-shaped white pouch.

Zhou Yun stepped out, but his gaze did not fix on the Blood God, who stared at him intently, nor on Kahn, but on Laine—half-lidded, grim, and brimming with lethal intent.

Why had Laine kept his eyes half-closed, wearing such a face—thoughtful, threatening, murderous?

Because he was truly exhausted.

A strange drowsiness relentlessly invaded Laine's superhuman mind, urging him back to sleep—the shadowed forest flickered before his half-closed eyes, calling to him, waiting for him, already beginning to seep into reality to claim him.

Leaves sprouted from Laine's scalp, mud clung to his feet, and the distant roar of a beast murmured in his ears.

Yet Laine still sharply sensed Zhou Yun's gaze.

That gaze—contained something like hunger?

As if Zhou Yun meant to devour him.

Laine instantly grew wary, tightening his grip on the Sword of Loyalty, forcing back his drowsiness as he watched Zhou Yun with caution.

His superhuman mind raced, synthesizing all known information, concluding this man was no ordinary mortal.

He was likely—the new god incarnate, as Lu Se had mentioned.

Lu Se had also said he had corrupted two Primarchs. Who could they be?

Sanguinius was dead, Guilliman was as good as dead—they were impossible.

Russ should not be compromised, and Dorn was as foul as stone.

In a short time, Laine could not think of an answer.

As long as it wasn't Guilliman—if Guilliman had fallen, it would be far too dangerous.

During the Second Empire, Laine had witnessed Guilliman's prowess.

Zhou Yun sensed Laine's murderous gaze.

That gaze was so terrifying it made Zhou Yun momentarily feel his head would be punched clean off.

This was only thanks to the softening effect of time on Laine's face.

When Zhou Yun was in Asford, he often roamed about wearing Laine's youthful face.

No other reason—it was simply useful. That face could scare mortals, traitors, and xenos to death with just a glance.

"Big Brother—no, young friend Laine."

Zhou Yun smiled and shook his belly pouch.

"I see you are grievously wounded, on the brink of eternal slumber. I fear you may suffer misfortune within that sleep."

"Why not come into my pouch for a brief chat? Let us forge a bond of fate?"

Though Guilliman and Sanguinius had deemed Laine's return a bad thing, Zhou Yun had now seen this Big Brother's true power.

Lu Se, though second only to a Primarch in strength, had been swiftly slain by Laine—still wounded and aged—once deprived of Bilar's teleportation ability.

With the bacterium that awakens the slumbering for one hour daily, having Laine rest in his pouch and awakening him when needed would be quite useful.

Think about it—the Emperor himself used Laine this way: when needed, he was a blade; when not needed—what, the Warmaster? That was for my firstborn son, Horus.

In response to Zhou Yun's proposal, Laine's expression grew even more wary, even raising his sword to point at Zhou Yun.

(Next chapter may be delayed—I was exhausted yesterday, slept fourteen to fifteen hours upon returning home, like being knocked out with a club.)

(End of chapter)