Chapter 539: Vashtor and the Deceiver

Tuqucha Engine stood upon the Heart of Plague, silently observing the flow of fate through spacetime.

Spacetime was a delicate membrane, bearing reality upon its surface and reflecting the subspace beneath; fate was a fleeting ripple upon spacetime, these ripples converging into surging waves.

Yet in the current galaxy, the waves shaped by these ripples had become so complex and shifting that even the Tuqucha Engine, forged from the essence of Ancient Saint technology, could not discern many of them.

It saw a venomous serpent extend two heads—one fallen and evil, one noble and proud; the fallen one sought to drag the noble one down into indulgence and pleasure, while the noble one struggled desperately to break free, to transform back into a phoenix soaring high; the more proud he was, the less he wished to fall, yet pride itself was the very trigger of corruption.

It saw a killing machine raging in fury, as a shameless thief stole his warhammer and vanished into the galaxy.

It saw a trickster assembling fragments of another trickster, intending to deceive the cold, foolish King; the King, as he had been for millions of years, was deceived once more.

It saw the contact between subspace and reality severed by the roaring Black Stone—the realm of unlife, where there was no thought, no birth, no soul, no emotion.

It saw the puppets of the gods wailing, steel piercing their bodies, cursing the traitors, yet ultimately sealed within coffins dripping blood.

These ripples had not yet crystallized into waves, and it paid them little heed.

What it truly cared about was the fate of the Domain of All Machines.

The throne of the Domain of All Machines had long been forged and remained in the void realm accessible only to him.

It was the key crafted by the Ancient Saints to open the vault of the throne, the opener of the Domain of All Machines.

It waited for the one who would hold the key and open the door—this was its mission.

Yet many were eligible to open the door.

The Bloodsucker of the Stars, the Divine Sovereign of the Material Universe, was sealed; He had no right to wear the crown of subspace.

The Destroyer of the Galaxy, the Divine Sovereign of Mankind, sat enthroned; He had already crowned Himself with the crown of corruption and destruction.

The New Entity of the Deep Blue, a Divine Sovereign of unknown origin, hesitated; He refused to don the crown of All Machines.

These three either could not or would not attempt to come before the Tuqucha Engine.

Only one was pursuing the trail of the Tuqucha Engine and would soon appear before it.

Tuqucha Engine stood upon the Heart of Plague, slightly lifting its gaze toward subspace.

The torrent of subspace surged and roared, the steam and electrical hum of countless demon engines never ceasing.

Endless cables coiled, pipes interwoven, logic engines bellowed—a realm shaped by the imagination of every sentient being in the galaxy.

Whenever any race used its wisdom to polish a branch into a sharp weapon or hammer a rock from riverwater into a blade, it forged a link with that realm; every creation, every construction continuously twisted, influenced, and reshaped it.

The Soul Furnace, a domain within subspace belonging to no Chaos Sovereign, was the factory producing all vile creations, the iron hell enslaving demon craftsmen, the convergence point of twisted creativity.

The master of this domain resembled a swirling twilight, sparks of inspiration and flashes of creative lightning constantly flickering within, like neural signals flashing in the minds of sentient beings.

He was forever lost in contemplation, forever observing; he gazed upon countless moments in time—moments that had sequence in the material universe but coexisted simultaneously in his sight; his thoughts, will, and concepts hammered like sledgehammers against these moments, sparking flashes of inspiration.

Now, the Lord of the Soul Furnace turned his gaze toward Tuqucha Engine and the Heart of Plague.

He began aligning the gears of subspace with the gears of reality, adjusting his own frequency into a fixed form, then pouring his consciousness into that vessel, entering the material universe.

The vision of subspace shattered and dissolved before Tuqucha Engine, leaving only a single figure.

The figure spread metallic wings like blades, his body purple and gray, warped as if forged in a radioactive factory; one hand ended in a claw, the other gripped a warhammer; a pair of grotesque, crimson eyes fixed upon Tuqucha Engine.