Chapter 548: Three Years of Dorala Meng

Sheng Dorala Meng suddenly flung off the blanket covering him, leapt from the bed, and spun midair, floating above it.

He stretched out his round hand, seized the blanket, and wrapped it around himself, his form instantly undergoing a bizarre transformation.

Blue luminescence spilled over his body; shattered crystals, twisted lightning, and ever-shifting storms emerged from the glow, then the blanket he had pulled up transformed into a cloak and hood, draping over the formless, ever-changing mass.

Simultaneously, a burning golden shackle suddenly appeared around his neck, choking his throat, its chains stretching endlessly into the void, held by an unseen hand.

The Lord of Many Forms. The Emperor's Prisoner. The Pawn Number One. The Shapechanger. He manifested on the bed—perhaps his own true form—the human empire's two capitals, five star domains, a million worlds resting on his shoulders.

After all, almost no one knew what a Shapechanger was—not even himself anymore.

Sometimes he claimed he was merely an ordinary Dreadbeast; other times his power far surpassed that of the myriad Lords of Change.

Sometimes people speculated he was a manifestation of one of Tzeentch's powers; sometimes they believed he was a unique entity born naturally from Tzeentch's domain of Change.

He is the embodiment of deceit, concealment, and reckless interference; besides Tzeentch, he can assume any form, even deceiving and tricking other Dark Gods.

The Shapechanger is incomprehensible, unpredictable; he may be loyal, he may betray—he cares only for turning everything into a chaotic mess.

Had Tzeentch not remembered the Shapechanger's original form and kept it secret as a means of control, the Shapechanger would have no qualms about deceiving, tricking, betraying, and mocking Tzeentch himself.

Thus, in the Warp, while not exactly infamous, he is loathed by all—like Trazyn among the Necrons, the Deceiver among the Star Gods, the Emperor among the Warp.

The other three Gods, besides Tzeentch, all long to flay the Shapechanger alive for stealing Slaanesh's hair, stealing Father Nurgle's essence, and stuffing it beneath Khorne's buttocks.

But the Shapechanger's last prank backfired.

He had been lurking within Lenn Al Jiansen's mind, preparing to ambush the Lion, but he never expected that true cunning belonged to the Emperor—the Emperor hooked him with a single rod, captured him in his palm, and shackled him for temporary use.

The Shapechanger floated in midair, chuckling eerily, as if utterly unbound.

"Miss Rana, you've become ever more skilled at lying."

"Interested in betraying the Emperor and returning to work at our Crystal Labyrinth?"

Rana lowered her gaze slightly, picked up her needle and thread, and continued stitching the battle banner in her hands, her voice clear: "Everything I say is true. The Emperor and Sheng Dorala Meng taught us not to lie."

"You might as well say Tzeentch taught you not to lie!" the Shapechanger cackled.

This hermitage is indeed a lie—a baited trap to lure and kill those who seek to harm the sleeping Sheng Dorala Meng.

There are many such traps on Terra, layered one upon another.

Yet aside from catching one or two Khorne Daemon Princes each year, no major fish have been caught.

Slaanesh and Nurgle have established a degree of cooperation with Sheng Dorala Meng; they merely send occasional agents to probe his condition.

The Lord of Change will not fall for such a simple trap; the Shapechanger was specifically meant to lure Him, yet Tzeentch shows no concern for the Shapechanger's absence—as if he never noticed he vanished.

Only Khorne, relentless and tireless, keeps biting the hook—clearing out the Khorne cultists who have festered on Terra for millennia.

This is not because Khorne is foolish, but because since the Blood God accepted wounds as an essential part of war, his followers have increasingly favored trading wounds for wounds—even when they know it is a trap, they still seek to crush all with brute force.

But sadly, in Terra's pond, the bait is not just any ordinary lure—it's a Shapechanger-level bait, and every hook is wielded by a master of the craft.

Shadows subtly writhed, and a figure emerged from them—clad in black armor, wearing a raven helm, wielding a massive-caliber steel needle sniper rifle.

Nikan Sarokin, the Harbinger Raven.

"I pray your words are true," Sarokin said in a soft voice.

Rana tilted her head slightly, her expression faintly puzzled: "Lord Sarokin, Sheng Dorala Meng can bring you back from death—why doubt He cannot return to Himself while asleep?"

"Once, there was a man who saved many, yet could not save himself or his sons," Sarokin replied, still softly.

Rana said nothing. Sarokin's words could refer to the Emperor—or to the Raven King.

"Once, there was such a being who brought us hope, who led the Primarchs in our crusade."

"Once, there was such a being whose deeds were miraculous, yet he told us he was not a god."

"Once, there was such a being who planned to free humanity from Warp travel."

"Once, there was such a being who vanished suddenly halfway through the Great Crusade."

"Once, there was such a being whose disappearance was to secure a method that would save all, once and for all."

"Once, there was such a being who walked among us, yet ultimately fell silent."

"The same being entrusted one man with a research mission—for the future, that man was Belisarius Cawl."

Sarokin spoke slowly, gently:

"How can all this be so similar?"

"How can I, who once lived through these things, not feel fear?"

"I pity Cawl the Sage most—he bore this fate for ten thousand years, and now must fear bearing it again for another ten thousand."

"We have had too many hopes, and all of them vanished forever. I pray this time will not be the same."

"Do not fear—everything is within the plan," the Shapechanger chuckled, circling in midair.