Chapter 638

Vashthor’s heart skipped a beat,

It’s over,

hearing Anarchie say this, he knew Anarchie had messed up again,

though Anarchie was one of the Four Great Deceivers of the Galaxy and the only one among them who could move freely and remain intact,

the core of Anarchie’s domain was not deception but change,

which meant that no matter how Anarchie and His demons claimed their plans were flawless, those plans inevitably contained surprises, because a flawless plan lacked change,

causing Anarchie and His demons to frequently collapse suddenly, encountering unexpected failures at critical moments, acting irrationally against their own interests, then declaring, “This was all part of the plan.”

Since Anarchie said this now, it meant He had not anticipated Zhou Yun’s attempt to ascend as the Lord of Malicious Arts, and had made no preparations for it,

and even after Vashthor mentioned this possibility, Anarchie showed clear hesitation, doubt, and uncertainty,

Anarchie half-believed what Vashthor said—yet even Vashthor himself dared not fully trust his own judgment.

After all, Zhou Yun’s motive and the necessity of such action were unclear; previously, Zhou Yun had clearly expressed aversion to becoming a god,

moreover, if Zhou Yun intended to ascend, why would the Emperor tolerate it? Doing so would clearly make it easier for the Emperor to become the Dark King—would the Emperor really bear the immense pressure of two divine thrones merely to allow the birth of a Machine God inclined toward humanity? Did He trust Zhou Yun that much?

And if the Emperor could not bear the pressure, the Dark King would emerge, and humanity would be destroyed—did Zhou Yun truly trust the Emperor to withstand such pressure?

As Vashthor, who had utterly discarded morality and relied solely on rational thought, he could not comprehend the actions of Zhou Yun and the Emperor; allowing Zhou Yun to ascend was clearly irrational and extremely risky—if either Zhou Yun or the Emperor proved unreliable, the outcome would be catastrophic.

Though filled with doubt, Vashthor and Anarchie still signed a supplementary agreement: if Zhou Yun began attempting to ascend, Anarchie would side with Vashthor and aid him.

But this was not enough,

Zhou Yun’s power was too great—so great that Vashthor felt a touch of despair,

Nurgal, Slaanesh, and the Emperor stood on Zhou Yun’s side; even though Nurgal and Slaanesh were slightly weaker among the gods, they still possessed the strength to oppose and block Khorne and Anarchie,

and the Emperor—even as Zhou Yun began his ascension, he would bear the pressure of the Malicious Arts domain and must expend considerable force to suppress his own urge to ascend—his remaining power was still sufficient to alter the battle’s outcome and ensure Anarchie and Khorne’s defeat.

Vashthor pondered for a moment, considering whether he could persuade another god to side with him—this would greatly improve his chances.

The Emperor? That was unlikely.

Slaanesh? Impossible—Slaanesh was surely eager for Zhou Yun’s ascension to crush the Eldar Death God Inard.

Nurgal, the Plague God, had no direct interest in Zhou Yun; he seemed to aid him only out of friendship.

This Plague God appeared to be the only one with any hope of being swayed,

Vashthor did not trust so-called friendship—vague, insubstantial friendship could never rival a concrete contract.

If he could ascend, he would pay almost any price.

Vashthor’s will detached a portion of itself and extended toward Nurgal’s Garden,

thirteen trees in the garden split open a winding path with thirteen bends; thirteen Nurgal spirits emerged from the garden’s corners and guided him to the entrance of Nurgal’s Black Manor,

before the pitch-black mansion, Nurgal sat beside a small table, beside which rested his freshly brewed broth; he ladled a bowl and placed it before the Eldar goddess Isha.

“Let me see! A stranger! I’ve never seen you in the Warp before!” Nurgal patted his belly, studying Vashthor with keen interest.

“I am Vashthor of the Soul Furnace, one of the contenders in the domain of Malicious Arts—you know me.” Vashthor sensed the sarcasm in Nurgal’s words but replied with a cold, steady voice.

“Yes, yes, I remember you. Many young beings think you’re as young as they are—they claim you were born from the faith of the Dark Mechanicum, from the brutal wars of the Great Crusade and the Great Heresy, from the War of the Iron Men, from the technological runaway of the Golden Age—but I remember you, Vashthor.”

“You are an ancient being—you were born when the War in Heaven raged, when the Old Ones were driven back into their galactic fortresses, when the war reached its most cruel, unrestrained peak.”

“You are of the same era as ‘us’—you are older than little Slaanesh—we are old comrades.”

Nurgal’s lips curled in a benevolent smile as he lowered his head to look at Vashthor:

“Your domain doesn’t align well with mine—you and your creations are cold, devoid of warmth, resistant to decay, unwilling to coexist with bacteria—but I have tolerated your existence, always willing to coexist with you.”

“I’ve invited you many times to visit my manor and share feelings with me, yet you wouldn’t even acknowledge this poor old comrade.”

“Until today, you’ve never visited me, never sought my aid—I don’t even recall when you last drank a bowl of my broth. So why have you come now?”

Vashthor glanced at Isha beside Nurgal—the goddess looked frail, gazing at him with hollow eyes.

“I wish to speak with you alone,” Vashthor said in a tone devoid of emotion.

“No—this lady has been a member of my garden for ten thousand years. She is sincere, reliable, gentle, compassionate, and willing to taste my broth—only two beings outside my domain are willing to do so—I cannot drive her away; that would insult a friend,” Nurgal bluntly refused.

Vashthor fell silent for five seconds, then his orange-red eyes flickered as if making a decision—he voiced his suspicions and demands.