Chapter 644

In the sub-space, waves surged endlessly, with countless machines roaring in unison, steam spurting, electric sparks flowing, and nuclear energy howling.

In the domain of vile arts, tidal waves rose and fell, and Zhou Yun’s figure fragmented into countless shimmering forms, occupying two-thirds of the domain of vile arts.

That two-thirds of the domain was Zhou Yun; Zhou Yun was two-thirds of the domain of vile arts—they were inseparable, indistinguishable.

The gods cast their gazes upon this.

Slaanesh emitted a lewd, hungry laugh; at this moment, Inade’s traces in sub-space had nearly vanished. If Zhou Yun took just two more steps—offering a sacrifice to the vile arts, swallowing Vashthor—he could achieve ascension, existing eternally at all times, utterly crushing the possibility of Inade, the Eldar Death God, ever being born.

The Father of Mercy smiled with joy; He understood better than Slaanesh what Zhou Yun sought. Eternal time had only just taken its first step; unchanging time had not yet begun to be born, but taking that first step was like planting a seed—always joyful and fulfilling.

Tzeentch quietly set down his dumbbell. “All of this was, of course, within my plan,” the Lord of Change cackled.

Khorne let out a furious roar; He had long grown weary of Tzeentch’s tedious schemes, which brought nothing but chaos. Zhou Yun’s path to godhood perfectly suited His heart—a bloody war was about to begin!

Boundless transformations churned in sub-space, and in the material universe, rebellion and coups erupted on ninety-nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine planets; countless lies were born, countless lies were exposed. This tide of change surged toward the Solar System, rushing toward Mars.

A tide of blood also surged; in the High Heaven, wars drenched in blood erupted, and in the material realm, eighty-eight thousand eight hundred eighty-eight planets erupted in war. These conflicts converged into a scar of crimson, tearing through the stars, rushing toward Mars.

Two divine sovereigns of sub-space unleashed their boundless divine power, determined to utterly destroy Zhou Yun’s physical body in the material universe.

Click. Click.

The sound of dust falling echoed from the Golden Throne; the Imperial Guard stationed nearby stared in disbelief at the mummified figure atop the throne.

The mummy slowly raised its withered hand, nearly devoid of flesh; a hallucination suddenly formed in the Guard’s eyes.

They saw the mummy on the throne growing flesh and blood, its skin no longer shriveled, a torrent of vital force exploding from its form.

Now seated upon the Golden Throne was no longer a withered corpse, but a sovereign clad in radiant golden power armor, with long black hair and a stern, brown-hued face.

In the sovereign’s eyes burned battle-lust, hope, and light; he gazed across the stars, his raised hand subtly pointing toward the infinite galaxy, as if preparing to launch a great crusade among the stars.

On the Macragge’s Glory, Guilliman, secretly compiling the Imperial Codex while Zhou Yun, Sanguinius, and Leman were absent, suddenly felt a stirring.

He looked up at the Emperor’s Sword beside him.

The blade, once wielded by the Emperor to crush countless alien empires across the stars, ignited and roared without any hand to guide it, slowly rising into the air as if gripped by an invisible force.

BOOM!!!!!

A sonic boom erupted; the sword shot forth at a speed Guilliman could not perceive, instantly tearing through the newly repaired wall of his office, rupturing the hull of the Macragge’s Glory, and vanishing into boundless void.

Guilliman stared, stunned, at the crack in his office wall leading directly into vacuum; air rushed out in a gale, perfectly catching the nearly completed Imperial Codex he had just written, sending it spiraling into the endless void.

Only then did Guilliman snap back to awareness, lunging for the helmet beside him and slamming it onto his head.

The Emperor’s Sword, tearing through reality, landed in the hands of the figure atop the throne—half-mummy, half-majestic sovereign—and pointed toward the boundless transformations and crimson scar surging toward the Solar System.

Countless billions of Emperor’s faithful knelt on the floors of churches across Terra, surrounded by boundless darkness, with only a single unlit candle standing before them.

With bowed heads, they chanted the same prayer in different voices.

“Worship the God-Emperor, protect our people.”

“Praise the God-Emperor, devote ourselves to our people.”

“Elevate the God-Emperor, enlighten our people.”

“Revere the God-Emperor, defend our people.”

“Glory to the God-Emperor, strengthen our people.”

“Honor the God-Emperor, watch over our people forever.”

“Hail the God-Emperor, rule over our people.”

“Cheer the God-Emperor, guide our people!”

“Bow to the God-Emperor, without Him, there is no I.”

“The God-Emperor is humanity; humanity is the God-Emperor. We gather, we yearn, we sing of the immortal God-Emperor, praise the King of endless ages.”

Their prayers merged into a tidal wave; the candle before them ignited without flame, emitting a faint orange-gold glow, barely illuminating the darkness around them.

Yet when these faint lights converged, they formed a golden tide of light, engulfing all of Terra.

Amid the flickering candles, a figure emerged—vaster than any star, standing above the Solar System, eyes blazing like stars.

“Immortal God-Emperor, we repeat your words; we tremble before your majesty; we march beneath your immortal divine form.”

A burning sword wider than a planet cleaved through the frozen void; the golden figure, wielding the Emperor’s Sword, slashed toward the boundless transformations and crimson scar surging toward Mars.

Reality shuddered, dimensions tore apart, all certainty dissolved; countless timelines overlapped across past, future, and present.

Golden flames consumed the boundless transformations and devoured the crimson scar.

In sub-space,

Tzeentch shrieked in agony; a wound searing with golden flame tore across his muscular body.

Khorne grunted; his brass armor was split open, and beneath it, blood began to seep faintly.

The Emperor remained silent, standing by a stream rippling with reeds and flowing with bronze-hued water, his eyes blazing with fiery flame.

Among the reeds beside Him, dark figures brimming with self-destructive despair screamed wildly, trying to drag the Emperor back to the altar of the Dark King.

Most of the emotions and souls that birthed the Dark King howled within them.

Some among them opposed Zhou Yun’s ascension—they were the part still clinging to hope, fearing that if Zhou Yun became a god of vile arts, the burden would crush the Emperor, forcing Him to ascend as the Dark King. Thus, they sought to stop the Emperor, hoping Zhou Yun would be slain by the gods.

Others were utterly despairing, wishing the Emperor to become the Dark King; they now mingled among the others, trying to push the Emperor toward that position at this very moment.

But for now, in these thirteen brief minutes, they could not succeed.

The Emperor unleashed the accumulated power of eons, suppressing the dark, cold, corrupted parts within Him, allowing Him to manifest His divine might for this fleeting moment, temporarily repelling Khorne and Tzeentch’s incursions.

For this, the Emperor sacrificed greatly.

Two shattered pawns took human form, their bodies wreathed in scorching crimson flame, standing before the reed marsh, blocking the dark shadows. Their names had long been forgotten—even the Emperor could no longer recall them—but now, with bodies on the verge of shattering, they defended Him.