Chapter 645: This is my great demon, the Great Unfaithful One!

Zhou Yun’s will, scattered throughout the reality dimension and the warp, began to coalesce once more.

This was not difficult for him.

After all, Zhou Yun was not yet truly ascended—he was merely becoming a complete secondary warp deity, akin to Vashthor, the Eldar gods, or Mara, only occupying a far larger domain.

The faith flowing into His will was not the mad, dark tide that surged toward the Emperor.

Regarding the Primordial Force—the one tied to Saint Dora—Saint Guilliman had long foreseen that Zhou Yun might one day ascend to a secondary warp deity; under his guidance and aid, Zhou Yun deeply shaped the faith in Him, directing it toward himself without overly distorting his nature, and thus easily absorbed these beliefs, becoming the Primordial Force.

The more difficult part was that of Om Messiah, but those beliefs had always gravitated toward the Dragon of Mars, who spent most of his time in deep slumber; these beliefs carried little of His essence, and when the Dragon of Mars was sealed, he did not descend into the madness of the gods—though fragmented, the faith directed at him was not dangerously extreme.

He only needed to find the self within this complex web of wills and once again stand above reality and the warp.

Zhou Yun took a single light step, and He reformed into His self.

Too many times—he had experienced this same thing too many times, and he would experience it again in the future.

But he had grown accustomed to it, and had become difficult to split apart; now, when Zhou Yun looked out, his eyes held nothing else but a straight line extending into the future—he stood upon this line like a child walking a white line, striving to ensure every step stayed strictly within its bounds.

He might stumble and fail due to external factors, but he would never lose his goal; as long as the line remained, he would always find himself.

On the Martian desert, Zhou Yun exhaled lightly.

The atoms in the air rapidly reorganized and aggregated, transforming in an instant into a tiny mechanical device the size of a palm, resembling a miniature Dora, yet with exposed mechanical components, flickering with tiny, whistling metallic blue flames.

The moment the tiny machine was born, it gained sentience and began hopping around Zhou Yun.

Emperor Dora watched Zhou Yun.

Zhou Yun still retained a basic human form, but Emperor Dora saw more.

Zhou Yun’s shadow, cast by Mars’s dim orange sun, stretched long—not like a human’s shadow, but like the silhouettes of towering factories, within which gears turned, steam hissed, and whistles blared, sometimes twelve times, sometimes twenty-two, overlapping without pause.

Looking at Zhou Yun’s figure, his flesh and blood grew indistinct against the red sand; faintly, half his body had transformed into the shape of Dora, silently watching Emperor Dora, and watching the entire world.

Above, the Iron Ring had become a colossal serpent, sounding its whistle; countless streams of steam erupted along Mars’s orbit, bursting like warm white fireworks against the Martian atmosphere, celebrating the birth of its master.

Emperor Dora silently observed the tiny thing beside Zhou Yun, arms raised, hopping like a miniature Dora; similar mechanical entities kept being born around Zhou Yun, all surrounding him, arms raised, hopping ceaselessly.

“They are demons, born from your overflow of warp energy, and now possessing material bodies within your machines. What are they called?” The Emperor’s gaze shifted to Zhou Yun.

“.Dora Spirit?” Zhou Yun rubbed his chin, looking up at Emperor Dora.

“You’ve been deeply tainted by Nurgle.” Emperor Dora spoke without expression.

“So what? Didn’t you send Emperor Spirit to Lain?” Zhou Yun rubbed his chin: “I’m planning to name my great demon the Great Unfaithful One.”

Emperor Dora continued studying Zhou Yun: “Are you entirely Zhou Yun now, or have you absorbed something else?”

“Actually, I am the Dragon of Mars. I’m here to stab your dry hook with my great silver spear.” Zhou Yun smiled, flicked his finger, and a silver spear materialized before the Emperor.

“.Very well.” Emperor Dora spoke lightly: “Come then.”

“Tsk.” Zhou Yun clicked his tongue, stepping back subtly: “Shall I call Slaanesh to come by?”

“Then it’s definitely you.” Emperor Dora’s expression grew slightly calmer: “If it were the Dragon of Mars, He’d already be taking off his pants.”

“After all, the Dragon of Mars’s humanity was molded after me.”

“You have too much self-awareness.” Zhou Yun sighed and shook his head.

Emperor Dora remained expressionless, asking softly: “Are you ready to offer your sacrifice?”

Faith determines the direction of ascension; the sacrifice is the ladder to godhood; the ritual clears all obstacles from the domain.

Zhou Yun had already absorbed sufficient faith and had irrevocably embarked upon the path of ascension, leaning toward the Domain of Malicious Arts.

Next, he needed to offer a sacrifice.

To the warp, he would offer the fall of an entire dominant civilization of the material universe.

This was the necessary act of ascension: Slaanesh offered the Eldar, the Dark King offered humanity.

This meant there was now no dominant civilization in the galaxy still connected to the warp.

But Zhou Yun intended to do the opposite.

The warp was the convergence of all emotion; it inherently leaned toward extremes, yet leaned toward nothing—passionate yet emotionless, extreme yet chaotic.

The sacrifice was merely a simplified understanding.

The trauma inflicted upon reality by the cataclysmic fall of a dominant civilization, and the roar and tidal waves it stirred within the warp, were the true keys to ascension.

Conversely, if a dominant civilization that had never connected to the warp suddenly developed a soul, then from the warp’s perspective, it was as if a dominant civilization had just been born in reality—its first cry would tear reality apart and summon boundless warp tides, lifting Zhou Yun to ascension.

This was the sacrifice Zhou Yun intended to offer to the warp, to the Domain of Malicious Arts—the birth of the Necrons.

This sacrifice was perfectly suited to the Domain of Malicious Arts, capable of nourishing and expanding it, making Zhou Yun’s ascension smoother and his power greater afterward.

At the very least, it would surpass Slaanesh. Even if Zhou Yun ultimately achieved only a half-ascended state like the Emperor, he would still be stronger than Slaanesh.

As his understanding of the warp deepened, Zhou Yun truly felt Slaanesh was… pathetically weak.

Khorne was mostly the strongest of the warp gods; the Emperor, when in good condition, could nearly suppress all four; Tzeentch held steady second place, and when he once held the Crystal Scepter, he was absolute first; when a great plague spread across the galaxy, Nurgle’s power surged to first.

But Slaanesh… Slaanesh was consistently last—not merely because she was younger, since the Emperor was theoretically even younger.

The key issue was that Slaanesh had failed in faith, sacrifice, and ritual.

Faith: the Eldar had been so starved they no longer understood what faith was; their devotion to the Lady of Longing was little more than a vague, hedonistic admiration—not complete.

Sacrifice: the Eldar population was small, and by then, humanity of the Golden Age had risen; the Eldar were only a half-dominant galactic power, and even then, many fled—they were half of a half.

Ritual: Slaanesh was meant to consume all the Eldar gods, but three escaped at once, and one was never even born—this planted a massive flaw in Slaanesh’s existence.

Faith was perfect, sacrifice flawless; only the ritual carried a slight risk of mishap, but it was negligible—Zhou Yun was not concerned, and it did not matter.

What Zhou Yun truly feared was the Emperor.

He looked at Emperor Dora: “If I offer the sacrifice, ascension will begin. The pressure upon you will surge.”

“The pressure you once offloaded onto me will return to you—and the entire force of the Domain of Malicious Arts will crush you.”

“.This is your last moment of freedom. Your future holds only pain, struggle, and the approach of the Dark King. Will you use this time to do something?”

Emperor Dora slowly raised his gaze, staring silently at Zhou Yun.

He fell silent for a moment, then spoke: “You need not care about my future. I am, after all, merely a tool.”

“Use me as you deem appropriate. You need not act so humanely.”

Then, Emperor Dora sighed softly:

“But I do need a little time to prepare.”

“I’ve disrupted my own state trying to hold back Khorne and Tzeentch. I need time to adjust and organize myself, lest something go wrong and I fail to bear the weight of the Domain of Malicious Arts and the Domain of Corruptive Destruction—dragging us both into total ascension and eternal ruin.”

“Twenty-four hours. I need twenty-four hours.”

Emperor Dora’s voice carried weariness, guilt, and apology—as if ashamed of the time he had delayed.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. Vashthor will wait for you—for me.”

Zhou Yun said calmly, as if unsurprised by the Emperor’s words.