Chapter 652

Looking at the pitch-black hellbeast, Fugen felt his mind stutter for a moment.

Abaddon?

That’s Abaddon, the Chaos Warmaster?

How did he end up like this?

Who did this to him? How cruel!

Abaddon may have been a bit weak, a bit lazy, a bit too undefeated, a bit unfit for his station, and a bit of a liability to his allies—but he was still the public leader of all Chaos Astartes, commander of a million troops; how could he be forced into a hellbeast?

“Nephew! Who turned you into this!”

“Tell Uncle! Uncle will avenge you!”

Fugen roared at Abaddon.

It was an involuntary cry, deliberately mimicking Zhou Yun’s speech style as a provocation.

Fugen had already noticed that Zhou Yun’s way of speaking was highly effective at goading and enraging enemies.

And the hellbeast itself endured unimaginable pain, making it easier to provoke into losing reason.

Abaddon let out a piercing battle cry laced with agony.

Fugen bore at least half the blame for Abaddon’s pitiful state.

It was Fugen who tortured Abaddon into this condition, forcing him to be forcibly stuffed into the hellbeast by Vashthor, trapped in this endless hell of suffering.

Upon seeing Fugen, Abaddon could no longer suppress his hatred, breaking the influence of the Daemon of the Domain of Delight, “Poppy,” which had been corrupting Fugen through his body.

The old-style machine gun hanging from Abaddon’s left hand dipped slightly; one corner of the octagram glowed with a sinister aura, and orange-yellow bullets instantly transformed into a dense hail of fire aimed at Fugen and the Emperor’s Children beside him.

These bullets were much smaller than bolter rounds, yet carried a strange lethality—the Emperor’s Children closest to Abaddon couldn’t dodge them; the moment the bullets grazed them, half their bodies shattered apart.

The Daemon of the Domain of Malicious Craft, “Maxim,” was born from the first true automatic weapon created by humanity; humanity’s fear of the Maxim and automatic weapons gave it form, symbolizing humanity’s advancement into more efficient, industrialized slaughter, naturally suppressing large groups of humans.

The more humans standing before “Maxim,” the stronger its killing art became.

When Vashthor forged Abaddon, his goal was to make him a weapon against humanity; the eight daemons infused into him were all intimately tied to humanity, each suppressing humans in some way.

“Poppy,” the daemon that had nearly dragged Fugen into ecstasy and pleasure, was the same—born from humanity’s most famous psychoactive drug, it naturally sowed pleasure in human nerves, stirred hallucinations, and drained the body.

At that moment, a figure almost entirely forged of gold stepped forward from the battle line, swinging twin swords toward the dense hail of bullets.

The orange-yellow bullets were violently deflected by the net woven by the twin swords; the swordsman tore a gap through Maxim’s gunfire with nothing but swordplay.

Maxim’s suppression of humans targeted crowds; when facing a single opponent, its suppression weakened considerably.

Akurduna didn’t realize this—he simply charged forward driven by battle fury, without thinking.

But Fugen’s superhuman mind perceived it instantly; he swiftly issued orders for the surrounding Bound Astartes to break formation, scattering into smaller units.

Meanwhile, he took a slight step, gripping the Furnacebreaker Warhammer, and launched an assault on Abaddon’s right side.

Abaddon suddenly raised his right hand; the corner symbolizing Unintentional Killing glowed crimson.

A biting wind swept across the plains, withering grass and trees, all life turning grim; hungry herders lifted their eyes, bloodied with murderous intent, gazing southward at the rich, warm lands.

This blood-soaked killing intent coalesced into a single arrow, aimed at Fugen’s forehead.

It was the Daemon of the Domain of Unintentional Killing, “Hun,” born from the long-standing hatred and slaughter between nomads and farmers, barbarians and civilization.

Whenever cold gripped the land, rainfall dwindled, vegetation withered, nomadic tribes would inevitably ride southward for survival.

The greater the threat to one’s survival, and the more prosperous and civilized the target, the stronger the killing arrow formed from this intent became.

As a clone of the Primarch of the Emperor’s Children, Fugen was clearly within the arrow’s suppression range.

The crimson arrow shot toward Fugen’s forehead, as if hooves thundered without end.

But the arrow missed—it missed Fugen’s forehead entirely.

In the blink of an eye, Fugen’s figure appeared behind the arrow.

It wasn’t any special ability—just a minor skill common among many Imperial Guard soldiers.

One of the three abilities from Zhou Yun’s Prophecy Training Box: Instantaneous Teleportation.

Fugen had mastered Instantaneous Teleportation, Telekinesis, and X-Ray Vision to perfection.

Just before the arrow struck, Fugen teleported behind it, perfectly evading Abaddon’s attack.

Fugen leapt forward, swinging his heavy warhammer at Abaddon’s right arm.

The corner of Abaddon’s body symbolizing Corruptive Destruction flared suddenly; the screams of ten million murdered souls echoed in Fugen’s ears.

The demon blade Dranikorn appeared in Abaddon’s grasp, automatically adapting to the hellbeast’s form.

The faces carved into the blade suddenly opened their eyes, staring fixedly at Fugen.

“What are you fools doing! The Master of Mankind is nearly driven mad! He was moments away from becoming the Dark King!”

For days, Dranikorn had been slacking off, sleeping, and enjoying Abaddon’s ridiculous screams.

But today, the daemon born from humanity’s first murder realized with horror that the form of the Domain of Corruptive Destruction was growing clearer.

The burden on the Emperor had nearly doubled, nearly crushing him into becoming the Dark King—only at the last moment did the Emperor hold on.

The daemons already born and yet unborn within the Domain of Corruptive Destruction were rejoicing, but Dranikorn felt only a chilling dread.

Once the Dark King is born, he will unceasingly destroy everything—including the daemons of the Domain of Corruptive Destruction themselves.

A thousand years ago, Dranikorn might have cheered at this—but now, Dranikorn felt like going mad.

A thousand years ago, the Emperor, trading wounds for wounds, seized Dranikorn, sealed it, and shaped it into this demonic blade, imprisoning it within the Imperial Guardman La Endymion.

Before that, the Emperor implanted his own past life into La Endymion’s body, weaving excessive humanity into him; that humanity and La Endymion’s memories shaped Dranikorn, making it more human—and forever preventing it from returning to pure Corruptive Destruction and unleashing its full power.

Dranikorn did not hate the Emperor for this; on the contrary, he even felt a faint gratitude—he had felt the joys and ease of being human.