Chapter 700

The creature in the capsule slightly lifted one eyelid.

Azriel instantly felt dizzy, everything around him dimming, shrouded in a mass of shadow.

Intense hunger surged from its abdomen.

He felt his body’s nutrients draining away, his stomach hollow as a vacuum filled only with cold air, his veins shriveling from lack of nourishment, fat rapidly consumed, moisture seeping from his lips and teeth.

So hungry, so hungry, so hungry.

Heat vanished from his body like a ghost; the cold outside pierced him like needles.

He curled his body and crawled out of the cave, dragging his tattered pelt.

So hungry, so hungry, so hungry.

He could no longer remember when he had last eaten.

Was it the shriveled insect he dug up from the rubble last time?

He missed the crunch of that insect breaking against his gums—bitter, nearly dry, like chewing a grain of sand—but it had filled him with strange satisfaction.

His last tooth had fallen out last night, likely having atrophied from disuse.

He could not bear to part with it, swallowing it whole, praying that this broken tooth might grant him even a trace of nourishment.

What was prayer? To whom did one pray? To gods?

He remembered only the black metal skull falling from the sky, bringing emerald lightning to ravage the land.

He saw the sky ignited by flames from another world, where elf-eared shadows and green beast-giants battled skeletons.

The planet was torn apart, continents hurled into the sky; ancient temples crumbled to dust before true divine power.

He did not know why his home had suffered such disaster, nor why those skeletons, elf-ears, and green beasts had destroyed his world.

He had even forgotten how to hate them; now he was only hungry.

When his muscles still held some strength, he had looked up on clear nights.

Every day, new stars went dark; every day, bright orbs flashed in the night sky—until, when he gazed upward, he saw only vast black voids, as if an invisible hunter were feasting on the stars.

Feasting on the stars—he began to imagine what it would feel like to swallow them, trying to conjure satiety, but he failed.

He had forgotten what satiety felt like.

He nearly collapsed onto the snow.

The strength in his muscles was draining rapidly; he knew clearly that if he fell, he would never rise again.

Yet he felt no fear.

Instead, he imagined himself falling, bacteria, beasts, and insects gnawing on his body, feasting on his flesh.

He imagined, imagined satiety rising from the bellies of those creatures that fed on him.

He no longer clung to life, no longer burned with anger, no longer prayed for hope, no longer desired pleasure, no longer longed for revenge. He wanted only that one sensation of satiety—

A sharp blade pierced his shoulder; gray blood streamed from the wound. His knees buckled, his body half-collapsing.

He lifted his trembling head and saw a beast clad in chitinous armor before him, its mouthparts slightly open, hot breath blasting against his face.

He looked into the beast’s eyes and felt a resonance.

Those eyes held only hunger—naked, unvarnished hunger—exactly like his own.

The beast’s fangs tore through his shoulder, ripping off flesh, shoving it into its mouth.

Eat, eat, keep eating—consume everything you see until we reclaim the satiety we have forgotten.

A lion’s face drew near, fixing him with a cold, unblinking stare.

Azriel let out a bestial cry, spitting blood, teeth falling from his gums, nutrients draining from his body at once.

He staggered back two or three steps, finally breaking free from the hallucination.

Azriel struggled to lift his head and looked around—he saw the Exorcists, each bearing wounds similar to his own, yet all of them and Hael remained standing, still conscious.

About half of the Black Shields had collapsed; the rest bore identical wounds.

“You carry my genetic sequence. My spirit extends through it, protecting your minds,” the lion whispered.

Azriel nodded slightly—it was because they inherited Lane’s genetic sequence; Lane’s spirit had protected theirs.

Hmm?

Azriel blinked, suddenly realizing something, turning to the remaining Black Shields.

The Black Shields who had fought beside him for months averted their eyes, looking guilty.

Everyone truly has their own unique skills.

“Watch out,” Lane’s voice suddenly rang out.

A tendril formed from writhing shadows shot toward him at blinding speed; Lane swung his kite shield to block it.

But the tendril twisted with impossible speed, evading the Emperor’s Shield, striking at Lane’s back.

Hael and Azriel dodged by reflex, but the others were not so lucky.

Two Exorcists and two Black Shields were pierced before the lion could sever the tendril with his Sword of Loyalty—drained of all nutrients in an instant, reduced to ash that scattered on the wind.

The severed tendril twitched once, then retracted swiftly toward the capsule.

The creature within the capsule writhed, curling its four arms, fixing its single open eye on Lane El Jansen.

The moment Azriel saw that eye, intense hunger surged through him; screams echoed in his ears, hallucinations bloomed before his eyes.

He recalled what he had just seen, and in that haze, understood what he faced—understood what the Tyranids were.

They were survivors. Survivors of a war.

The War in Heaven, ten million years ago—the war between the Old Ones and the Necrons—had spilled beyond the galaxy, engulfing the entire universe. Stars fell, planets shattered, the Warp flooded reality, the screams of Star Gods warped the laws of physics.

Everything in the universe, save the galaxy—the Old Ones’ fortress—was set ablaze. Even the planets that barely survived underwent cataclysmic changes in climate and environment, becoming nearly uninhabitable.

Those survivors, ravenous, began to evolve—some, perhaps several lineages, becoming insectoid swarms that rose from their worlds, searching the barren stars for food, consuming the biomass and genetic sequences of other survivors, evolving endlessly, expanding without end.

It was like an ark, carrying the genetic sequences of all survivors, and their final emotion: hunger.

Those emotions, that hunger, fused together, ascending from bodies that ate or were eaten, became the Hive Mind, the Great Devourer—a distant, boundless hunger.

Now, the severed limbs were spreading toward that body.

That four-armed humanoid form alone dwarfed the scattered Tyranid swarms still drifting through space, yet to converge upon the galaxy.

More Hive Minds were converging upon It, making It ever more complete.

Lane El Jansen became a blurred afterimage, charging toward the hatching capsule.

The figure within the capsule writhed; tendrils of shadow slammed at the lion from all directions.