Chapter 705

Those twisted psychic energies radiated outward from Ma Genusi, striking the ships—not destroying them outright, but transforming them into layers of flickering, overlapping shadows.

As if ships from other parallel worlds had been pulled to this point, stacked and colliding, flashing with blinding, dizzying light.

The crew and Astartes aboard the ships screamed in unison, their bodies sprouting duplicated organs, multiple heads, extra arms, and conflicting wills.

Even the versions of themselves from parallel worlds differed slightly—and when those differences accumulated, they became fatal.

Eventually, the ships and their parallel selves crushed and collided, instantly bursting into molten fire, spewing vast quantities of debris that shattered several more warships.

Guilliman swiftly reestablished command over the fleet, ordering ships to intercept Ma Genusi one by one, sacrificing them as shields to protect the Macragge’s Glory and himself.

This act naturally violated Guilliman’s moral code, but out of reason and necessity, he had no choice.

Zhou Yun had warned him: if he were corrupted by Chaos, the threat he posed would surpass that of Horus.

The fleet obeyed Guilliman’s command without hesitation, becoming shields to block Ma Genusi.

Yet nearly all these ships were Imperial—the Death Guard fleet led by Mo Ta Li An had ignored Guilliman’s orders.

Instead, they formed a strange, twisted formation around Ma Genusi, the Imperial fleet, and the Macragge’s Glory.

They grouped in sevens: seven ships per squad, seven squads per battle group, seven battle groups per fleet, and seven fleets forming a spiraling, distorted seven-pointed star, as if bound by a fixed ritual.

The Death Guard themselves did not join the fleet; they too formed groups of seven, standing in ranks and whispering incantations, while countless Nurgle spirits lurched around them, dancing like ancient prayers.

But Guilliman did not condemn Mo Ta Li An’s actions, for the ritual’s effect was immediate.

Mo Ta Li An stepped forward, entering the void through a breach in the Macragge’s Glory; his body instantly expanded, growing from over three meters to over seven meters tall.

Guilliman guessed Mo Ta Li An’s current height was precisely seven meters, seventy-seven centimeters, and seven millimeters.

His body curled slightly as the pale armor on his back slowly unfolded, and a pair of moth wings, dusted with scales, sprouted alive from his spine.

“Isn’t this supposed to be a jump pack? Isn’t it detachable? Why is it growing on its own?” Guilliman muttered under his breath.

He assumed Mo Ta Li An couldn’t hear him—sound couldn’t travel through vacuum.

Yet Mo Ta Li An turned his head, fixing Guilliman with a gloomy gaze.

“Normally, yes—it’s detachable. But when it matters, isn’t it faster to grow it?”

Guilliman thought bitterly: You’re the one who called growing wings from divine blessing feudal superstition—but he said nothing.

He knew Mo Ta Li An would insist this wasn’t divine blessing—it was the power of numerology.

Mo Ta Li An’s moth wings trembled once, and his speed surpassed even that of void ships, becoming a streak of pale lightning as he lunged straight at Ma Genusi, surrounded by the fleet.

Does flying with wings in vacuum even follow aerodynamics?

Guilliman felt a strange lump in his throat.

Vacuum is cold, devoid of all that sustains life—any mortal who steps into it dies instantly.

But Mo Ta Li An is no mortal—he is a Primarch.

In mere breaths, Mo Ta Li An broke through the fleet’s formation and stood face-to-face with Ma Genusi.

Thousands of Ma Genusis had fused into a single twisted, grotesque creature.

Its body had been forcibly filled with the power of the Eternal Well, and unrealized possibilities piled upon it, multiplying endlessly.

But after close observation, Mo Ta Li An confirmed one thing:

Ma Genusi didn’t just possess bodies and powers from parallel worlds—he also carried their wills.

All the Crimson Kings fought to control this vessel, clashing violently, unable to reach consensus, like a madman.

Only the base directive injected by Tzeentch—the command to corrupt Guilliman—remained active, allowing them to act in unison.

In other words, the current Ma Genusi was little more than a beast, driven by instinct, save for the single purpose of corrupting Guilliman—and a beast with severe dissociative identity disorder.

But even if it were merely a beast—

Ma Genusi sensed Mo Ta Li An’s presence; all thousands of his heads turned toward him.

A torrent of psychic energy surged like a flood toward Mo Ta Li An.

Mo Ta Li An’s moth wings curled inward, wrapping him like two withered leaves.

Behind him, faintly visible, rose a towering spire of rotting flesh, built from Great Unclean Ones.

Eight hundred twenty-three thousand five hundred forty-three Great Unclean Ones sat amid murky, yellow mist—flies shrieked, cysts hung low, rotting trees bore fruit, and dark clouds rained.

These eighty thousand-plus daemons had all once picked up Mo Ta Li An’s blood-price at the crossroads of Nurgle’s Garden.

Through the power of numerology, Mo Ta Li An had bound his fate to theirs.

In the first instant the psychic flood struck, one-seventh—eleven thousand seven hundred sixty-four—of the daemons screamed and turned to dust.

What terrifying psychic power.

Mo Ta Li An’s grim face twisted violently; thick, putrid smoke materialized and rolled toward Ma Genusi.

But Ma Genusi merely shuddered slightly, and his scorching psychic energy burned the poison to ash.

The psychic energy coalesced into thousands of blinding, flickering light-spears, hurtling straight at Mo Ta Li An—he tried to dodge with his wings.

But the spears, under Ma Genusi’s overwhelming psychic control, twisted causality itself—they pierced Mo Ta Li An’s body the moment they were fired.

Over three hundred thousand daemons vanished into ash, returning to Nurgle’s Garden to respawn.

How could this damned feudal superstition be so powerful? This red-skinned sorcerer—

Before Mo Ta Li An could finish cursing in his mind—

More psychic light-spears surrounded him, nearly impossible to evade, piercing him through in an instant like a sieve.

The remaining Great Unclean Ones behind him were nearly all slain, only a few barely clinging to life.

At that moment, a storm of light-spears rained down upon Ma Genusi’s massive body.

Guilliman seized the instant after Ma Genusi’s psychic release—concentrating the fleet’s firepower to strike Ma Genusi’s flesh directly.

Flames burned across Ma Genusi’s body; all thousands of his heads shrieked in unison, unleashing a violent psychic pulse that blurred surrounding spacetime. Thousands of warships collided with their own counterparts from alternate possibilities and shattered themselves.

But Mo Ta Li An seized this opening—his wings trembled as he surged forward, slashing down with a scythe wrapped in thick, dark clouds, aiming for one of Ma Genusi’s heads.

Yet layer upon layer of psychic shields blocked his scythe.

The head he targeted let out a piercing shriek—a psychic lance shot forth, instantly piercing Mo Ta Li An’s body.

The few remaining Great Unclean Ones behind him vanished into smoke; searing agony surged through Mo Ta Li An.

A violent tearing sensation tore through his body—memories, souls, and bodies from other possibilities surged within him.

“You betrayed the Emperor!” a roar echoed in his mind; a new head sprouted from his side, tearing at his flesh.

Another head ripped free from his neck, muttering words like “Hades”—nonsensical, incomprehensible.

More, more Mo Ta Li Ans from parallel worlds crashed into him, tearing at his body.

Seven—counting Mo Ta Li An himself—seven of him were fused together, indistinguishable, tearing at each other.

Had Mo Ta Li An been a normal being, he would have been torn apart long ago.

“Eh? Eh? Eh!”