Chapter 338: Ahriman: Prosperine profanity

"Pah! You traitorous beast! I, as a legal sub-human of the Empire, condemn your despicable betrayal!"

"You bastard who slaughtered an entire Legion, your betrayal will be eternally remembered by us, the Eldar sub-species of humanity!"

That Harlequin dressed as a jester scolds Ahriman repeatedly, and with amazing skill, spits seven mouthfuls of thick phlegm onto Ahriman's face within three seconds.

What makes Ahriman feel the most uncomfortable is that he inexplicably failed to dodge, as if the Harlequin's way of spitting had some unique ritual effect.

"You, an Eldar, are worthy of accusing me?" Ahriman roars, aiming his staff at the jester.

"I am a legal sub-human of the Empire, my genes are stable and reliable, unlike some whose entire Legion has flesh mutations." The jester giggles and says.

Ahriman wishes he could burn this jester to ashes on the spot,

but if he did so, the soul of this damn jester might disappear on the spot just like that Savage Eldar, making him unable to obtain information about that Death God from it.

Thinking of that so-called Death God Chosen Yvraine who can resurrect Rubric Marines, allowing those brothers who became puppets due to his mistakes to regain consciousness, Ahriman grinds his teeth.

Fuck it, I'll endure it.

"Eldar, what kind of price did the Empire pay you to make you, who are so arrogant, submit to humanity?" Ahriman suppresses the anger in his heart as much as possible, looking at the three Eldar before him and asking.

These three Eldar are the foul-mouthed jester and two Dark Eldar.

"Loyal subjects do not need rewards; loyalty itself is the reward!"

The jester says righteously:

"Of course, this kind of thing is something you psyker giant monkey mutants with unstable genes and constant flesh mutations will never understand."

"It doesn't feel as good as us Eldar, in terms of being human."

Saying this, the jester spits seven mouthfuls of thick phlegm onto Ahriman's face again within three seconds. Ahriman, who has been staying alert, quickly raises his staff, and psyker energy burns those mouthfuls of phlegm to nothingness.

"Are you done yet? Are the salivary glands of you Eldar very developed?" Ahriman's voice cannot help but rise.

"I reckon there's a reward for spitting twenty-two mouthfuls before ascending to the 22nd century." The jester says sincerely.

"22nd century..."

Ahriman whispers this term. How come this word sounds like the Golden Throne in the mouths of the Eldar?

He aims his staff at the three Eldar, lowers his voice, and says:

"Before you reach that so-called 22nd century, you will suffer unimaginable torture."

"If you tell me the information about that Death God, I can give you a——————"

"Ahahahaha ahahaha!!!!"

Before Ahriman's words are finished, a sharp laughter suddenly rings out.

It is not the jester's, but the two Dark Eldar who joined the Death Jester's forces.

"Sorry, sorry, I really can't help it!"

A Dark Eldar holds his stomach and laughs, tears streaming from his eyes:

"You mean to say, you want to torture an Eldar, torture a Dark Eldar? Do you know what you are saying?"

"Come on, I haven't felt this good since joining the Death Jester's forces! Come on!"

"Retard!" The other Dark Eldar says simply and clearly: "When your mother was still a virgin, I was already using a tank barrel to get off."

"Hurry up and use your fucking Rubric Marines and the ashes of Prospero for lubricant, and then stuff the shoulder pad your own brother left you into my——————"

Boom!!!

Boom!!!!

Boom!!!!!

Psyker flames erupt continuously from the tip of Ahriman's black staff, exploding in the Webway like cannonballs, blowing the upper body of the foulest-mouthed Dark Eldar into smithereens.

Ahriman pants heavily, stepping on the still-intact lower half of the Dark Eldar's corpse, the whole person looking like a World Eater with Butcher's Nails acting up.

"Saint Doraemon above, have I completed my atonement?"

Ahriman vaguely seems to hear the whisper of that Dark Eldar's soul, but in the end, he fails to catch this soul.

It is as if some powerful existence is protecting the souls of this group of Death Jester forces.

How can this Death God be so powerful?!

"He didn't say it, and I forgot, didn't you have a brother?"

That jester seems to see someone die before him and is a bit anxious as he says:

"I remember now, that brother of yours was also a Thousand Son, and then died of flesh mutation."

"How pitiful, psyker giant monkey mutants with unstable genes and constant flesh mutations are like that."

"We, the Eldar, the legal sub-humans of the Empire with stable and reliable genes, don't have such troubles——————"

Boom!!!

Ahriman's black staff sweeps across, and that jester turns directly into ashes and dissipates.

The last remaining Dark Eldar looks left and right, discovering that only he is left.

"Tell me the information about that Death God." Ahriman grinds his teeth and says: "I can spare your life."

"Are you sick in the head?"

That Dark Eldar asks sincerely:

"First of all, I am a Dark Eldar, and I have a very strong perception of souls."

"I can be sure that the souls of my few compatriots were not restrained by you, nor did they return to the Lord of Thirst."

"The Laughing God and the Death God didn't lie to us; there really is a 22nd century, so why should I care about your set? Hurry up and kill me!"

The anger on Ahriman's face seems to be exposed through the mask. He trembles his arm and raises his staff at this Dark Eldar.

"I once peed on the ashes of Rubric Marines together with the Space Wolves." That Dark Eldar says in a flat tone.

Boom!!

Boom!!!!

Boom!!!!!

In the Webway, the flagship of the three sisters of the Prodigal Sons warband stands in mid-air.

The master of these three flagships is Ahriman the Exile. Since the two Rubricae, Ahriman has been exiled by Magnus, forced to wander among the stars, and the Prodigal Sons warband and these three flagships are his home.

Ahriman, clutching his staff tightly, lands on the *Flame of the Lord*, one of the three sisters, on a flying disc, and enters this flagship that belongs to him from the high tower.

The *Flame of the Lord* carries a little bit of what can be called the smell of home, allowing Ahriman's soul, which was angered by the Eldar, to calm down slightly.

He is familiar with these three flagships, just as he is familiar with his own sisters. He is connected to the machine spirits of the three flagships, just as he is connected to his brothers who share the same blood.

But today, after taking a few steps into the *Flame of the Lord*, Ahriman feels something strange.

The flagships of the Prodigal Sons warband are silent most of the time; after all, the vast majority of the warriors in the warband are Rubricae without consciousness, and only a few sorcerers move within the ship, while mortal servants and Tzaangors dare not make any sound in front of Ahriman.

But now it is even more silent than ever, as if the things visible and invisible in the *Flame of the Lord* are afraid of something.

Ahriman notices that in the corners of the *Flame of the Lord*, translucent crystal scarabs are looking at him.

"It's him." Ahriman's heart jumps to his throat, his voice full of complexity and bitterness.

(End of chapter) ===== CHAPTER 339 =====