Chapter 339: Russ gives Ma Genusi a back rub

Translucent scarabs crawl within the *Flame of the Lord*, and Tzaangors and mortal servants hide in the darkness, trembling, as if these tiny insects are the true masters of this ship.

Ahriman's expression is dark and uncertain. He feels a familiar aura and gaze from those scarabs.

It is him.

The emotions in Ahriman's eyes are so complex, containing sadness, pain, disgust, and guilt all at once.

He grinds his teeth and strides toward the command room of the *Flame of the Lord*.

Outside the command room, the sorcerers of the Prodigal Sons warband kneel and kowtow in terror. There are faint traces of battle on the ground, and crystallized ashes float in the air, from which the wails of lost souls can be heard.

Ahriman scans them, confirming that those kneeling on the ground are all veterans of the old Thousand Sons Legion.

The Prodigal Sons warband under Ahriman's command does not come entirely from the Thousand Sons Legion; there are many Librarians from other warbands, traitor legions, or renegade chapters among them.

Many of them are young and restless, and previously, quite a few had tried to obtain knowledge and power from Ahriman, challenging his status.

Clearly, the stupidest among these ambitious people tried to challenge the authority of the existence that invaded the *Flame of the Lord*, and ultimately became a sacrifice to its sorcery.

They do not understand who that is. It is not to say they do not know the name of that person, but they are far from being able to understand the existence of that person.

But Ahriman knows, and the veterans of the Thousand Sons Legion know, how terrifying the former master of Prospero is.

As early as ten thousand years ago, in the realm of the Empyrean, even among his twenty-one brothers, only a handful could rival him.

And ten thousand years later, the former master of Prospero is likely even more powerful than before, and his mind has accumulated more knowledge.

The vast majority of the sorcerers of the Prodigal Sons warband are as weak as children before him, and the knowledge in their brains is no different from that of fools.

"My lord." Those trembling Thousand Sons sorcerers see Ahriman.

Ahriman does not condemn their cowardice, but nods slightly to them, walks past them, and heads toward the door of the command room.

This exile takes a deep breath, as if he had prepared himself fully before slowly pushing open this Gate of Duat.

A grand and massive psychic power surged toward Ahriman's body, like a gale and rainstorm from another dimension, like the roar of a primordial god mixed with thunder, like the scorching wind that dried the world breathed out by the god of wind and air in ancient Egyptian mythology,

Ahriman advances as if in viscous liquid. He barely takes a step, stepping into the command room.

The command room of the *Flame of the Lord* is twisted beyond recognition. The concepts of up, down, left, right, front, and back are all twisted and erased. Everything flows and turns like a kaleidoscope, and countless crystals, lightning, and mirrors rage within.

Those mortal servants and Tzaangors who failed to leave the command room in time are trapped in the mirrors that continuously reflect brilliant light, like residual shadows in a mirror.

For a moment, Ahriman even feels that he is not standing in the command room of a ship in the Webway, but has entered the deepest part of Tzeentch's Crystal Labyrinth in the Empyrean.

Everything in the entire space seems to have been twisted by some powerful will, turning into a pocket dimension of pure spirit.

Ahriman says nothing, only strides toward this void floating with the torrents of the Empyrean.

Matter forms beneath his feet, the world stabilizes around him, and reality establishes itself with him as the center.

His will carves a path through this storm filled with madness, and those illusory scenes fade away like the tide around him bit by bit.

Ahriman sees the towering scarlet figure he has not faced for many years.

Broken, still broken.

In the long years of exploring the Warp, Ahriman has become accustomed to using his will to seek the truth, rather than using his senses to obtain representations.

Especially since Ahriman clearly knows that the Scarlet King before him, like his father, is merely a byproduct of psyker power, not his true self.

He almost immediately sees that the Scarlet King standing before him is just as broken and incomplete in soul as he was ten thousand years ago.

And he is far more indifferent than he was ten thousand years ago. The Scarlet King's humanity seems to have leaked out through the cracks in his soul, turning him into some kind of cold, ruthless existence, indifferent to everything in the world, leaving only a thirst for knowledge and submission to the Great Game of the gods...

Ahriman feels his own soul being torn apart. How much this wise king once loved his sons, and how much humanity he once held.

Yet now, broken, indifferent, and manipulated, Ahriman saw it—that mass of blue shadow, constantly changing, twisting, and twitching, lying upon the shattered soul of the Crimson King.

That blue shadow lets out a sharp mockery toward Ahriman, circling around the Scarlet King, as if taking pleasure in Ahriman's anger.

"Lord of Change!" A low roar full of anger comes from Ahriman's throat.

The four gods each have their own chosen.

Khorne's is Khârn, the former second-in-command of the World Eaters Legion; Nurgle's is Typhus, the First Captain of the Death Guard; Slaanesh's is Lucius, a wild dog who was not very famous during the Great Crusade.

And Tzeentch's chosen is Ahriman himself.

But Ahriman is not loyal to his master like the other three chosen.

Ahriman disdains, loathes, and even hates Tzeentch.

"Ahriman, the one exiled by me." A flat and indifferent voice rings out.

Everything before Ahriman gradually takes form.

Wings interwoven with violet and deep blue tremble slightly, stirring up strange runes that Ahriman cannot fully understand, wrapping around the robust body of the scarlet giant of myth.

Beneath the ferocious daemon-like horns, a single eye flashing with the evil light of the Empyrean gazes at the things before him.

In the scarlet tide, ninety-nine crystallized bones of Astartes psykers float, piecing together a strange divination device.

Ahriman sees members of his Prodigal Sons warband among those bones, and there are even members of the former Thousand Sons Legion among them.

"I need your venue, and I also need the materials you have accumulated." The Scarlet King speaks in an indifferent tone.

"Where has the you who once resisted Leman Russ for your sons gone? Where has the you who once chose us when faced with the new Legion promised by the Master of Mankind gone? Where has the you who abandoned an eye for your sons gone?"

Ahriman's body trembles, and he asks coldly and gloomily:

"Ma Genusi... Ma Genusi!!!"

The Primarch of the Thousand Sons Legion, Ma Genusi, responds to Ahriman only with a cold glance.

"I summoned you, Ahriman. I granted you absolution, inviting you to attack Fenris with me to take revenge on the Wolves."

Ma Genusi's voice is as low as a sage's whisper, and every word he utters turns into translucent scarabs flying about:

"Yet you ignored my invitation, playing cat and mouse with the Eldar rats in the Webway."

"I found an opportunity to save my mistakes." Ahriman grips the staff in his hand and replies.

"I am here to give you this opportunity."

Ma Genusi lets out a cold laugh and says:

"Everything of yours is in the plan of the Lord of Change."

The massive psyker power surrounding the Scarlet King surges like a tide into the divination device made of the corpses of ninety-nine Astartes psykers.

At the same time, Ahriman also feels a tightness in his chest, and his psyker power also surges uncontrollably toward that divination device.

"Your obsession, pursuit, search, and desire will all become a compass for me to find that newborn existence in the Warp."

"The Warp is like this; as long as the will and obsession are strong enough, even the figures of the gods can be peered at."

Under the urging of the Scarlet King and Ahriman's powerful psyker power, and under the effect of Ahriman's ten-thousand-year obsession, the torrent of the Empyrean begins to circle on those ninety-nine crystal corpses.

A burst of strange, ever-changing dazzling light shines, reflecting figures, seemingly shadows of the past and present intersecting.

Ahriman sees a group of Space Wolves sitting by a campfire in the snow on the high mountains of Macragge, roasting wild boar meat from the forest, roasting it until the shell is black and the inside is bleeding.

And beside this group of wolves, there sits a blurry figure.

Sometimes it looks like a mortal, sometimes like a blue raccoon, constantly changing, difficult to see clearly.

Ahriman just sees that figure pick up a pot of Fenrisian honey wine, seem to sprinkle something into it, and drink it in one gulp.

In an instant, a cheer erupts from the wolf pack, seemingly praising the figure's bold drinking.

"Besides the obsession with that existence, your hatred for the Wolves also affected the divination."

Ma Genusi says flatly:

"This is a scene from the past; it is not what I wanted, but it also has reference significance."

Saying this, Ma Genusi's gaze continues to fall on the image before him.

Ahriman, whose psyker power has been forcibly extracted, clutches his chest, looking gloomily at the scene before him.

"Brother Doraemon! Your joke is worth telling in Russ's hall!"

"In return, let me tell you about our Fenrisian mythology!"

The wolf pack laughs loudly, seemingly having hit it off with that blurry figure:

"Ten thousand years ago, in the dawn era when the world was still young, the shameless Dark God Horus ravaged the entire world."

"Horus mated with the hungry Dragon Goddess Slaanesh and gave birth to Gork and Mork."

"The two brothers Gork and Mork joined forces to sneak attack and knock down Angron, raping him to give birth to countless Green-skinned Orks."

The wolves laugh loudly again.

That blurry figure in the image, Ma Genusi, and Ahriman are all in a deathly silence.

"Wild! Too wild!" That blurry figure cannot help but applaud, praising: "I will suggest to Sanguinius and Guilliman that we use the Fenrisian version of the Great Heresy mythology to replace that set of nine daemons and nine Primarchs of the State Church."

"But I have a question: how is Ma Genusi spoken of in your local Fenrisian mythology?"

"Oh, Ma Genusi!"

The wolves are drunk, giggling and saying:

"Every cub on Fenris has heard stories about Ma Genusi from bards."

"His spine isn't very good, and Russ always gives him a back rub."

(End of chapter) ===== CHAPTER 340 =====