Slaanesh Was Chasing Him?

The God-Emperor had answered!

Above The Void, the Cold Sun forged from the God-Emperor's will shone like a star. It was so sacred!

Bzz!

The ripples of a Psyker Power tide spread outward.

Despite the endless distance, Ron could still feel the surging psychic energy.

What immense power!

He came to his senses and cried out in his mind, "Your Majesty the God-Emperor, your loyal servant needs saving!"

Yet the sun representing the God-Emperor gave no response. Not a single gaze fell upon Ron.

He slumbered, allowing his radiance to shine equally upon all.

Another tide of Psyker Power swept over him, and before he could react, he was kicked out of the space of consciousness.

Ron opened his eyes. Before him lay an emerald plain, while alluring bodies surrounded him. He was still inside the Palace of Slaanesh!

Plop!

An eyeball fell to the ground, and Ron instinctively reached down to pick it up.

He quickly realized what had happened and touched where his eye should have been. There was nothing there.

My eyeball!

Ron stuffed the eyeball back into its socket. He no longer had the leisure to feel fear; his mind was full of questions.

That shouldn't have happened. The God-Emperor had manifested, so why hadn't he responded?

Could it be that the old man thought he wasn't loyal enough?

So praying at the last minute really didn't work. He was completely screwed now!

Above The Void, a massive purple shadow slowly emerged at the heart of the Palace of Slaanesh.

He was the master of the palace—Slaanesh.

Ron was filled with grief and fury. Since he was going to die anyway, he had nothing left to fear.

With one eye open, he raised his middle finger toward The Void and cursed, "Slaanesh, fuck your ancestors!"

The shadow gave a slight twist, and its gaze shifted toward him.

Wherever that gaze fell, all the daemons knelt.

An overwhelming pressure approached. When the gaze focused upon Ron, the rushing evil power nearly crushed him to pieces in an instant.

But that warm power from before emerged once more, protecting him with a faint golden glow.

Space rippled violently, tearing open a small gap.

That mysterious power actually withstood Slaanesh's pressure and dragged Ron out of the Palace of Slaanesh.

Slaanesh's gaze paused for a moment, as though he were somewhat surprised.

He let out a soft chuckle, and an even greater desire erupted.

All life within the palace began trembling violently as a more extreme revelry descended.

The Lord of Pleasure remembered that little bug. He would personally prepare the most exquisite pleasure for him!

At that moment, in the distant Warp, a tiny Little Sun gave off a warm glow, hidden beneath the radiance of the great Cold Sun.

Ron screamed. He felt as though his body and soul had been stretched into noodles.

Then he was stuffed into a washing machine and churned madly before being pulled out, smashed against some physical object, and shoved inside it.

Segmentum Pacificus of the Imperium, northern Goli Sector, Earth Planet.

This was a typical industrial world. Deadly pollution covered its surface, and mutants ran rampant.

Grant Hive City, located at the center of the continent, towered into the clouds. Tens of billions, perhaps even hundreds of billions, lived amid its mountain-like heaps of metal.

Every breath of air and every drop of water within the Hive City had been recycled millions of times.

People survived on Corpse Starch, toiled day and night, and prayed for the God-Emperor's protection.

Life here was difficult, except for those at the very top.

They enjoyed sunlight, fresh air, and clean water, occupying everything this planet had to offer.

The most powerful among them was the planetary Governor. He held supreme authority over the planet, with the power to grant life or death!

The Upper Hive.

Palatine District, Spire Mansion.

Inside an extravagantly luxurious bedroom blending Victorian and steampunk styles, Ron awoke with a scream.

He had survived?

Ron realized he was unharmed and breathed a sigh of relief.

The God-Emperor must have saved him. In the Warhammer world, believing in the God-Emperor really could save his life!

He decided that from now on, he would carry a copy of Lectitio Divinitatus with him at all times, read it regularly, and preferably memorize it!

Praise the God-Emperor!

Once he relaxed, Ron noticed that the decorations around him were utterly unfamiliar.

"Where is this?"

Fragments of broken memories surged in, forcefully entering his consciousness and rapidly flowing through it.

Only after absorbing those memory fragments did Ron truly understand the full sequence of events.

It was rather complicated.

Ron Grant, the planet's Governor, had been indulging in wine and women, doing shameful things with a maid in his bedroom.

Because he had gone a little too far, Chaos corrupted him and dragged him into the Palace of Slaanesh, where his weakened body died in terror.

Ron had happened to transmigrate into the dead Ron Grant's body, leading to the thrilling and dangerous events just now.

Fortunately, the God-Emperor had protected him, and he had escaped.

Ron inherited Ron Grant's body and the memories of his soul.

At that moment, he possessed the Grant House's distinctive black hair, deep-set eyes, and a pale, somewhat stern face. His entire body looked rather weak.

Overall, he had become more handsome.

The only trouble was that the memories he inherited were incomplete.

Many parts were missing or blurred, as though covered by a layer of fog.

But no matter what, Ron was now the Imperium's planetary Governor, the ruler of Earth Planet—Ron Grant!

That was a blessing amid misfortune.

The night was deep. Pale red moonlight passed through the stained-glass windows of the balcony and shone into the room.

Ron suddenly realized something. Hadn't he been doing shameful things with the maid earlier?

Where was the maid?

"Darling, are you looking for me?"

A series of clicking sounds came from the darkness, like bones knocking together.

What the hell was that sound? Ron immediately became alert.

"Boohoo... did you forget about me...?"

A woman faced the wall, her body twitching as she wept.

Before Ron could react, her head violently spun one hundred and eighty degrees, and she stared at him.

It was the horrifying head of a Daemonette of Slaanesh. Her eye sockets were empty, her teeth sharp, and drool dripped from her long, thin tongue.

Holy shit!

Damn it, had she followed him here?

Wouldn't leave him alone, huh?

"Why aren't you saying anything? Am I not pretty?"

The Daemonette's body turned with a crack. She emerged from the darkness and bathed in the moonlight, her malformed, twisted body covered in bone spurs. Even her black silk maid uniform was tattered beyond recognition.

There was no doubt about it. She was the maid, completely corrupted into a monster.

"Can't wait anymore, can you, darling?"

The Daemonette swayed her waist and walked to the bedside, striking seductive poses. The obscene sight only made her look more terrifying.

Twisting her slender waist, she climbed onto the bed and looked down at Ron. "Let's have some fun..."

"I'm not feeling well today. How about next time?"

Ron wore a stiff smile and tried his best not to provoke her. Drawing on his memories, he quietly pressed the alarm button beside the bed.

"But..." The Daemonette's long, pointed tongue stretched over and slid across Ron's face. "I can't wait!"

Fuck you!

Ron viciously kicked the Daemonette away, then used his memories to pull a miniature pistol from a hidden compartment and squeeze the trigger at her.

Bang!

Thick smoke burst from the miniature pistol. The Daemonette was struck in the chest and fell backward.

Had he dealt with her?

"That hurts!"

The Daemonette rose again and stared at Ron, her voice hoarse. "But I love it so much. Hit me again!"

An S&M Daemonette, huh? Helping others was what he loved most in life!

Ron raised the gun and pulled the trigger again, but no bullet came out.

What was going on? Was the Machine Spirit displeased?

He glanced at the miniature pistol in his hand, inlaid with ivory and gemstones, and immediately began cursing Ron Grant's ancestors for eight generations.

What a lunatic!

A single-shot antique black-powder pistol? Was he collecting antiques or something?

For self-defense, he should at least have gotten a Bolter or a Melta Weapon!

Ron hurled the pistol at the Daemonette with all his strength, using the chance to climb out of bed and flee.

But this body, weakened by indulgence in wine and women, was far too feeble. He fell to the ground after only two steps.

He struggled back to his feet, only to see the Daemonette's face twist hideously as she lunged at him!