Even people who had never seen a corpse rot would have some rough idea of its form—the most immediate was the word "rot" itself. But in truth, rot had many states.
The decay that came after death was only one of them. Far more terrifying was the rot that occurred in those who were dying yet not dead. The dead did not care whether they felt pain, but the living could feel the horror of that life force gradually fading away.
Just like what lay before Sanguinius now.
A living Rotten Corpse—truly existing before their eyes, existing in a place that could hardly be called a throne.
His small, emaciated body was curled in the middle of that so-called throne. The few withered muscles that remained had turned unbearably slick, and viscous fluid seeped from the gaps between bone and flesh.
The skin long since lost could clearly no longer serve to protect them. Nerves pulsed weakly, and judging by the broken chunks of flesh barely hanging from that skeletal body, his internal organs had clearly long since shriveled and weathered away as well.
The pungent stench of decay was masked by the lit holy candles, but Sanguinius could still smell it. He could also hear the monotonous beeping of instruments. Thick, complicated cables extended from beneath the Golden Throne and plugged into his ruined, decaying body, sustaining his life.
A man dying yet not dead.
A man lingering on his last breath.
+Ah, what a marvelous meeting this is. Mage, long time no see. I notice you have not come alone this time.+
The Rotten Corpse upon the throne vibrated the air with Psionic power, imitating the voice he had once possessed. There was even a hint of laughter in it.
He had not directly chosen to use Psionic