Blood Sacrifice to What God

The moment the helmet dropped, Doom focused his mind, and the world in his eyes became unlike that of any ordinary person—time slowed to a crawl, as if the surroundings were submerged in a viscous liquid.

The wide-open maw of the Special Ops Boy, the number of muscles engaged in its raised fist, the rapid acceleration of its heartbeat during extreme excitement, and the blood surging quickly through its veins.

Everything, every single detail, fell into Doom's perception.

The way the orc's back twisted as it roared and charged, how its next move would be executed—it was all predicted.

Even as the orc took its first step, Doom already knew how it would attack him.

The description of a "split second" is vague; to be precise, within a single nanosecond, Doom's mind had already processed thousands of thoughts.

In the instant light could travel only 30 centimeters, Doom's mind had already deduced thousands of ways to kill.

Yet, he still chose "one punch and one kick," using the agreed-upon method to slay the greenskin and fulfill the promise between father and son.

The sound of the orc's roar gradually rose, stretching infinitely in Doom's ears; it held its fist high, ready to smash down!

Doom even saw the look in the caged orc's eyes shift from delight to fanaticism, eager to see blood spurt like a fountain, preparing to cheer for victory.

End the orc with one punch and one kick!

He wore a serious expression, precisely calculating the attack distance. The orc was twice his height, and the reach advantage provided by its arm span could not be ignored.

No matter how fast his mind was, his body still had limits. Doom was clear on his body's reaction speed and knew where the limits of his movements lay.

His own body was still developing; while his movements were faster than the orc's, they weren't faster by much.

As both sides approached the limit of their range, Doom cast a cold smirk at the ecstatic orc, then crouched down the moment the creature was caught off guard.

Sweep!

Doom dropped quickly, using his right leg as a pivot, and swept his left leg out with force!

Compared to its developed and powerful upper limbs, the orc's lower limbs were short and relatively fragile. It was precisely because Doom had discerned this weakness that he launched such a fierce counterattack!

"Boy! Die!" The Special Ops Boy roared as it smashed its fist down, a blow heavy with power, enough to shatter bones and snap tendons.

"Crack!"

The response to its roar was the crisp sound of bone colliding with bone, the sharp noise of a fracture.

"Whoosh!" The Night Watchers all stood up; they had clearly witnessed the breathtaking counterattack.

Doom had prevailed in the head-on collision; his left leg swept through, snapping the tibia with a kick and causing the orc to lose its balance.

In the next instant, the boy's agile body rotated with the sweep, and he clenched his left fist, accumulating rotational kinetic energy.

"Die!!!"

The clear roar contained a heart full of rage; Doom's shout was like that of a young tiger, shaking the soul!

The pain in the Special Ops Boy's leg had not yet reached its brain; its pain receptors had not yet reacted, and it did not even know its leg had been cleanly snapped.

When it realized it had lost its balance, a small but tightly clenched, equally lethal iron fist struck it square in the face!

Then, everything went black, and it lost consciousness.

One punch caused the orc's cheek to cave in, and the remaining momentum of the iron fist drove straight through, bursting out from the back of the Special Ops Boy's head.

Brains exploded, blood sprayed! With a single iron fist, Doom completely finished off this savage beast.

One kick and one punch! One punch and one kick!

Doom stood tall and unmoving, while the orc that had been certain of victory a second ago now had its head punched through, its broken body hanging from his arm, limbs twitching in spasms.

"Cool!!!!"

The orcs screamed like madmen, dancing wildly in their cages, clutching their heads and letting out incredible cheers.

They didn't care who lived; they only cheered for the victor. Doom had performed a spectacular fight for them, making the orcs' blood boil.

"Brilliant!"

The Night Watchers were applauding. It was a deathmatch with a massive disparity in size, yet the side at an absolute disadvantage had won.

Doom had proven with facts that his words were no empty boast, ending the battle in less than a second.

His moves were sharp, defeating the enemy in one strike, showing clear situational awareness and near-perfect execution.

The orcs were screaming, and the Night Watchers were cheering.

But at this very moment, Doom could hear and see nothing. The scene before him was still the arena, but everything was frozen; time was no longer flowing.

In the instant of the kill, as the orc's life ebbed away and its scalding blood flowed out, the world stood still...

The reality of the scene was like a curtain being drawn, gradually becoming as illusory and ethereal as a reflection in a mirror.

Looking down at his arm, the corpse of the dead orc vanished, with no trace left to indicate it had ever existed.

As his vision went black, Doom lost all external sensation—a situation that had never happened before.

He was like a blind and deaf man, unable to sense anything in the darkness without distance, not even knowing if his eyes were open or closed.

Accompanied by a strong, fishy stench of blood, Doom suddenly "opened his eyes," and the strange sight he beheld left him greatly shocked.

Across an endless wasteland, the sky burned eternally. There was no soil or grass on the ground; the undulating hills and plains were entirely composed of jagged, blood-red rocks. The streams that meandered from afar flowed with scalding magma and sulfur.

Doom lowered his head again, seeing white, bleached skulls piled beneath his feet. There were human ones, orcish ones; some he recognized, others he did not, all layered and stacked into a hill of bone.

In a place unseen by Doom, within the Warp behind the veil of reality, the wills of the Four Chaos Gods converged at the intersection of their realms.

In the rift between reality and illusion, a fragile, blood-red world floated and sank within the claws of Khorne, teetering on the brink of shattering at any moment.

Nurgle hurriedly exhaled a breath of foul air, bestowing immortal life upon the broken world to maintain the stability of this illusory realm.

Khorne carefully nurtured the world in his palm, the dark god feeling a rare sense of tension: "The purity of a first kill is exquisite. When blood flows and the echoes of violence and strife resound, I paid a great price to pull his soul from the material universe and into this rift between reality and the Empyrean."

"Even after his soul became human, it retained its self-preservation; our edicts are difficult to reach his ears."

"There is only one chance, and we must be swift. His essence resists the power of the Empyrean; it will not be long before he returns to the material universe."

Doom stood atop the hill of skulls and gazed into the distance, seeing nothing but the Blood-Colored Wasteland, when suddenly, a searing heat flared in his chest.

Looking down, he saw the birthmark of red light glowing faintly, as if some existence had activated it.

Doom knew nothing of the origin of the mark on his chest, nor its specific meaning or purpose. He had no way of knowing what entity had triggered it.

"Doom~"

At that moment, a call came from behind him.

The voice was layered and ethereal, like the echo of several different sounds blended together.

Doom turned, astonished to find that the barren, scorching Blood-Colored Wasteland had completely transformed.

Four colossal chairs appeared out of thin air, reaching from the earth to the heavens, magnificent and immense.

The first seat was pale blue, reflecting iridescent auroras; its seat and backrest were composed of twisting vortices, its form shifting incessantly.

There were no constants, no certainties.

The second seat was primitive and simple, cast from brass-drenched skulls; the ancient brass skulls constantly oozed blood, brimming with violent conflict.

Blood and brass, violence and conflict.

The third seat was a shade of indescribable, deathly green. Roots and moss coiled around its armrests, and the seat bubbled and festered with pustules, acne, and tumor-like cysts, dripping with jaundice-colored pus.

Decaying yet vibrant, full of life yet utterly putrid.

The fourth seat radiated a seductive, purple aura, crafted from smooth, delicate, and supple soft flesh. The armrests were formed of fragrant, soft red lips, arms extended from the backrest, and reliefs symbolizing secret organs were visible everywhere, the entire chair emitting an alluring scent.

The lines outlined indulgence; behind the extravagance lay depravity.

An ordinary person seeing these four chairs, symbols of original sin, would surely fall into madness, gradually sinking into corruption.

Doom, however, remained unmoved, merely finding the chairs ostentatious, like animals flaunting their own beautiful plumage.

"You need only recite the incantation."

Though no figures were visible on the chairs, the voice that issued forth was deafening: "Serve us, and we shall grant you the power to conquer eternity!"

Doom stared at the array of bizarre chairs, his brows knitting into a deep furrow. Everything he was witnessing now lay far beyond the scope of his entire existence.

"What incantation? Can I leave this place?"

Serve whom? Obtain what power? Doom had no interest in any of it; he only wanted to leave this inexplicable place as quickly as possible.

The Four Chaos Gods behind the veil were pleasantly surprised. They had not expected things to go so smoothly—was the most mysterious Primarch about to be theirs?

"You can leave; you need only recite with us: Serve... the Gods..."

The voices of the Four Chaos Gods were unified and harmonious, inducing Doom to recite the incantation and serve them together.

"Serve..." Doom chanted the first two syllables, drawing out the tone as he prepared to utter the final two.

"Blood for the... God!"

"Change for the...!"

"Prince of...!"

"Decay for the...!"

Suddenly, the harmonious voices scattered, splitting into distinct sounds, each symbolizing a different meaning, and the four chairs vanished instantly.

The unified, harmonious language fell to pieces. The four voices began to express different intentions, yet a certain interference existed, making it difficult to fully articulate.

"Blood for what god?" Doom stood stunned for a long time, staring at the space where the seats had vanished.