148 Interlude: Amid the Tides of Chaos

Malcador could smell a very distinct burning odor, but it wasn't the smell of raging flames burning Daemon's corpse, or the smell of Phosphex flames burning.

In reality, it was the smell of his own skin burning—his psychic powers were gradually spiraling out of control.

Witnessing a deity ascend to godhood has astonishing consequences. At first, it may seem subtle, but the full picture will soon emerge. If he dares to look down at his own palms, he will see layers of ashes reigniting under the intense heat.

The Sigillites suddenly thought of a lame joke.

Flames burn things to ashes, so what happens after the ashes burn?

A: Malcador.

He smiled, though not very clearly. His vision was still there, and his perception of reality remained, so the pain was ever-present. Needle-like pain surged from his mind, like waves crashing against the tide, never ceasing.

However, he didn't care and simply activated his spiritual energy again.

Someone far inside the remaining Webway gave a warning shout, but Malcador only responded with a single syllable.

Now, only he can do this.

When the gods go to the killing field, they will personally destroy hell.

When his lord is in power, he must hold his breath and forge ahead through the Chaos waves.

When everyone is fighting and dying—only the Sigillites Malcador can bring them more intelligence or information, can relay words between each other, and can bring commanders and soldiers back together.

Only he could bear the weight of the entire Imperium at this moment and become one of its cornerstones.

Once again, just like before, he stood side by side with the man clad in golden armor, gazing at the stars from the desolate continent of Terra.

"Let's start over," Malcador thought. He was still laughing, without stopping.

His thoughts began to rise, and psychic energy formed a protective shell, carrying him into the Great Ocean of the Thousand Sons, the terrifying nightmare of human stargazers, the place where countless wise men's dreams have been shattered over thousands of years.

He saw those horrific images again; this terrible ocean had never been friendly to him. The fury of the Warp transformed into a swarm of terrifying flies that attacked him, which Malcador chased away with an imaginary sleeve.

A venomous snake hissed at his feet, uttering his name and a curse.

"Malcador! You will die a horrible death!"

It annoyed him.

The Sigillites spared a bit of attention and quietly pressed it down in place—in the past, he certainly wouldn't have done such a superfluous thing, but now it was different; he had a strong sense of freedom.

This feeling of being relieved of the burden on his shoulders and regaining his lofty ambition rekindled the vitality that had been rare in his youth. With this precious energy, he continued to charge forward, and soon he saw his lord.

The Eurasia barbarian, crowned with laurels, weakly clutched his wounds, burning his power to preserve the last vestiges of Karyl Lohars's memories while simultaneously sending one of his deceased offspring to fight across golden waves of fire.

They saw each other. Malcador could even see his own reflection in his lord's eyes, which now seemed like glass—a young man in a white robe with calm, still eyes.

They exchanged brief greetings before parting ways.

No conversation is needed; everything can be explained clearly with just a single thought.

He rushed towards the golden heatwave, which harmed all the malevolent insects but showed no reaction to him, even appearing gentle. Meanwhile, the heroic spirits watched him drift by in astonishment, and only a few could barely recognize who this fleeting white Shadow was.

He drifted to the very front of the fire wave and soon found the fourteenth son of the Master of Mankind.

As always, a giant among giants. His armor hung on his body as if it had melted away, and Thunder lurked in a drifting dark cloud, dancing wildly behind him.

His face was hidden beneath a white hood, and his once withered white hair now possessed a pure color. He held a bright "Lantern" in one hand and a golden scythe in the other, reaping the lives of Daemon with abandon.

Before him, they could only flee, for this was not the mortal realm where one could obtain a false life. To be killed here meant certain death, with no further chance for rebirth.

"Mortarion."

With a sense of relief known only to himself, Malcador called upon the Lord of Death, who was engulfed in golden flames, in his true voice. The Lord responded immediately, but his voice sounded like a distant echo.

"How did you get here?" the dead demigod asked, a hint of sadness in his voice. "Could Terra have already—?"

"I've never seen you so emotional before." The Sigillites replied with a joke, quickly explaining without resorting to annoying riddles. "Terra is still here, and will always be. Your father sent me to find you."

He's injured.

Mortarion gripped his scythe tightly, his voice suddenly turning furious. Thunder rumbled, and the child who once lived in his father's shadow now possessed his own authority.

Throughout his life, he rebelled. Future generations may dismiss these rebellions as meaningless, but they all served as a testament to this moment. Every act of endurance, every arduous journey, every roar against evil on the brink of life and death.

Malcador smiled with relief.

"It's only temporary," he said. "He's the Emperor, after all."

Yes, this injury will heal someday. That's what Malcador thought to himself.

"I want to know about Terra," Mortarion said again. "Here, I can't see what's happening in reality, and my father doesn't talk to me either. He simply doesn't have the energy to talk to us."

"It's a situation that can't be explained in a few words, but we're still fighting," Malcador said. "And we will continue to fight until complete victory."

"Then so be it," the dead demigod said.

His voice formed a rolling thunderclap in the Chaos ocean, as dark clouds gathered.

The remnant souls are irrelevant now; quality is far more important than quantity. The most precious and upright qualities of the Primarch named Mortarion are all here. He is worthy of his name and worthy of anyone.

Malcador nodded in acknowledgment and then immediately departed. He was a messenger, and he still had many people to speak with.

For example, at this moment, he left the golden heatwave and the deep green putrid miasma, and arrived at a blood-red wasteland.

The wonders of the Warp are endless, but few are as violent as this. Under the gaze of the crimson sky, Malcador saw the person he was looking for, but that person did not see him. This was to be expected; some things, once taken away, can never be regained.

The blind Crimson King is smiling.

"It's you." He turned around amidst the carnage, his fists bloodied, the Daemon's corpse, torn in two, lying casually tossed aside. "Hello, Malcador."

"Hello, Magnus."

The Sigillites's greeting ended with a chorus of roars from the sky. He looked up and observed Magnus's enemy with the rules and habits of humanity.

They were a terrifying group of armored Daemon, enormous in size with tattered wings, yet possessing an aura that blotted out the sky, and they were by no means alone. Their numbers were so vast that it was almost despairing, but it only made Magnus's smile grow even more gentle.

The flames of anger vanished in an instant, and amidst the chorus of praise from the unjustly killed, Magnus raised his hands.

Behind him, two forces were locked in a fierce battle. One side was heavily armored and their faces were contorted with madness. The other side was equally mad, but appeared far colder. They didn't have many armed men, but each one could summon flames of fury.

Such a battle is terrifying, Malcador knows in his heart. Without external interference, these two forces could probably remain entangled until the end of time, even though there is no concept of time here.

But now he's more interested in what Magnus will do.

The answer didn't keep him waiting long.

Magnus began to recite the true names—the true names of the Daemon —in a way that transcended language.

This was certainly not knowledge he had unearthed in the past, but he stood with the wrongfully deceased. In the past, he had been one of the perpetrators, and now he had sworn to Vengeance them, so the wrongfully deceased rewarded him.

The bonds of hatred rise layer by layer in their burial ground, which belongs only to them, and begin to trace back endlessly in the Great Ocean until those names are transmitted back from a time that does not exist, and the murdered, with bloodshot eyes, tell the Vengeance the names of their perpetrators.

Once a true name was uttered, a magic array appeared in the sky. Although it could not fully exert its effect on the power of Chaos and their master, it could temporarily slow down their movement speed, and even their thinking speed.

This was more than enough for Magnus.

He lowered his hands, and a sudden burst of light shone behind his tightly closed eyes. Malcador heard a deep, resonant voice—a spell, from the distant past, from an era before the stars were discovered.

Then came the second, the third, the fourth—without stopping, spells based on Vengeance rage surged from the void. Magnus held nothing back, nor did he need to.

This is a place where hatred and Vengeance coexist; his power is virtually limitless, and his slaughter will never end.

However, a roar of disgust came from the sky, and a crimson eye that filled the entire sky stared down, filled with an insatiable thirst for blood and disgust for the spell Magnus had cast.

"Don't you like it?" the Crimson King asked. "Then come down here and fight me."

His words surprised the Sigillites, and also caused the evil god to mysteriously turn from anger to joy. In his roar, He generously bestowed a blessing, engraving it on the hem of Magnus's blood-stained robe.

"You've changed a lot, Magnus," the Sigillites said with emotion. "But you—"

"--One only grows through loss," Magnus replied calmly. "And I've almost lost everything, Malcador."

"Perhaps not all," Malcador replied cautiously. "You still have some descendants alive: Ahzek Ahriman, Iskandar Khayon, and Fusis Taka."

"I am no longer the Primarch the Thousand Sons, Magnus, Malcador." The Crimson King remained unmoved, only slowly clenching his fists.

"The person standing before you now is merely a Vengeance, a vessel for the Vengeance desires of the unjustly killed, an agent for their revenge."

He paused for a moment, then suddenly shook his head.

"You should leave," the former Fool said quietly in the killing field. "I heard the voice from Terra."

He gave a definitive judgment.

"Someone is calling for Vengeance, but that voice doesn't belong to the living; it sounds like Fulgrim's voice. But you and I both know that Fulgrim doesn't need to be called."

Malcador, and his vision returned to his body. He was proficient in many secret arts, and such a spell was nothing more than a piece of cake for him. He opened his eyes and saw Constantine Valdor.

"The Sigillites."

The Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal greeted him, his spear still gleaming, resting against his chest. His right hand, bent like charcoal, hung across his chest. Two planks and a tattered rag—such crude medical measures were applied to his body, which was quite strange.

"How long have I been gone?" Malcador slowly stood up, his body still aged, but the vitality he had regained had not disappeared.

"Sixty-five minutes," Valdor said. "I hate Mortarion numerology, but there are just too many coincidences."

The Sigillites looked at him in astonishment.

"What's wrong?" the Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal asked expressionlessly.

"You seem to have just made a joke."

Valdor shook his head, a subtle curve appearing on his lips. "His presence with us makes me feel whole."

"He's in the Webway," Malcador retorted. "What's wrong with you, Valdor?"

"I meant the link." The Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal tapped his temple with a hint of smugness, a gesture that surprised Malcador even more.

"You seem to have suddenly developed a strange optimism, Valdor."

"He revealed to me our destiny, our ultimate destiny."

The golden-armored guard slowly and mercilessly traced a terrifying smile across his face. Malcador knew that in the surrounding darkness, many more warriors from the Ten Thousand were exploring this place.

Terra has been altered; the Vengeful Spirit has seeped into the land, turning it into a living hell shrouded in darkness—and the Adeptus Custodes will not waver in the slightest.

"What destiny?" Malcador asked.

He already had the answer, but he still wanted to ask.

"Defend him, until we win for him!" Constantine Valdor proudly declared. "We will stand by his side, from beginning to end."

The Sigillites nodded, paused for a moment, and then suddenly uttered a joke, "Now you'll face even more hostility from his sons."

The leader of the Ten Thousand laughed heartily, a rare occurrence. He had long been broken, yet now he was whole again—and to make him whole, there was actually no price to pay; all he needed was for his lord to give him a mission.

The Sigillites closed his eyes again, connecting his thoughts to the sky.

There, an angel parted the clouds and descended upon hell.

Update complete, added 1k, will update to 9k when I wake up.