200 Terra (End)

Cole Fallon was the first to realize His death. 💚♝ 🐙💝

This happened extremely suddenly, but he was not surprised. The voices of the Dark Gods followed closely behind, surging in like the waves of the sea, endlessly crashing against his ears, one wave higher than the next.

They seemed more impatient than ever before. One command was often followed by more commands, some even contradictory and illogical. Others were simply incomprehensible, like this one, in which one of the gods asked him to summon Lorgar Aurelian again.

Cole Fallon couldn't understand the point. Horus was dead, and though he was so powerful, he couldn't escape the blade of Vengeance. So what was the use of inciting more death and starting another summoning ritual?

Could Lorgar Aurelian change all of this?

No, let's forget about it. There's no need to refer to that thing like that anymore.

Cole Fallon smiled.

Now that things have come to this, he is finally willing to be honest with himself. That wasn't Lorgar at all, at least not the Lorgar he knew.

He drew a ceremonial dagger from his belt, a gift from Erebus, his pale face inexplicably drenched in sweat. Around him, the elite of the Word Bearers were battling Ultramarines and War Hounds.

Their defeat was inevitable; Roboute Guilliman and Angron were locked in fierce combat. Even if the Dark Gods conjured up hundreds more Blessed Sons out of thin air, it would likely only delay their inevitable defeat for a short while.

The defeat was inevitable. Cole Fallon thought with a sigh of relief.

Then came a somewhat rebellious, even ridiculous, exclamation.

Finally, finally. He sighed.

He released his grip, tossed the ritual dagger to the ground, turned away without looking back, and issued the order to retreat via psionic voice. Few could hear him, and the Blessed Sons paid him no heed.

The power surging within them had obscured everything; these fanatical half-human, half-demon were already intoxicated with slaughter. Every drop of blood gave them immense pleasure, and every death brought them further blessings.

Blessing?

Cole Fallon stopped in his tracks.

Blessings? Ha. Blessings.

He sighed again—blessing?

Colchis's past flashed before his eyes: his youthful studies, his cunning, and his growing ambition.

The Fourth of Darkness knew him all along; they gave him strength, revelation, and authority, granting almost every request. But all these things were merely to get him involved in this drama.

They chose the actor, Lorgar, and then, through careful selection, they chose Colchis from the galaxy, and from Colchis, they chose Cole Fallon.

Their vision is beyond the reach of ordinary people, and their gifts are as cruel as their nature. The illusions glimpsed in the darkness, the power that flowed into his body like water, had all come at a price.

Cole Fallon stopped in his tracks.

Angron Tey stood before him, holding a bloodstained Power Sword.

This defied logic; a disintegrating force field was enough to destroy any blood splattered from a wound, and the Power Sword was such an elegant weapon. But the problem didn't stop there; there was also his armor. That iron-gray color was so familiar that Cole Fallon almost laughed.

"The destroyer of sacred images?" he asked.

"Yes." Angron Te nodded, then waved his right hand.

A sword pierced Cole Fallon's chest instantly. He turned slightly and saw Batusa Narek, one of the Word Bearers ' "traitors."

His face was completely distorted by hatred; every muscle was trembling slightly, and his eyes were bloodshot.

Cole Fallon exhaled a deep, deep breath of cold air, feeling his senses rapidly slipping away.

Batusa Narek showed him no mercy. Instead of twisting his wrist to hasten his death, he braced himself with his sword and slowly lifted Cole Fallon up, so that he could taste more pain under the constraints of gravity.

"You bastard!" Batusa roared.

Upon hearing this curse, Cole Fallon burst into laughter once again.

He coughed twice and replied in a low voice, "Are you crazy, Batusa?"

"You seem quite at ease with your own death." Angron Tei walked slowly towards him, his face calm.

Compared to Batusa Narek's violence and madness, this calmness made Cole Fallon feel a vague unease. So he didn't answer the question.

Angron Tai nodded, seemingly understanding something from his silence. He raised his right hand again, and Batusa let out a low growl full of threat and reluctance from his throat, but in the golden light shining between the Aurelian's Sons's brows, he lowered his sword.

Cole Fallon fell to the ground in a sorry state, completely powerless to resist.

The gods were angered by his weakness and his decision to abandon the ritual dagger and retreat; their blessings were rapidly fading away.

It's important to understand that Cole Fallon never truly completed the Astartes transformation; he was a defective product. Now, the bitter consequences of age and the loss of his blessing are fully manifesting in his body.

In just a few seconds, his face began to age rapidly, even resembling a mummy.

Angron Tei slowly crouched down and met his gaze. After half a minute, he came to a conclusion.

He spoke with unwavering certainty, "You want to die."

"He deserves to die!"

"I'm on fire," Batusa said vehemently, pacing anxiously to the side. His sword trembled incessantly in his hand.

Angron didn't look at him. He remained staring at Cole Fallon, even reaching out to place his hand on his neck, feeling his life slip away.

"Death is a relief for you, isn't it?" Aurelian's loyal heir suddenly laughed. "I understand. You're a pathetic monster, Cole Fallon."

"You can neither succumb to darkness completely, nor choose to run towards the light like us. Even when you joined the Legion, I knew your presence would corrupt our discipline. Now it seems my premonition was correct."

Cole Fallon coughed up blood, half of his face was buried in the blood and flesh, and he was barely breathing, yet he stared intently at Angron Te.

"Kill me," he said with difficulty. "Don't I deserve to be killed as a traitor?"

Angron Tei slowly stood up, tilting his head back to look at the dissipating darkness above the Lupercal Court.

The cacophony of Daemon screams followed, and the tide of the undead finally began to recede as they fled back into the Warp, lest they fall behind. Only the traitors remained, desperately putting up a last-ditch resistance.

One battle cry after another reached his ears, causing the smile on his face to grow wider and wider.

At that moment, Cole Fallon raised his hand and grabbed his right leg.

"Kill me."

With longing in his eyes, he somehow mustered the strength to kneel up, leaning on Angron Tei. He gasped for breath like a broken bellows and turned to look at Batusa Narek.

"Kill me," he demanded again.

Batusa Narek raised his sword with a trembling eye.

Angron Tey shook his head again.

He lifted his leg and walked in another direction. Cole Fallon, unwilling to fight, was dragged along by him in a sorry state. Angron Tai stopped after a dozen steps, bent down, and picked up a jet-black dagger from the pool of blood.

It appeared to be made of polished stone, with a dull and lifeless blade that showed no signs of its magic.

Cole Fallon coughed and fell to the ground.

Angron Tey turned around and stared at him.

"To die like this is too easy for you, do you understand?" he said slowly. "There's something you don't know, but Erebus once stabbed me in the forehead with a similar dagger."

He touched his brow with his left hand.

Cole Fallon slowly raised his head, looking at him with eyes full of despair.

"Yes, I know what this thing is," Angron Te said.

He gripped the dagger tightly, then hissed out a word in the Nostraman he had learned.

"Vengeance."

He threw the dagger.

Its thin, cicada-wing-like tip pierced Cole Fallon's forehead in an instant, the immense force sending him flying backward and pinning him firmly to the ground. A vortex appeared behind his head, swallowing a massive amount of fresh blood.

A phantom Shadow vaguely appeared from the decaying body, screaming incessantly with despair on its face, before disappearing into the vortex.

"What did you do?" Batusa Narek asked.

"I have cast him into an eternal nightmare," said the Aurelian's Sons.

Having avenged his great grudge, he felt no joy; his eyes were filled with sorrow as they departed. Unbeknownst to them, something else had left Terra along with the vortex.

--

The darkness is fading.

Malcador gripped his scepter, looked around, and then came to this conclusion.

His body was reaching new heights under the influence of his will, and when he resolved to use his power without hesitation, the psychic energy rewarded him generously.

For some reason, the Sigillites even sensed a hidden resentment in them—why didn't you do this sooner? Why did you keep restraining yourself?

He was too lazy to answer, and too lazy to care how much younger he actually was.

For Perpetual, age is never a significant number. However, he does indeed prefer the appearance of an old man, as it offers many hidden advantages in his work. And if, under the influence of psychic energy, his appearance were to revert to that of a young man...

The temples of the Sigillites the seal began to throb. He was truly unsure whether his youthful appearance could intimidate the endless stream of fools over the next ten thousand years.

You're worrying about something trivial.

Malcador coldly glanced back at the person who was sending him messages through psychic energy, then gripped his scepter and descended from the mountain of corpses he had created. An Adeptus Custodes approached; it was Ra Ra Endymion, Malcador recognized at a glance.

"The lord said slowly, leaning on a long spear, 'He wishes you to come and speak with him.'"

"Why doesn't he come over?" Malcador asked.

La raised his head, as if sighing, "I beg you to reconsider, my lord."

"No, I won't go there now," the Sigillites said. Then, he suddenly looked away and gazed in another direction.

The veins on his hands bulged at that moment, and a faint blue light burst forth from deep within his bones, causing the scepter's Radiance to surge once more.

La frowned, becoming wary—could some Daemon still dare to act recklessly at this moment? That shouldn't be the case; they should have fled as far away as possible long ago.

What happened?

He turned his head and looked in the direction Malcador was looking, and then his question was instantly answered.

As all sounds faded away, an absolute darkness, far surpassing the previous levels of darkness, enveloped Ra's vision. It devoured everything, and Ra even felt her soul dissolving. If the darkness hadn't stopped, Ra would probably have died completely in that instant.

However, even so, he paid a considerable price. The tribunal bent over unbearably, feeling as if his internal organs were being burned by some kind of cold flame.

Then, his inner hatred erupted—the intense resentment that had once been soothed was now roaring once more.

He immediately understood who was standing in front of him.

The tribunal bowed deeply in respect.

"Are you alright?" Malcador asked hoarsely.

A deep darkness stirred, and a gentle breeze carried a whisper, unlike any other language, to his and Ra's ears.

"Not good, but not bad either," He said. "I can probably continue to exist for a little longer, which is enough for me to finish everything."

Malcador was silent for a moment, then a roar, unlike anything he had ever heard before, suddenly erupted from his thin body. His voice was so loud that even La felt a pain in her eardrums.

"What else do you want?!" Malcador demanded sharply. "Damn it, Karyl Lohars! Why can't you just sit down and enjoy a moment of peace?"

There was no reply from the darkness, but another gentle breeze blew by, bringing a smile to the face.

"Because many more people have not yet found peace."

The Sigillites remained silent. After a few seconds, he raised the scepter in his hand, which felt as heavy as a thousand pounds. It crashed to the ground with a loud bang, and psionic light roared and erupted. When Ra opened his eyes again, he found himself in a dark and enormous cave.

He had never been here before, but he wasn't surprised. All his questions were answered when he saw the Throne, and besides, he wasn't the only one here.

Many people are here— Astartes, mortals, and Primarch. Whether it was her imagination or not, Ra even saw some illusory, golden figures in the darkness that shouldn't exist.

Of course, the Emperor is here too.

Silence reigned, and no one spoke. The Sigillites Malcador, raised his scepter high. The Aquila emblem at the top of the scepter burned brightly, illuminating every corner of the darkness.

People looked at each other, and Ra was among them. He recognized many people, such as the Primarch, and his Marshal, Constantine Valdor.

The Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal looked no different from before, but for some reason, La felt that he was completely different.

Time passed slowly, and people remained silent, simply waiting. After a while, in the Radiance of the flames, a man draped in a white linen robe appeared.

His chest was covered in blood, the shocking emptiness clearly visible beneath his robes. He wore a laurel wreath, his face was pale, but his expression was calm.

He slowly walked to the Throne and sat down.

At that moment, a sound rolled in from a very distant place, like thunder, like a roar.

Keep your eyes glued to that Throne.

Its surface is rough, like an unpolished cobblestone, and without any carvings. In fact, calling it Throne would be an exaggeration; if it weren't destined to bear the weight of the Emperor, it would simply be a giant stone chair.

The Emperor raised his head and looked at the crowd. His gaze did not fall on any one place, yet everyone could feel his gaze. That gaze was warm and powerful, like the warm sun in winter or the bonfire in the middle of the night.

After a while, he slowly opened his mouth, completely ignoring the blood still flowing from his chest.

"We've won," he said.

There was no response from the crowd. Someone was crying. La didn't look to see who it was, but just silently recited her vow, trying to stop her tears.

"But this does not mean we are stepping into the light," the Master of Mankind continued firmly. "Humanity's future has brightened somewhat, thanks to countless sacrifices and bloodshed, that we have survived this catastrophe."

"However, the darkness will not let us off so easily. It will inevitably strike again; it is that kind of thing, forever hungry and waiting in the darkness. In fact..."

He paused for a moment before continuing.

"They are already doing that."

Malcador stepped forward, and the face beneath the hood seemed to have transformed back into that of a middle-aged man. His arms were no longer withered, and he once again raised his scepter high.

The Sigillites spoke solemnly, "They have unleashed a catastrophe that has engulfed the entire galaxy, my valiant and loyal subjects. We do not know when it began, nor do we know when it will end."

A flash of psychic Radiance appeared in his eyes, and a dim star map was projected into the air. Almost everyone present knew how to read a star map, and even those who didn't could discern something from the patches of darkness.

"The power of Chaos has torn apart the Veil of reality. Only the situation in the Sol System is slightly better; as for other places, they are probably already plunged into darkness."

"The only thing we are certain of is that in this long, dark night that has shrouded the Imperium, there are other loyalists fighting to the death. We will not stand idly by; we will spare no effort to prove to those lowly, lifeless, and shameful traitors that the will and Radiance of humanity will not be so easily destroyed by their despicable means."

"When does it begin?" one of the people in the crowd asked. He was tall, and his faded bright yellow armor was stained with blood.

The Sigillites fell silent and took a step back. The man on the Throne raised his head and looked at Rogal Dorn, a rare smile appearing on his face that even shocked Ra.

"Don't rush, Rogal," said the Master of Mankind. "These things will be accomplished one by one. Everything must be done one step at a time; you can't be impatient. You're an architect; you know this better than anyone, don't you?"

Dorn nodded silently, his face taut and trembling.

"Perturabo," The Emperor spoke again, calling upon his other son.

The Lord of Iron strode out of the crowd, his Warhammer twisted and deformed, held in his hand. He was expressionless, as if beneath his battered armor lay another piece of steel, not a human.

"I'm here," he said. "I'm here, Father."

"I hope you can cooperate with Rogal," The Emperor said, already looking somewhat exhausted. Blood continued to flow from his chest, creating a pool of blood at his feet that would soon spread.

"I've already worked with him," Perturabo said.

"Yes, I know, my son," The Emperor replied.

He seemed to have a lot to say, but couldn't utter a single word. He looked at Perturabo, and in the end, he could only let out a sigh.

The complexity involved was all too obvious. The Lord of Iron lowered his head deeply and rubbed his chest with his left hand. A steel flower was faintly visible between his fingers.

"However, this is a completely new responsibility," The Emperor said. "I want you to join forces with Rogal, using Terra as a base, to deploy defenses along the Sol System, turning every planet into a fortress."

Perturabo turned to look at Rogal Dorn, who reached out and pounded his chest.

So he turned to his father and said, "I understand. Rogal and I will make the Sol System the strongest fortress."

The Emperor smiled again, a mixture of pain and amusement on his face. He had been holding back his tears for a long time, but now he could no longer bear it.

The tribunal lowered his head, tears streaming down his dark face. In all the world, only one person could cause an Adeptus Custodes such grief. He silently urged his lord to rest and do what a sick man should do.

"He has his own will," Constantine Valdor said.

He looked up and found the Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal staring intently at him. His expression was extremely calm, showing no sadness, only a heavy solemnity.

"But"

"No need for further words, Lavaldo." He patted Valdor on the shoulder. "He's a captain, working hard to ensure our ship survives the coming storm. We are his sailors, and we should obey his orders to hoist the sails or prepare the cannons."

As they spoke in hushed tones, the Emperor called out again.

"Lion, please come here."

The Lion El'Jonson of Caliban walked on without a word to his father's rough throne, knelt on one knee, and buried his head deeply in his father's blood.

"I'm too late, Father," Lion El-Jonson said gravely. "I was tied up in a trivial conspiracy. If I had returned at the start of the war, things wouldn't have turned out this way."

"That's not true, Lion," The Emperor replied nonchalantly. "You've given enough, but I have new responsibilities for you. And you, Ferrus, too. Please come here."

Ferrus Manus clenched his fists and stepped out of the crowd. He looked straight ahead and slowly walked behind the Lion El'Jonson, not kneeling, but merely bowing his head. However, neither the Emperor nor the Lion El'Jonson cared about this.

"Your homelands are very close, therefore, I want you to join forces and return to the Misty Sector in the name of the Imperium."

"And then, Father?" the Lion El'Jonson asked, looking up.

Ferrus Manus asked the same question with his eyes.

"And then everything will return to normal," the Master of Mankind said calmly. "Let the enemies die, reward the loyal, that's all. In the process, you will inevitably encounter countless dangers, but I firmly believe that you will overcome them all safely."

The Lion El'Jonson rose, touched his forehead with his spear, and silently received the command. Ferrus Manus nodded to him, and together they walked back into the crowd, choosing a corner where they began to speak in hushed tones.

The expedition hadn't even begun, yet they were already deeply involved. For some reason, Ra felt he could vaguely sense their feelings at that moment.

Perhaps it wasn't just because they still harbored hatred and wanted to vent it on the darkness. Perhaps it was simply because they dared not and did not want to look at their father's pale face again.

"Fulgrim, Jaghatai, Vulkan— " the Master of Mankind called out three names in one breath. "--I don't want to do this, but please come closer, okay? I can't see clearly."

The Lord of Drakes strode forward and arrived at the foot of his father's Throne. His armor, already charred and melted, hung cruelly on his tall body.

Fulgrim followed closely behind, walking slowly, and with each step, the shadowy cloak behind him billowed.

Known for his speed, the Eagle of Chogoris was the last to arrive. His beard was unkempt, his face tired, but his eyes shone brightly.

He was the last to respond, but also the first to speak.

"Father." The Khan paused briefly, slowly exhaling a breath of stale air. "I roughly understand what you want us to do. Chemos, Chogoris, and Nocturne are not far from each other, but more than that, I am worried about you."

"What are you worried about, Jaghatai?"

"Your condition," Khan replied briefly. "What kind of injury could have left you so weak?"

The Emperor smiled but did not answer, only nodding approvingly at him before looking at Fulgrim.

"Come here, Fulgrim," he called affectionately, beckoning to the phoenix. "Closer, please? I want to take a good look at you."

The man from Chemos trembled for some reason. He walked step by step to the Throne, bowed his head, and presented his still unbroken face to his father's powerless right hand.

The Master of Mankind sighed involuntarily, placing his hand on Fulgrim's cheek and patting it gently.

A warm power emanated from between his fingers, and Radiance shone forth. The shadow behind the phoenix began to fade away little by little, making it difficult for everyone to see what was happening.

When the Radiance faded, they found Phoenix kneeling at his father's feet, weeping uncontrollably. His hair was still grayish-white, but the shadows behind it had disappeared, and his broken face had completely healed, without a single crack remaining.

"This is all I can do," a father said regretfully to his son. "I can't help it, Fulgrim, I'm so sorry to have to put you through this."

The man from Chemos was unable to utter a word, but simply gripped his right hand, tears streaming down his face, creating ripples in the pool of blood.

The Emperor raised his left hand and beckoned to his other son, Vulkan, who stepped forward and took the phoenix away. They stood side by side beneath the Throne, awaiting their father's words, not commands.

At least in this moment, he was more like a father than a ruthless the Emperor.

"Jaghatai, you've already guessed my thoughts. Yes, this is the mission I'm giving you. Once upon a time, you were scattered among the stars, completely unaware of the existence of the Imperium and Terra. Now, I want you to set off from Terra anew, return to your homeland, and save them, my sons. But don't be like me; I'm not a very qualified savior."

"Father," Vulkan called softly.

"What is it, my blacksmith?"

You've done enough.

"Look at you, Vulkan," The Emperor gasped, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "Ah."

He looked up at the top of the cave. The firelight from Malcador's scepter danced on it, illuminating many of the murals.

The brushstrokes are rough; coal ash leaves behind images of human collective hunting on the grayish-white stone walls, one after another, resembling the evolutionary history of a tribe.

One painting in particular is striking: a tall, primitive man fighting alone in the darkness, holding a spear in his left hand and a torch in his right. Even in the abstract brushstrokes, his angry eyes seem to burn.

He glared angrily at the darkness, shielding the others behind him.

"I'm not a protector." He lowered his head wearily. "Roboute, Angron, Corax, please—"

Before he could finish speaking, a mouthful of blood suddenly gushed from his throat, eliciting gasps of alarm. The Sigillites, however, tapped his scepter, signaling them not to panic. Watching this scene, La felt as if an immense weight had been placed upon his heart.

Until Constantine Valdor's voice resonated from the depths of his heart through some kind of connection.

Stay calm, pull.

+Marshal?+

Valdor tilted his head slightly and nodded to him. "He had already foreseen everything. You don't need to panic. You all are."

His thoughts were passed from one link to the next in the chain, progressing step by step, reaching the heart of every Adeptus Custodes.

"Please come here," the Master of Mankind said reluctantly.

Almost instantly, Kolus Corax vanished from the shadows and reappeared before his father. The one-armed Nuceria walked past silently, his steps heavy. Roboute Guilliman's eyes were blazing white, his cheeks were taut, his jaw muscles were clenched, and his teeth were chattering.

"I'd like to start with a less serious joke, but it doesn't quite sound like one," The Emperor said, coughing as more and more blood oozed from between his lips.

"What do you want to say?" the Lord of the Deliverance asked softly. At this moment, he sounded almost indistinguishable from one of his brothers.

"It's just a lame joke, my son." The Emperor swallowed a mouthful of blood and looked down at them.

His gaze was so sorrowful, so remorseful, yet it also contained an unprecedentedly intense pride. He gazed at them silently, and they gazed back. At least ten thousand words were unspoken in this exchange.

Roboute Guilliman stepped forward.

"I should stay in Terra, Father," he said through gritted teeth. "The coordination of your plans, and the planning of various supplies and personnel, is a task that perhaps only I can handle. Therefore, if you want me to return to the Five Hundred Worlds, I'm afraid I must refuse."

"Roboute," Angron said softly, his one arm already draped over his brother's shoulder. "Let's hear what he has to say."

"Sigh," The Emperor sighed. "I didn't intend for you to make such a difficult choice, Roboute."

"It's not difficult!" Roboute Guilliman exclaimed.

"But it seems very difficult to me." The Emperor looked at him, gold meeting blazing white. The Master of Mankind smiled slightly. "Alright, answer me a question, Roboute. You swore an oath to be the protector of humanity; is that oath still valid?"

"Until I die, until my body and soul perish," Roboute Guilliman answered without hesitation.

"Then you should return," said the Master of Mankind. "The people of the Five Hundred Worlds yearn for you to be their blade, their shield."

"But--"

"--No buts, Roboute," the Master of Mankind said firmly. "Every act of salvation has its purpose, and life is neither superior nor inferior. I do not want to see you sacrifice those lives for this work. If I asked you to do so, you would not forgive yourself, and I would not forgive myself."

The Sons of Macragge bowed his head deeply, unable to utter another word.

"Angron."

"I am here, Father." The son of the mountains stepped forward.

The Emperor stared at him silently. After a few seconds, Angron suddenly smiled. The smile was so clear, so serene, without a trace of pain or impurity.

"I understand, Father," he said, his smile unwavering. "They have never disappeared; they are always with me."

He took a step back and gently pushed Kolaus Corax forward. The Lord of the Ravens looked up at his dying father, his dark eyes concealing most of his emotions, only his clenched fists offering a glimpse into his heart.

The Emperor looked at him, a second passed, then two seconds, and suddenly asked, "Is dried eel delicious?"

Corax was stunned. After a moment, he nodded. "It's delicious."

"May I try some?" The Emperor asked. "I have never eaten this kind of food before."

Kolus Corax pursed his lips, reached for the small silver pouch at his waist, then stepped onto the Throne, picked out a large piece of jerky, and offered it to his father's lips. The Emperor opened his mouth and gently bit off a piece. He chewed several times, a smile creeping onto his face.

"It's delicious!"

He swallowed it, then lowered his head.

The Sigillites strikes the scepter.

"Leave," he said. "Go do what you should be doing."

A flash of blue light, and the crowd vanished, plunging the cave into silence. Malcador extinguished the fire, picked up his scepter, slowly descended from the Throne, and sat wearily on the lowest step.

Behind him, the Throne in the darkness was slowly deforming. Some incomprehensible machinery spontaneously moved out from beneath the stone seat and connected to the Emperor's body. He still hung his head, silent, as still as if dead, blood meandering down, spreading in the darkness.

Malcador lowered his head, silently counting his heartbeats, waiting patiently. He didn't know how much time had passed when footsteps echoed from the end of the cave.

The Sigillites raised his head.

"I brought him back and lifted the curse," Karyl said, slowly lowering the angel from his arms. "But he was badly injured."

"But it can still be healed," said the Sigillites. He lowered his head and touched the warmth of the angel's cheek.

With a flash of blue light, the Baal, still unconscious, vanished. Malcador used his power to send him to his offspring. The curse was lifted, and with the Primarch's own regenerative abilities, he could overcome death.

Malcador believed him, but

He raised his head again, looking at the deity shrouded in ferocious armor, his vision blurring in waves. He couldn't look directly at the deity; the deity was punishing his disrespect with pain.

This was not Karyl's intention, and he gave an apologetic smile. The Sigillites did not accept it, but stubbornly raised his head and looked directly at his friend.

"You said you had a way to get them to leave," Malcador a low voice. "How are you going to do that?"

"It's not difficult."

Karyl smiled and answered, raising his right hand, a golden light emanating from between his fingers.

"Last chance, remember?" He winked at the Sigillites. "I've stayed until now; I can defy authority one last time."

In the silence, Malcador raised his scepter, stood up, passed the giant, and walked away towards the cave entrance.

"Malcador," Karyl called out to him.

"What?" the Sigillites asked, his back to him.

"You must become the hero I can never be," Karyl said.

Malcador did not answer and continued walking.

Karyl chuckled softly, the sound carrying far and wide enough for the Sigillites, who was walking alone in the darkness, to hear clearly. He walked a long way before slowly stopping, reaching out to steady himself against the rock wall, as if he had lost the strength to walk.

Five seconds later, he heard the sound of a sharp blade entering flesh.

"You are already a hero, Karyl Lohars," Malcador said.

A wave of extreme darkness rushed towards him from behind, revealing the body of a god. A golden skeleton, ethereal as a soul, was coiled around its back. Golden tears streamed from its empty eye sockets.

The Sigillites the seal strained with all his might to see, but could only glimpse a tiny shadow in the absolute darkness. He could only remain there, leaning against the rock wall, watching his friends slowly disappear into the distance. He gripped the scepter tightly, and tears finally streamed down his face.

"No more than ten thousand years!" he suddenly shouted into the darkness.

The sound continued to spread in the darkness, echoing between the rock walls. It was like a declaration, a roar, a person's sullen anger towards a friend, and also a promise.

No, that was a promise.

But only ten thousand years, but only ten thousand years