157: They Gradually Walked Toward That Year

"I felt somewhat uneasy."

Abaddon said truthfully.

Before him, a bizarre magic circle flickered. The Chaos Space Marine in deep-blue armor held up his battleaxe, crimson light dancing across the Egyptian-style ornament atop his helmet.

"That is its nature."

The caster Khayon said, his hands swaying at an uncanny speed. Abaddon had not even seen how Khayon had flung out those tarot cards, but now they floated and spun around him, burning with bloody light and making the atmosphere even stranger.

"Any war involving it, or the Cult of the Underworld under its command, makes us feel unease and hesitation. I call it the gaze of hell."

"But it is not truly looking at us."

Abaddon said, expressionless as he tried his best not to reveal the unease in his heart.

"Unfortunately,"

Khayon drew upon Psychic Power from the blood pool. He did not particularly reject them, because when the Imperium had come to arrest the Thousand Sons still at large years ago, an Alpha Legionnaire he knew had helped him escape.

"I cannot be certain of that—it possesses sufficiently strange power. In the minds of some Psykers, the moment you touch upon its concept, you have already been noticed."

"It is not that it watches us. Rather, our gaze toward it causes us to be watched in return—in the Cult of the Underworld's propaganda, it is precisely its mercy that makes it indiscriminately return every gaze. Ridiculous. Should it not be greed?"

"Then could it not know our plans?"

Abaddon sneered. Khayon fell silent for a moment before speaking again.

"Relax—perhaps what makes you uneasy does not come from it? Are you planning to go to Baal in person this time?"

Khayon's change of subject only made Abaddon more suspicious, but he did not show it.

"Depends."

He said,