When his consciousness returned, Liu Zhipeng did not feel the usual disorientation of rebirth. Instead, a sharp pain from deep within his soul jolted him awake-it felt as though something was trying to scrape his soul out of his body, bit by bit, with a rusty spoon.
Damn it, which hell is it this time?
He cursed inwardly and tried to open his eyes.
A dizzying ceiling of interwoven emerald green and bone white greeted him. Intricate wraithbone structures twisted and screamed in his vision. A sickeningly sweet scent filled the air-the scent of Slaanesh.
Liu Zhipeng shuddered violently. He had a visceral revulsion toward that smell.
He tried to sit up, only to discover that he could not move.
Four female warriors in tight-fitting bone armor and towering helmets held his limbs in an iron grip. Their masks were pale skulls, and their red wigs hung down like blood.
Howling Banshees? Liu Zhipeng instantly recognized the troops. Wait, if Banshees are escorting me, then I'm...
He lowered his head and glanced at his body.
Slender, pale, and almost hairless, with skin as smooth as some pretty boy who did nothing but pamper himself. He was naked except for a silk loincloth covered in intricate runes, and vivid red ritual paint, like blood, marked his chest and forehead.
A profoundly ominous premonition shot straight through his skull.
"Young King..." An old, trembling voice sounded in front of him.
Liu Zhipeng lifted his head with difficulty.
Before him stood an enormous, heavy gate that seemed carved from a single slab of obsidian. An Aeldari Farseer in robes stood before it, holding a staff. Tears streaked her face, and her eyes were filled with despair and grim resolve.
"Craftworld Biel-Tan has reached its final hour." The Farseer's voice was choked with tears,