My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 485: The Audience Beneath the Stage Reaches Out
Humanity.
Across the vast river of history, mankind was not truly the sole master of the galaxy.
The Old Ones, who had vanished without trace.
The Necrons, who underwent biotransference and entered their endless sleep.
The C'tan, gods of the material universe who once fed upon stars and souls.
The Orks and the Aeldari, races created by the Old Ones for war against the Necrontyr.
Each of these civilizations had once painted bold and unforgettable strokes across the flowing galaxy.
But as time passed, those races that had once unified the stars departed. Some disappeared. Some fell silent. Some lay dormant.
And younger species, bewildered and newly born, stepped forth from their homeworlds and once more set sail upon the sea of stars.
Humanity was one such race.
And it succeeded in becoming the galaxy's new master.
Yet those ancient powers that had hidden themselves, that had fallen silent—they had never truly vanished.
To the cruel material universe, time eventually erased all things. Humanity's prosperity might itself be no more than a fleeting wave within the endless river of ages.
But within the treacherous Warp, time did not truly exist.
The War in Heaven between the Old Ones and the Necrontyr had shattered the Immaterium itself. The empyrean heavens had not always been as chaotic as they were now.
But after that divine war, everything changed forever.
Upon the eight-pointed wheel of Chaos, four gods seized authority.
The gods existed.
And continued to exist.
Their existence transcended time itself—eternal in a single thought.
For those once-glorious races now hidden throughout the galaxy, waiting for new opportunities, the Warp remained the greatest threat of all.
The Emperor.
The Unfallen One.
Master of Mankind.
The unborn Dark King.
Bearer of humanity's collective faith.
The candidate hidden behind the veil of the Eightfold Path.
Naturally, He drew the attention of alien races.
Within hidden darkness, their eyes had never looked away. They watched, hoping that no new god would be born.
Within the decadent dominions of the Aeldari, the first cry of Slaanesh had once echoed into existence. A newborn god had seized authority and forever altered the entire galaxy.
And now, would the vast, newborn, teetering Imperium of Man give birth to yet another god?
They waited anxiously.
The seers of alien races prophesied humanity's fate.
And if necessary, the hidden xenos lurking in darkness could extend their hands into the river of destiny and stir its waters.
But an unexpected guest had arrived.
Within the colossal Imperium of Humanity, there slowly stepped onto the galactic stage one whom even the gods despised.
The stars glittered.
Starlight descended upon this nameless nobody who had once walked from an insignificant agri-world.
He had been utterly unknown.
But upon the game board, the Master of Mankind slightly moved His hand.
He grasped this ominous black piece—the dull and cursed child—and pushed it toward the summit of destiny itself.
And thus, the "Lord of the Underworld" officially entered the stage.
This was humanity's name for him:
The Godforsaken.
The Destroyer.
The One Despised by the Gods.
The Fool.
The True Soulless Being.
The One Who Severed Causality.
…
The blazing inferno atop the Perfect City.
The dark shadow hanging over the World Eaters Legion.
The grotesque feast and farce at Nikaea.
The final destruction of Prospero.
One by one, brilliant nodes of destiny blazing within the Warp collapsed.
The accumulation of countless destinies.
The convergence of endless fates.
Beneath the scythe, the sound of shattering erupted.
And thus was born the greatest "variable."
The swelling of the beast brought with it, for the first time, the possibility that upon the board itself, player and piece might exchange places.
A chance for a chess piece to drag down the player.
Perhaps this had always been the Emperor's intention.
But as the river of fate churned beneath the power of the Four Gods, the "Lord of the Underworld" fell into a long silence.
The alien races turned their gaze toward him.
The "Lord of the Underworld" was not humanity's alone.
Perhaps the current "Lord of the Underworld" had yet to ascend beyond true godhood.
Perhaps the distinctly human nature clinging to him prevented these once-glorious, still-arrogant alien civilizations from truly bowing their heads.
But the treasure was there.
Close enough to touch.
Radiating irresistible temptation.
Perhaps the ancient overlords still slumbered, yet those who awakened first had already stepped into destiny's tides.
Perhaps the fractured elder races still could not unite, yet among them were those willing to seize the blade for their species.
Among the restless xenos races—beneath the divided galaxy—the discontented, the greedy, the arrogant, those who sought to rewrite fate—were the first to reach out their hands.
And the "Lord of the Underworld" was waiting for them.
He merely needed to answer their call.
He was merciful.
He answered all things.
He was greedy.
He devoured all things.
. . .
"FATE!"
The loud declamation rang across the stage.
In an instant, blinding white light erupted within absolute darkness.
The most resounding cry required no accompaniment.
And the chosen actor shouted that single word aloud.
"Fate!" He repeated the word once more, this time with deep emotion, speaking with theatrical tenderness.
A mask unlike any Harlequin masque covered his face—a mask of pure black. A jagged crack split diagonally from the upper left side downward, and beneath that fracture, crimson light flickered faintly.
Beneath the stage, within the endless darkness, something stirred.
But until the final moment arrived, those upon the stage would never truly see the faces of those below.
"—What a beautiful word! What a word that shackles all living things! What a magnificent, grand, exquisitely crafted thing fate is!"
The Solitaire burst into shrill laughter.
His laughter became sharper and sharper, more and more unrestrained. He mocked wildly, laughing until he could scarcely breathe.
He was the Solitaire.
The one who monopolized the stage.
But he was more than merely that.
He was the special one.
The most special one.
Within the eternal workings of the Immaterium itself, he was the "only" one.
And so, both on the stage and beneath it, all fell silent except for him.
The music ceased.
The dancers stopped.
"You pitiful creatures struggling desperately against fate!"
He laughed as he cursed them, rising onto the tips of his feet, the pointed shoes twisting as he launched into a wild and extravagant solo dance.
"Prophecy! Divination! Tarot! You witless fools!"
"Ignoramuses! Blind ones! Can your dirt-low hearts truly not recognize the real path?! Can your tiny, bean-sized eyes truly not see the real master?!"
"The wise are always more silent than others—you fools so obsessed with noise and revelry! Can you not see the most silent existence of all?!"
The Solitaire spun.
He leapt from the stage.
He vanished backstage.
He disappeared completely into the darkness.
Then the banquet began.
Long tables were laid out.
Exquisite dishes filled them.
Other actors entered the stage, dressed in countless styles, speaking in countless tones. They shoved and argued, drawing blades from their waists and turning them against their own kin.
Frenzied drums erupted.
Then came the shrill cry of horns.
The Aeldari argued, cursed, refused unity, rejected compromise.
The once-passionate music descended into chaos. Discordant noise crept into the melody, shattering its rhythm with shrill disorder.
Across the stage, blades flashed coldly.
Blood sprayed in torrents.
Curses.
Disputes.
Life and death.
Chaos and deafening noise.
The dark-clad figure smashed his goblet and stormed away first.
The "wise" one who prided himself on cold logic left in fury.
The hermit who carried the World Spirit departed silently.
The lights dimmed.
Amid overturned cups and plates, amid rivers of blood, a servant carrying a tray slowly stepped from the corner onto center stage.
He removed the mask atop his mask—revealing another face beneath, one half weeping and half laughing.
"O gods—what are we supposed to do?"
The music stopped abruptly.
No one answered.
The servant let out a shrill, grotesque laugh.
Trembling, he gazed toward the void opposite the stage and asked again:
"O gods—what are we supposed to do?"
Blinding light rejoiced as it descended upon him—and for a single instant—the gate containing all paths and destinies opened before him.
But only for that instant.
Because in the very next moment, the false gods screamed.
Wrathful golden flames erupted, carrying endless dead ash.
For a brief moment, the gaze of the Lord of the Underworld fell upon this place.
The actor recoiled instantly, trembling as he retreated into the darkness at the edge of the stage.
Upon the stage of gods, they were nothing more than insignificant jesters!
The golden flames burned with towering fury—yet it was little more than empty bluster.
After that fleeting moment of grandeur, it seized its sword and hurried away.
In the distance thundered war drums loud enough to overturn the galaxy itself.
Another war—one that did not belong to them—had begun.
Above the stage, light poured down from the pitch-black ceiling.
Chaotic whispers spread.
The gods, weary from long conflict, lowered their weapons in tacit agreement.
Silent understanding passed between them high above the stage, beyond the sight of any chess piece.
Power converged.
An arrow capable of slaying even gods was forged.
A gigantic, razor-sharp arrow descended from beyond the stage itself.
Its tip pointed toward a predetermined destination.
A serpent's tail coiled around it, supple and powerful, shimmering light sliding across its scales.
Then the son who represented humanity stepped onto the stage.
Steel thundered as it charged against other steel.
The ashes of the Perfect City reignited here once more.
A tiny golden flame burned quietly, its edges blackened.
They struck one another in chaos.
Kin turned blades against kin.
Brothers drew knives against brothers.
Such scenes were unbearably tedious.
For upon this stage, only moments ago, the same drama had repeated itself over and over again.
Ordinary.
Tedious.
Blood soaked the stage.
Every actor had fallen.
Severed limbs piled atop severed limbs.
Heads stared blankly toward other heads.
At the very edge of the stage, the corpse of a devout believer knelt with his own sword pressed against his throat, eyes wide open, utterly lifeless.
In the silence, the first Solitaire stepped back onto the stage.
He was black as night, yet glimmered with iridescent colors, as though his satin garments had been drenched in blood.
In one hand he carried the severed head of a rebel.
Slowly, he ascended the stage.
"TRAITOR—!!!" he cried aloud.
Striding to the very front of the stage, he lifted the dead head high and displayed it triumphantly to the audience below.
"Traitors who compromised with fate—!"
And yet—there was no applause.
No cheers.
From the silent audience came a single loud scoff.
Then, layer upon layer, mocking laughter surged like crashing waves.
The audience burst into shrill cackling and loud ridicule.
From the graceful serpent tail coiled around the descending arrow above the seats came a soft chuckle that resonated perfectly with the sea of laughter below.
That chuckle was completely hidden within the roaring tide of mirth—and yet utterly transcended it.
A dragon among lizards.
Though quiet, it stood above all others.
The serpent tail resting upon the drawn bow gently released its grip.
Time seemed to stop.
The mocking audience below.
The righteous Solitaire upon the stage.
Everything froze in that instant—everything except the arrow.
The kneeling corpse upon the stage moved.
The corpse was moving.
Blazing golden light erupted from the devotee's eyes as the sword in his hands plunged mercilessly toward his own throat.
Filthy blood splattered outward, igniting into roaring golden flame.
At that moment, the foolish devotee enacted a sacrifice that belonged to him alone.
The youngest Queen, curiously holding the bow, let out an annoyed sigh.
But below the stage, even grander, more earth-shaking laughter exploded forth—
The arrow forged from the power of the gods reached its target.
The sound of armor shattering rang out.
Along with it came the sudden sealing of fate itself—
But had fate truly been sealed?!
Would the first being to mock destiny truly be so fragile?!
No!!!
Before the Lord of the Underworld, fate had never been locked!!!
The Solitaire fell.
And from then onward, he spoke no more.
But beneath the stage, thunderous applause erupted!
Deafening applause!
The audience screamed, laughed, shouted wildly.
One by one, the spectators rose in satisfaction, embracing each other amid shrieks of joy, tears of ecstatic delight running down their faces.
The Lord of the Underworld had fallen—reduced into a truly merciful, greedy, foolish creature.
One new performance after another unfolded before the fallen form of the Lord of the Underworld.
Some laughed.
Some wept.
Some raged.
Some mourned.
But the audience no longer watched the play.
Instead, they cheered while straightening their garments, sharpening their blades, and sliding them carefully back into their sheaths.
Amid the uproar, an irritated feminine scolding sounded from above them.
The audience scattered at once, shoving each other as they left their seats.
Laughing loudly, they descended from the stands and surged toward the stage.
The second farce of betrayal had already ended.
The fool's story too had nearly reached its conclusion.
Satisfied, they had enjoyed every ugly gesture of the fool, treating it merely as a small overture to their own grand drama.
Beneath the spotlight, the fool tore out his own heart, trembling as he pointed toward fate and cried out his soul.
The audience continued their noisy shoving and horseplay.
Some even began booing the stage itself for refusing to proceed to the next act.
"Get off! Get off!!!"
The players of the heavens roared in fury.
And the audience listened with delight to the blunder of a god.
How wonderful!
How delightful!
How desperately they wished to see such a beautiful scene repeated once more!
Finally, amid the noisy, chaotic tumult where stage and audience became impossible to distinguish, the Perfect One favored by the Youngest Queen stepped onto the stage.
Someone let out a jeer.
Instantly, the clamorous audience fell silent.
In the sudden stillness, even a pin drop could be heard.
The Perfect One was no longer perfect.
Cracks marred his magnificent shell.
He trembled.
He raged.
Grabbing at his silver-white hair, he shouted furious accusations at the Imperium, at fate, at all living beings.
Across the stage came the rustling sound of scales sliding against one another.
The power of the gods began to descend.
And beneath the stage, whispering voices spread:
"The script…"
"Where's the script?"
"No rehearsal?"
"Writer—there's no writer?!"
"Who's responsible for the script?!"
"There's no script?!"
"Then what do we do…"
"There's no response!"
At last, one voice shattered the chaos.
"There is no script!" he roared.
"The fool never follows a script!"
"It's time to go on stage! Move!!!"
A collective sigh of regret rose up.
Yet the audience members still climbed onto the stage one after another, emerging from the darkness with the resolve of martyrs.
"Wait—"
The crowd suddenly stopped, turning toward the Harlequin behind them.
"Who will do it?"
"Who will pray in His name?!"
O Hades—who will offer you their soul?
<+>
<+>
<+>
<+>
<+>
Tn: I updated the story once every 2 days, but if you want to see more chapter of this story ahead of time, please go to my Patreon.
Latest Chapter: Chapter 525: The Erasure[1]
Link: https://www.patreon.com/Thatsnakegirl/posts/my-life-as-death-164167815[2]
[1] https://www.patreon.com/Thatsnakegirl/posts/my-life-as-death-164167815
[2] https://www.patreon.com/Thatsnakegirl/posts/my-life-as-death-164167815