My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 505: The Phoenician's Cry
The hidden ships gradually drew closer.
Brilliant white flashes, bright as lightning, flickered across the void.
The Great Khan remained silent, waiting for the change that would soon occur aboard the Vengeful Spirit.
"This reminds me of the rituals on Chogoris," the Great Khan said softly.
"The vultures circling beneath Eternal Heaven are about to descend."
"You need to be faster. Faster still."
"Faster than the storm."
. . .
On the withered wasteland at the edge of the Garden, a deathly fog rolled in.
. . .
+I don't understand,+ Lorgar said.
+I believe I have already explained the facts clearly.+
Horus, who had been standing before the observation window the entire time, finally turned around.
The brilliant starlight beyond the glass illuminated him, dividing him into halves of black and white.
"My brother, Lorgar," Horus said with a smile,
"I believe my own words have been equally clear."
"The origin of everything. The point at which all destinies diverged."
"I am merely correcting that mistake."
Lorgar's floating head rotated slightly.
+It is helping us.+
"It is itself the error," Horus replied sternly.
"Without it, none of this would have happened."
He looked directly at Lorgar.
"Just look at yourself."
"Doesn't it hurt?"
He was referring to Lorgar's own fractured existence, endlessly tearing itself apart.
A single tear fell from beneath Lorgar's eye.
+I accept that willingly.+
Horus moved closer.
Like he had done countless times before.
Concern filled his eyes.
"The galaxy was never meant to be torn apart," the Warmaster said.
"Our father was seduced by the rewards it promised."
"But now they can no longer accept that truth."
"They continue wagering everything on a table that is destined to sink."
"They have already lost too much."
"So much that turning back is no longer possible."
+Gain more. Sacrifice more.+
Horus stared at Lorgar.
Bloodshot veins covered the Warmaster's eyes.
He looked unwell.
Yet compared to the others...
He was the most complete.
The one who had retained the greatest part of himself.
"Did he truly obtain what he wanted?" Horus asked quietly.
"He said he would eradicate all religion."
"He said he would unite the entire galaxy."
"But now the Master of Mankind personally crushes each of his own dreams, one by one."
"And leave behind only us..."
"Those still fighting desperately for the sake of his old vision."
Horus cast a contemptuous glance at the scriptures carved across Lorgar's face.
Then he turned back toward the observation window.
At that moment, Lorgar knew there was nothing he could say.
"Words are useless."
His voice was calm.
Exhausted.
"Let it all burn."
BOOM!!!
The first thunderclap of the Empyrean split the darkness apart.
It illuminated everything.
The light washed over Horus standing by the window, leaving him pale and colorless, as though every trace of life had been drained away.
The ritual had begun.
. . .
Fulgrim was screaming.
He could no longer tell whether he was truly screaming or whether his voice had already failed.
His mouth hung wide open.
His throat felt as though it were burning.
Endless white radiance surrounded him.
He felt himself burning.
Breaking apart.
He collapsed onto the ground in agony, tearing at his own flesh.
Blood and chunks of meat splattered outward, dissolving into the blinding light.
Time itself became confused.
At moments, the all-encompassing brilliance resembled an inverted rainstorm.
The light fell upward toward the heavens.
Each droplet carried away a portion of Fulgrim's body.
Skin.
Fat.
Muscle.
Until only gleaming white bones remained.
At other times, the light surged toward him all at once.
It forced itself violently into his body.
His ears rang.
The desires and tears of billions became a shrieking funeral dirge.
They screamed curses at him.
Under the relentless filling of white light, the Phoenician began to swell.
Countless masses of overgrown flesh burst through his skin.
Tumors erupted alongside organs.
Within moments, he had become enormous and bloated.
His grotesque form filled the entire hall.
Organs hanging outside his body continued growing beneath their own weight.
The thin membranes containing them ruptured.
Brilliant green, sickly yellow, and luminous blue fluids burst outward.
From a distance, they resembled the beautiful iridescent colors reflected from a bird's feathers.
The viscous liquid coated the gold and jewels piled upon the altar.
The treasures slowly writhed upward, becoming ornaments embedded among the monstrous wings.
At that moment—
He was beautiful.
And blasphemous.
The gigantic flesh-monster growled.
Fulgrim moaned in pain.
He felt himself approaching death.
Yet the power of the altar held his soul firmly in place.
Four chains of different colors wrapped tightly around him, preventing escape.
So Fulgrim began to cry.
His sobbing gradually transformed into a roar.
End it.
End all of this.
The Phoenician howled in madness.
He rose to his feet.
His six enormous clouded eyes twitched and rolled.
Looking toward Slaanesh's Six Rings.
He saw the greedy black domain.
A viscous darkness spread across the elegant, magnificent palace of Slaanesh.
Joyfully.
Slowly.
Devouring it from above.
He saw the defeated one upon the Brass Throne.
The self-deceiver within the Labyrinth.
The coward hiding in the Garden.
And upon the Throne—
A tyrant.
He saw lies.
He saw truth.
He saw the past.
He saw the future.
Tears flowed from his clouded eyes.
The tears struck the ground like brilliant, multicolored gemstones.
This world was one enormous joke.
And one enormous tragedy.
And he would continue that tragedy.
The Phoenician looked toward the slowly descending Underworld.
Spines grew within his throat, piercing through swollen masses of flesh and carving out space for a scream.
Beneath the overwhelming weight of suffering and desire, he began to shriek.
The Phoenician's first cry tore apart the mist.
Centered upon him, waves surged across the Empyrean, rolling outward layer upon layer and raising colossal tides.
He called out.
He called to eternal silence.
He called to death.
He called to that which existed beyond the rules.
Again and again he cried.
His voice broke.
Blood flowed.
The pitch rose higher and higher.
Luxurious harmonies attached themselves to the sound.
Decadent melodies entwined within it.
Within his clouded eyes was reflected the image of Slaanesh's palace.
He imitated the terrible scream he had once heard in Hell.
Centered upon the Phoenician, the other four altars also erupted with agonized howls.
Through their efforts, the light of the Empyrean descended like a veil and settled upon the Phoenician.
But it was not enough.
Not enough.
The Phoenician cried out in agony.
The desire embodied within his voice was still not sweet enough.
Not alluring enough.
You must rival Slaanesh.
The giant bird of flesh struggled.
As the volume of its cry rose suddenly, layers of flesh peeled away from its body.
Beneath them appeared gleaming white bones wrapped in chains of silver and jewels.
And then, as though in a trance, he cried out the True Name of that existence.
Something turned its head.
Vast.
Slow.
Dull-witted.
The creature gradually halted its endless feast and shifted its attention toward the source of the sound.
It saw the Phoenician.
How beautiful he was.
His rainbow-colored plumage shimmered with countless hues beneath the tides of the Empyrean.
Even the exposed bones were polished like works of art.
Every bone was wrapped in precious treasures.
Layer upon layer of translucent veils covered him.
Amid the madness and filth of the Immaterium, he alone appeared as a god of beauty.
The greedy waters of the Underworld began to recede.
The retreating tide exposed the foundations of Slaanesh's palace, gnawed and riddled with holes.
At the moment the waters withdrew, the sky of the Empyrean dimmed briefly, as though it had finally exhaled in relief.
"Cough!"
Malcador gripped his staff tightly and leaned against the altar.
The hand clutching the staff had already been stripped down to bone.
His eyes were entirely blood-red.
Beneath him, blood flowed slowly through the golden inscriptions carved into the altar.
The entire Vengeful Spirit was trembling.
At some point, dense mist had filled every corner of the chamber.
Through the white light and the fog, the grotesque flesh-beast in the distance continued its mournful cries.
The old man stared at the monster hidden within the mist.
His hand trembled, as though waiting for something.
Then the first drop of liquid fell coldly onto his shoulder.
He did not look up.
Was it fear?
The ceiling of the hall had long ceased to be a ceiling.
It had become something else.
A twilight preceding the arrival of a certain existence.
The darkness pressed downward.
Upon every caster.
Upon every soul present.
Thick drops fell from above.
They pierced through everything.
They passed directly through flesh and bone, bringing icy agony.
Cheerfully.
Greedily.
Drinking from his soul.
Malcador said nothing.
He stood upon the altar like a nail hammered into place.
Immovable.
Yet at the same time, the staff in his hand slowly began to rise.
. . .
"You've been far too crude with your schemes," Horus spoke calmly.
His warhorse, the Vengeful Spirit, was screaming in agony around him.
Yet Horus showed no regret.
He gently swirled the wine in his glass.
"I pity my younger brother."
"He could have made a better choice."
+He knows right from wrong.+ Lorgar replied.
+I offer him my sincerest admiration.+
+As for the scheme you speak of...+
He stared thoughtfully into his wine.
+We all know exactly what this is.+
+It is cooperation.+
+Whoever is willing to sacrifice more—whoever is willing to wager more—moves one step closer to success.+
"Malcador alone?"
Horus laughed mockingly.
"He's not enough."
+The existence standing behind you is hardly united in purpose either.+
Lorgar slowly rose from his chair.
Feeling the catastrophe descending from the Warp, the Primarch gripped his staff.
+Besides...+
He looked at Horus.
+You have always underestimated Malcador, haven't you?+
His voice softened.
+You cannot comprehend the depth of his resolve.+
Horus glanced at him.
"I had thought we might reach an understanding, Lorgar."
+Never.+
Horus shifted his gaze.
A warning of an attack arrived through the data-streams.
. . .
Malcador suddenly raised his staff.
At his feet, the golden chains extending from the altar snapped apart.
At almost the same instant, the Phoenician upon the altar released a scream of agony.
Countless claws erupted from the gigantic creature.
Acting on pure instinct, they tore desperately at the remaining chains.
Roars erupted from all the other altars as well.
But within the mist, those sounds rapidly faded away.
Then, the enormous shadow hidden in the fog revealed itself.
Without a moment's hesitation, Malcador charged toward the center of the altar.
As he ran, he spat blood onto the ground.
The staff in his hand let out a shrill scream, and blazing golden flames erupted wildly around it.
At the center of the altar, chain after chain snapped apart.
The mountain of flesh began to collapse.
The powers that had been forcibly held together by external force lost their cohesion and came crashing down like an avalanche.
"Fulgrim!!!" Malcador's voice rang out urgently.
As he ran, his appearance began to change.
His wrinkles faded.
His posture straightened.
Even his voice became clearer and younger.
He began to chant.
It was the true name of the Emperor's Third Son.
Stumbling and sprinting through the battlefield, he vaulted over enormous chunks of flesh and skeletal remains, weaving through the downpour of blood like a parkour runner navigating a volcanic eruption.
The furious roars behind him faded into the distance.
Mortarion intercepted the attacks that attempted to stop him.
Within the hollow ribcage of a dragon-like skeleton, Malcador finally saw him.
The silver-haired figure was being dragged into the underworld.
Without saying a word, Malcador's expression remained completely cold.
He raised his staff.
The spike at its base glowed red-hot.
Then he drove it toward the collapsed Fulgrim.
The spike pierced the ravaged body.
Flames erupted.
Fire and the waters of the Underworld fought over the remains of his flesh.
Malcador thought he heard a whispered thank you.
Or perhaps why.
He didn't care.
Immediately pulling back his staff, he threw himself toward the thickest part of the fog.
Mortarion was waiting there.
A hand emerged from the mist.
Mortarion's hand.
It seized Malcador's wrist tightly.
Using Warp-translocation, Mortarion hurled him far away.
The whispers of the Empyrean echoed around him.
But such things no longer mattered.
He crashed heavily onto the deck of a White Scars vessel face first.
Malcador spat out blood mixed with broken teeth.
"Not much respect for your elders," he muttered.
Accepting the helping hand extended by Yesugei, he rose from the White Scars' ritual platform.
The sensation around him immediately told him something.
The White Scars fleet was accelerating at maximum speed.
Yesugei stared at him.
The Malcador before him was completely different.
Younger.
Sharper.
The old man now looked like a youth of sixteen or seventeen.
Malcador paid the White Scars warrior no attention.
Instead, he opened the hand Mortarion had grasped moments earlier.
Inside was a crumpled ball of parchment.
Malcador sighed once again.
After a brief pause, he hurriedly unfolded it.
Elegant, scholarly handwriting greeted him.
Ink produced at Terra, longitude 22, latitude 4852...
Malcador thought to himself.
Indeed. My favorite ink.
He read rapidly.
Each word burst into flames immediately after he finished reading it.
When he finally reached the end, the entire parchment ignited.
So did his left eye.
Blue fire roared from it.
Clutching the burning eye, Malcador doubled over and burst into laughter.
The young man's laughter carried across the deck.
But the people occupied with the void battle hurried past as if they could neither see nor hear him.
Yesugei had also received orders from the Great Khan.
After a moment of hesitation, he withdrew.
The White Scars needed to focus on the fleet engagement against the Warmaster.
Their task was to deliver Malcador to Cadia.
The teleportation circle could only connect to the White Scars fleet.
Cadia itself had become completely saturated with divine psychic power.
Malcador laughed.
Painfully.
Manically.
He laughed until his body almost convulsed.
Then he felt a tug on the hem of his robe.
Barely managing to straighten up, he looked down.
Tiny figures stood around his feet.
Little Death Guards.
Each one was holding a Nurgling by the hand.
They stared up at him.
Malcador shook his head in pain.
Then nodded.
"He thinks everyone is like him?"
Yet he still reached out.
Picking up one of the Nurglings, he watched as blisters immediately erupted across his hand.
The creature squirmed and struggled.
Malcador stared at it.
Then—
He opened his mouth.
A few drops of foul fluid splattered onto the deck.
The little Death Guards silently watched.
When Malcador finally began retching, one of them raised its hand and waved upward.
"...You could always find another way to do this," Malcador said weakly.
He reached toward the little Death Guard.
Before he could finish speaking, the tiny figure dissolved into rolling white mist.
The vapor drifted from the gaps in its armor and wrapped around Malcador.
The remaining armor quickly crumbled into ash, scattering through his fingers.
Malcador struggled to take a deep breath.
At last, he understood the smell inside Mortarion's gas mask.
The realization immediately triggered another bout of retching.
He gagged and coughed repeatedly.
Every so often, a burst of laughter escaped him.
A faint mutter, barely audible, slipped from his lips.
"...God damn you..."
Malcador vomited again.
Trembling, he leaned upon his staff.
"...Hades..."
His voice shook.
"This time... I really paid the price."
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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]
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