Chapter 297 Glass Flower House
I don’t know if it’s something to be proud of, absurd or ironic, but the Comorians are indeed experienced in dealing with emergencies such as curses.
After discovering that none of the vaccines used to deal with known virus weapons in the Eternal City that had been injected into Nefertari's body over the years were effective, the Dark Eldar immediately rummaged through the storage room to find several practical vaccines. props.
After a simple selection, a samurai squad leader of the Cabal who was on the same level as Nefertari found three tools from unknown hands: a force field box for random transmission, and a glass for storing consciousness. Among the sarcophagus and frozen black crystal generator, the last one was chosen.
When Konrad Curze returned to the camp of the Sons of the Muse, he saw the young disaster messenger, Nefertari, who had been transformed by his own hands, completely sealed by the black crystal and held upright by a chain. Fixed on the ground, with life activities reduced to a minimum, placed in the center of an empty room that has been incinerated and sterilized, waiting for further processing - treatment, or execution.
Through the low-transparency black crystal, you can see that Nefertari's skin has various degrees of corruption and ulceration. The long black and blue feathers on her wings have fallen off, revealing scarlet flesh. The freezing of the crystal inhibited the deterioration of the situation, and also hindered the thorough examination of the organs and other parts below the female warrior's skin.
Conrad Coates put on a pair of gloves, bent down, put his palms on a chain, thought for a moment, stood up straight again, and left the sculptural black crystal.
The brief and mild hallucination of the disease quickly dissipated, which made him certain that the discomfort he felt on Fulgrim's ship was not due to his prophetic ability, but to his fear of the four dark gods. Energy sensitivity.
Furthermore, that dim twilight scene should not even be a prophecy, but the energy flow of the etheric ocean is showing its true nature in a concrete way.
The force that corrodes reality is not extreme joy, but the decay of despair. When Konrad Coates discovered the gap between this illusion and reality, he couldn't even be called surprised.
It's nothing more than destiny once again being woven into a transformed finished product by unknown hands.
However, if he had noticed at that time the traces of the invasion of the Supreme Heaven that secretly gave him the omen in his psychic vision, maybe things would have turned out better.
He does not have the means to eliminate corruption at this time. Nefertari had committed no crime and was loyal to him, so destroying her directly was not an option.
If the emperor or the craftsmen in black are willing to help, the problem will be solved; otherwise, if there is not some kind of pure enough life force... his choice is self-evident.
"My lord."
A Cabal warrior knocked on the door of the empty room. Coates did not allow him inside.
The soul of the Eldar is already entrenched in the thirsty Lady, and it would be best not to introduce yet another new force of destruction into the threat to his personal army.
"Say." He ordered through a door.
"The Haemonculus Hexakeris and the world singer Shanadol are waiting in the hall." The warrior's voice was filtered by the dark helmet, which enhanced the conciseness and coldness of the tone.
"Xana'dor?" Konrad Coze repeated, immediately realizing that this was probably because he was born in a wild spirit without clarifying the reason for summoning Hexakeris. The world singer of the tribe had just completed the arrangement task she had taken over, so she took a ride from the old blood singer and came to report on her work.
"Let them wait..." Before he finished speaking, a possibility that no one had ever tested came to Cozz's mind. He weighed it again and again and smiled.
To this day, the wild Eldar still maintain their devout faith in Isha, the Eldar goddess of life. Even after the galaxy-shattering disaster, the goddess Isha disappeared, but her followers apparently still maintained a considerable degree of connection with her.
The world singers who interact with the soul of the world and praise the purity and rebirth of the earth are undoubtedly the best among them.
This will be an attempt, success is the best, failure is okay.
"Call Shanador, daughter of Isa, to come," he ordered the nightmare, "wait for instructions outside this door."
——
Rotten vines, swamps filled with flies, plagued bushes that were withered and twisted and covered with corpses like leaves... After surviving the initial tense moments, Akulduna was impressed by this rotten place. The perception of the world inevitably increases, followed by nausea and disgust that deepens every moment.
Maybe the Emperor's Children do care more about their beauty and flawless appearance than some legions - well, maybe most legions, but in essence, the Third Legion is still a qualified warrior, Ah Kulduna should not complain about the filth of the battlefield.
But whenever he heard the roaring, gathering and bursting sounds of rotten and filthy bubbles in the lakes and swamps, and stepped on the meadows stained with disgusting yellow-green juice like rust, Looking at the poisonous spores spewing out from the wriggling pink and yellow mouth one after another, Akul Duna couldn't help but want to use the bad words he accidentally collected from the cultures of various planets during the long wars. express his depression and worries.
I am afraid that the ghouls of the Ninth Legion will not eat the bloody corpses hanging here, Akulduna thought optimistically, using the tip of his sword to move away the rotten carrion that dangled in front of him. Holding on to a tree that barely looked dangerous and covered in filthy slurry, he panted slowly.
Then, through some stretching of his limbs, Akulduna opened the healing wound on his body again, causing fresh blood to gush out from his body and wash away the connective tissue and light yellow pus covering his wound that were healing incorrectly. liquid.
He would rather bleed to death than allow his injuries to recover superficially under such abnormal conditions with endless consequences.
Throne, he is not afraid of leaving scars, he thought.
Akulduna's two swords were already covered in fishy mucus, were severely wrapped in acid, rusted, and tended to break.
He continued to use them to deal with the difficulties at hand, such as a group of small devils trying to climb onto the armor that he could no longer identify the color, and some kind of monster that twisted like a slug. These little things howled when they died, and then sprayed all kinds of juices on him.
It's so scary, they spit everywhere.
Since participating in the training of Astartes recruits on Terra, these two swords have been with Akul Duna for decades. If they were destroyed now, it would be considered as fulfilling their duties, wouldn't it?
He held on to the trees and moved forward slowly. The swamp was reluctant to leave, and brown and yellow bone claws stretched out one after another from the black mud, trying to save his feet. Although they move slowly and their attacks seem ordinary, these disgusting things cannot be completely eliminated no matter what. This caused more wounds below his calf.
He was still inside the ship. Through the familiar movements of the dense forest, the tapeworm-like cables hanging in the sky, and the remaining traces of some carved art, Akulduna recognized what he remembered. some characteristics.
There is a force outside the surface of the world, covering it with an additional layer of chaotic and dirty dirt, twisting the gold and silver tents of the Emperor's Children into gauze overgrown with mold, turning them from mortals to The top skilled craftsmen, as well as the exquisite columns they designed in their spare time, were usurped into rotten wood, and even the light and elegant indoor aromatherapy ointment was turned into a suffocating and vicious miasma.
All kinds of indescribable evil creatures appear and disappear in the gaps in the dense forest that were once the corridor, and they are busy building crumbling lairs.
Other than this, Akulduna cannot see any additional exits. This forest of death seems to have no end, from the territory of the living to the depths of despair and death.
No matter how far he goes forward and how much energy he spends calculating a way out that may exist but has been falsified, he seems to be repeating something meaningless.
At the same time, his feeling of weakness was slowly deepening with the miasma mist inhaling his mouth and nose. With every step he took, it became more difficult for him to control his body.
His muscles and joints were extremely sore, swelling, atrophy and varying degrees of nodules appeared on the surface of his skin, and his nerves continued to become numb, as if he was suffering from a kind of replacement and replacement from the inside out. Instead, the real him was separated and flowed out of the body with every drop of blood, leaving only a weak and empty shell filled with disease, falling under the dim sky without hope, and then never got up again.
Fabius, is this a sign of blight? Was this the disease and death that the Third Army faced at that time?
The world in front of Akulduna's eyes has become blurry. An unknown disease has caused his vision to decline rapidly, and he can only see the outline of color blocks clearly. Then, he confirmed that his brain must have been affected by the disease, because the forest in his eyes began to shake with rotten spots of different shapes, and they were moving back and forth rapidly, causing more false perceptions.
An unexpected thought appeared in his mind. He can sit under this tree and rest for a while. This is a safe place, a warm and moist sanctuary. This was exactly the Turkish palace courtyard in his hazy childhood memories, where his family, his first family, was waiting for him.
His grandfather cared about his pain and couldn't bear it. Although Akulduna was not within his grandfather's expectations, if he was willing to push open his grandfather's small wooden door, his grandfather would kindly bring him a bowl of hot soup, pat his shoulders with concern, and invite him to join this harsh... Staying lazily in this terrible world...
You will be satisfied, child. No need to work so hard anymore. Take a break, stop your hurried pace, accept the cycle of life and death, and accept everything in this world.
"Ha..." Akulduna exhaled a breath of corrupt air, and he could hardly smell it. "No need, trouble maker." He grinned inside the helmet, even though the skin on his face had begun to melt and stick to his face, "I am a phoenix, not a maggot."
He remembered Fu Geli Mu’s teachings. Perfect. The pursuit of excellence and continuous advancement are all included in the definition of perfection.
Now is not the time to give up in despair, in fact, not at any time.
"I always see a little more than what I have now." He laughed, crushing the dead man's head that was pierced by tree roots at his feet.
The swordsman wanted to shrug, which was becoming less easy, but he did it. Akulduna was happy about this, of course, not the inexplicable, halting, disgusting happiness of the decaying jungle here. He was just happy for his small victory.
If this is the blight that has been delayed for decades, if this is the despair that the Third Legion once faced, then it seems that he will try to become the first Emperor's Son to truly overcome the genetic disease.
Although his attempts were somewhat difficult, Akulduna was still hopeful about finding his genetic father. Whether it was to provide help or warning to Fulgrim, he wanted to do something more.
He blinked and groped his way through the chaos. He didn't know how much time had passed, maybe only a few minutes, maybe he had been groping forward for hundreds of years - no, this was definitely impossible, if hundreds of years had passed, he would have died of hunger and dehydration. He can't talk nonsense.
At this moment, something seemed to appear in front of me that was shining from the inside out. In this moist and dark chaotic darkness, it seemed that suddenly, a small, slightly golden bright spot began to burn coldly on the retina of his soul.
Within Akulduna's perspective, the light spot was bright and dim, swaying left and right, but the penetrating sting never changed.
Feeling the pain of the living again proves that he has not been completely eroded by this dying realm of disease and decay.
Go, he thought, and pursue it. Regardless of the outcome, he will always move forward. Because he can.
——
Fulgrim soon discovered that something unusual had happened to the ship he was currently on.
This strange beginning is hidden in the most inconspicuous shadows and details, in the bases of those stone carvings where light rarely reaches, in the interior of the flowing courtyard drains, and in the tops of hanging gold tassels arranged high in the sky. , a hidden corruption is quietly wrapped around him.
Fungi are on the rise, tiny organisms appearing in sterilized areas that are simply unsuitable for their existence, and the flowers that are changed daily change from bright light purple to reddish-brown droplets. Even if these changes occur slowly and gently, to the eyes of the Primarch they are obvious.
He first thought of some witchcraft planets he had conquered. Those spellcasters who were good at creating mental illusions or changing reality did have the ability to create such phenomena.
Today, most of these psychics who are born with terrible flaws and are inherently unstable are being guarded and erased. Those who were particularly valuable and obedient were given to Magnus for discipline.
Psychics can often cause some trouble when they first meet, but hurting the Primarch is a completely different level of difficulty.
In addition, a new confusion appeared in Fulgrim's mind.
This is Perturabo's Olympia. With the Lord of Iron's paranoid protection and control over the things he values, such accidents should not happen.
Not even Perturabo himself could stop it...
Fulgrim tightened his grip on whatever was in his hand - his left hand resting on the hilt of the flaming sword, feeling The amazing heat radiated from this sharp weapon made by Ferrus Manus, while his right hand clenched his handkerchief tightly.
He cheered up and continued his original plan to go to Fabius Bayer's laboratory, while also increasing his vigilance about his surroundings.
Soon, he saw a servitor covered in gray cloth. Although there was nothing unusual about its appearance, the Purple Phoenix's intuition told him that there was something wrong with this thing.
"Stop." He ordered. "Where are you going?"
The servitor obeyed the order and stopped acting. His unconscious half-metal head did not seem to support him to make any more reactions. From the equipment it is equipped with, it can be seen that this is a medical servo machine.
There is an unpleasant smell emanating from this tool.
As Fulgrim got closer, the smell became stronger. He frowned in displeasure, wondering why the person using the servitor didn't smell the smell.
In fact, he suspected that it was Fabius Bayer's work again. Every time he thought about Bayer, he simultaneously regretted his chief pharmacist's crazy behavior and his own negligence.
He saw the servitor holding a suitcase.
"Show what you have in your hands," Fulgrim warned.
The servitor showed no response.
Fulgrim held his breath, drew his flaming sword, and approached the servitor. When the distance was close enough, Fulgrim thrust out his sword, preparing to cut off the servitor's fingers holding the box.
The servitor moved. Its reaction speed was not in line with the speed of a medical machine, and even exceeded the strength of a servitor. But its reaction was still unable to withstand Fulgrim's sharp sword. The sharp blade quickly cut off the servitor's right hand, and the suitcase fell to the ground.
At the same time, a strong smell hit his face. The strong smell of corruption and decay not only hurt the original body's keen sense of smell, but also directly stung his soul. A pool of brownish-yellow liquid dripped from the severed limb. It was similar in color to Lycaon's blood, but the smell was several times more pungent.
The suitcase was shaken open when it fell. Fulgrim saw some surgical instruments, a test tube containing some kind of extract, and several syringes, one of which had been used. . The color of the potion in the syringe was somewhat familiar. After inference, he guessed that it was most likely the heartbreaking alchemy potion that Telemanon Lyras was injected with.
Fabius Bayer. Fulgrim chanted the pharmacist's name angrily, feeling weak in his heart.
It seems that even at the last moment, he was still full of lies.
In his conversations with Konrad Curze, he showed himself to have regained his strength, but it was clear to Fulgrim that he had a problem that had never been solved.
Why did he cultivate such a heir under his trust?
Is the way he looks at other lives so arrogant that he doesn’t really see others? In his younger years, this arrogance was deliberate. Has it changed from a mask to his own face?
Or maybe he walked too fast, too hurriedly, the ever-changing scenery confused his eyes, and the Milky Way hovering above his head made him lose his judgment?
Or did he miss the initial time of the Third Legion and their pain and suffering, so that even kneeling could not bring them closer to their hearts?
Fulgrim did often think of that last point. He had missed so many battles of the Third Legion, and when he looked through the old battle reports written about death, he always thought about how much better things would have been if he had been there. In a sense, this is his responsibility.
The servitor staggered, then swung out a claw, trying to strike at the Primarch. It moved stiffly and erratically, like a zombie, relying on absurd instincts to recognize the Primarch as its enemy. Fulgrim was naturally unable to be hurt by it. The blazing sword easily cut the opponent's throat with a beautiful blow.
After discovering that this was not enough to kill the walking corpse, he quickly cut it into pieces with sword moves. This time the test of the weakness was effective, and he eliminated the obstacle in front of him.
However, his discomfort did not lessen, but quickly deepened. A sharp pain quickly turned into insensible numbness, wrapping around the palm of his hand that was not holding the sword, and a small amount of pain remained on his face.
Fulgrim spread his left hand. Where it comes into contact with the handkerchief stained with Lycaon's corrupt blood, the smooth white skin is falling into wrinkles and withering until it turns into dry powder and residue, falling to the ground. The same goes for half of his face.
Fulgrim looked tense. The hard ship floor turned to soft earth beneath his feet.
At first, it was somewhat similar to the private glass greenhouse he cultivated with his own care. After witnessing the changes brought to Chemos by the resurgent culture, Fulgrim began to pay attention to spiritual art. This was one of the reasons he brought the beauty of his art to the Emperor's Children.
But soon, it turned into something far more rotten and filthy than his greenhouse. Hundreds of plants, from trees and shrubs to flowers and short grass, none of them remained unchanged. Stained with plague and disease, crawling with countless worms, beetles, and more blasphemous creatures that have no place in Imperial biology.
In an instant, the whole world seemed to be on the verge of death.
Fulgrim gasped softly and changed the way he held the handkerchief. He pinched the corner of the handkerchief that was not stained with blood with his fingers and stood there, observing the surrounding scene. He wasn't sure which direction he should go. Ashes continued to fall from the surface of his skin.
He heard some voices behind him. Fulgrim turned around.
It was a phantom. A dead image. A withered flower. A soldier who died of illness.
The outbreak of genetic disease made his face blurry, but the lines and decorations on his armor proved his identity.
More ghosts appeared there, faceless and similar in appearance, surrounded by an aura of pain and despair. The flowers in the garden bloomed and withered quickly under their feet, and the fallen dust turned into the embodiment of the shadow in the soul when facing death.
Impossible. Fulgrim thought in horror. Their souls have long since rested in Terra.
They must have rested long ago.
But he couldn't lift the sword.
(End of this chapter)