Chapter 476: The One Who Holds the Seal
The inner court of the imperial palace is as glorious as new. Every gilded wall gleamed with dazzling light, and every tower complemented the other.
The mortal servants led the lecturers from the Temple of the Thousand Dust Sun through the spacious halls, which were as bright as the rising sun. The pillars and pillars carved out a hundred prisons in the space. of imprints.
Sometimes Ahriman suspected that he was walking in a mud that had accumulated for generations, stains and blood staining the soles of his boots, making it difficult for him to step forward. However, the ground was a smooth mirror tile that was scrubbed by the servitor thirteen times a day. Nothing was reaching out from the ground, grabbing his ankle with withered hands...
Nothing? Or could he just look into the ocean of warp and see countless hateful souls dragging each other, hoping to immobilize him?
They passed by those halls, and the stairs extended to different angles, forming vague geometric whirlpools. The golden-armored imperial guards still stood at those special corners, or stepped past a certain door, as if nothing could change them. The will, or change, is over.
The closer they get to the sea level, the more distinct the roar of machinery and the long roars brought by various steams and horns. The temperature of the fuel bakes the passage where they are on the edges of the floor and walls, and some sparkles Glowing glassware seemed to be sweating, while other pale metal plates hissed.
The men of the 15th Legion advanced as they listened to their own footsteps. No one spoke. The pressure exerted on their bodies became more and more terrifying. Thick darkness surged in their consciousness. Every time Behind every ray of real light lurks a hundredfold super-material shadow.
Ahriman felt that they were being watched by a higher being, as if they were a few small fish swimming blankly in an aquarium or culture tank, being watched with interest by a giant outside the glass. Enjoy...
"Throne Hall?" Hathor Mat whispered, his voice seemed to be freezing in the cold environment.
"I think so," Ahriman replied. This long road should lead to the underground palace of Terra that Magnus had briefly described to them. Otherwise, where else could they go?
No matter what, what comes close to the darkness is their perception of the remaining mark of Magnus. This became increasingly clear, so much so that it gradually became a new and strange motivation, adding hot fuel to their progress. Their hearts become hot as they sink, breeding both despair and trance-like optimism.
They are about to come into contact with Magnus's final echoes in the world, aren't they? They came to seek their father, for they were his heirs. Because the truth shouldn't be buried.
But what to do next? After stepping into the abyss, will the abyss let them leave?
The smell of old incense gradually grew thicker, almost covering them with moisture, and distant mechanical music echoed with the sound of bells. They passed some heavy gates, and the skull patterns outlined in fine gold formed a tight array of five-pointed stars, representing those unknown blockades... Something, some kind of will seemed to be faintly trembling on one of the gates, ready to come out...
Finally there is the throne room.
But first, there is the Word Bearer. The paper-like light-colored armor of the past has been replaced with dried blood paint, or perhaps the gaps in their armor's structure are indeed soaked in blood. Ten space warriors in blood-red armor stood with their backs to them, standing in front of the extremely high carved door, reciting some low-pitched prayers devoutly, but it only made Ahriman feel uncomfortable.
Some sweat flowed down his forehead, flowing through the Prospero-style eyeliner drawn near his eyes.
"You are here," one of the Word Bearers said, noticing their arrival, or perhaps he had finally waited for this moment. He turned his head, his power armor buzzing.
“We have come to meet the Emperor,” Azhak Ahriman said softly, “and we have come to explore an unanswerable question.”
The Word Bearers' visor looked at them. "Traitors," he decreed calmly.
"What did you say?" Hathor asked.
"Traitors of the Fifteenth Legion," another Word Bearer said, his gaze stinging and sullen, but mostly unsettling.
The feeling of being observed becomes stronger and stronger.
"Prospero never betrayed the Emperor," said Ahriman, "never—"
Before his voice touched the wall of the tunnel, the space suddenly fell downwards, the infinite darkness suddenly unfolded, and time itself lost its specific meaning. He felt that he was fixed on the specimen rack by a long needle that pierced the heart, and that The eyes that were always watching them came closer.
It is not the physical eyes, but the spiritual gaze itself, the endless dark power that wraps them up and fixes them, the face without existence and the curse beyond death...
+Betrayer Everyone...+
A will across the curtain of the world bombarded Ahriman's spirit, and he felt that he was melting into non-existent debris. However, he came here with a purpose.
+Emperor,+Ahriman asked painfully, as if his mind was cracking at this,+I implore you to tell us, where is our father? +
For a moment, he seemed to have fallen into the border between life and death. Ahriman forced himself to focus on communicating with this huge being.
He heard it...
+Magnus...betrayed the throne,+The sound cut through his skin, carrying hatred that seemed to tear him from his bones, Ahriman Trembling.
+This is impossible, Emperor. + he said tremblingly.
+Prospero will pay with blood and fire,+the words of the voice become more and more fluent, as if this terrifying being is quickly grasping the fragments floating in the air and reassembling them into a complete A different whole, + and Magnus is dead. +
+No! + Ahriman shouted, his whole body cold.
The existence in the darkness seems to be gradually becoming more concrete. The coiled pipes and cold lines outline the silhouette of the throne. The ground gradually takes shape, and near the throne, there seems to be a dry , thin, seemingly mortal arms, stretched out hard towards the throne from the darkness, but before touching the throne, they were helplessly reduced to ashes...
A vaguely existing mark seems to still exist. In the depths of the darkness, there was a ray of light stubbornly exuding, but there were not many traces left, only a few shaken residues, which fell on the fallen scepter as if it had fallen into a grave.
The name comes to mind. Ahriman was so shaken that his breath stopped.
Malcador the Sealbearer...
But how is that possible? Is that scarred and torn piece of cloth the same entity as the former imperial prime minister? If so, or was he wrong?
And the light of the swaying mark twitched, curled up from the edge of the throne, and suddenly flew towards Ahriman, imprinted on the bones of his hand in an instant, and shattered in the next fleeting moment. .
Ahriman endured the pain of this moment. His palms seemed to be pierced by an anchor and the pain was excruciating. However, his senses fixed a special position in the darkness, vaguely pointing to a certain door that had been opened. Heavy door. Meanwhile...
The sentencing of the Throne continues.
+Obedience, Azhak Ahriman. +
+You no longer have any other choice. +
+Or burn with Prospero. +
What did this being say? The Burning of Prospero? How could Prospero fall into the rumored burning? Isn’t Amon the Invisible guarding Prospero? Who has the ability to make Prospero burn? The being who gave the order is undoubtedly right in front of him. Watching his fear and despair, drawing the strength he longed for from the fragments of his pain, but unable to hurt him further... Yes, he suddenly realized that he still existed completely.
The remaining mark of Magnus also became obvious, surrounding his other hand, gentle and hot. Ahriman realized part of the truth, and it broke his heart.
Pain and fear at their culmination transformed into the power of peace that filled Ahriman.
Where are his other brothers? Are you receiving the same rebuke from the Emperor - or from things that were once the Emperor? He felt their souls from the darkness, those weak candlelights, distant yet close, blurry, but still maintaining the resonance that would not be abandoned. They are consistent.
+No. +
Ahriman's heart no longer struggled. He slowly resumed his breathing, feeling the warning-like bends and vortices in the surge of time. He repeated again, +No. +
Is there a terrible echo there? Burst out from behind the closed door of the throne room and submerge them in rage? He felt that the specimens made up of his body were being torn apart, and he kept falling downwards...
He suddenly fell back to reality, and time and space returned to their original state. He lay on the ground with a pair of power swords on the back of his neck.
"Don't act rashly, traitor." said the Word Bearer.
Ahriman gasped violently and stood up under the escort of the Word Bearers. At some point, more Word Bearers appeared here.
And the watchers of the palace. Custodes. The pointed helmets of the Imperial Guards turned towards their embarrassment, and they watched as their armor was forcibly torn off, and the neural interface began to bleed.
“You will watch Prospero burn.”
"Then you will be the ones who burn."
The Word Bearers passed on the orders from higher beings in turn, and the back of each Thousand Dust Sun was pressed against the cold muzzle of the bolt gun, Hathor Maat gritted his teeth, and for a moment Ahriman thought he was about to start reprimanding the empire that had truly betrayed them. He said dryly: "No, Hathor."
Hahor watched She glanced at him and stopped, with sadness in her eyes.
Ahriman nodded to him, believing that he would understand that he did not choose to submit.
They were led and exited along the way. Ahriman's palms were still hot, and the pair of marks could not be seen, as if they did not exist, but he knew that they were imprinted deep in his soul.
He counted the doors and identified the patterns... which pattern made his hand bones particularly sore, and at which moment the feeling became intense.
A door. Engraved with complex patterns and seals, somewhere in this passage, it hissed, calling him to go forward, right between the thin curtain of reality and the gap between subspace - this is the infinite The unspoken and understood plan was the wandering fate chosen by Magnus and Malcador for them.
Yes, he has vaguely felt something. After all, he is a black crow, and his eyes can see the most distant moment.
Azhak Ahriman suddenly combined a series of subspace explosions. Everything around him seemed to be stagnant. Dangerous helmeted faces suddenly turned towards him, and the explosive propellant was ignited. Terrible kinetic energy accumulated rapidly, and then the muffled sound of the explosion blasted his eardrums. His companions tacitly set up a psychic shield for him in an instant, and he only had a few breaths to complete his mission...< br>
He pressed his hands on the tightly closed door in the underground palace. The magic pattern of the imperial prime minister and the curse of Magnus collapsed and unraveled at the same moment when he received the order. Only the remaining emperor The emperor's spiritual energy was still flickering, but without the support of the other two powers, this spiritual energy was violently turbulent.
Ahriman exerted all his strength and smashed his fists on the door. The tide of psychic energy surged around him, and the remaining marks of his hands burned more and more fiercely, bursting out with lightning-like red light. The temporary storm continued to intensify, interacting with each other. Blending and rising, until the heavy door cracked a thrilling gap, and then collapsed in an instant.
A huge engine has finally reappeared after being sealed for more than a hundred years.
In an instant, it escaped from the trap and flew towards the door. Ahriman stretched out his right hand, and a new psychic rein was tightly wrapped around the engine. He immediately pulled up the other Qianchens. Zhiyang's companions, they are always connected and never separated.
A new name appeared in Azhak Ahriman's heart, this was the name of the engine.
Tuchucha.
The attacks of the Word Bearers and the Adeptus Custodes were thrown away within the real universe, and the last sound they heard was the cold voice of the throne: + Prospero will burn. +
They turned around in the roaring subspace tide and immersed themselves in the vast ocean, crossing thousands of endless roaring colors, desperately connecting with their minds, supporting each other with a thin, foamy layer that resisted the breath of chaos.
This simple and shaky force field fixes the few beings in real space around them, preventing them from direct naked contact with the vast ocean.
The impacting waves break and destroy each other, all the power is melting and trembling, the subspace roars and boils, rolling endlessly, the demon's scream pierces the consciousness, getting sharper and sharper, the broken scream is everywhere, the world is crowded Pressure twists and expands, tearing apart all incredible things...
+Where are we going? + asked Fsistaka, his voice still sounded shocked and sad.
Ahriman tugged on the reins of the engine, his mouth filled with the cold and bloody breath of metal, as destruction and darkness chased after him.
Ahriman's nerves were highly tense, and Magnus's thoughts were burning in his bones. Afterimages passed by him. He saw those flames and saw what Magnus had seen. Fragments and ash fragments, pictures hung above his head one after another, whistling and whistling. He was trembling, but he still dedicated his remaining strength, pulling Tuchucha's existence, feeling the power of its cheers, and persisted, pushing forward A small deflection——
+Web Channel. + He said calmly.
In precise, never-ending calculations, and with the assistance of other Templar Lecturers, a dark swirling vortex appeared in their path, and the Tuchucha engine carried them through it Blocked by the dark power, they fell into the webway in an instant. Magnus' power expanded and surged around them, catching their whereabouts and wrapping their rampage, silently and even unconsciously, bringing invisible protection. .
The speed of the engine was unwillingly slowed down by the power of the red Magnus remaining in the webway. Gravity was restoring, and they fell onto the strange white and red ground, gasping for air.
And the sentence of what was once the Emperor still echoes.
+Prospero will burn. +
(End of this chapter)