Emperor's Bane

Chapter 975 Life hangs on a thread

In the deepest part of the subspace, in a space that even Morgan and the Marksman could not detect...

"How does it feel, you devil?"

Battles in the warp are completely different from bloody battles in the real universe.

Here, there is no whistling sound of bullets whizzing past your ears.

There was no rumble of artillery shells.

There were no shouts of comrades from outside their field of vision, no desperate roars, no cries of agony before death.

There is no smoke of gunpowder, no dust, no pungent smell of blood or the stench of tunnels, no shaking and roaring of vehicles and machines moving across the land. After explosives and poison gas were invented by the most wicked minds, the terror and madness that every real war of mankind will inevitably experience is nowhere to hide and nowhere to be found on the land of the warp.

It was unlike any war Luther had ever experienced or been familiar with before.

But it would be a grave mistake to believe, based solely on this, that the realm of the gods is more benevolent than the real universe.

The boundless ocean indeed lacks the vulgarity, malice, and ugliness of the world: in a vastness that is countless times wider than the Milky Way itself, the dark side of any intelligent race is insignificant, just as a cup of the hottest resin poison is enough to kill a hundred people but cannot affect any ocean.

From this perspective, the subspace truly lives up to its name as a vast ocean.

It possesses the vastness of the ocean, but at the same time, it also possesses the depth and unknown of the ocean.

Here, you really can't feel reality.

But things outside of reality are often more terrifying.

When war is no longer adorned with blood, bullets, and the ever-present, gloomy clouds overhead, the vast ocean reveals a far more frenzied side: battles fought in this energy and wave make human carnage seem all the more benign.

Luther learned this invaluable lesson in just one battle.

He was forced to learn a completely unfamiliar way of fighting on a completely unfamiliar land, like a novice who had just wielded a sword: he fought against a demon that did not exist in any history book amidst surging waves composed of countless bizarre colors, sound waves, and dimensions, with countless years and planets flashing by, creation, glory, and destruction happening in the blink of an eye.
As they brandished their weapons and launched unseen attacks on each other, how many worlds and civilizations, hanging in the distant sky, experienced their own unique rise and fall, their own vicissitudes? In a daze, he seemed to witness the rise and brilliance of humanity, or perhaps it was just a fleeting afterimage in the corner of his eye as he wielded his sword.

He traversed the river of time, letting its turbulent waves flow freely. Faced with this destructive power devoid of wisdom and reason, all Luther could do was flee in disarray, passing by those ferocious predators like a shooting star, only to once again engage in battle with his opponents under the illumination of the next star.

Carlos, that two-headed monster, is like a shadow wandering through Luther's mind, moving with ease through this false world made of concepts. Sometimes he appears behind the Caliban, his sharp claws capable of tearing steel armor to shreds, and sometimes he hides in the distance, his waving magic bullets enough to blot out the entire sky.

From beginning to end, this cunning demon firmly held the initiative in the battle, as if it could easily take Luther's life in the next heartbeat. But whether it was his wicked nature that enjoyed tormenting his opponents, or his inexplicable fear of an even more powerful being, the Fate Weaver never launched a truly lethal attack.

Luther's instincts told him: it should be the latter.

He clearly saw that whenever Carlos's true form or attack got too close to him, the four medals on his chest would spontaneously burst into light: the ones given by Johnson and Morgan were the most ferocious, while the ones given by the Emperor and Macardo would not always intervene, but their energy would be even stronger when the situation was critical.

Tzeentch's claws and scepter crumbled before the unseen shield, and even magic bullets powerful enough to destroy a world couldn't harm Luther. As it began chanting those ancient incantations, preparing to make the knight yet another wronged soul vanish under its boundless power, its other head would begin to roar sharply.

That is the one who can see the future.

"Stop!"

It hysterically turns to another version of itself.

You'll get us killed!

"Leave no trace: [He] will find you!"

Even from a great distance, Luther could still hear the genuine fear in those words.

All he had to do was stand in the center of the domain radiating golden and silver light after the Weaver of Fate's attack was once again thwarted, grip his longsword, and swing it at the great demon a thousand meters away.

Whenever he launched an attack, his white-robed ally on his back would move in response. It never spoke, nor did it ever react violently. Only when Caliban's old knight swung a seemingly ordinary sword into the void before him would the figure under the white robe clap its hands.

Immediately afterwards, a visible cold glint would accompany Luther's movements, rushing towards Tzeentch.

At such times, the Weaver of Fate would be on high alert.

Even if it had the best opportunity, it would not hesitate to abandon its attack on Luther and instead block or simply dodge the Caliban's [sword energy].

In a sudden and unexpected turn of events, Luther witnessed firsthand the scene after Tzeentch's defeat: the cold light instantly left a bloody gash on Carlos's broad wings, black and blue blood gushing out, and the Weaver's groans accompanied by a low laugh from the deepest part of the galactic warp, sending chills down Luther's spine.

For some reason, he could not gain even the slightest sense of satisfaction or glory from this battle. Even when he saw an unprecedentedly powerful opponent being injured by his sword, Luther only felt more and more terror: this terror did not come from the Weaver of Fate in front of him, but from that long laugh that was faintly visible but always lingered in his ears.

It seemed to be far away, yet it was able to observe the battle between the Caliban and Tzeentch so meticulously: Luther also keenly noticed that even the Weaver of Fate seemed to be filled with awe for the owner of this laughter, but even in the most desperate situation, Carlos never tried to ask the owner of this voice for help.

It was just over and over again. This pointless battle with Luther: Luther couldn't kill it. He launched attacks on Carlos a thousand times, often only managing to graz Tzeentch's wings once or twice. Rather than engaging in a battle of equal strength with the Weaver of Fates, he was merely a tool, a tool of the little figure in the white robe on his body and the medals on his chest.

They told him where to defend and when to launch an attack, and all Luther had to do was complete the concept of "attack" in the warp; everything else was left to his allies to build.

He was merely a tool: a superb, and perfectly suited tool.

Just like one's place in the real universe.

After a brief moment of confusion, Luther readily accepted it.

He cast aside all distractions and returned to the early days of his life as a knight, throwing himself wholeheartedly into a simple battle: he witnessed the growing frustration of the Weaver of Fates, Carlos. This monster clearly possessed power a thousand times stronger than Luther, yet it was far inferior to the wills standing behind Luther.

As long as the light on his chest continues to shine, as long as the flames on his sword have not faded, and as long as the white figure on his shoulder continues to stand silently: Luther cannot lose.

At least, he wouldn't lose to Carlos, the Weaver of Fate, who was almost completely unprepared.

After yet another barrage of magical projectiles was effortlessly wiped away by the silvery-white light, even the most arrogant Tzeentch Archmagus had to admit it.

So it retreated to a distance, across countless shattered worlds and dimensions, to gaze at Luther: even the white figure standing on the shoulder of the Caliban could only shake its head helplessly at this distance.

The Weaver of Fate abandoned the war.

It realized that the master of all changes may not have desired victory from the very beginning.

It was just a test, or a notification.

Tell the empire, which is currently mired in internal strife, what awaits them next?
At least that's what Luther thinks.

Until Carlos's voice reached his ears.

Even from such a distance, Tzeentch's deep curse was still so clear.

"You are defying fate."

It's unclear what it saw, but the head symbolizing the future shrank back into the shadows, leaving only another head roaring at the Caliban.

"You are refuting the wisdom of the gods."

“You should have accepted him, Luther.”

"You don't know what you've rejected."

There won't be a next chance.

"Listen to me, son of the lion."

You can't change anything.

"Your world will burn before your eyes."

"Your legion will perish, and thousands of lives will be sacrificed to an even more terrifying being."

"Compared to Him..."

“We…would be a more merciful option.”

"You'll understand."

"You'll know."

"Sacrifice to Chaos, sacrifice to the gods."

"This will be your last chance."

"And when the cursed one breaks through the earth, when He stirs up a war that even the vast ocean weeps for."

"Your history will also come to an end."

There won't be a fortieth millennium...

"This time, the cursed one will not break the promise he made simply by his own determination..."

"On the day the Holy Terra is swallowed, you will regret what you have done today for the rest of your life."

"..."

“I have heard more pleasing temptations, you devil.”

Despite the Weaver's vicious whispers, Luther's lips didn't even twitch.

"The last person to speak to me like this took my son from my hands and gave me back a father."

He uttered these words with a calmness that surprised even himself.

"To be honest: I don't like that guy."

"That fellow who is called the Lord of Mankind: He is not the lord I dream of serving."

"but……"

"If you're not even nearly as good as him."

"Then you'd better get back to your master as soon as possible."

"Maybe, once it's had its fill of laughing, it might spare your lowly dog ​​life."

“Tell it.”

"If it wants war, then the Empire will never refuse any war."

"Let it come."

"Let it break free from your vicious cage."

"It is accompanied by its army and madmen."

"Descend like a god, and die like a monster."

"The Empire... doesn't care."

"..."

“I have heard far more arrogant words, mortals.”

Surprisingly, the voice of the Weaver of Fates, Carlos, was no longer as manic as before.

He spoke eloquently in a calmer tone, even with a hint of pity and schadenfreude.

"But their glory is far less than yours."

"Their fate was far worse than yours."

"Luther."

"Be thankful."

“You have achieved true glory.”

"Your arrogance, your excellence, your potential."

"You have caught the attention of the Great Will: now, He is very interested in you."

"……what?"

Luther frowned.

He instinctively sensed something was wrong: the little figure in the robe on his shoulder was trembling. "Nothing matters anymore."

Carlos spread his arms, his wings flapped, and the figure of Tzeentch gradually disappeared into the darkness.

"because……"

“He has already come.”

"..."

Luther paused for a moment.

He muttered to himself, as if making a declaration, or perhaps encouraging himself.

"I am not afraid of the king of a defeated enemy."

But before he finished speaking, Carlos's strange laughter followed him everywhere.

"If defeating a shadow can make you so happy."

"Be happy over there, mortals."

"In the last moments of your life."

As soon as he finished speaking, Tzeentch's thoughts and aura completely left the Caliban's mind.

This is not retreating, but avoiding.

Because at the same time.

A more powerful aura, a stronger will, or something that can only be encompassed by the word "existence," has casually seized the souls of the Caliban.

Luther felt he couldn't escape.

His world was changed forever.

------

A concept broke through the gates of reason.

Enormous, ferocious, everything in it was ablaze with its arrival. All worlds, all time, all existence and dimensions, even the galaxy outlined by the myriad lights beyond the stars, were as insignificant as mortals before it. Even in the most insane and unparalleled dreams that mankind had ever experienced, there was no such terrifying and powerful monster.

Beneath that otherworldly exterior lies a nightmare that pulsates throughout the entire galaxy.

It was like a continent, a continent pieced together from countless planets and worlds. Its vague, majestic outline contained an antiquity that Luther could not comprehend, but it was certainly older than the Eldar, older than the Greenskins. Its dazzling light and overflowing energy waves were more brilliant than any Primarch soul the Caliban had ever witnessed.

No.

Even the Emperor: the Emperor that Luther saw with his own eyes.

In terms of its life form, it is no more advanced than what is before our eyes.

It is neither a demon, nor a Primitive, nor anything that has ever existed in the real universe.

Of all the concepts that can be understood, there seems to be only one word that can describe what Luther is seeing now.

"..."

"god."

As the Caliban involuntarily uttered the word symbolizing ultimate power and concept, he felt something strange on his shoulder: Luther instinctively reached out, only to find a tattered cloth.

A withered white cloth, devoid of any substance.

Those are the robed figures belonging to Caliban.

But the contents inside had vanished without a trace.

Luther stared blankly ahead, only to discover that a patch of dark black ash had appeared on his shoulder without him noticing.

The white cloth that once belonged to the little robe-wearing figure, brimming with vitality, now bears no trace of life.

The Caliban felt no sorrow; the presence before him made him even forget his grief.

He just stared blankly, then looked back: at the figure that made his soul scream.

It's as if this is the instinct of life.

Then, he saw it.

He saw thousands upon thousands of worlds and eras scream, collapse, and turn to ashes before existence.

He saw those chaotic and disordered lights and colors, twisted tenfold, a hundredfold, a thousandfold, tearing and devouring each other wildly until they turned into nothingness, until they ceased to exist in endless changes. Even the most essential black had been erased from existence: leaving only a blank space that could not even be called white.

Nothing was left.

Before God, all existence loses its meaning.

Only Luther remains standing.

But this is not his power.

Rather, it is His interest.

He longed, in that instant, for the Caliban to see Himself.

Luther did just that: by then, his soul and body no longer belonged to him.

He was filled with fear and excitement, and with trembling eyes he had to look at the final being.

He saw a figure as massive as a mountain, so slender that even the legendary Leviathan seemed insignificant in comparison.

He saw countless fingers, eyeballs, tentacles, and grotesque faces twisted in the same way, uttering the same words. They came from everyone he knew, yet they were so unfamiliar. He couldn't understand what they were whispering, but he understood their meaning.

He saw the ultimate being, seated in a palace formed from all the impossible, gazing up at all that had vanished from a flowing crystal throne. Every muscle of His was constantly changing and self-destructing, His face bearing a repeated squinting and mocking expression, His head held high atop His chest, yet seemingly within His chest, with bull-like horns growing from the ends of His shoulders.

The primordial smoke surrounded Him, and as it gradually dissipated, He took on a different form.

He became a serpent, a raven, a headless Athena, a colorful mist, a bell tower built of flesh and blood, a silent, strange man, a pitiful and twisted girl, a mass of tentacles that were killing each other...

Countless changes, countless possibilities, until everything suddenly came to a standstill at a certain moment: in Luther's heartbeat, which was not even sure if it was real, the god seemed to finally sense the presence of the person in front of him.

He did not move or breathe, but Luther could clearly feel that on the head of a god, or rather, in the organ that could be called a head, something that could be best described as an eye, was casually, without even pausing, glancing at him.

That wasn't even looking; it was just a wisp of dust passing by in the corner of my eye.

But even a casual glance, devoid of any malice, when emanated by a true being—not one of those projected gods in a fabricated story, but the very embodiment of the concept, the being known as Tzeentch—would cause the entire galaxy to weep.

Luther heard himself scream.

Flesh and blood exploded on his body, and millions of worlds flooded into his mind. The endless knowledge, secrets, and madness were enough to drive anyone insane: and this was merely the insignificant aura emanating from the gaze of the gods before they even saw him.

He could do nothing; he couldn't beg for mercy, he couldn't fight, and he couldn't hide. He could only stay where he was, waiting for that gaze to "see" him.

All he could do was pray.

It is not directed toward God.

Instead, it is to everyone he trusts.

------

Zhuang Sen was the first to respond.

A roar emanated from the lion's emblem: a valiant knight brandished his sword, charging fearlessly into the devastating waves before even waiting for his comrades to act, though his resolve was hardly a delay in the face of divine power.

God's gaze wavered for a moment, but he continued to advance toward Luther without a care.

At that moment, the Spider Queen answered the summons.

She was full of nagging, seemingly dawdling, waiting for the Lord of Man to set off. But when nothing came of it, the Lord of Avalon still followed closely in the footsteps of Johnsen, gracefully walking towards the destructive waves before her. When her whispers were sung loudly in the warp, even the gaze of the gods would pause for a moment.

The wave weakened, a fact that even Luther could clearly feel, but it did not stop.

Thus, it clashed head-on with the emperor's will.

The Lord of Mankind, with the utmost indifference, watched his two offspring march toward destruction. Then, after making thorough preparations, he slowly rose. The merciless sun once again dispelled the madness of the vast ocean, colliding with the gaze of the gods to create a world-destroying wave. Luther excitedly looked up as he watched the invincible wave melt away like ice and snow before the Emperor's will.

But just as the gaze of the gods was about to completely disappear, leaving only a negligible trace, the sun in the subspace finally set.

The emperor did not survive to the end: but fortunately, he left behind the person he trusted most.

The one who held the seal made the slightest movement: it was just a sigh that seemed helpless but was actually resolute.

He seemed to have done nothing, as if the wind had just passed by his ear.

But unbeknownst to them, just as the destructive wave was about to reach Luther's nose, and as the Caliban closed their eyes in despair: along with Makado's medal turning to ashes, the gaze of God finally settled on this place so close.

Luther survived.

As a human being, I survived.

Even though all that remained around him was ashes.

Even though he was bleeding profusely at this point.

However, when the gods lost interest and turned their attention elsewhere, the Caliban was finally able to roll back to his office, freed from that nightmarish realm: at the cost of everything he had painstakingly documented over the previous decades.

His medal was torn.

His allies have fallen.

His body was mangled beyond recognition, lying on the floor, where blood could flow freely.

His will had never been so dark.

He felt himself about to fall into a deep sleep: an eternal sleep from which he knew not when he would awaken.

In the darkness, the last moment of clarity came from the jarring sound of the door slamming shut: two dark angels had finally smashed through the sturdy door before them. They stared in astonishment at the chaotic state of the office, then rushed to Luther's side, looking at him with concern.

"Doctor! Call the doctor quickly!"

"Someone! Someone! Sound the alarm!"

A dark angel immediately rushed out, his voice echoing through the corridor. In response were the running sounds of hundreds of dark angels and the sounds of more and more people surging in from afar.

Amidst the roar of the dark angels and the resounding bells throughout the Caliban fortress.

Luther is about to lose his last bit of willpower.

He struggled to lift his head, and with trembling lips managed to utter a single sentence to the nearest dark angel.

“Kardia…”

"Hold it..."

"Don't let...them...out..."

Then, his head lolled to the side and he fainted.

Only the remaining badge on his chest, a gift from the Lord of Humanity, still had a broken corner, emitting a faint golden light.

The light enveloped Luther.

Enveloping his last breath.

(End of this chapter)