40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 732 24. Catching the Eagle (Ten, End)

In just a moment, everything began to change, and Epidemius didn't even realize where the change came from - and then he went crazy.

The Great Unclean One's supposedly indestructible sanity dissipated in an instant, leaving only its corrupted instincts running rampant in its body. It screamed and lifted up the crucible, ignoring the boiling liquid inside, and just slammed it to the ground.

With a slight sound, the crucible shattered immediately, and the resulting fragments were deeply embedded in the fungus blanket due to the great force of the Great Unclean One. The thick soup was naturally not immune to the bad luck. In just a blink of an eye, they penetrated deep into the fungus blanket and disappeared.

So, what about the scribe? How does it feel about its own hands destroying the final chance to turn the tide?

The answer is no, it has no thoughts at all, because it cannot think at all.

Coincidentally, the Rainfather who was suffering under the Phoenix Sword was in the same situation, and the essence of its existence had been more than half destroyed. However, from the moment the crucible was broken, this destruction was forced to stagnate - not stop, but stagnate.

Just like a character in a video who will not move any further after the pause button is pressed, Roediger's essence, flesh and blood, and even thoughts were all enveloped in this inexplicable silence, without any sign of life.

Other things in the cave were not immune to the dead silence. The air stopped flowing, the moss stopped echoing, the heat coming from deep in the earth's crust was forced to stop halfway, the tiny friction between rocks disappeared, and even the tiny particles in the microscopic world stopped their thermal motion that should have never stopped.
Another side of the power of the god of despair and disease is revealed here without reservation.

He ignored the war in the garden, the mad scribe and the destroyed Rain Father, and poured His power into this small cave in the material world with a resolute and unyielding attitude.

The curtain vibrated, and one of the underlying rules that constituted the existence and operation of the world was easily shaken, causing the force of "stagnation" that should not appear in a world where life still existed to emerge.

He stretched out a hand, remember? It was that hand that reached out to the cauldron, and now that the cauldron had shattered, where was His hand?

The answer is simple, everywhere.

"Come." The owner of the hand said kindly.

The hand that had grabbed the phoenix suddenly clenched.

It was sticking out of the crucible, there was no doubt about that, the juices still hanging on its unobservable twisted shape. And now, they were using this hand as a medium to rush into Fulgrim's body.

The flower planted in his body began to grow ecstatically, and this joy of "birth" was unstoppable. If Phoenix could still feel anything, he would definitely feel extremely uncomfortable - how could there be two wills in one body?
But he was now frozen in time on a microscopic level, and could only allow the hand to grab him, water the flowers in his body, and then take him to a garden. They did not encounter any hindrance during the process, as if the veil had already determined that Fulgrim did not belong to the material world.
Afterwards, Phoenix's consciousness slowly returned, as if he had regained life, but he seemed to have lost his sight and could no longer see anything. Before his eyes there was only an extremely tolerant and deadly darkness.

A certain existence gently placed him on the ground, and his hair and the back of his neck felt extremely sticky. This made him alert and disgusted. Although he couldn't see it for the time being, he could feel that he was lying on something indescribable.

However, having this feeling was definitely not a good thing for him at the moment. His perception began to spread, and the opposite of rationality screamed in the next moment.

Floor. A voice rose in Phoenix's heart. You are lying on the floor of a room.

room?

Yes, a house. Big, but old. A house that exists in the past and the future at the same time, a home for decay, disease, despair, and heat death.

These things have lived here for a very long time, so long that you don't even dare to think about them. Human will cannot maintain its own identity in the endless time that is often measured in eternity.

Phoenix wanted to say something, but he suddenly started to cough. He wanted to hold the sword tightly, but his hands were empty. He couldn't hold anything, couldn't hold anything tightly. His vitality was being taken away, and his life was naturally decaying with it.

No.
He tried to resist.

The voice beyond reason calmly gave a verdict in his heart: Don't do this, you can't resist it, this is no longer something you can control by willpower alone. This is His garden, can't you feel it?

Whose? Phoenix roared in his heart. Whose?!

A name was spoken in unison by that voice and another being in the mansion.

"Nurgle."

The sound fell flatly, landing on his ears, creating a loud noise like a million supernovas exploding at the same time.

Along with the sound, a presence broke into his mind and brought some things in.

At first, it was a peaceful and tranquil world, then it collapsed, taking with it countless lives. There was no reason, no sign, it just died.

As time passed, its remains wandered aimlessly in the universe until they were captured by the gravity of other planets.

The last remnants of one world fell into another world, and their size had been worn down to the size of a baby's palm.

A deep green color began to spread from the top of the baby's hand. Living beings were captured by the disease. Some died, some struggled, and the plague treated everyone equally.
As the years passed, the second world collapsed, and the remains wandered again, spreading plague and disease, until the universe was filled with decay and pain - and the Thing finally revealed its true appearance at the top of it all.

The God of Entropy responded with a smile, then raised his hand and wiped out the universe, returning everything to silence.

Years passed, time passed, until one day, a new universe was born again, and He began to wait again.

Nurgle. Everything cries out. Nurgle.

This is not a name, but a concept. This concept is standing beside Fulgrim, smiling. His smile is so kind, like a kind old man looking at his younger generation.

He is expecting.

Phoenix's flesh boiled instantly.

He couldn't describe how he felt at the moment, he just felt that he was disintegrating. Just like those worlds, captured, decayed, every life on them was reduced to the living dead in the disease, constantly wandering between life and death.

He was hot, cold, his teeth chattering, and deep in his bones he felt a maddening sensation as if something was knocking at the door. It was knocking at his spine, knocking at his ribs, and asking: How are you? Are you all right, Fulgrim?
They laughed and tapped his bones with their dirty fingers, without stopping, until cracks appeared in the bones. Then they pressed their eyes against them and peered out. Countless eyes, swollen and twisted, splashed mucus every time they blinked, splashing on his flesh and blood, causing a melting sound.

Hiss, hiss, heat rises, blood vessels and nerves deform, his skin turns into fluid, wrapped in hair, and transported to a fiery purgatory to be tortured. Someone laughs, stirs his melting flesh with a spoon, and then scoops up more boiling heat from the depths of purgatory, covering his chest and pouring inward, or drilling into it.

They burrowed into his body and crawled in his flesh and blood, pushing up his skin, and colliding with their shelled bodies and multiple limbs. They were so densely packed, biting with their mouthparts, tearing off his flesh and injecting venom that the cold came over him.

Oh my god, why is it so cold suddenly?

The Phoenix was almost confused, something agreed with him, they crawled out of his eyeballs, jumped wetly into his mouth and nose, and began to break his teeth.

His tongue turned to rotten dust, his veins were filled with cold plague, his bones were broken, bringing up pink smoke, and his flesh was devoured - he cried, he was in so much pain - so He reached out to him.

A kind hand, without pain, only endless peace and joy.

'Come,' said Nurgle gently, and he drew back the veil from his eyes.

Suddenly, Phoenix's vision returned. He saw a square mirror in front of him, which contained his figure.

His face had melted, with no lips or teeth, and cloudy eyes. His armor had become twisted and decayed, clinging to his body, and dark blood was constantly seeping out from the gaps, causing numbness and itchiness. Spiky plant roots spread out from the huge wound on his chest, wrapping around him bit by bit, as fine as lines, and also binding the loose flesh and armor to it. They hurt him deeply, but also brought an incomparable tranquility. The pain was gone, and the pain that had hurt him so deeply just now was completely gone. He even felt comfortable and happy, as if he was experiencing a deep sleep.

"This is what you want," Nurgle said, eagerly and sadly. "You have been through much suffering and torture, and you have more despair in your heart than anyone else, Fulgrim. It is enough for me to notice you. Do you understand? You are calling to me, you want to end it all, you want to be free."

He stretched out a hand, brushed through the darkness, and placed it on Phoenix's shoulder, causing more and greater echoes. This hand soothed his pain, took away his despair, and made him completely calm.

"How many times have you held a knife to your neck in the dark? How many times have you found it hard to breathe when you saw your children who died in battle? Do they still exist now?" He asked in a persuasive manner.

These things shouldn't bother you, and they can't bother you. You have proven your purity. Now, use this purity to feel it well. Don't lie. Tell me, how do you feel now? "

Confused, Phoenix answered in a low voice, "Calm down."

He smiled, extremely satisfied with this answer, ignoring the thunderous cracks outside the house.

"Isn't this peace, then, a million times better than the pain and suffering you have experienced? Accept it, Fulgrim. This is not an escape, but another kind of struggle."

The house began to tremble and shake, as if it were being hit by an earthquake and a hurricane at the same time. In the darkness came many wet and muffled noises, as if water-soaked wooden boards were being destroyed by a knife.

His smile finally faded a little. He turned his head and peered out of a small window, seeing the dark flames covering the sky.
And the undisguised rage of one's gaze. He could not see here yet, Nurgle knew, but time was running out.

This caused His hand on Fulgrim's shoulder to tighten slightly.

He shook his arm gently, but did not urge him. Instead, he continued to persuade him softly. His voice was still kind and gentle, and he spoke with the wisdom and calmness that only an old man can have.

He spoke of the philosophy of struggle, telling him every bit of sorrow that Fulgrim had experienced over the past ten thousand years, enlightening him, helping him, making him calmer and more immersed in this feeling of being away from pain.

He looked so good in the mirror, didn't he? No need to suffer the torment of conscience, no need to hurt himself with pain to get some comfort, but, but.
But what do they do?
Who? The voice beyond reason asked doubtfully.

They, that's them, Phoenix repeated stubbornly. Don't you remember? They.

Something welled up from the deepest part of memory.

Two hundred people, holding eagle flags, stood in the empty hall and swore allegiance to him. Battle after battle, fresh lives were lost just like that. Akudona, Eidolon, Lucius. They were wearing the bright armor of the Third Legion, covered in blood and scars. The things on the Spirit of Vengeance surged up again, never disappearing, never fading, but its meaning to him was beyond torture.

His legion, his descendants, the continuation of his life. His home planet, his hometown, his resting place. His brothers, his relatives, his siblings and family, the people who will always stand behind him at all times.
Finally, there was his father, sitting on the throne. Many people stood behind him, Astartes, civilians, and auxiliaries.

They all looked at him, saying nothing.

"Father."

His father shook his head. "If you really can't bear it anymore and can't hold on any longer, then just run away, Fugen. I won't blame you. You've endured enough, and you've done enough."

From those eyes, Fulgrim knew that his father was serious and that he really meant it. Those eyes were full of helplessness, sadness and self-blame. He was worried about his future, pitying his pain, and regretting why he could not help him.
But this only aroused Phoenix's fear, real fear.

Countless thoughts came to his mind. He was worried about the empire, his offspring, his brothers, his hometown - all of these were gradually eliminated in the inescapable fear and reduced to a simple, ordinary sentence.

What will happen to them if I leave?
"I don't know," said my father.

Yes, you don’t know, and I don’t know either. I have to go and see for myself.

I had to see it for myself.

Phoenix suddenly reached out his hand and probed his chest. From the empty space, he grasped a curved sharp blade, with the blade facing inwards, and it looked like it was stabbing in rather than being pulled out.

Maybe it had always been here, in his mind.

He clenched it, tightened it, and then lifted it with all his might.

A pure light flashed in the dark mansion, just a flash, but it was enough. The ground shook, the roof was blown away, and the raging flames fell into it, condensing into a human figure, standing between the fallen phoenix and a huge black shadow.

He looked down at Fulgrim, then up.

"I am going to kill you."

Raging flames came, completely enveloping the mansion. Nurgle's roar began to echo, spreading from here to the end somewhere.

(End of this chapter)