Warhammer: Hail to the Void Lords!.

Chapter 888 (08.887): "The Showdown at the Forbidden City (Seeking Monthly Tickets!)"

"Control your minds, brothers!" Ragnar Blackmane's roar exploded in the communications channel.

As he shouted, he swung his roaring chainsaw sword "Frostfang" horizontally, tearing two Dukali warriors who were trying to flank him into a cloud of blood mist.

The mutation of humans into werewolves has always been a persistent shadow, haunting Ruth's offspring for thousands of years.

For some "unknown reason," the genetic defect problem in the Black Mane Dalian team is particularly prominent compared to other Dalian teams, and the number of combat cultivators who have gone out of control and turned into werewolves is also the highest among all Dalian teams—this is an irreversible process.

Once the mutation completely spirals out of control, the cultivator will forever lose the opportunity to appear in public.

Their only destiny is to be frozen in the darkest chambers of the flagship "Frostfang," where they will wage an endless, slumbering struggle amidst eternal solitude and a bloodthirsty urge that constantly provokes their nerves.

For this reason, the young wolf lord Ragnar Blackmane tirelessly patrolled the borders of the human empire.

While fulfilling his duty as an Astartes monk, fighting against the ever-invading aliens, he also searched for a way to bring liberation to his cursed brothers.

This time, he came to the westernmost part of the Misty Starfield, placing his hopes on the mysterious Colonus Expansion Sector and the Calissis Sector, which is full of strange events, in order to find the legendary "antidote".

At the same time, he also prepared to help the Calithis sector get rid of those traitors who betrayed the Empire once and for all—just as their ancestors did during the Great Crusade, purging the ranks of turncoats.

However, a sudden subspace surge propelled his fleet into this unknown airspace, drawing them into this bloody encounter.

Now, Ragnar Blackmane must resolve this battle before those mortals—the Imperial Navy's rescue force—arrive.

He had to get the wolf guards to take control of his mutated brothers and bring them back to the flagship for safekeeping.

After several werewolf-mutated combat brothers, with their fearless and fanatical fighting spirit, tore apart the Dark Elf Clan's defenses, a bloody path leading to the ship's core was finally opened.

Ragnar Blackmane led his remaining sane fighting brothers toward the command bridge, which represented the ship's evil heart.

The final stretch of road leading to the bridge of the Dark Eldar warship was not forged of steel, but paved with bones, flesh, and silent wails.

The interior design itself is a disgusting work of biological architecture created by the bloodthirsty bastards.

The walls are covered with the skin of many species, completely peeled off. Even the most experienced biological sages cannot identify which creature each skin came from. They are stitched together with shimmering silver thread to form an ever-changing mural of agony.

The dim light came from a huge chandelier made of countless claws and teeth, illuminating the ornate wreaths made of carefully preserved viscera that still shimmered with a faint biological glow.

The bridge deck is not made of solid metal, but of a sponge-like, slimy biomass covered with polished and painted skulls from both aliens and humans.

The air was filled with a pungent smell of chemical reagents, the rusty smell of dried blood, and a nauseating odor of exotic incense, so strong that it could suffocate a mortal.

The ship's architecture itself is like a living thing, brimming with pure malice.

Skeletons were embedded in the wall, their bones hollowed out and drilled to form a terrifying "bone flute".

When the ship's life support systems circulate air, these skeletons emit a chilling wail.

As Ragnar Blackmane—the youngest wolf lord of the Space Wolves Chapter—charged past, the eyes on those cleverly preserved, still fleshy faces snapped open, emitting hoarse groans of eternal torment from their parched throats.

They still have a sliver of hope, which is proof that the Dark Eldar elevate the suffering of others into art.

Ragnar's anger was like a storm trapped inside his terracotta armor.

The longsword in his hand crushed the last core guard of the Consul—the True Child warriors of the Conspiracy Group.

His movements were wild and swift, blurry afterimages, a stark contrast to the light and ruthless fighting style of the Dark Eldar.

Each time he swung his greatsword, he pulverized the True Descendants' blade-like armor along with the flesh beneath it.

His frost-covered blade, "Frostfang"—whose teeth were forged from the fangs of the legendary Kraken—emitted terrifying, soul-crushing howls as it tore through the alien warriors.

The shrapnel gun's barrage of poison crystal bullets futilely struck his battle-hardened, meticulously crafted power armor, scattering sparks but failing to harm it in the slightest.

He and the wolf warriors finally reached the bridge gate. The gate was made from the complete skeleton of some kind of interstellar behemoth, so large that even the knight mechs could pass through it with their heads held high.

It stands there, a testament to the ultimate challenge of this battle that lies behind it.

With a defiant roar, Ragnar slammed into the giant gate with all his might, like a battering ram.

Amidst a deafening crash of bones breaking, the giant door was forcefully slammed off its hinges and charged into the bridge with unstoppable momentum.

The bridge of the Black Ark is a huge, domed compartment.

The main screen is a huge, flawless crystal, displaying the chaotic and magnificent energy vortex within the network.

The control console, like the previous cabins, appears to be "grown" from a material resembling spirit bones. It is controlled by countless cybernetically modified and tortured slaves whose fingers have become one with the surface of the console.

At the center of the entire bridge is the Consul's command throne.

It was not a machine, but a living sculpture made up of twisted, fused bodies—perhaps captured Astartes monks, or defeated enemy consuls—whose eyes still flowed with silent tears of blood.

The throne itself seems to writhe slightly in eternal agony, the ultimate manifestation of the consul's power and cruelty.

The sharp spikes extending from the throne prevent anyone from getting close to him, whether enemy or ally.

On the throne, the Archon—the lord of the Sons of Thorns' conspiracy, Seralak—finally appeared.

He possessed inhuman handsomeness and elegance, and wore a piece of exquisitely crafted armor that was more of a work of art than armor.

Despite facing a formidable enemy, he remained languidly reclining, sipping a strange, shimmering liquid from a goblet made from the skull of some creature, a look of listless boredom on his face.

Two enormous snake-man mercenaries guarded him on either side of the throne.

These four-armed, serpentine warriors, their scales shimmering iridescent under the harsh lights of the bridge, each arm wielding a different weapon: a poison crystal carbine, a poison crystal pistol, an evil battle blade, and a pair of spiked knuckle dusters.

“A beast from the world of ice and snow,” Seralak said, his voice as smooth as silk, yet filled with a contempt that could freeze the soul.

His words were full of the extreme arrogance and narcissism characteristic of his race.

“Look at you, you mon-keigh, exuding sweat and a crude, brute aura.”

You remind me of the most brainless beasts in my arena. You think you can climb my spire with brute force? How... laughable.

He viewed Ragnar's rage as a simple, exploitable, low-level emotion, completely failing to comprehend the world-destroying power lurking within this young wolf king.

"We'll soon wipe out the warriors you sent, restore the Black Ark's power, and then... heh heh."

He laughed, a very arrogant laugh.

"I will take you on a journey through the net, to the gates of Comoros, where you and all the wild monkeys will be sold into slavery, you dog."

Ragnar's response was a low growl from deep within his throat, a harbinger of slaughter.

A violent promise. He had no time for the alien's nonsense; he was there for revenge.

The essence of this duel is a clash between two completely different "wildnesses".

The cruelty of the consuls is cold and meticulously crafted, stemming from an intellectual superiority complex and a parasitic need to derive from the suffering of others.

Ragnar's fury, however, is primal and glorious, stemming from Fenris's warrior culture and his ongoing struggle against the genetic beast within him.

The governor's fatal mistake was that he only knew that his opponent was the Space Wolves, so he tried to use his knowledge of the Space Wolves to provoke these beasts, unaware of what kind of demon slayer he was about to face.

(End of this chapter)