Kingdom Come: Deliverance, but Warhammer 40k

Chapter 96 Becoming King

Meanwhile, in the darkness beyond human perception on the Far Voyager, the bridge hall, once a symbol of imperial glory, had long since become an altar for plague.

Dark green slime clung to the dilapidated bulkheads, and in the very center, a throne, constructed from fragmented corpses, heavy rust, and thick fungal carpet, stood tall.

A thick stench of decay permeated every inch of space, and the plague psychic energy of the warp was reshaping everything around them, with toxic spores drifting freely in the stagnant air.

Two rows of death guards stood silently all around.

These towering Astartes resemble weathered tombstones in a cemetery, lifeless and incongruous with the "vibrant life" brought by the filth beside them.

And at the very front of them, below the throne.

The corrupt monk Morge stared at the figure on the throne; countless Terra hours had passed.

Agrius, the withered overlord.

Judging by the naked eye alone, he is now not much different from a completely dead corpse.

The much larger Terminator power armor had completely lost its luster.

Emerald green moss spread out from the gaps in the armor, growing intertwined with the rust, firmly securing his legs to the throne.

Tiny mushrooms sprouted from the shoulder armor, breastplate, arm guards, and even the breathing grille.

From the edge of the hall, the overlord and the throne beneath him had become a twisted symbiotic entity.

Only deep within that terrifying body, faint ripples of psionic energy still lingered.

This proves that the master's soul has not yet returned to the subspace.

Through a blasphemous ritual, Agrippa shed the shackles of the material universe and projected his consciousness into the subspace to seek the sacred relics left behind by his benevolent father.

Even Morgrik, whom Nurgle adored, had no idea what had happened there.

Perhaps, the withered overlord is undergoing the cruel trial of the Crown of Corruption.

Or perhaps, he had long since lost himself in some dark corner of the bottomless abyss, his soul devoured by a horde of demons.

Ultimately, it returned to the world in the form of a Chaos Egg.

Such a possibility is not nonexistent.

Moerger slowly lowered his eyes.

As a comrade-in-arms for many years, he understood this old friend better than anyone else.

Agrius is not a natural-born Death Guardian.

His anger was too intense, and his pride too blatant.

If it weren't for the things he experienced during his mortal life that led him to dedicate all his loyalty to Mortarion.

Then his passionate enthusiasm would be enough to please the owner of the brass throne.

His morbid pride and arrogance could also serve as the most favored offering of the Lord of Pleasure.

While a person may be tolerant of all things in the world, they may not necessarily bestow favors upon a warrior with a complex and complex soul.

unless----

He was willing to pay a far greater price than for ordinary offspring to gain the favor of the gods, but how many people in this world could offer the sacrifices that the gods desired?

At the edge of the hall, several plague warriors quietly exchanged glances, conveying their discontent.

As the Death Guards, who excel at protracted battles, they never lack patience for waiting, but patience cannot eliminate the doubts that arise during long periods of time.

The intrusion on the Farvore had been delayed for far too long.

Despite their opponents being merely a group of ordinary people and alien races, they still didn't achieve much in terms of victory or gain.

These relatively young soldiers inevitably began to secretly speculate whether the benevolent father had already sent down other divine pronouncements.

They had already been abandoned because of their incompetence.

Just as suspicion was spreading.

On the throne, a powerful surge of psychic energy suddenly entered the material world and swept outwards.

Moerger looked up almost immediately.

But when he turned his gaze away...

The figure on the throne has already stood up.

With a cracking sound, large patches of old rust covering the surface of the armor peeled off.

The intertwined fungal carpet tore apart on its own as if under command, and the thick vines that coiled around the metal plate seemed to be awakened to life, slowly wriggling and retreating into the dark depths of the power armor like a tide.

The plague patterns on the armor surface then spread wildly.

Countless thorny, dark green veins climb up from the breastplate, eventually converging at the top of the mottled helmet.

Upon closer inspection, the patterns clearly outline an unfinished crown.

Even though it is not the true Crown of Corruption, it has already been imprinted with some of the majesty of a warp relic.

The Terminator armor, already as massive as an iron tower, was now being raised several feet taller by an invisible force.

Flesh and steel seemed to have reached a blasphemous consensus, greedily accepting the gifts from the warp.

An invisible pressure emanated from him.

Inside the hall, the Death Guards knelt in unison before the returnees from the Warp.

Only the corrupted monk Morge stared directly into the eyes behind the mask of Agrippa.

"Agrius".

"I would much rather that the people who return from the Warp are still my friends."

"Instead of some great demon who borrowed his body."

Beneath the overlord's helmet came a low laugh.

"Sister, your caution remains tiresome."

Agrius slowly stretched his body.

The rusted and sealed mechanical joints groaned incessantly, like a mountain that had been dormant for a hundred years rising and falling anew.

And flesh and blood quickly filled those gaps.

"But I've never been as clear-headed as I am today."

"I have never known myself and my mission so clearly before."

"No demon can replace me."

He raised his right hand.

In the palm of your hand.

A faint green crown mark remains.

"It seems so."

"Morg said slowly."

"You have seen the sacred object."

"I saw him."

Agripus looked at his palm with a sense of awe.

"The true relics are far greater than we imagine."

He slowly closed his five fingers, crushing the faint light in his palm.

"But you're congratulating me too soon; I'm not qualified to wear it yet."

"But my soul has already been aroused to its appetite."

"As long as I complete the final ritual—kill that human."

"After removing all those who are qualified to compete, it will eventually belong to me."

"At that time, the banner of the Pale King will once again fly over the decaying kingdom."

Upon hearing this sentence...

Moerger was finally relieved.

This is indeed Agrippa, at least most of it.

Only he would explain everything he does as continuing the unfinished work of the Primarch.

"It seems my friend has really returned, and he's ready to celebrate the harvest with us."

"However, I have some bad news."

"Just recently, my little darling was killed."

Agrius let out a meaningful laugh.

"Because of that follower of the Blood God?"

"Perhaps it is—"

"There was another group of rats hiding on our boat. They were so well hidden that they even fooled my eyes."

The monk raised his palm.

A large, buzzing plague fly slowly landed on his fingertip.

On the surface of a fly's compound eyes, scenes alternate.

Ordinary people fleeing in panic, supply crates being hastily moved, garrison troops lined up in formation, and a vast army surging toward the deck.

"My informants tell me that a large number of humans are moving."

"They seem prepared to abandon their original stronghold."

"Head to the deck and rendezvous with the group of humans we previously discovered."

Agripus examined the image reflected by the compound eyes.

His laughter grew louder and louder, and the joy in his laughter was no longer concealed.

In the end, even the pustules growing between his shoulder blades throbbed and undulated in sync with the frequency of his laughter.

"Do they want to launch a decisive battle?"

He drew the giant scythe from his back, a weapon that had witnessed a thousand years of carnage.

The rusty scythe dragged across the metal floor, carving a deep trench from which a carpet of fungi immediately sprang to life.

"A good harvest can only begin after the crops have fully grown."

Moerger picked up the pestle and struck the rotten bell.

The bell tolled through countless layers of bulkheads.

In the dark depths of the Far Voyager, hundreds of dormant Nurgle creatures rose from the shadows like resurrected dead.

The green dots of light were densely packed.

"This is also the time for you to present your merits to your loving father."