Warhammer Cultivation: Cultivating the Tao Te Ching in the 40K Universe

That was the moment Hector achieved mastery of the Golden Core in the subspace.

This is neither a "sound" nor a "scene".

Rather, it is a kind of "nothingness".

A kind of absolute purity that seemed to completely silence his endless symphony of suffering – “nothingness”.

His chaotic perception, filled with fragments of the endless future, was like a radio on the verge of collapse receiving billions of different channels.

The "strange noise" was like a "blocking" signal that suddenly appeared and had absolute authority, instantly covering up all the noisy "channels" filled with blood and wails!

Conrad Coates' body stiffened abruptly!

His face, contorted with extreme pain, revealed an expression of confusion and disbelief, just like any ordinary person!

He felt a long-lost feeling in his mind...

"--silence."

That silence was both so unfamiliar and so alluring.

It's like a dying traveler who has walked for centuries in an endless, scorching desert, suddenly spotting a cool oasis that can wash away all pain.

His hound-like intuition, driven by madness, was fully activated at this moment!

He must find it!

He has to catch it!

He wanted to possess the source that brought him this tranquility!

......

Deep within the seventeenth Legion's flagship, the "Words of Loyalty," in the distant Colchis star system, lies the obsidian palace where all "flames of truth" have long since been extinguished.

First Priest Eribas sat cross-legged before the cold ashes that symbolized the stripping of his power.

He wasn't wearing the magnificent purple-gold power armor that represented his status as the First Priest; instead, he wore only the most ordinary ascetic robes, which resembled those of a prisoner.

His face wore an impeccable mask of piety, filled with "repentance" and "self-reflection."

However, his "qi" would present a completely opposite picture under the "qi observation technique" of any Taoist qi cultivator.

It was a deep, cold, and deathly still ocean of psionic energy, like a windless zone.

But in the deepest part of that desolate ocean, a never-extinguished, pitch-black flame, filled with resentment and scheming, burned! The flame was not directed at Primarch Lorga, who had imprisoned him there, nor at the mortal Hector, who had publicly humiliated him.

The flames pointed towards the entire universe.

He reveled in it all. He reveled in being the mastermind behind the scenes, manipulating the fates of those Primarchs who considered themselves gods with invisible threads. He reveled in the ultimate art of twisting light into darkness and corrupting loyalty into betrayal.

"My lord, Terra's 'seed' has been planted as you instructed."

A voice suddenly rang out from the deep shadows behind him. The voice was not transmitted through the air but was constructed of pure psychic energy, filled with distortion and flattery.

Irebas didn't turn around; he didn't even lift his eyelids.

"Speak." His voice was hoarse, yet carried a calm confidence.

"The patriarch of the 'Iron Shield' family is dead," the voice reported. "He died in his most heavily guarded private estate in the upper reaches of Terra, 'Cloudtop.' There were no witnesses, no alarms, not even a trace of energy. His head was cleanly severed from his neck by an incredibly sharp weapon that we cannot identify. The cut was as smooth as a mirror."

“Very good.” Irebas’s lips curled into a pleased smile. “Are the ‘actors’ all in position?”

“Yes, sir,” the voice replied. “In the first hour after the patriarch’s death, his ‘grandnephew,’ who was far away on Mars serving as the supervisor of some insignificant foundry, ‘coincidentally’ sent this ‘bad news’ along with some ‘evidence’ that we had prepared for him, full of ‘hints’ and ‘suspicion’, to all the ‘Iron Shield’ family’s ‘contacts’ within the First Legion through a secret channel that we had already controlled.”

“And those ‘evidence’,” the voice held the uncontrollable excitement of a conspirator, “all the clues, whether it was the method of the crime or the silent infiltration, all pointed perfectly to one… the most unexpected yet most logical… murderer.”

"—The First Legion's 'Dark Angels,' a secret operations unit."

“The Lion…” Erebas murmured the name, his eyes, hidden in the shadow of his hood, gleaming with a serpentine light. “The Primarch who was the proudest, the most suspicious, and the most thirsty for ‘order.’ What would he do if he learned that someone within his Legion had dared to assassinate an Imperial nobleman in Terra, right under his nose, in such a ‘dishonorable’ manner?”

“He will be angry,” the voice replied, “but he will be even more… suspicious.”

He would suspect that these were the "old men" from Caliban within his legion, still preserving the secret traditions of the Knights, trying to "correct" the Empire's mistakes in their own way. He would suspect that this was some "shadow" department he didn't know about, carrying out some "secret" mission he didn't know about.

"He will use his cold and unquestionable 'laws' to stir up a storm within his legion."

Irebas laughed. His laugh was filled with cruelty and pleasure.

“Very good.” He slowly rose from the cold ashes. “A triple kill. The first stone has been precisely cast into the Lion's lake, seemingly calm but already turbulent beneath. And then…”

His gaze seemed to pierce through the thick armor of the warship, through the starry sea tens of thousands of light-years away, and look towards that planet that was eternally shrouded in darkness, filled with sin and fear.

"Conrad Coz... that poor Primarch driven mad by his own prophecy. While the entire noble class of Terra was gripped by panic by this sudden, 'professional' assassination attempt, and began frantically using their power to hunt down all the 'uncontrollable' forces lurking in the shadows..."

Who do you think they'll find?

"They will find the real 'Midnight Ghost' who just infiltrated Terra," the voice replied, filled with schadenfreude. "An absolute 'law' storm launched by the First Legion against all 'Shadows' will inevitably collide violently with the Midnight Lord's 'justice' filled with absolute 'fear'!"

"And our protagonist," Eribus's gaze finally fell back on the Hanging Gardens, which he had long regarded as a thorn in his side, "Hector Kane. He will sit in the eye of this storm he himself ignited, enjoying the beautiful sight of two of the most powerful brothers, who believe in different 'orders,' killing each other because of his existence."

"No matter which side he chooses to help, he will completely offend the other side. No matter which side he chooses to stand by, he will be regarded as the 'culprit' of this chaos by the entire noble class of Terra."

"He will be completely isolated."

"And the fate of an 'outlier' who was isolated and lost all his allies..."

Irebas slowly opened his arms, as if embracing his impending perfect victory.

“Go, my loyal servant.” His voice was seductive, like the hiss of a viper, “and deliver the ‘script’ of this play ‘inadvertently’ into the hands of… those ‘audiences’ who need it most.”

"Let fear bloom freely in the midnight of Terra."

(The most exploitable conflicts in the Warhammer world are, firstly, discord between brothers and fathers, and secondly, the influence of the psionic warp.)

Chapter 172 Midnight Chase

Terra's upper-level hive is called "Cloudtop".

This is the embodiment of human imperial power, an aerial fortress that will never fall, built of pure wealth and arrogance.

Countless platinum spires, reaching heights of tens of thousands of meters, pierce Terra's eternal dark red industrial clouds, reflecting the cold radiance of the privileged class beneath an artificial dome that simulates the light of ancient stars.

However, tonight, this radiance is completely shrouded in an ominous shadow, like congealed blood.

The patriarch of the "Iron Shield" family has died.

He died in the deepest part of the "Never-Ending City," a private estate located at the very top of the cloud peaks, heavily guarded enough to withstand a Space Marine assault.

His death was performed with a sense of ritual and absolute professionalism.

There were no alarms or signs of struggle. He simply sat quietly in the magnificent chair carved from a single block of black Martian basalt, seemingly fast asleep while admiring the endless cityscape outside the window.

The only discordant element was the almost imperceptible, mirror-like cut between his lifeless head and obese body.

Panic spread like a plague.

When the news of the clan chief's assassination stirred up a storm among the turbulent noble class of Terra, no one cast suspicious glances at the "Intercepting Sect Academy," which seemed the most likely candidate and had just had a fierce conflict with the clan chief.

Because everyone knows that's not the style of that ordinary dean.

The method of murder is an older, colder, and more ritualistic profession, reminiscent of the "honor execution" in chivalric novels.

All the suspicions seemed meticulously calculated, pointing to a suspect who was unexpected yet most logical.

The First Legion, Dark Angels, recently arrived in Terra.

Is this the regency's will?

Was the Lion King recalled by the Emperor?

Will the empire use the conflict between the Taoist academies as an opportunity to take action against the entire old aristocratic class?

Or perhaps they could simply let the key figures disappear "quietly," allowing this social class to naturally disappear?

Just as the entire Terran aristocracy was gripped by panic by this highly professional assassination and began frantically using their power to hunt down all "uncontrollable" shadow forces...

They found him.

Or rather, he took the initiative to let them find it.

The lower level of Terra is known as "Rust Abyss".

This is the reflection of "Cloud Top," the deepest and most real darkness beneath the glory of the empire.

The air was thick with the pungent, sour smell of untreated industrial waste mixed with the despair of millions of ordinary people.

The perpetually cold acid rain drips down from the sunless "sky" constructed of countless alloy decks, corroding the already rusted steel buildings beyond recognition, making them even more grotesque.

This is a breeding ground for evil, a paradise of despair, and the perfect hunting ground for the Night Lord.

At the top of an ancient clock tower that has long been abandoned and is now only a giant gear and a rusty drive shaft, a figure huddled like a gargoyle on a cold, acid-rain-slicked, pigeon-feathered dripping beast.

He is Conrad Coates.

His eyes, which had become as empty as an abyss from gazing at a bloody future for so long, were calmly looking down at the sinful, desperate steel jungle below, constructed of twisted alleyways and flashing neon lights.

The incessant screams of the future in his mind became less jarring.

Because he found it.

He found the source that brought him this tranquility.

His hound-like intuition, driven by madness, guided him like the most accurate compass when he infiltrated Terra.

The source lies in that sky garden suspended above the clouds, filled with a false sense of "harmony" and "vitality".

The source is that mysterious mortal named Hector Kane.

But he did not go "hunting" immediately.

Because he smelled a more interesting scent.

A chilling flavor, full of "judgment" and "law," just like his own hatred of "evil."

His terrifying precognitive ability was no longer a curse at this moment, but a crystal-clear map that could see through all conspiracies.

He "saw" it.

He saw a play, meticulously crafted by a "playwright" hidden in a distant galaxy, a play filled with lies and deception, slowly unfolding on this stage.

He saw a proud beast called "Lion," imprisoned by its own "laws," teetering on the brink of self-doubt and rage because of a professionally executed "assassination."

He also saw himself, the midnight ghost who should have been the embodiment of "darkness," being ridiculously arranged by the "playwright" to be the perfect "scapegoat" to divert attention and confuse right and wrong in this drama.

"interesting……"

A silent smile, filled with cruel pleasure, appeared on Conrad Coates's deathly pale face.

His heart, which had been numbed by endless suffering, was completely ignited at this moment!

He wants to personally write a completely new ending for this drama!

He wanted to use the purest "fear" to tear apart Terra's hypocritical veil woven by law and conspiracy!

He wants to force everyone to confront the most real darkness!

He slowly rose from the top of the ancient clock tower.

His gaunt figure, illuminated by the neon lights of the eternal evil under the lower nest, resembled a true Grim Reaper returning from hell.

He began his "hunt".

Over the next seventy-two hours, a silent yet incredibly bloody "trial" quietly unfolded in the shadows of Terra.

Those old Terran nobles who participated in the assassination plot and thought they had hidden themselves perfectly were successively met with their final and most just "judgment".

A ruthless noble councilor, responsible for relaying intelligence to Eribas, was found in his heavily guarded private vault in "Cloudtop." His body had been stripped of all its skin, and like a specimen in an autopsy room, it was precisely impaled with silver knives on the mountain of gold coins stained with the blood and sweat of countless mortals. His mouth was stuffed with his favorite golden-brown, crispy alien bird wings.

Another technocrat responsible for providing weapons and logistical support was pulverized into an indistinguishable mass of flesh and steel in his secret laboratory in the lower hive, filled with forbidden modification technologies, along with his equally blasphemous "collections," by a runaway, massive industrial shredder.

Conrad Coates, with his artistically beautiful yet brutally cruel methods, presented a bloody "sacrifice" full of dark humor to the carefully arranged play of Arebus.

He didn't try to cover up any traces; quite the opposite.

At each "trial," he left a provocative, scribbled signature in the blood of the victims.

A midnight bat flapping its wings.

When these terrifying and blasphemous "artworks" were presented one by one to Caliban Lion Lane Aljonsen, the emperor's first son's face, sculpted like a glacier, revealed an undisguised extreme anger and confusion.

He knew that he and the entire First Legion had been fooled.

And the real killer, the brother he had long regarded as a "madman," was announcing his return to him and to the entire Terra in this most direct and cruel way.

Just as the entire Terran nobility was gripped by an unprecedented, profound fear due to this artistically beautiful yet bloody "trial" by the Midnight Lord, and began frantically venting all their anger and suspicion on the First Legion for its "inadequate oversight"—