"The wisdom of the Primarch and the God of Death should not be underestimated; there is a trick here!"
"We must change our plans immediately!"
Ahriman quickly made his judgment.
How could the wisdom of a Primarch and a God come up with such a clumsy plan? Could they have used some means to deceive Ahriman's precognitive abilities?
He clutched the staff in his hand, trying to find clues through the seven-sided crystal, peering into the whereabouts of the two Primarchs and the God of Death.
But no matter how he observed, the results showed that they would leave through the section of the Webway guarded by Belisarius Cawl, Gabriel Seth, and Sylandri.
Logically, Ahriman only needed to start the ritual immediately now. The moment those two Primarchs and the God of Death entered the Webway, he could directly transfer them and that section of the Webway into the Hallucinatory Hell. But how could it be so simple?
"But, Lord," Astroth, the Sorcerer Lord of the Rogues, said softly, "could this be an empty fort strategy, deliberately designed to arouse our suspicion and make us overthink?"
Indeed, there was such a possibility, Ahriman nodded in agreement.
The Thousand Sons Legion was once the most knowledgeable about humanity and the history of the entire galaxy. After the Dragon States disappeared in that eerie self-immolation, it was also the Thousand Sons Legion that walked on that ancient land to recover its relics. The Thousand Sons Legion knew that there was an empty fort strategy in the history of the Dragon States.
Perhaps this was the trick of the Primarch and the God of Death, deliberately creating a smokescreen to attract Ahriman's attention.
Then they would leave through the section of the Webway guarded by Gabriel Seth, Belisarius Cawl, and Sylandri.
Ahriman would certainly not fall for such a trick.
"Bring out those Dark Eldar. Use them as additional sacrifices to expand the scope of the entire ritual."
Ahriman turned to the nine Sorcerers, including Astroth, and said,
"Encompass all seven teams and seven gates. The moment the Primarch and that God of Death appear, transfer them all into the Hallucinatory Hell."
To prevent any possible accidents, Ahriman specially prepared extra sacrifices.
Eighty-one Dark Eldar with strong psyker powers, cursing Ahriman, were forced into the ranks of sacrifices.
Ahriman's disciple, Astroth, was still somewhat worried.
The ritual to directly transfer a section of the Webway was already quite demanding, which was why it required a full nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine mutant Sorcerers and eighty-one Dark Eldar as sacrifices, and the consumption of nine stars to exchange for vast Warp energy.
Now, the Imperium of Man's forces were widely dispersed in the Webway. If they were all to be transferred into the Hallucinatory Hell, it would almost reach the limit of the ritual.
More importantly...
"Seven units, three commanders, two hundred and twenty-two in each unit."
Astroth spoke with some concern:
"This involves the sacred numbers of the plague God and that human and Aeldari God of Death. Will it disrupt our ritual?"
There was a deathly silence in the air. Ahriman and the other eight Sorcerers all looked at Astroth in unison.
Before Ahriman could speak, the other eight Sorcerers involuntarily burst into laughter, as if Astroth had told a very funny joke.
"You've got numerology?" Ahriman's tone suddenly rose a notch, he said.
The three crystal eyes on Ahriman's mask flickered with light as he looked at Astroth, as if looking at a green-skin who had suddenly declared he believed in peace.
The other eight Sorcerers laughed even harder.
If there was anything the Thousand Sons' Sorcerers would absolutely mock, it was Mortarion and numerology.
Three names were written in the Thousand Sons' Book of Hatred: Horus, Leman Russ, and Mortarion.
Horus instigated the destruction of Prospero, Leman Russ was the executor, and Mortarion was the instigator who fanned the flames.
It was Mortarion's almost ignorant aversion to psyker that prompted the Council of Nikaea and the Burning of Prospero.
Now, Horus was dead, Leman Russ was missing, but he and his descendants were still hated by the Thousand Sons, and Mortarion...
Ever since the Great Heresy era, Mortarion ascended to a daemon Prince and conceived of this ridiculous thing called numerology. The Thousand Sons looked at Mortarion as they would a chaste woman who had fallen into prostitution yet still spoke of purity, or a puritan who had become a drunkard yet still spoke of temperance.
In their eyes, Mortarion was a clown, and numerology was his funniest joke.
"Astroth," Ahriman said, with a hint of amusement and reproach in his voice, "Tell me, according to your knowledge, did the Imperial forces perform any ritual that could stir the power of the Warp? Did their actions conform in the slightest to any sorcery that could summon the Empyrean' torrents? Can a few numbers alone protect them?"
This was also one of the reasons why the Thousand Sons would never believe in numerology.
To wield the power of the Warp, the Thousand Sons spent countless hours digging up knowledge from the dust of human history, secretly acquiring knowledge from xenos and those blasphemous entities even before the rebellion, daring to defy the Emperor's prohibitions to pursue wisdom in the Warp, ultimately even leading to the destruction of their homeworld by the Emperor's Executioner.
And he, Mortarion, could just mobilize the power of the Empyrean by merely arranging a few numbers? Was there no Chaos law anymore? Were there no Chaos Gods anymore?
Sacred numbers were not without effect, but they had to be used through specific rituals, sorcery, and sacrifices to work.
Most importantly, if numerology really worked, then Mortarion wouldn't be a clown, and wouldn't the Thousand Sons become the clowns?
"Enough, Astroth, there's a time and a place for jokes."
Ahriman waved the staff in his hand, interrupting the laughter of the other eight Sorcerers, signaling them to return to their positions and prepare to begin the ritual, to transfer all seven Imperial units into the Hallucinatory Hell.
Astroth bowed slightly and also retreated to his designated position.
Perhaps others could offer opinions on tactics, but in terms of sorcery and the Warp, no one could question Ahriman's knowledge except the Primarch of the Thousand Sons Legion.
Ahriman stood on a Tzeentchian disc, gazing at the nine burning stars before him.
These nine stars had been captured by Ahriman and his Sorcerers from the material universe and dragged into this section of the Webway they occupied.
Countless blasphemous runes and eerie sorcery defiled these nine stars that had once illuminated the cold deep space, turning their flames into a kind of sickening, dazzling color that made one dizzy just looking at them.
The prominences they constantly spewed wove ever-changing, malicious symbols. These symbols interconnected, and with the gravitational pull between the stars, formed a colossal ritual.
Such a magnificent ritual was perfectly suited to confront two Primarchs and a deity.
Nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine mutant psyker and eighty-one Dark Eldar, cursing Ahriman, were pushed into the fiercely burning stars.
A total of ten thousand and eighty sacrifices burned in the flames of the stars. Their material bodies were destroyed in the blink of an eye, but their souls, their powerful psyker potential, were trapped within the stars, emitting sharp wails.
This was the true use of sacred numbers: to please the Gods in rituals, rather than just relying on boring numerical arrangements and mathematical games.
Strong psyker fluctuations stirred the hot sea on the surface of the stars, raising a swirl of dazzling light spots. These light spots reflected on Ahriman's face, coloring his mask like the trembling wings of a fly in bright sunlight.
The Warp currents began to stir, the mighty power of the Empyrean gathered in the Webway, projecting towards distant Macragge.
A faint smile appeared on Ahriman's lips, because his ritual could not possibly fail —
"Nurgle, numerology is not a simple subject."
In Nurgle's Garden, Mortarion, like a patient teacher, pointed to the green, constantly decaying scroll before Nurgle.
The decaying marks on the scroll formed numbers, constantly jumping and changing, demonstrating the wisdom of numerology to Nurgle.
"Some clumsy people have only a superficial understanding of sacred numbers and often overreach themselves."
"For example, the sacred number nine, this is the sacred number of the Lord of Change. Those foolish, superstitious Sorcerers use it, but they often make mistakes."
A scornful expression appeared on Mortarion's lips. He genuinely looked down on those Sorcerers; their understanding of sacred numbers was superficial.
Nurgle nodded, half-understanding, then suddenly looked up as if vaguely sensing something.
"Just like nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine and eighty-one, two numbers that should not be used together."
Mortarion was stunned for a moment, then nodded sharply, his eyes showing approval.
"Exactly! Exactly!"
"You see, when nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine and eighty-one are added together, two perfectly complete sacred numbers of the Lord of Change give birth to a different meaning."
"Ten thousand and eighty, a multiple of seven and three. From numbers originally entirely pointing to change, stagnation and decay, belonging to your domain, are born."
"This might instead cause the Sorcerers' rituals to stagnate, decay, or even fail."
"If the objects to which they apply those superstitious spells also happen to use numbers pointing to you to protect themselves, then the Sorcerers' rituals might even backfire on them!"
Nurgle listened to Mortarion's words and couldn't help but nod in agreement. He seemed to be gradually understanding the wisdom within numerology.
Sorcery that used both the numbers nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine and eighty-one would invite the stagnation and decay belonging to his domain.
Ahriman looked utterly bewildered at the figures of Alexander, Guilliman, and Sanguinius reflected in the crystal.
They appeared from the section of the Webway guarded by Gabriel Seth, Sylandri, and Belisarius Cawl.
Then they quickly opened and closed that reddish-pink wooden door, and swiftly moved to the next relay point.
Ahriman couldn't help but scratch the horn on his mask, looking confusedly at his ritual.
Hmm, why does this ritual look a bit green?
Ahriman stared blankly at the massive transfer ritual he had unleashed, fueled by ten thousand and eighty sacrifices and nine stars.
It was inexplicable, completely inexplicable.
The moment Alexander, Sanguinius, and Guilliman appeared, Ahriman's pre-prepared ritual activated, enveloping the seven Imperial forces and the Webway they occupied.
Logically, they should have been transferred to the Hallucinatory Hell in the blink of an eye, falling into the killing trap Ahriman had prepared.
But nothing, nothing at all happened. A dry, clunky, rusty-gear-like sensation of stagnation emanated from the seven Imperial forces and the three commanders of each force, eroding Ahriman's ritual and making its operation difficult.
If it were just that, it would have been fine, but Ahriman's ritual itself also developed problems.
Seven seconds into the ritual, seven of the nine stars' lights suddenly began to dim, and the entire ritual fell into a state of stagnation, as if stuck in viscous pus, like a body weakened by viral infection.
Then the entire ritual collapsed. The Warp energy summoned by the ritual began to roar, backlashing against the ritual itself. The brilliant colors on the seven dimming stars began to fade, turning into a dull, yellowish-green like withered leaves. The prominences ejected from their surfaces also began to entangle with unbearable toxins.
The souls of the sacrifices, bound to the stars, let out dry coughs, wriggling on the stars' surfaces like pale, dying worms.
Ahriman could only hastily throw these seven stars, which he had painstakingly captured from the material universe and then spent much effort inscribing with blasphemous runes to transform, into the Warp tides, to prevent them from destroying his Rogues and the Hallucinatory Hell he had so hard-won.
How inexplicable! How inexplicable!
This is not sorcery at all!
Sorcery no longer exists!
Ahriman gnashed his teeth, looking at the seven stars plummeting into the Warp, thinking with indignation.
The sense of stagnation that affected the entire ritual was undoubtedly a power from Nurgle's domain.
But this style of action didn't quite resemble the plague God himself.
Ahriman pondered for a moment, recalling the Imperial army's strange, numerology-like troop arrangements.
The only one in this world who could use numerology was Mortarion, that self-deceiving clown.
It must have been Mortarion!
Why is Mortarion so wicked! He's gotten involved with the Imperium again!
Ahriman gritted his teeth.
Ten thousand years ago, Mortarion got involved with Horus, who couldn't even be called a living being.
Ten thousand years later, Mortarion got involved with the corpse-like Imperium again.
Does that damned Barbarus bumpkin have necrophilia?!
In Nurgle's Garden, Mortarion twitched his nose slightly. He felt a little like he wanted to sneeze.
However, this didn't attract too much of his attention. Nurgle's blessings constantly flowed within his body, and countless diseases bred within him; sneezing was normal.
Hmm?
Mortarion suddenly frowned. Had he forgotten something?
Something seemed to have happened in the material universe, right?
Oh, Guilliman and Sanguinius had been resurrected and were heading to Terra to see the False Emperor, right?
Mortarion only then remembered that he had planned to stop the two of them earlier.
But now, Mortarion had no interest in taking the time to intercept them.
Ten thousand years ago, Mortarion actually didn't have any particularly outstanding hatred for Roboute Guilliman and Sanguinius.
Guilliman was always ambitious, a nobleman, slave owner, and oppressor, but a relatively conscientious one among oppressors, and he hadn't been deformed by Warp corruption.
Sanguinius' problem was sentimentality, which was clearly because the natural environment of Baal was too superior. Perhaps living on Barbarus for a few years would save him.
Since they were willing to continue being slaves to the False Emperor, then let them go all the way down that path.
He now had a truly important endeavor to pursue, one far more important than humiliating two brothers who had become slaves to the being of Sacred Number Twenty-Two, destroying a corpse-like dying Imperium, or oppressing mortals.
He was teaching Nurgle numerology.
A pure, rigorous, rational science!
He was liberating the minds in the Warp that were bound by superstition, starting with a god.
This was a great endeavor, giving Mortarion a long-lost sense of glory and satisfaction.
Especially when Nurgle gently and politely called him Professor Mortarion, Teacher Mortarion.
The last time he felt such glory and satisfaction was when Mortarion was fighting to liberate Barbarus.
If Jaghatai Khan were to return, Mortarion might even temporarily put aside this endeavor to humiliate him.
But now... Mortarion shook the twenty-sided dice in his turtle shell.
Hmm... Nine, fifteen, twenty-two. Is Magnus, the Primarch of the Fifteenth Legion Thousand Sons, stopping the being of Sacred Number Twenty-Two, Guilliman, and Sanguinius from going to Terra?
Then Mortarion was even less willing to intercept them. His two most hated brothers were Magnus and Jaghatai Khan.
After putting down the turtle shell, Mortarion looked at the corrupted scroll in front of him again.
It was time to prepare the lesson plan for the next class.
In the Hallucinatory Hell, Ahriman clenched his staff, looking at the only two fiercely burning stars remaining before him.
He had promptly cut off the ritual, throwing the seven stars affected by Nurgle's domain into the Warp, thus preventing these two stars from being corrupted as well.
Otherwise, the Rogues' accumulation over countless years would have been completely wasted...
"My lord," Astroth leaned closer to Ahriman, lowering his voice to ask, "They have reached the second relay point."
"According to our prophecy, they only need to use that door twice more to directly reach Terra."
Ahriman gasped a few times, trembling all over.
If that were the case, the only one who could still stop them would be Magnus, who was stationed near the Webway.
But how could Magnus alone contend against two Primarchs and a god?
Even if Sanguinius still bore the scars from ten thousand years ago, even if Roboute Guilliman was completely ignorant of Warp powers, even if that god was now dormant in a material body,
Magnus, who wasn't even a complete Magnus, simply couldn't defeat them.
Ahriman looked at the nine great sorcerers beside him, then at the Red Letter Warriors accompanying them.
These warriors stood in place like puppets; there was no flesh and blood inside their armor, only ashes and bound, unconscious souls.
This was all due to his mistakes, his failures, the sins he had committed.
But he could redeem all of it, seize the power of that god of death, reverse life and death, and this was the only chance.
After this, Ahriman would never again receive help from Magnus and the Lord of Change.
Ahriman looked at the empty shell armors, trying to discern whose souls were bound within them, to recognize his brothers from ten thousand years ago.
But the more he recognized, the more painful Ahriman became.
"All are dust."
Ahriman whispered, then slowly placed his hand on his horned helmet:
"How true those words are, how prescient."
The nine great sorcerers fearfully took a step back.
They only felt Ahriman continuously growing, proliferating, gradually twisting, swelling, and expanding like the Thousand Sons who once suffered flesh mutations.
Only, what Ahriman was growing was not flesh and blood, but something deeper, more bizarre, something closer to the higher entities of the Empyrean.
His/Its/Their flesh burned fiercely, radiating a sapphire-like glow, making everything around him/it/them seem to turn into glazed glass.
The souls of the Red Letter Warriors standing beside Him/It/They constantly surged, gathering around Ahriman.
He took off his helmet. The nine great sorcerers around him let out a terrified growl, not daring to look at Ahriman's face—if he truly still possessed something that could be called a face.
The screaming void gazed at the two burning stars before it.
He/It/They themselves were like a cold, deep star, seizing all light and heat from their surroundings, leaving only darkness and cold.
Caw caw caw caw
A sharp bird cry echoed in the void. The Lord of Change laughed.
He had never enslaved Ahriman; He even considered granting Ahriman freedom of soul.
Because He knew that Ahriman would eventually take this step.
From the death of Ahriman's own brother to the Burning of Prospero, from the First Red Letter to the Second Red Letter, from the Great Heresy to the forty-first millennium,
Ahriman always acted as Tzeentch had foreseen. He fell deeper and deeper into the Warp, little by little, little by little.
Now, he chose to sink into an even more irreversible situation.
"Everything is according to the plan."
The Lord of Change whispered. This time, it was true.
In the Webway, Alexander quickly pushed open the anywhere door, passing through it to reach the second relay point.
As the Truth and Falsehood Divination Machine had judged, according to the plan specified by Roboute Guilliman, they hadn't even encountered any attacks at the first relay point.
That was clearly the most suitable location for Magnus and Ahriman to launch an attack.
Or perhaps there was an attack, but it was prevented in some way they didn't know?
Alexander couldn't tell, Guilliman knew nothing, and Sanguinius seemed to have vaguely discovered something, but there wasn't much time to communicate now.
They only needed to pass through the third relay point, and Alexander could reach the Webway gate leading to the Moon, and then proceed directly to Terra.
Alexander quickly reached out and pushed open the door again, heading to the planned third relay point.
Guilliman and Sanguinius followed closely behind.
Then—
Fire and heat burst forth from the other side of the anywhere door.
"All are dust, only dust remains."
"Dust and void, I know not what I am."