"Lorgar!!!"
"I told you, I remember your scent!!!"
"No matter where you flee, no matter what you become, I will find you."
"And then I'll slaughter you!!!"
A bestial roar, as if from a wild beast, echoed from the shadows, and a cold, eerie storm, rising from the darkness, immediately swept forth.
Those shadow storms, to the terrified eyes of Lorgar, Abaddon, and Khayon, transformed into sharp, hideous limbs, cutting through everything within their sight.
Rocks were torn into half-meter square fragments, swept up by the shadow hurricane, and the entire mountain range disintegrated in the storm, exposing the three to the sky.
At this moment, this barren planet seemed to have entered deep night; the dim yellow sky vanished, leaving only clusters of pitch-black shadows scattered in the void.
"Caw caw caw!!!!"
The cold, terrifying cries of a flock of ravens sounded, and the ravens, like wind-swept leaves, converged, covering the sky and pressing down on the earth.
They were like smoke, like a downpour, like a sudden gust, like a heavy black mountain, rising and falling, both formless and with form.
"Who are you!!! daemon!! Declare your true name!"
"I am Abaddon, Commander of the Black Legion, Abaddon the Despoiler! How dare you offend my existence?!"
Abaddon roared in anger.
Having just unified the scattered factions within the Eye of Terror, he obviously would not tolerate his authority being challenged.
Especially when the one challenging him was merely a daemon.
At this moment, Abaddon completely failed to notice that Lorgar, behind him, had already begun quietly weaving Chaos sorcery, intending to open a Warp Gate and escape.
"Begone."
A pitch-black, forked lightning bolt heavily struck Abaddon's chest; the Eye of Horus shattered, and a shadowy, eerie flame fiercely burned on his Terminator power armor.
Abaddon, like a roadblock casually flung by a strongman, crashed heavily against the broken rock face.
"Abaddon!" Khayon cried out urgently, the daemon Tarot cards in his hand flying into the air like yellowish-grey leaves.
"Guernica."
"Justinian."
"Ponzi."
A blood-soaked, distorted, crimson Khorne's daemon, neither ox nor human, waved an axe wreathed in the aftershocks of an explosion.
A swollen, brownish-green Nurgle daemons, with decaying Eastern Roman attire interwoven with its flesh, from whose body rats continuously burrowed out.
A cackling, bird-headed, azure Tzeentch daemon, constantly shuffling banknotes in its hands.
Three daemons were unleashed from the Tarot, roaring as they charged towards the shadowy mass in the sky.
More hideous, lower-tier daemons emerged from other Tarot cards, following behind the three Greater daemons, pouncing on the black shadow in mid-air.
The ravens, like boiling tar, oozed thickly from the sky, instantly engulfing the tide of daemons released by Khayon; the viscous black shadow extended snake-like tentacles, each one strangling Khayon's daemons.
Khayon screamed in terror, his eyes wide with horror.
Just then, Abaddon scrambled to his feet, drawing drach'nyen, which glowed with a ghostly blue light, and millions of human faces wailed on the daemon sword.
"Get away! Foul daemon!!!"
Abaddon roared furiously.
However, before he could swing his sword, the ravens descended from the sky, crashing heavily into Abaddon's chest.
The ravens roared, coalescing into a distorted phantom twice Abaddon's height; a pair of pitch-black wings extended from its back, each feather a limb as sharp as a steel blade.
The screeching of ravens sounded, and claws wreathed in black lightning lunged towards Abaddon's face.
Abaddon stumbled in terror, tilting backward.
But the daemon sword in his hand, as if protecting its master, let out a sharp shriek, dragging Abaddon's hand to slash at the shadowy monster.
The ghostly blue daemon sword reflected the image of a Stone Age warlord, with long hair, dark skin, adorned with bone ornaments, gripping a flint spear.
The spectral image collided with the shadow, and the shadow suddenly extended a claw, seizing the daemon sword.
The echo of the first murder resounded in the shattered cave, as loud as cracking flint, startling even Lorgar, who was hastily opening a Warp Gate, to turn back and gaze at this soul-shaking collision.
An angry roar of ravens echoed in the shadows, deafening, like the enraged defiance of countless weak against their oppressors.
Khayon instantly felt his soul shatter; the scene before his eyes became blurry and fragmented.
He only saw the shadow's blood continuously flowing, the daemon sword's dim sparks almost igniting a third of its body, yet its claw firmly held the daemon sword.
Millions of raven eyes emerged from the black shadow, staring bloodily at Abaddon… No, not at Abaddon, but only at the daemon sword in Abaddon's hand.
And one more, among these millions of raven eyes, one was not staring at the daemon sword in Abaddon's hand, but was looking straight at Khayon, overlapping with the perspective in the light screen, as if it were staring at the three people outside the light screen.
Khayon's head throbbed, his heart pounded, and he was on the verge of fainting.
"No." Abaddon cried out in fear and dread; he seemed to have seen what lay behind the black shadow.
Rip!!!!
The sound of a Warp Gate opening suddenly rang out, sharp and piercing, like a whistle in the wilderness.
Before Lorgar, a distorted, glowing portal appeared.
This sound drew the attention of that deep raven shadow.
The ravens violently exploded on Abaddon's chest, blasting Abaddon's body away, and using the recoil, like a hunting beast, they pounced on Lorgar.
"Lorgar!!! I will slaughter you! You! Your accomplices! Your lackeys! None shall escape!!"
A bestial roar echoed across the entire planet; the tremor of the Empyrean reached deep into their souls.
Khayon let out a wail, and instantly fainted; his memory abruptly ceased, leaving only Lorgar's wail, the sound of ravens flapping their wings at him, and the crackling of the Warp Gate.
The scene on the light screen vanished, and Ers, covered in sweat, her legs weak, fell heavily to the ground.
Her eyes were filled with terror; as a seasoned Inquisitor, Ers prided herself on her strong will, claiming her mind would not waver even when facing a Greater Daemon.
But the moment she saw that pitch-black shadow, Ers felt like she was about to wet herself; how could such a terrifying monster exist in this world?!
"What a dark, what a blasphemous, what a twisted and terrifying monster…"
Ers said, dumbfounded and terrified, her gaze at the surrounding shadows now tinged with fear:
"There are such terrifying and blasphemous creatures in the Warp, even daemon Primarchs flee in fear."
"By the Emperor, which Chaos God could have shaped such a twisted and terrifying beast?"
"…That is my dear brother, the Primarch of the Raven Guard, Corax the Raven King, the enemy of all oppressors," Sanguinius whispered from the side.
Alexander also nodded slightly: "Clearly, it was the Emperor who shaped him."
Ers stiffened completely; she realized how offensive her words had just been.
Alexander paid no attention to Ers' expression, but instead looked at the eerie raven shadow lingering on the light screen, at its inhuman form.
Now, Corax the Raven King, through the mask of humanity woven by the Emperor, saw his true form in the Warp, gaining power beyond reality.
Now, he is the embodiment of vengeance, the salvation of justice, the enemy of all oppressors, hunting like a wild hunt through the Eye of Terror, eradicating its evils and traitors, and also pursuing his fallen brothers, only occasionally returning silently to the Imperium.
It's just that his mental state, I don't know whether to say it's good or not—anyway, those guys in the Eye of Terror probably view Corax much the same way they once viewed Konrad Curze.
"He seems to be doing very well, very energetic; I'm relieved," Sanguinius said with a smile.
"The Raven King's appearance is truly handsome… Can you think of a way to turn him into my daemon Prince?" Alexander couldn't help but say, looking at Corax's ghostly, shadowy figure on the light screen.
This statement made Ers tremble again.
"If by coercive means, even I would find it very difficult to subdue Corax as he is now… Well, he is, after all, the enemy of all oppressors."
Sanguinius said, looking at Corax's afterimage on the light screen:
"Wherever he is, the oppressed weak will gain courage and strength, receive the blessing of the shadows, and resist their oppressors."
"Wherever he is, the strong who oppress others will gain fear and weakness, receive the curse of the shadows, becoming fragile and bewildered."
"The more intense the oppression, the more Corax can ignite the spirit of resistance, and the stronger Corax becomes… The oppression in this galaxy is too great, it suits him perfectly."
Alexander roughly understood Sanguinius' words.
Corax's true form in the Warp is most likely associated with emotions and will related to resistance.
And oppression and resistance are two sides of the same coin; the more oppression there is, the stronger the emotion of resistance becomes.
There is so much oppression in this galaxy; the faint spirits of resistance from countless people converge, like a flock of ravens, forming Corax, and Corax can also vanish into the ocean of shadows composed of all living beings, formless and invisible.
This is why Corax, having realized his true nature, is so powerful.
If it were the world without oppression, where everyone was equal, that the Raven King sought, then the Raven King would instead become weak.
But sadly, if this galaxy develops normally, oppression within the galaxy will only increase, and the Raven King will only grow stronger.
Alexander sighed inwardly, then looked at Ers, signaling her to continue typing.
Ers seemed to have gained experience; this time, she hit the mark, and Khayon's eyes projected the content Alexander and Sanguinius wanted to see.
Khayon and Abaddon, disheveled, bruised, and swollen, were dragged by a group of six-meter-tall steel giants to the throne of the Iron Lord.
"Why." Abaddon's voice was hoarse and angry; he was held by the head by the encircling steel giants, unable to look up at the exalted Iron Lord.
"Why?"
But he still questioned:
"Why couldn't drach'nyen harm your personal guards?"
"…" The Iron Lord responded to Abaddon with silence; he seemed not to have expected Abaddon to ask this question.
"They are my perfect creations; their gravity hammers can easily crush Terminator armor, their shields can withstand Angron's charge, they are connected to my will, they are my fingers, my perfect warriors and personal guards."
"But if you ask why drach'nyen performed poorly in front of them… Hmm, so you really didn't notice?"
The Iron Lord said in a tone that could not tolerate fools:
"The reason is very simple: because they are not human; they are automatons!"
"The reason is very simple: they are not humans, they are automatons!"
"You need to find the demon born from the first murder committed by an automaton."
So spoke Perturabo, the Iron Lord, Primarch of the Iron Warriors, the Great Crusade's Stress-Resistant King, the Rebel Faction's Weightlifting Champion, and one of the top three most twisted individuals in the galaxy.
His words were deafening, and his sense of humor, strange and bizarre, silenced Khayon and Abaddon in the light screen.
It also silenced Alexander and Sanguinius, who were watching the scene from outside the light screen.
Abaddon seemed to genuinely believe that with the Demon Sword Drach'nyen, he would be invincible.
This is understandable; most of the enemies Abaddon encountered were human, and this Demon Sword was naturally the bane of humanity. Even Primarchs and the Emperor himself would fear it.
This sword was like a wheelchair fitted with a Necron inertia-less engine; even a cripple could race at superluminal speeds. Abaddon, relying on this sword, had defeated countless enemies he originally couldn't have.
Gradually, Abaddon instinctively began to believe that this sword was omnipotent, and no matter what enemy he faced, he only needed to mindlessly swing drach'nyen to finish the job.
But he hit a wall with Perturabo. Perturabo's piles and piles of iron-ringed robots contained no human elements at all. drach'nyen had no fundamental advantage against these machines and other enchanted weapons.
In fact, Abaddon was already very lucky to be in one piece.
This entire planet was a meticulously arranged killing field by Perturabo.
If it came to defending a planet, Dorn would undoubtedly hold out the longest among all Primarchs, but if it came to killing the most, it would definitely be Perturabo.
Abaddon had clearly been spared by Perturabo.
"It has been a long time, Ezekiel Abaddon. I even miss our cooperation during the Siege of Terra."
Perturabo's voice was mixed with the screeching of clashing steel, like a massive Demon Engine speaking.
Abaddon immediately gritted his teeth, veins bulging on his face.
During the Siege of Terra, Dorn had deliberately left gaps in the defenses, setting traps.
Perturabo, knowing this, still allowed Abaddon to lead the elite of Horus' Sons into them, taking the fall for him, ultimately sacrificing many of Abaddon's brothers.
This was what Perturabo called 'memorable cooperation,' which Abaddon clearly saw as pure humiliation.
"That's Perturabo's unique sense of humor," Sanguinius said, a slight curve to his lips.
Alexander nodded in agreement.
But Abaddon clearly didn't grasp the humor. His face was flushed crimson, and anger accumulated in his head, swelling as if it would burst from his topknot.
"Did you bring me here just to humiliate me?!" Abaddon roared.
"You call it humiliation; I call it a lesson."
"As hateful as Dorn is, he is a smart man. Underestimating smart men always comes at a price."
Perturabo coldly evaluated:
"Moreover, you gained more than just a lesson from me; you also gained help—the help of a smarter man than Dorn."
Upon hearing this, the anger on Abaddon's face subsided slightly, and his topknot was no longer so pointy.
"What can you give me?" Abaddon demanded.
Abaddon's question made Perturabo sneer twice.
"My brothers sent you away with a pile of scrap, and you dare to throw a tantrum at me, the only generous one?"
The burning of oil and the roaring of daemons mixed together, forming Perturabo's cold words:
"You ask what I can give you? I can give you everything."
"All the Demon Engines you can imagine and cannot imagine, all the war machines you know and do not know. New weapons forged from my furnace will arm your armies, and sparks of technology from my mind will bless your warriors. This is everything I can give you."
"Even when the fires of war are hindered, when the war machines stall, I will personally strike the hammer of iron."
A flicker of hesitation crossed Abaddon's face.
Perturabo was indeed as he said, incomparably generous.
He not only promised Abaddon a large number of Demon Engines and war machines, and to bestow upon Abaddon weapons forged with his latest technology, but he even offered to personally intervene when the Black Legion's Expedition stalled.
This made Abaddon even a little afraid.
"Then what is the price?" Abaddon asked in a low voice.
Perturabo chuckled with a deep voice.
"No price."
"I only ask that you spread the new war machines I create and forge throughout the galaxy, allowing my Malicious Art and creativity to sow destruction and malice across the galaxy, or, to use Horus' words—let the galaxy burn."
"This is the price you need to pay, to let my superior designs run rampant in this world."
Alexander looked at the light screen, his expression subtly shifting.
So... Perturabo's purpose in helping Abaddon and generously providing so many war machines...
Was it simply to promote the new weapons and Demon Engines he invented and created?
Perturabo was too pure, wasn't he?
He didn't care about Chaos at all, completely immersed in his own artistic creation?
But Alexander still felt that something wasn't quite right.
He was a competitor in the Malicious Art domain within the Warp.
As he occupied more and more of the Malicious Art domain, he gained a deeper understanding of it.
The Malicious Art domain is essentially the desire of all beings to create new things, the drive for invention and creation, the constantly refining techniques and increasingly efficient machinery.
It is also the terrifying distortion of creativity and craftsmanship, the extreme creations that constantly spread malice and destruction, the mad desire to proclaim the superiority of one's designs, and the ever-escalating arms race and increasingly cruel war machines.
Spreading the terrifying weapons he created throughout the galaxy, stimulating an escalating arms race, and drawing the entire galaxy into the hideous gears of war would undoubtedly enhance Perturabo's influence in the Malicious Art domain.
Just as the more items Alexander produced and the greater the impact these items had on the galaxy, the more of the Malicious Art domain he occupied—the Warp seemed to recognize the secret items as Alexander's own creations.
Theoretically, the more destruction and malice Perturabo's war machines spread, and the more intense the arms race they triggered, the more power he would gain from the Malicious Art domain.
Alexander told Sanguinius about this speculation.
But at the same time, Alexander couldn't help but say, "I don't understand Perturabo's reason for doing this. He doesn't seem like someone who craves deification."
"Indeed, he always holds contempt for deification and Chaos," Sanguinius agreed with Alexander's view.
Alexander frowned slightly, which made him feel very strange. Could it be...
He thought of another competitor in the Malicious Art domain, the demigod of the Warp, the Lord of the Soul Forge, Vashtorr the Creator.
Could it be that Vashtorr and Perturabo had reached some kind of cooperation? Vashtorr, through Perturabo, and using Abaddon, was indirectly expanding his influence in the galaxy and the Warp, while he himself remained hidden behind the scenes...
After all, Vashtorr genuinely yearned for deification, and expanding the Malicious Art domain aligned with his interests.
"The Penitent, the Envious, the Avenger, the Prime Evil..." Alexander muttered the four entities from the Emperor's prophecy who would influence the galaxy's fate and be closely related to Alexander.
But Vashtorr seemed to have no connection to any of them. He wouldn't repent, wouldn't be envious, and had no hatred to avenge.
As for Vashtorr's pursuit of deification, although their domains overlapped, Alexander had no conflict with him.
After all, although Alexander was a competitor in the Malicious Art domain, he had no intention of striving for deification.
Even if he wanted to, it wouldn't do any good.
Although he didn't know why Vashtorr thought he had a way to become a god,
But Alexander had confirmed with the Emperor that becoming a god in the current Warp required a sacrifice.
This sacrifice needed to be a race, like humanity or the ancient Eldar, that could be considered a galactic Overlord in the past, present, or future.
Only by devouring countless souls of the deceased in the echoes of an entire race's downfall or destruction could one achieve ascension.
And the Eldar's slot had already been taken by Slaanesh, while humanity's was taken by the Emperor.
The remaining... Necrons did fit the criteria, but they had no souls, and from the Warp's perspective, they had already been destroyed.
Surely Alexander wasn't going to cultivate the Tau into galactic Overlords and then use them as sacrifices for ascension, was he?
So Alexander wasn't worried about conflicting with Vashtorr for now.
"My Lord," Ers suddenly spoke softly, "The Inquisitorial Fortress Lord says he has retrieved the materials you requested."
"It's good, I've learned pretty much everything I wanted to know," Sanguinius said, deep in thought.
Alexander nodded slightly, signaling Ers to arrange for Khayon to be escorted back to his cell—Khayon knew many things about the Black Legion, which might come in handy at some point.
Then, Ers led Alexander and Sanguinius deeper into the Inquisition fortress.
But to Alexander's surprise, Ers did not lead him to a specific cell, but to a vast archive filled with countless parchment scrolls. Looking around, the archive seemed like a city made of parchment, making one wonder if all of the Inquisition's records for ten thousand years were stored here.
Dozens of acolytes moved between the archives with servitors, their faces hurried and weary, and among these acolytes was the Inquisitorial Fortress Lord, his eyes bloodshot.
It seemed that during the time Alexander, Sanguinius, and Ers were interrogating Khayon, he had undertaken an extremely intense period of work.
This made Alexander momentarily stunned.
"My Lord," the Inquisitorial Fortress Lord stiffly raised his body, bowed to Alexander, and said, "I have checked the prison rosters, and Inquisitor Jerome Serks' private prisons within the fortress have all been cleared. There is no prisoner named Titus among them."
"But rest assured, I have just, with the fastest speed, checked records concerning the Ultramarines and Inquisitor Jerome from the past century, and finally found some clues—"
"You mean Titus is currently with the Deathwatch, right?" Alexander said, a little helplessly.
The Inquisitorial Fortress Lord's expression stiffened.
"Yes, My Lord," he said, a little flustered, "After Inquisitor Jerome was possessed by a demon, an internal review was conducted within the Sacred Hammer Chapter, and a monitoring station under his jurisdiction was found on the southern edge of the galaxy. It contained nearly twenty Astartes in stasis cells."
"The Deathwatch was responsible for taking over that monitoring station at the time. By all accounts, Titus should have regained his freedom and is likely to have remained with the Deathwatch as a Black Shield."
Although the Inquisitorial Fortress Lord's work ethic was commendable, Alexander wished he had reported to him immediately upon discovering that Titus was not imprisoned on Terra.
That way, Alexander could have guessed that Titus was likely serving as a Black Shield in the Deathwatch at the time, and the Inquisitorial Fortress Lord could have saved himself the tedious and exhausting work of searching through records.
"Damn it, why is overtime so rampant on Terra lately? Everyone's working harder and harder," Alexander muttered under his breath.
Then Alexander suddenly remembered the information he had seen about Guilliman when he was in the four-dimensional pocket...
Alexander's expression changed slightly, and he murmured, "Affected by Guilliman's Warp nature, people near Guilliman will inexplicably have more work and be constantly mired in overtime..."
This was the four-dimensional pocket's assessment.
Could it be that Guilliman's Warp abilities were unconsciously affecting all of Terra?
What a terrifying ability! Could it be that Guilliman's Psyker talent was actually very high?
"My Lord, with the Warp currents raging and astropathic communication difficult, I'm afraid it will be hard for us to contact a specific Deathwatch squad,"
Before Alexander could think further, the Inquisitorial Fortress Lord spoke:
"And Titus joined the Deathwatch as a Black Shield, concealing his original identity, making him even harder to find."
Alexander nodded in understanding, but this was not difficult for Alexander himself.
He would just have Emperor Nobita use the anywhere door and the searching staff to make a trip.
"By the way, my Lord," the Inquisitorial Fortress Lord continued, "should the news of your appointment as the Grand Master of the Inquisition be conveyed to all Inquisitors across the galaxy as soon as possible?"
"Should we hold a meeting of all Inquisitors of Grand Inquisitor rank or higher? Or should representatives be chosen from the various Chapters? How should the Grey Knights be informed?"
"There are also many documents, archives, and data that you need to receive, and some documents theoretically must be handled by you."
"Furthermore, should the High Lords position representing the Inquisition be transferred to you? Related matters may require Ers to liaise with you."
Listening to the Inquisitorial Fortress Lord's words, Alexander's expression suddenly stiffened.
The phrase "People near Guilliman will inexplicably have more work and be constantly mired in overtime" resurfaced in Alexander's mind.
"We need to get Guilliman off Terra as soon as possible."
Alexander looked at Sanguinius with a serious expression:
"I need to be at least half a galaxy away from him."