novelraw Chapter 69 Flesh Mutation, Conversation, and Transition
Chapter 69 Flesh Mutation, Conversation, and Transition
According to records, it also originated from that tragic storm.
"This is one of the horrors of the warp, a foreseeable horror."
"The more unrestrained they use psionic energy, the faster the flesh mutation causes their bodies to become distorted."
"What does it look like?" Paris had never seen it before, and he couldn't imagine what kind of flesh mutation could frighten an Astartes so much.
"The sense of horror far surpassed that of any alien I've ever fought."
"I once saw a Thousand Sons warrior in front of me, his flesh and blood churning inside and out, his power breaking free of control, and in his soul-shaking wails, something took over his body. I believe it came from the warp."
"His body was torn to shreds, his armor and flesh intertwined, his flesh transformed into gaping fangs and abysses, resembling a fleshy monster from some vast ocean."
"I will grant him the gift of death," Paris said firmly. "That would be terrible."
"It's much worse than that," Azir said with a snort, his spirits lifted.
"That was a disease."
"I don't understand how Astartes can be immune to almost all poisons."
"As I said, the mutation of flesh and blood is something that is deeply buried in the genetic seed. And since that warrior mutated, the other Thousand-Character Warriors, and even all the warriors around us who can use psionic energy, have been affected."
"They were urgently summoned to the warship and placed in a stasis field, while we were left to kneel and struggle in agony."
"I had a big argument with the company commander of the 15th Army Corps at the time, and it almost came to the point of fighting."
"That's terrible!" Paris exclaimed.
"No one can accept their brothers mutating into dishonorable monsters, yet they hid this from us and used this power without restraint or self-awareness." Azir was in a terrible mood.
"They wielded lightning and fire on the battlefield like omnipotent gods. I could sense the madness, exhilaration, and arrogance they displayed when wielding that power."
"My warriors have also admired these extraordinary abilities and cheered for their cousins' battles."
He crushed the teacup he had just picked up; shards of glass pierced his skin, causing a slight, insignificant sting.
This eased the fear and anger in Azir's eyes.
"But they never told us about this—it was a spreading plague targeting psionicists!"
"The conflict was stopped only after Ahriman apologized to us."
"The situation is dire, it sounds terrible." Paris's breathing quickened.
He recalled the state of being in the spiritual sea, a feeling that was indeed a psychic descent, and even now, he was using that power to sense Azir's emotions.
Was this a form of voyeurism? Paris wondered, feeling ashamed.
Azir was unwilling to continue on this heavy topic. In a calm and unusually even tone, which sounded like a sigh or a judgment, he said, "The Thousand Sons will surely perish."
"This is not from my wicked curse, but from the almost irreversible mutation of flesh that even the emperor could not redeem."
"Ariman was a noble warrior and a wise man worthy of respect."
"He comforted and guided every Thousand Sons warrior during that suffering that should never have been so."
"He recognized the dangers of the warp even earlier than I did, and actively restrained and resisted them, keeping himself as calm as possible."
"Ariman wanted to save every warrior of the Senju. He once told me that he wanted to find a way to save them."
"You speak so highly of him," Paris said.
"That's true." Azir nodded. "Even the way I'm going to teach you next comes from this Thousand Sons warrior."
Paris hesitated.
He did not trust Senko's methods.
"In an ancient kingdom on Terra, there once came a saying," Azir said, seeing through Paris's hesitation.
Paris asked curiously, "What is it?"
"Experience is the best teacher." Azir didn't mince words.
Paris rubbed his forehead and nodded helplessly: "That makes a lot of sense."
"That's always been the case."
…………
…………
In a secluded workshop on the Dawn, Hector sat alone in a chair. In front of him was an enormous sand table, at least ten meters long, on which various terrains and landforms were carefully arranged, and there was even a replica of the walls of the Trojan palace.
Hector was surrounded by gift components that were almost piled up like a small mountain, some only twenty or thirty centimeters long, while others reached an astonishing one meter in height.
The Council of Five Kings and the banquet were not kept secret from anyone. When the first gift was placed at the feet of the Night Guard by the first messenger of dawn and received tacit approval, the gifts piled up like a mountain in just one night.
From Astartes to the crudely crafted mortal legions, and finally...
He smiled and carefully unpacked the meter-tall, tightly wrapped box that was also scented with incense.
The Ripper Legion's seven Warlord-class Titan models filled the entire box, with over 130 Titans of various models scattered around them.
"This is the Minotaur heavy armor squad, this is the Alku squad, this is the Salpedon terrorist assault team."
Hector did not rush to place the Mechanicus' divine machines on the boxes, but instead continued to disassemble the other boxes, revealing the Astartes inside.
He knew every soldier, their unit, and their battle group like the back of his hand.
"My lord," the Night Guard said respectfully, "Paris requests an audience with you."
"He doesn't need to do that. Never mind, let him in." Hector didn't look up, continuing to fiddle with the model in his hands and carefully placing the weapons in their palms.
"Brother." Paris walked to Hector's side.
"What's wrong?" Hector asked.
"Azir's wisdom is astonishing, but he..." Paris praised Azir's wisdom, then didn't know how to evaluate Azir's current state.
A dying man, a man nearing the end of his life—these are not things that he, the one who has received kindness, should speak.
This would fill Paris with guilt.
"Everyone dies eventually, Paris," Hector said dismissively.
The lightning claw kit he fitted for Salpedon broke off between his fingers during an accidental exertion.
Hector, left with no other option, switched to another lightning claw: "You'll die eventually, Paris."
"There is no need for such guilt regarding Astartes' long lifespan and the long, dark, and brutal war."
"To die peacefully is perhaps a blessing."
"I disagree, brother," Paris objected, his eyes filled with a thirst for glory and eagerness.
Paris felt deeply satisfied by this great expedition, this war to liberate humanity.
They had a clear purpose: they fought for the Emperor, for Hector, for humanity, and for the Empire.
The world conquered by the Second Expeditionary Fleet never fell into scorched earth; Hector brought them peace and a more brilliant civilization.
Many ordinary recorders, filled with admiration for them, boarded the Dawn to document these warriors, clad in ivory-white armor and resembling angels.
Paris and many of the Dawnbringers, flattered by these people, had their deepest desires and vanities satisfied.
Hector glanced at Paris; he could tell that Paris had fallen back into his old ways.
He simply didn't want to waste his breath here.
He said, "So, what brings you here, Paris?"