Chapter 230 Preface A Dead Bird

When I went out tonight, there was a pile of dead meat lying on the street, with multiple irregular holes crushed by spikes. I squatted down and stared at it, thinking it was like a dead bird, with a fragile skeleton broken and rotting in black plasma from nowhere.

I wondered if a dead bird would be afraid of me, just like the whole city was afraid of me, and when they were tortured, the purple-black venom buried deep in their rotten hearts was squeezed out of their fragile and slender skin through every violent pulsation full of fear, and was peeled off together with the light tights with leaf-shaped blades attached.

I jumped onto the edge of the spire and hung myself on a hard spike. There were some small mistakes here, and the miscalculation of the distance caused my hand to be pierced once, from between the second and third metacarpal bones, and the black iron came out as if it had grown on the back of my hand.

I thought about whether to keep it as a manifestation of scars and a convenient hidden weapon. No, I don't want this troublesome thing to interfere with my crafts.

I took myself off the spike and climbed to the top of the tower again.

I saw the dimensions of the labyrinth stretching above me, flickering, straddling the real and the invisible, silvered like the mercury-coated back of a palace mirror, or a part of a dirty veil that fell into the sewer. The city was like a tumor of flesh parasitizing the broken veil, moving along the yarn, connecting the network and reality, like...

The wreckage of a burning jet motorcycle drew an elegant arc in the air, and the smoke and flames it emitted twisted in front of me, melting into a dripping black mirror.

The familiar illusion enveloped me.

I saw another city in the dark unfold before me, and saw me chasing a strange boy. Nostramo, I knew the name of that place better than the dark city I was in now.

I watched him try to sneak up on me with the toy-like knife in his hand, and didn't understand why the thread of fate always showed me a lighter, simpler world.

No, the knife must be coated with a more deadly acid venom, and the assassin's veins should be surging with neurotoxins at a higher concentration than blood.

Alien mercenaries, unknown pirates, and evil traitors should board thousands of ships and dock in the protruding spines of the port, and indulge in the carnival without a unified government with the mean, selfish sadists and murderers, and sink and degenerate between the upper and lower limits of nobles and human sticks - haha, the scientific name of human sticks is freaks, I guess.

Those organisms transformed from flesh and blood, with various chemicals, growth agents and steroids running in their muscles, the claws and knives transplanted at the end of their arms are stained with poison, and bright emerald green drugs flow in the pipes on their bodies, exempting them from pain and allowing them to endlessly hunt for fleeing prey.

I suddenly laughed out loud. All the darkness, torture and abuse, I really couldn't imagine what kind of good fate would play a funny comedy of a mortal trying to stab me with a toy knife as a boring little show to adjust my mood when I was caught in endless pursuit, so that the endless dark hunting journey would not fall into a boring vicious circle.

I let the endless joy indulge my laughter, and heard the sins that were erupting in the dark city under the spire piled up like overflowing bubbles in my place outside the illusion. Murder and betrayal are not worth mentioning, torture and torment are worth talking about.

I don't know whether all this chaos is the extreme decadence caused by the rumored great fall, or the dryness of the soul that has continued from the ancient alien empire.

By the way, I actually like to call the outbreak when the Eldar's decline reaches its end as autumn. I learned this word from the human city that flashed in front of me repeatedly. This often makes me feel that I am close to the human world.

In my...interesting growth, I am happy to cherish every moment of peeking into human society, imagining the weakness and emptiness I will gain when I grow up on a planet that does not belong to me. I will have the leisure to conceive of justice and evil, to divide a world that still has light, and to have the leisure to cry bitterly when my wonderful imagination is frustrated.

I was thrown out of the illusion and fell back into the reality where I was. My neck was in great pain, my consciousness was floating on the edge, my limbs were twitching meaninglessly, and my brain was stirred like a pool of vomit that would be vomited out by the works of the master of flesh and blood art. But I know how to enjoy this sweet pain and sip a drop of the highest and most beautiful dew in the senses.

In the abandoned areas where the structure or dimension collapsed, the ossified ruins infested by monsters, and the boiling poison, I understood the meaning of pain to me in the long process of learning everything I needed from the Haemonculus.

I heard a voice for help coming from the spire, and his clever and complex language identified his identity. I changed to a more comfortable sitting position, swinging my legs on the edge of the spire, letting the dirty night wind blow across my pale skin. I listened to the sounds of their struggles, and after the illusion faded, I immersed myself in the local repertoire that the underworld city selflessly presented to me.

After three minutes and eleven human society countdowns, the rescuer successfully killed his deceived enemy. This is how this capital works.

The city of sin. I thought, declaring that this is the city I love deeply. I can kill any creature here, and no matter who dies under my nails, I can list thousands of reasons in an instant.

This is the bloody feast I was born to enjoy, where my talent and soul are, my courtyard and throne-I pronounce Gomo guilty, and I am deeply sinful.

"Conrad." He called me, and I heard the voice of my companion. Every time he called me, I had to suppress the urge to dig out his heart and taste it, forcing the bloody sweetness to be pushed back from between my teeth to the depths of my brain.

Is this a symbol of my conscience? A symbol of my innocence?

"Conrad Curze. The bloody marquis." He whispered, standing in the middle of the street under the spire, in the center of the darkness, as if stepping on the heart of the underworld.

I turned over and fell from the spire, falling into the depths of all the desperate situations of repeating the same mistakes, sinking into the irreversible long night and the marginalized fear, drawing eternal pain from the overlapping shadows and the profound elements of life, like a swollen spider lurking in a huge web of shadows and pain, or a blood-thirsty night bat falling between distant spires and towers that touch the night sky, crossing every berth in the complexity of borders and the large number of inclined dock masts protruding from the towers and the crackling of electromagnetic forces, swallowing evil with the Dark City and spitting the stinking air back into the void.

The dead bird. I suddenly remembered it. Yes, I know what it is. A person. A slave ship transported to our city of great sin and evil, abandoned in the middle of the blood-stained streets after being tortured and mutilated, waiting for this corpse will be merged with the twisted bones and sticky body fluids accumulated over millions of years into the flickering embers of the dying Eldar Empire.

But his soul will be free. This is the best joke of the night - a weak human whose soul dies freer than the most powerful Gomerin.

Why did I almost forget to tell it?