Chapter 252 Mortarch of Grief

Time goes backwards in my raised hand, my palm is wrapped in black cloth. I hold a bouquet of flowers in my hand, the flowers do not belong to me, but need me - I said so shamelessly. I got nothing, but got more than I thought.

I have never been a good playwright, and the biography I wrote for that child came to an abrupt end when he grew up. No, I have not forgotten this, when time leaves me, I still put the unfinished story in my chest.

There are green thorns hidden in my empty shell, and I am flipping through the map of Purgatory in my hands - I hope you know that although my thoughts are quite confused, the last half sentence is still an objective description based on facts.

This atlas is like a thin book, and the cover seems to be made of metal. Its pages are so light and thin, stitched together by the skin of silent soulless people, and kept alive by the living blood in a small section of the spine.

It was unwilling to respond to my fingers, unless I intentionally used the ancient spell, the atlas would unwillingly change the texture and direction of the skin, forming a full page of endless lines and text.

And this is the first feedback that the Atlas of Purgatory should give when a living person with a real soul touches the atlas.

I closed the atlas, thinking about who wrote this book, and why the incarnation of the God of Laughter took the Atlas of Purgatory from the Black Library and returned it to the Human Empire in person.

The more I read, the more I confirmed that this was the handwriting of a human... So, who is it? Is it Neos? No, if Neos had such an understanding of the Webway, he would not be so difficult and vague in promoting the Webway plan...

However, in the dark, I always feel that the author of this atlas must be related to the Emperor.

Under my feet, the upper spires of Gomorrah were shrouded in inherent clouds and mist. This is the best stage for the unfolding of dark legends. There is no need to deliberately write and write, the story is already born.

There, I looked at the golden spire, which once belonged to a church that presumed to occupy the morning sun, but tonight it has changed its master.

Another person's influence has gradually become a silent tendril, quietly sliding into this eternal and dark city. Hundreds of powerful people have been replaced and replaced, and countless actions in the shadows have been perfectly planned and implemented.

Conrad Curze, the bloody marquis, the eighth son of the emperor, and the host of a grand banquet. He sat in the center of the fur-covered throne, using the hall that once belonged to the enemy to hold a grand dinner that belongs only to the Night Demon King's Court.

I can't help but recall that when everything began, in that long night of light and color, brothers who had never met danced with their shadows between the banquets. It was also this hall that witnessed the beginning of the story.

Just three days ago, the secrets of the fallen god Vaul were relayed to the Blood Lord; the Primarch assessed the chances and consequences of the Chaos Demigod's arrival on Gomor, and the decision was made: a feast was to be held.

To this day, at this moment, the feast has been going on for three days: gold and silver flowed like water, delicious food was served in exquisite crystal vessels, and the residue of wine and meat sank into the foggy black canal.

Asdrubal Wicket was entrusted by Konrad Curze to organize the entire Eldar banquet. Letters were delivered to the many halls, inviting hundreds of guests.

The invitees appeared in this luxurious high-ceilinged hall with invitations or threats, fear, or joy, and took their seats one by one, tasting the scarlet wine in the cup, wondering why the new royal court had summoned everyone here.

Is this a conspirator's banquet? They thought, an ancient ritual, announcing the final promise of the rise of the Conspiracy Alliance, and the public execution of opponents?

How many Eldar will become a living plaque and example of the fate of being unfaithful to the host of the banquet at the end of this six-day feast?

I watched them united under Konrad Curze, drinking and eating. The six-day banquet was already halfway through.

And at the other end of the webway, on the dead forge star, a complete destruction was coming as promised.

Perturabo held up the dawn of Anaris, and the turbid light on the broken blade was weakened by the presence of the ruler Zakhurash. The incarnation of the laughing god was right. The corrosion of the sword came from the active or forced corruption of Vastor, not the material itself.

When the broken blade fell into the hands of the gene primarch, the entire temple ruins that relied on the broken blade began to collapse on a large scale. The operation of the forge ended after the last roar. The tomb of the old gods collapsed completely underground. The maze of death vented desperate ruin, dust rose, and the collapsed walls chased Perturabo's swift footsteps all the way.

The giant machine strode through the collapsed and unfamiliar world, crushing the rocks and bones under its feet.

The incarnation of the laughing god stood up lightly, ignoring the bleeding body, and spitting blood all the way, chasing the pace of the primarch running at full speed; they stepped over pieces of broken metal and smashed bricks, threw away the mechanical servo arms that gradually stretched out from the wall, and frantically searched for the only way out among the thousands of mechanical ghosts emerging from the shadows.

They can always run out of the tomb of Vaul, I think. A primarch, an incarnation of the laughing god; the anger of a dying planet cannot kill them. Even if the core of the earth boils, and the lava flow fire dormant in the mountains erupts with the collapse of the temple, Perturabo can still successfully return to the airship in the sky.

I had no doubt that he could do it, so I sent my consciousness, which had been pulled out of the ether ocean, back to my body and stopped staring at Cordorius all the time.

In the banquet hall of Gomor, Conrad Koz never cleaned up the black sun crystal chandelier that fell from the ceiling during the troupe's debut a few days ago. Today, it is still broken in the middle of the hall, and the crystal black diamonds are scattered all over the floor. The Blood Marquis did not hesitate to use this to emphasize his crucial role in the decline of the Church of the Sun.

He leaned against the throne with his eyes downcast, not eating or drinking, and casually looked around the entire gorgeous hall, observing the many lives under the seat.

Among the bustling crowd of people dressed in gorgeous clothes, the only red-gloved remains of the servants were particularly conspicuous. Until this day, the former female noble was still the only servant in the royal court who was successfully transformed. This result did not satisfy Conrad Koz.

The host of the banquet naturally could not leave in anger, away from the collision of jewels and the sound of folding fans; the Blood Marquis's black eyes were gloomy, and he imagined four rotating genetic spirals in his heart.

A family spokesman squeezed through the crowd, knelt on one knee in front of Koz, and eagerly told his request. The Blood Lord silently stared at the thin and sharp skeleton of the Eldar in the crowded hall until the latter began to hide his uneasiness.

Curze showed a casual smile, summoned a dark blue Talos engine with lightning painted on its shell, took a bone knife from the engine's tentacles, leaned over, and carved a simple emblem with wings spread on both sides of the skull on the pale forehead of the Eldar.

"The throne will remember you and your family." Curze said calmly. The engine took the bloody bone knife for him, handed him clean water and a white towel, and let the Blood Lord wash his already clean snow-white hands in the silver basin.

The Blood Lord nodded gently to the shadow, and the green markings on the hired person lurking in the shadow flashed by.

The engines had no complaints about their own underutilization. In fact, there had never been a flash of resistance in their ignorant minds.

Talos Engines brought cups of bitter wine, floating or dragging metal tentacles, swimming freely between the long tables and passing them between seats.

On both sides of the banquet venue, the choir in the shadow of the high platform played elegant instrumental music, and the chants composed by the Primarch himself, with amazing solemnity and holiness, were sprinkled in the wide hall.

"Let the airship down, Avatar!"

Before the underground tomb was completely buried, Perturabo grabbed the fragments of the sword with his metal hand, and with his other hand, he grabbed a stone beam at the edge of the temple and threw his dusty mechanical body back to the ground.

He implemented his plan, waiting in the Vaal Temple for three days, giving Conrad Curze time to prepare, and then returned to the surface to actively attract the attention of Vastor.

The incarnation of the Laughing God jumped to the surface covered with obsidian fragments. After the fragments were taken away, the energy environment was completely unbalanced. At this moment, these crystals have been entangled by a deep smell of corruption, almost turning into a sticky swamp covering the entire planet. Two near-gods, one large and one small, ran at high speed on the surface of Cordoris on molten gravel.

A few seconds later, the power of chaos completely erupted in the remaining part of the temple. The sticky energy hit the fragile curtain, blasting out a disgusting huge dark hole, greedily devouring the matter of the real universe.

A series of explosions erupted from the inside of Cordoris, not only the core of the temple, but more rumbling vibrations began to be transmitted from deep in the strata, shaking multiple plates of Cordoris.

Black lightning tore a large number of sawtooths in the dim sky, and high-temperature fire and molten gravel rushed into the sky from the gaps in the plates, stirred by the tidal energy. Deep in the clouds, the Harlequin airship dodged left and right, looking for two difficult-to-identify dots on the dark ground in the chaotic and terrifying thunder.

The sacred music of the choir under Konrad Curze is still clear and peaceful, giving the world the comforting conditions suitable for spiritual thinking. The feast lasted for three days, which was just the time for rest.

The Blood Lord left the throne and gently brushed off the dust on his robe. The midnight hue was condensed in the heavy robe he cut and dyed with his own hands, with bright lightning patterns. A bright red cloak hung behind the king, setting off his noble and flawless body.

When he stood up, the jubilant banquet was silent in an instant, and only the melodious music continued to linger.

"My friends." The Blood Lord said calmly, raising his hands to his guests. How could the midnight ghosts who crawled up from this hellish city of sin not understand the constraints of etiquette? No, of course he understood all this. He limited himself between the double margins of politeness and madness. "Are you satisfied with this entertaining banquet?"

"Can you feel that a piece of history is being created? This eternal city is ushering in a change worth remembering? Thousands of years later, tens of thousands of years later, I want you to look back on tonight's story with the most reverent attitude. The darkness of the underworld will not calm down, and the sinful city will not prosper, but Gomo will indeed continue to thrive from generation to generation!"

"Cheers to the throne." He said.

The Eldar raised their glasses one after another: "Cheers to the Royal Court!"

Coz smiled, raised his glass, bit his lips, mixed with his own blood, and drank it all.

Avatar ran, his laughter was still steady: "Oh, the two worlds are falling apart!"

The remnants of the sky collapsed in front of the fugitives, a brick, a broken tile, the gray world ended here, just as the glorious banquet was unfolding there.

The dark mountains collapsed, and the ground tilted in pieces, just like a deck in a storm. Ugly rocks that were larger than the palace buildings were lifted into the sky by the hot lava and fell down in flames. The airship, like a leaf blown by the wind, dragged the Tuchucha engine and slowly and arduously approached Perturabo.

Cordolis has become blurred and unrecognizable in the subspace vision, and the ground collapsed from all the hidden gaps, turning into food for the chaotic ocean.

I stretched out my hand and touched the large afterimage left by Cordolis in the etheric field of vision. The manic planet cracked into countless crazy fragments so quickly, which gave me the illusion that Cordolis was under my fingers. Tip collapse.

What kind of phenomenon is this? I don't know how to describe it. My hazy mind was still recording the last moments of this grand epic. I saw a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity recorded in my thoughts, and I couldn't refuse. It's everything a failed copywriter needs, a doubly interesting story.

All of Cordolis was in the final stages of being destroyed by the violence of the Emperor's fourth son, a prelude to the bloody end of Konrad Curze's merry banquet. I see it as an interesting contrast.

Would the weakened Chaos Demigod be enough to defeat two Primarchs, plus myself, and maybe the Emperor? I don't think so...but Gomo is going to burn, it's visible to the naked eye.

In the dazzling hall under the dark sun, hellish orchestration and pulse-pounding drums finally covered the previous sacred music under the arrangement of Coz. This made the bloodline among the descendants of the Eldar that remained decadent and cruel feel relaxed and the pressure faded away.

They happily accepted another round of wine. These interesting creatures actually dared to stand under the Lord of the Bloody Royal Court - well, they knew what they were doing, but if the power was not fought for, they would surely fall. into the hands of the enemy.

When the Bloody Marquis's banquet reached an enviable climax, the chain thrown from the Harlequin airship was finally caught tightly by Perturabo. The airship managed to escape before the Webway Gate was torn apart, returning with a full load and witnessing the destruction of a world.

I know that the play in Caudolis has reached its end, or at least a temporary end.

This makes me indulge in the wonderful drama written by fate instead of the little poem compiled by my miserable and weak pen, and fantasize about how the curtain will be drawn exactly.

I saw the rare fate combined into one voice, and the unknown mourning merged into a unified cry. I see it all.

The fates of countless worlds whisper in the shadows, and we are creating our own. I've seen a lot of stories about Conrad Coates? How many more did he see?

Perturabo came with fire, and one who knelt at Curze's feet said, "O Marquis, you shall have all this."

Another interesting thing, I still haven't seen where Victor is. He should have shared the master's seat, or at least the second-in-command position... Oh, I take that back. Victor had just entered from the side door of the hall. So, where was he three days before the banquet?

I really didn't deliberately look for flaws in him. I'm just going to wait and see.

Let this incomplete party continue, I thought. Sin will complete my story.

The etheric ocean began to roll violently, and echoes sounded from the depths of chaos. The words composed of the friction sounds of multiple machines sounded like "my key."

I said, "Look, Conrad. Are your enemies here? Oh my, they're all here."

In this way, my narrative poem full of shortcomings and long drama that cannot be expressed in words has actually always been like this, continuing without the need for words. The existence of language is a clumsy and one-sided expression of facts. Human beings, as a life form, can only persist in capturing the reflection of the truth in this way.

The Emperor is above.

I'm very sorry. I fell asleep after writing yesterday. When I woke up, I found that I didn't click send (