Chapter 298 Love, Death, and Phoenix

It all started with a crossbow arrow.

It crossed the ocean, penetrated the universe, burned with purple-gold flames, and found its way along the twisted and changing overlapping silk threads, until the colorful and brilliant deep pink color suddenly appeared in the lush and harmonious garden soil, burning the warm and beautiful play scene of the small creatures into a black ash.

The Corruptor picked up its naughty and lovely children and touched the ashes left by their burning sadly.

That disgusting purple mist, why did it hurt its good children like this again? If you want the pointy-eared goddess of life so much, then you should bravely come to it directly - although it certainly won't hand over the little guy who can drink a lot of medicine soup.

It stretched out its tentacles and explored the vast river in the sky, thinking about making some counterattacks in boredom. Where is the smell of the hungry and thirsty the strongest? Here, there, and everywhere.

It grabbed a dead soul that floated away and sniffed the smell of that soul.

Ah, it was a wisp of fire that the apostate took away, belonging to the third legion under the command of the cursed. The source of the fire was a beautiful flame that was restlessly jumping.

What a well-behaved flame with a talent for decay, it just fell into the ruthless stomach of the hungry and thirsty, ouch...

It continued to stir the sticky swamp mud soup, and touched some images in the depths of the ether that was shining like oil. Swordsmanship, music, politics... There was a suitable little thing who was particularly afraid of despair and death, and he also had some talent for making medicine.

With a little condemnation and tolerance, it quietly thought that it must persuade him well in the future, after decay, there would be eternal life.

With a goal and a breakthrough, it then looked for the soup it wanted.

Finally, it salvaged a disease.

This was not the disease it deliberately sowed, but it liked the name given to it by sentient beings, blight.

Then, it was the disease deliberately sown by the corrupt from now on.

Surrender. Child. Stop your steps.

——

Fulgrim could not recognize them.

Of course, while they died in war, died of disease, lost their lives in the cold snow, mud and operating tables, the Purple Phoenix was still in Chemos, drinking and feasting with his political allies.

They had never met.

Ghosts were still gathering, emerging from the mud and trees of the garden. Their armor was pale, covered with painful and blurred clothes, and the festering skin caused by genetic diseases continued to fall from their bodies in the form of ashes after death.

At first there were dozens of people, then hundreds, and even more than a thousand souls, faded, thin, uniform in appearance, gray and white, like silhouettes separated from the same soul, bringing a cold and dark aura. Their power overwhelmed the black grass that stood up like fingers on the ground, causing the aura of despair to spread in pure grief, forming a wave-like colorless haze.

Those disgusting but flourishing flowers and vines were struck by their pain, and even gave up further reproduction on their own initiative, withering one by one, quietly melting into the rotten and silent dying world, sinking into the hopeless gray silence.

What will they say? Fulgrim thought, more ashes fell from his left hand and face.

Will they blame me? Because of my lack of responsibility?

The barren emotions of the sad souls affected his soul, and even if he realized this, it was not easy to resist. He was getting weaker bit by bit.

Regardless, Fulgrim raised his flaming sword. In this corner of the gray garden, even the color of the sword was lost.

"I'm sorry." He said solemnly. Death was the only gift he could give them.

If they resented him, he could not change anything. This was a flaw and stain in his career, a destined imperfection, or more accurately, a particularly deep ugly scar among the countless destined ones.

It was a known, latent fistula, a fear beneath the arrogance, a scar beneath the surface.

If he thought he was perfect, why did he pursue perfection?

The galaxy was cold, leaving no room for incomplete failures to survive.

When Fulgrim pointed his sword at the melancholy and heartbreaking ghosts, the ghosts finally responded. Not fighting back, but retreating. From the gray skin of their faces that were as stiff as shrouds, pairs of empty eyes looked at him sadly.

Still no ghosts took action, some of the ghosts in front caught a plain white robe from the heavy and stagnant air, with a slow flow of blue-green dim light and light yellow stripes like the lines on butterfly wings. Another group of ghosts offered Fulgrim a plain masked turban, floating quietly, as if hoping that Fulgrim would bow his head for them and allow them to put on a veil and a robe for him.

If they wanted to touch his head, Fulgrim would have to lower himself to a certain level. Kneel.

When he returned to the Legion, he knelt for the living. But those who left too soon did not receive his apology.

Father. They seemed to say. Father.

A true warrior should not hesitate, but a remiss father would.

Then, a sword was swung.

Not Fulgrim's fading flaming sword, nor the pale, gray crystal broken longsword of the Wraith.

It was a brand new blade, gleaming silver, brilliant and sharp, held by a warrior wearing brand new aide-de-camp armor, like a white light struck by lightning, fast and sharp, fierce and resolute.

In the sword's momentum, wherever the ghosts were touched, they were ignited by a cluster of bright golden fire. The gradient from orange-red to light gold instantly pierced the faded canvas of the rotten world, and savagely shone the bright, true light of life into the damp and cold garden.

A swordsman who was also a ghost body, but whose body outline was clearly outlined by the shining golden light, turned his back to Fulgrim, and raised his purple-gold long sword towards the pale faded legion, blocking the dead souls and the purple-clothed phoenix.

Just behind this purple-gold flame, Fulgrim felt an inexplicable warmth spreading from deep within his body.

"You are..." he asked softly.

"Lycaon, father." The warrior answered loudly, with a high tone. "Let me fight for you!"

Fulgrim's heart ached. He did not ask why Lycaon was here, but stepped forward and stood shoulder to shoulder with the warrior.

"I came too late," said the Phoenix. "I made a mistake."

I am not perfect.

"Indeed," Lycaon nodded seriously, and then said: "But you are here, father! That's enough!"

"I will cherish this opportunity." Fulgrim said, unable to control his mood. He seemed to have regained a kind of strength to support him to draw his sword.

Under Lycaon's attack, the ghosts finally slowly grasped their swords, but Fulgrim was faster than them. As long as the Primarch wanted, no one could touch even a corner of his clothes.

Just for the dead.

"Are they real?" asked the Phoenix.

"Father," Lycaon smiled. His soul was not without traces of pain from transformation, torture, and restraint, but the look he gave Fulgrim was enough to offset all of that. "No matter what, the real us cannot hate you, as long as you keep moving forward!"

The hot flaming sword and Lycaon's burning purple-gold sword swung at the army of the dead, dancing in the halo of grief, and shining in the gray and stale world. They were real imprisoned souls, or illusions fabricated by evil gods, and there was no need to distinguish them. The brilliant flames would destroy the gray death.

The ashes that fell from the Phoenix's body and the ashes that fell when the ghost was burned fell together in the ashes of dead wood and rusty iron, and they were raised with every step Fulgrim took, burning the last sparks in the high temperature.

Lycaon's sword could cause eternal and complete damage to the dead, but Fulgrim's sword could not. The ghosts seemed to be protected by some kind of corrosiveness. When the flaming sword pierced their bodies, it was the blade made by Ferrus Manus, one of the best craftsmen in the galaxy, that was corroded.

When Fulgrim thrust out his sword, thinking it was another futile effort, his ghost began to burn.

He was slightly stunned, and then he found that it was another ghost who did it.

The ghost was pierced by Lycaon's burning purple-gold sword, and his whole body burned with a destructive cold golden light like a blaze. However, just before his destruction really came, he seemed to have regained his consciousness, or made some kind of determination, and used his weapon stained with fire to swing the sword for Fulgrim.

Go. Fulgrim seemed to hear a voice.

Much faster than Lycaon's own actions, this true death that was almost like a fire sacrifice was almost a chain of spreading. With Fulgrim as the center, the circle of fire spread outward. In a short, incalculable period of time, the golden fire quickly ignited the bodies of dozens or even hundreds of faceless souls, making them burn in brilliant and heroic flames.

They did this voluntarily.

Under the feet of these ghosts, withered plants and small creatures whispered anxiously, as if they could not understand what was happening. The ghosts could obviously live and continue their lives, but they did not. They burned themselves here and turned into ashes. Soon, these primitive creatures burst into the only fire in their lives, and then burned into charcoal and ash, leaving a burnt black on the ground.

The scorching temperature surrounded Fulgrim, and it was a little alarming. More ash fell from Fulgrim's arms, and the corrosion continued, but he did not say a word. The souls of his children were dying, which was also a relief. His body or soul was wounded, so let it go. Whether it was pain or the weariness of wandering, it melted in the flames, and the warm feeling surrounded his soul.

Fulgrim took a step forward, closer to the center of thousands of dead souls. Lycaon escorted him, and the thick ash covered the warrior's ankles. In the distance, at the end of the black and green of the corrupt garden, the evening paradise was still solidified in a dead and twisted false peace, as if maintaining some absurd and timid self-proclaimed prosperity.

"I know I am not perfect." Fulgrim said, some ashes stained his peeling face and fell into his purple robe. There was no longer a strong stench in the air, and the special fire brought a clean air, which permeated around him.

"You are moving forward, father," Lycaon replied, the light on his body was fading, he came alone, the golden psychic energy he carried was leaking, leaving a clean light fragrance, "We are willing to be your son, not because you are perfect. You deserve our respect, you are the eternal phoenix."

"Then why not love a wind, an ocean, a sun?" Fulgrim laughed, as ashes piled up around him. This is not just the ashes of the ghosts, but the remains of the burned objects in the garden itself. And, of course, his own. “Those things are much more permanent than me.”

"They just exist, and you are soaring." Lycaon replied, "If you don't give up your pursuit for a day, we will not leave you for a day."

Fulgrim nodded calmly and patted Lycaon on the shoulder. The Primarch noticed that more enemies were gathering towards his location. Those were the real enemies, covered in rot, glowing with a strange and ugly green light, and flowing with abscesses and bad blood. The dim yellow sky became even darker, as if red and yellow blood was about to seep out. Their actions attracted the attention of more monsters, and this time, no one would turn against him.

"I could do no better than you, my son," Fulgrim said.

The warrior smiled at him, then thrust the sword upright into the ashes on the ground.

There was not much left of the ghost at this time, but the ashes that had burned once immediately began to burn again, continuing to expand outward from the periphery of the ghost's ashes, even if they did not go beyond it, they were extinguished by the damp garden mire. Tiny flames are burning everywhere in the ashes, climbing up the drooping leaves, tracing the outline of the dead trees, leaping hotly in every corner from the ground to the sky, circling, dancing, and rising to higher places.

It clearly originates from dead things, from the ashes of a long dead life, but the music brought by the burning of the fire is more vital than any elegant music in the court, crackling and singing loudly, full of pride.

I'm proud of them. Phoenix thought to himself, listening to his expectant voice in the flames. I love them as they love me and as they love this galaxy.

Ah, was that a call to him? Those indistinguishable encouragements, inaudible songs, and the last war cry embraced his soul. As long as you are alive, we will live with you. If you had not fallen, we would never have left.

When the narrative in his soul gradually dissipated, the falling ashes covered his body.

The flames stirred up the wind, and the bright embers rose high into the sky, like the golden wings of thousands of flying eagles rising at dusk, gathering into majestic feathers of fire, illuminating the sky in another bright form. Exit the top floor of the garden.

The metal roof, the gorgeous columns, the flying buttresses, his ship. Ship of the Emperor's Children. It was the hot, fiery Milky Way, a corner of reality lit by the life-fire of the dead.

Lycaon looked at him in the flames. The edges of the flames around his body danced into free purple and gold patterns in the miracle of life, rough and powerful, almost transparent but extremely vigorous. In the firelight, he gradually disappeared and merged into a part of the fire. Being briefly a vehicle of power had burned through the carrying capacity of his soul.

"Goodbye, father. Rotten things are never immortal." Lycaon gestured to him like an eagle, and the golden light faded away. "For the Emperor!"

"And the fight never ends." Fulgrim said goodbye, watching Lycaon disappear in smoke and fire.

The purple-robed phoenix felt sweat pouring from his body, leaving traces in the soot all over his body. The flames covered his body, but did not harm him. Instead, they were woven into a long garment of flames, attached to his purple robe, just like the phoenix itself was burning endlessly, with glowing embers peeling off its body. The ends of his silver hair also began to burn, and sparks spread on his shoulders, weaving into feathers of living fire.

In front of him, the trees that had been burned for a long time suddenly broke and collapsed with a loud noise, with smoke and fire still coming out of the broken lines.

Fulgrim held the flaming sword in one hand.

Corroded by highly toxic and strong acids, it became rusty and incomplete. However, at this moment, it is burning. There is a rich golden-purple light near the hilt, and the end is shining with bright light gold, jumping energetically and stirring the air around it.

Flaming Sword.

Behind the thick smoke ahead, something seemed to be stirring the smoke of the fire and the hot air, approaching Fulgrim. Fulgrim faced him with his sword. He observed the enemy as it appeared, calmly facing its rotten and stinking twisted legs several meters high, and its pink belly protruding from its dark green body.

A good duelist master would know how to exploit the opponent's weaknesses. Fulgrim fought the hulking monster calmly, dismembering the monster bit by bit with his ignited sword, dodging at the right time, and quickly And nimbly cut the opponent's limbs, jump back, take off, strike after strike, until the enemy's defense is completely reduced. He fought intently, and the ichor splashed from the monster's body was burned in the fire before it could reach Fulgrim.

Soon, the huge demon was completely cut open, and the decaying liquid flowed into the ashes, forming a torrent like a waterway. Fulgrim put his foot on the monster's back, stuck his sword into it with one hand, and looked around. His left hand had completely turned into fly ash, blending into the embers that filled the sky. Fulgrim tried sealing the wound with the fire on his sword, and after enough ash had burned away, the deterioration stopped.

He smiled, raised his chin, and looked around at the small demons surrounding him. Those monsters, each with their own twisted shapes, missing or added limbs, bloated organs exposed, eyes like moths emerging from their cocoons, fang-like spikes piercing from their shoulders, intestines and blood vessels hanging on the outside like chains. There are more. Some are big, some are small, some are high, some are low, poking out of trees, emerging from swamps, and drilling out of the soil.

Join us. They said in a vague and disgusting voice. We will love you.

No, Phoenix smiled, no. He does not love dead things. Because he is loved by living souls.

He fought with an endless stream of dead things in the fire field of ash, spinning the flaming sword to burn the corrupt blood. He even had some leisure to think of Vulcan. Now borrowing a little from the characteristic fire of the fire lizard, holding the sword of the iron hand, what a battle worth admiring.

The fire burned through the skin and blood of the decayed creatures, and they exploded in an irresistible manner. The decayed creatures surrounded him and attacked him in various ways. Fulgrim responded as usual, fighting freely and freely, burning the filthy blood and rotten corpses, his fire robe fluttering, as if dancing in the fire. Different animal limbs began to pile up at his feet, forming a stage of ash.

More decayed corpses fell at his feet, and Fulgrim looked into the distance, using his eyes to search for the exit of the garden in the gaps between battles. He could see the flaws of these decayed monsters, but he could not find the way out of the entire garden.

Fulgrim!

Someone called him, the voice was very familiar, and it was constantly trembling.

"Magnus?" Fulgrim asked.

+ It's me! + Magnus said, only hearing the voice, but not seeing the person. But there was indeed a red-gold power that began to cover his body, forming a pair of boots, supporting his feet, and lifting him out of the pool of corrupt blood. + Throne, I finally found you! +

"Do you have a way to find the exit?" Fulgrim asked. "Besides, I'm glad to hear your voice."

+I don't... ugh...+ Magnus coughed,+I can't, I can't even... come here, the Emperor found you. +

"What can I do for you, my brother?" Fulgrim smiled, his tone particularly vivid when he mentioned their theoretical blood connection.

+Alive! + Magnus said,+They were all scared to death! Perturabo and Angr...+

The voice stopped abruptly, but the boots were saved.

His brothers were watching him, waiting for him. Even if it all started with a mistake made by Fulgrim himself.

Fulgrim touched his face, because his left eye had just turned to ash, and just stopped the trend of further collapse. The fire burned his face, wrapped around his jaw, and washed his cheeks with heat and burning. His purple robes, after being stained with the pus of the evil, were also burned to ash by the golden fire, covering his body in the form of ash.

Fulgrim fought on in a lake of ash and blood. He was unsure if time had twisted here, frozen in a long crack.

Time passed, and after enough fighting, he began to hurt. He bled. Sweat flowed into his eyes, and the world was covered in a grid of blood-red and brown, pressing against his vision. The disease tried to eat him away, and he made mistakes in his fight. He didn't have time to make more decisions. There were times when he thought he would fall, or let the sword slip.

But he didn't.

He was still on fire. Wherever the blade touched, the rotten things turned to ashes, and fire started again.

Then he heard singing. From the depths of the garden, finding him through some connection, light and distant, stirring his thoughts, echoing softly. It was a song without words, not of human voice, but it pierced through the miasma of sickness and fear, bringing hints of springs and healing, flowing with the sound of vitality and hope that was exactly the opposite of the decay of this place.

The song was short-lived, but it did sustain Fulgrim's strength, helping him through the period when the Emperor's Golden Flame began to wane.

After this, he began to burn his own power, which seemed to be a natural talent and ability. He learned to draw part of himself out to provide more fuel for the flaming sword. The flame became vibrant again.

Finally, he saw a beam of golden light suddenly appear in the dusk of the garden, breaking through the rotten world and echoing the fire in his body.

+ My son, come. +

Fulgrim closed his eyes, and then quickly opened them again. The flame on the sword became stronger.

He laughed proudly.