Chapter 317 Harvest Day (Part 2)

Mortarion climbed onto the broad platform closest to the top of the mountain, and the black iron fortress of Naklay was clearly in front of him. This is a towering, twisted, dark fortress with overgrown branches, wrapped in dark orange dense poisonous mist.

His body was shaking, half from the trembling caused by the poison, and the other half from the excitement for the upcoming battle. This is the Barbarus' revenge against the sorcery overlord, and also his revenge against the huge shadow that haunted him in the first half of his life.

He grasped the long handle of the scythe and roared: "Nakre!"

His cry echoed across the mountains, followed by a cold, wind-like sneer, with a harsh murmur like the fluttering wings of insects, wafting from the thick fog surrounding the fortress.

A tall, thin and terrifying figure appeared in front of him, floating on the stone platform piled with rocks, looking down at Mortarion arrogantly.

"You let me down," Nacre said condescendingly. "You made an unimaginably stupid choice."

Mortarion gasped, swung his scythe violently, and rushed towards the figure of the sorcerer overlord. The sickle pierced the thick orange-yellow haze, instantly cutting through a waterfall, drawing a cold arc through the mist, but there was no tactile sensation of hitting an actual object.

He stepped onto the stone platform. Nacre was not here, and his chest seemed to be burning with a poisonous mist fire, making his body wrapped in gradually rusty and corroded armor hot and weak, brutally destroying his vitality. .

Mortarion looked around, the mist deepening in color until it turned into an abyss-like dark substance. This is different from the regular night, which is the night that the Primarch can see clearly - this is a sticky dark environment that is weird and unrealistic, and controls the surrounding environment through unknown witchcraft.

Mortarion vaguely knew that at a certain point in this darkness, a golden bonfire was burning quietly, but he could not definitely perceive it in any way. He could only see clearly the heavy armor on his body that was peeling off layer by layer, and the lightly bloodied areas on the surface of the scythe, reflecting his pale and angry face.

"Face me!" Mortarion roared loudly, metal blood boiling in his throat.

A shrill wind blade struck from behind him, and Mortarion suddenly dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding the pale energy attack. The stimulation brought by adrenaline immediately combined with his will to fight, dispelling the severe pain in his body.

He turned around immediately, and on the other side of the darkness, Nacre's figure was waiting for him.

It seemed to be a withered figure glowing with a miserable white light. Its limbs were as thin as leaves that had withered in the dark environment before growing. Gray-white fragments like broken cloaks were dotted around the shoulders of the figure. On the lower torso, it spread wantonly into the surrounding darkness.

A long, slender metal gray knife, like a curtain fluttering in the cold night wind, was held in the palm of the figure. It was the swing of this sharp blade that created the fatal blow just now in the darkness.

After summoning the visible enemy, Mortarion maintained stubborn silence. The heavy war scythe transformed from a farm tool in his hand struck a blow that matched its huge mass and size. It might not be fast enough, but it was heavy and fatal. Nacre sneered strangely and faced Mortarion's attack head-on.

The scythe cut through the darkness of the void again, without cutting off anything tangible, but the attack of the gray long knife actually fell on Mortarion's heavy armor, leaving the armor full of holes, holes, and corrosion. The original coloring was taken away, leaving only a rusty gray-white tone, as if the armor was made of inferior stone and had a heavy crack cut out of it.

Regardless of the damage to his armor, Mortarion stubbornly persisted in attacking the only pale form he could currently perceive.

According to his understanding of Nakre's witchcraft, there must be a just-right moment when Nakre will pour his power into the attack of the gray phantom. He couldn't figure out which extremely brief and mysterious moment it was, but he couldn't hesitate.

"Your resistance is powerless," Nacre said lowly, "Death -"

It was at this moment that a cold premonition penetrated Mortarion's bones, and the axioms and numbers connected tightly with each other, starting to operate one after another like gears. It was at this moment, this precise moment that could not be missed, that Mortarion swung his scythe.

The speed of the blade he swung was not too fast, not as fast as the previous attacks he had made on his own initiative, but the heavy sharp blade happened to cut off the gray-white figure's waist at that critical opportunity.

A handful of gray blood burst out from the middle of the body like flowing mercury. A flash of light flashed, and Nacre's words and his phantom were chopped into pieces.

A shrill and unbelievable cry briefly broke through the silent darkness, and also broke the aloof mask of the sorcery overlord Nacre. When the right pain breaks through Deathson's scythe to defeat his defenses, the Overlord bleeds as well.

The first phantom of gathered power was executed. Mortarion took back his scythe and strode down the stone pile. The unprecedented physical weakness caused by the dark fog and the layer-by-layer collapse of the iron armor gave him the strength of his mind. clear.

One step, three steps, then four steps, interpolation, then ten steps next time.

He looked for Nacre's next apparition. Even if he can't identify the direction, a prophecy is pointing his way, just like the ancient wandering wizard holding the trembling hands of those who seek prophecy on the earth, and calculating the clues left in the future from the lines of palm prints or pupils. .

But Mortarion believed that the abilities he gained were different. This is the secret of mathematics, the destined number hidden in the axiom, the measurable operation.

The second figure appeared in front of Mortarion. It was no more powerful than the first one, and it couldn't do any novel tricks. The attack of the phantom is a mixture of reality and reality. It is a waste of computing power to use energy to calculate at what speed and angle the next attack of this gray-white phantom will be launched.

Mortarion did not dodge except for some heavy blows that were too obvious threats and hit his head. Under the heavy armor, blood flowed rapidly in his body, and the battle shirt that clung to his muscles prevented further cracking of his wounds, protected his injured body, and maintained his fighting rhythm.

After the first head-on defeat of part of Naklay, something seemed to have changed permanently.

The overlord who once seemed to cast a shadow on his body as if the sky was blocking out the sun, the colossus that had to be overcome and killed, suddenly proved to be nothing more than a decayed old thing from the old era. I don’t know how to abdicate from the new era, but I don’t know how to admit my own decadence.

Its restrictions and drives have degenerated into desperate shadows of the old overlords with lost teeth and loose joints. With just a push, these unburied corpses will fall into the graves dug for them by the scythe of death.

And Mortarion will bring Barbarus a new beginning. A moment of departure for a golden era of glory, a journey of hope that illuminates the Milky Way.

Mortarion swung his scythe again, the tip of the blade piercing the second phantom, and then stepped back to avoid the energy blast that exploded in front of him. The gray phantom snapped back, its pained expression lasting only a moment, but Mortarion had already seen it.

Mortarion struggled to extract the rare breathable ingredients from the dark fog. His physical strength was exhausted to a low point never seen in his life after successive long battles. Power flowed from every wound on his body, and the pain bound his limbs and bones, a thousand times more painful than when he drank poisonous wine with his warriors.

He walked unsteadily, and in the dark environment, he used all his remaining computing power and physical strength to search for the existence of Nacre.

The third, he thought, would also be the last. The numbers had revealed this truth to him.

And he couldn't retreat, couldn't fail. The Barbarians call him a light, and if it goes out in the darkness, he has failed his people, his own will, and the Emperor's wishes.

"You accepted it," Nacre sneered, trying to sting him coldly in the darkness, "You accepted your power. Like us, you all have a side of death. You think you can Overcome me by your own will, but you cannot. You resort to what you resist."

"Nonsense!" Mortarion yelled from his bloody throat, ignoring Naklay's heart-tugging lies. The next moment, he saw Nacre's figure.

The last incarnation of the sorcery overlord was Naklay himself, with a haggard appearance and a face like rotten wood. The gray-black cloth robe spread out flamboyantly behind him. His nightmare-like arms and pale face made Mortarion unforgettable. . Black poison gathered around him, forming tangible tentacles that spread deeper, trying to penetrate into Mortarion's chest and abdomen through the damage in the heavy armor.

"And you don't know whose blessing I have received," said Nacre, "or how many years He has watched over you."

Mortarion gathered his strength and charged forward with his scythe, and Nak'lay struck back with his sword. The light of the sword intertwined with the blade of the sickle, and the two figures constantly replaced and replaced each other, allowing the alternation of void and reality to intertwine and intersect in the withering darkness of death. The dark world has been shaken up.

The body around this rotten cancer of the old world seems to be no longer limited to the real universe, but when Nacre fully displays his witchcraft, it is inexplicable that the flow of witchcraft power can be more easily controlled by Mo. Talion calculated.

The ancient curse surrendered to the truth of numbers, turned into insect-like ashes under the scythe of death, and dispersed into the darkness. This took the pressure off Mortarion, but the damage still piled up.

The sickle blade followed the sharp arc of the long knife and went down at a high speed. When it was about to reach the sword grid, it suddenly spun and penetrated the body of the sorcery overlord from the chest. Gray-white rotten blood spattered out in a wide area and moved to the rear. Spread out a half arc like a full moon.

Nacre took a step back, and the penetrated part was quickly repaired temporarily. The thick shadow of darkness filled the chaotic energy flow in the empty shell-like body.

Mortarion breathed with difficulty, and the blood of the original body continued to flow out, flowing into the dark stone slabs, winding into cruel patterns. Almost all of his armor fell off, and there was also very little physical strength left, as if the source of his life was gradually being lost, being watched and sought by ancient beings peering through the cracks in the shadows.

Both have reached their end, and whoever can swing the blade one last time will get the other's head.

"Stupid moth," Nacre snorted, and this seemed to be no longer just the voice of the witchcraft overlord. "You want to defeat death?"

The sorcerer overlord raised his hand and typed a string of runes so blasphemous that it made Mortarion sick just to watch it once. He struggled to lift the scythe, hoping that he could bury the scythe's blade into the evil skull before Nakre completed his spell.

He didn't have time to finish. Nakre finished casting his last spell, with his gestures and spells ready. He laughed arrogantly, knowing that he had won.

But nothing happened. No evil energy descended, no darkness surged further. The call to the ancient power that Nakre believed in was like the ravings of a madman, and no power responded.

Nothing.

Nakre only had time to show a moment of surprise, and his head was cut off by the sharp blade of death's sickle, falling into the darkness, rolling. And his body collapsed immediately, half of it turned into a pool of festering rotten flesh, and the other half turned into flying feathers and dirty phosphorus powder, turning into dust in the aftermath of screams.

Mortarion kept swinging his sword until the thick darkness gradually dissipated, and the deadly poisonous fog returned to a normal concentration that was bearable after the death of the sorcery overlord. He saw again - no, for the first time, the blue and clear sky above the mountain.

He took a deep breath, letting the clean air roll through his broken lungs, and then put away the sickle.

Killing the Overlord was the end of revenge, the end of Mortarion's resentment, but not the end that the people of Barbarus needed.

Mortarion stepped over the remaining corpses of Nakre and entered the dark fortress, walked through the garden, through the corridor, through the hallway, in the maze, calculating the correct direction, finding the highest bell tower in the complex fortress structure, following the winding stairs step by step, carrying the sickle on his bleeding back, climbing up the long ladder, and smashing the solid attic baffle with his bare hands.

The top floor of the bell tower at the top of the world of Barbarus opened the door to him.

Mortarion stared at the ancient, abandoned bell, thinking about the thousands of situations he had encountered along the way.

The young man who escaped from the dark mountains with hatred, the hunter who cried desperately in the village, the lost wanderer walking in the wilderness, the guardian under the windmill at the Helle Pass.

The first four bells rang, and the sound echoed from the mountains to the wilderness.

The rebel wandering among the tribes and clans, the warrior who killed the secondary overlord, the builder of the safe haven, and the leader of the warriors who shared the poisoned wine with his companions.

The second set of four bells rang, penetrating the poisonous fog and reaching the village and the pass, making the farmers in the harvest season stand up and look up.

The pharmacist who resisted the poisonous fog with chemical agents, the leader of the liberation front in southern Barbarus, the person who brought the wise hermit to seek help, and the harvester who wielded the scythe of death to the last witchcraft overlord.

The third set of four bells crossed the mountains and crossed the walls, and the eagerly waiting death guards felt something in their hearts and smiled.

Mortarion leaned on the stone pillar of the bell tower and looked down at the vast plain of Barbarus, which was covered with white mist. This plain was deposited with countless corpses of mortals, drifting with countless miserable souls, and also grew up with tenacious people from generation to generation.

Their skin was rough, their palms were cracked, their nails were filled with mud, their clothes were covered with dust, they survived in suffering, worked diligently and unyieldingly, sat around the bonfire in the square in the center of the village, drank homemade grain wine, spent one night after another in the rough singing, and there was a faint light in their eyes.

At the end of the mud and darkness, Mortarion watched his Barbarus, looking forward to a bumper harvest next year.

Finally, a guard in the wheat field.

The thirteenth bell rang, Mortarion breathed weakly, put down the sickle, pressed his back against the surface of the stone pillar, slowly slid to the ground, and closed his eyes.

A large palm pressed on the back of his hand, grabbed his trembling hand, and gently picked him up. Through the cold armor, Mortarion felt a kind of clear warmth, soothing his tired spirit and letting him slide into a long-lost sleep.

Then, everything remained in silence.