MM Racing Page 203
Page 203
"state?"
Eric began to speak.
"I feel great, is there something wrong?"
"Really?"
"of course it's true."
Eric shook his head, a hint of impatience in his voice.
"Don't waste my time. I should be on Amegadoton right now. Don't you know I'm part of the Iron Legion? We are mortal hammers under the God-Emperor, destined to utterly crush all enemies for him. Do you know you look a lot like a street performer right now? I've heard veterans from other planets talk about some feudal worlds where performers have something called face-changing, and it looks very much like you..."
Eric's voice carried a provocative tone—he was trying to provoke the other person in order to glean enough information from their next words to gain the upper hand in the conversation.
But the next moment, he couldn't speak.
The "person" slowly raised their right hand and then gently snapped their fingers. The snap wasn't loud, but it was clear enough to attract the attention of those nearby. Immediately afterward, a cluster of black and white flames appeared out of thin air. This flame danced on the "person's" fingertips. Although it was a flame, when someone stared at it and perceived it, what they felt wasn't heat or warmth, but coldness and deathly stillness, as if everything had ended and been completely overturned and started anew.
"What...what are you going to do?"
"help you."
"Help me? I feel like you're going to burn me alive."
"If burning you to death requires this much power." In an instant, the constantly changing face stopped, and what appeared was the face of a young, ordinary-looking man. "You won't be here either."
The man's face bore a deep sense of helplessness and an indescribable weariness. A miniature black sun hung behind his head, moving with him as he moved.
"This is to help you see the truth, so now... take a good look at what the real truth is."
"Don't joke around, you—"
Von Erik's voice abruptly stopped, and flames roared across the grass, closing in on him in an instant and surrounding him completely. He didn't even have time to react at first.
The world began to change, and he could only watch helplessly as it all unfolded.
The grasslands vanished, and the trees turned to ash. The air was filled with the stench of decay, and the ground sank, turning into a swamp piled high with corpses, where mosquitoes and flies buzzed and swarmed.
Eric almost vomited; just smelling the odor made him feel both physically and psychologically uncomfortable.
"This is the truth."
"You...who exactly are you...?"
"That's not important. What's important is that this is all I can do."
The man sighed.
“I didn’t expect there to be a hidden Alpha psyker like you on Armageddon,” Nurgle said, “I’m very pleased. He had the opportunity to bring Perturabo under his command before, but he failed in the end. Now, in his view, it’s another opportunity.”
"Think about your precious and beautiful memories. Don't be misled by chaos. I can feel your resilient heart. You are a qualified soldier, a soldier of the Iron Legion."
Beautiful memories?
Eric blinked, and he began to reminisce. His brain searched through his short life, and then extracted all the few beautiful moments he had.
Then he saw it, he saw the enormous thing that was gradually approaching him.
It was a terrifying and horrifyingly large figure, slowly approaching from the deathly sky at the other end of the grassland, its form extremely horrifying and terrifying.
His body resembled a tattered corpse composed of countless rotting bodies, his skin festering, riddled with holes from which maggots scurried freely. Huge pustules gushed forth, yellow, disgusting liquid flowing like a waterfall into the grooves of his flesh. On his head were twisted horns, also tattered and repulsive, utterly filthy and repulsive.
It was as if it were the embodiment of decay.
"come over."
Von Erik suddenly knelt down, gasping for breath. He felt a pain, an impulse.
why?
Why should we die?
Why are they able to survive?
Why!
Why why why why...
"You're unwilling, aren't you?" the terrifying being spoke, its voice sounding so gentle. "Come, join us. Help your brother open the door to this planet, child. I will give you everything you desire. Join our family, become true family, and we can coexist in this beautiful garden..."
Von Erik's body trembled. He lowered his head, unwilling to accept the reality. But in the end, he slowly reached out his hand, extending it towards the horror before him.
"Ugh."
Just as he was about to come into contact with terror, Eric suddenly stopped.
Do you even know what we're fighting for?
"Why ask this question?"
"...Hans and the others are dead. I feel...it's the fault of those officials. They shouldn't have given the order to charge. The enemy's firing positions are still there...they were just playing with our lives."
"...I think I know what you're trying to say. Those men are indeed disgusting. But don't lose your fighting spirit."
"Then who are we fighting for... the Emperor?"
"He's just a son of a bitch, an emperor. Stop reading it. Do you really think we're fighting for him?"
"The political commissar is not here..."
"This is a reality, remember it. We are not fighting for the Emperor; we fight for only one goal... and that is for humanity. And for ourselves."
"For humanity, for ourselves............"
On Amegidon, his parents died fighting against the orcs.
In the army, there are those comrades-in-arms with whom you trained, grew, and trusted.
Inside the nest, there are the elderly and children who always smile at you and offer encouragement.
In the neighborhood, there were veterans who asked him to kill a few enemies for them...
These are the people I have to fight for.
so.........
The next moment, he raised his head and stubbornly looked at the horror.
A smile played on his terrifying face, as if victory was assured.
"Do not."
Her smile froze completely.
"Do not!!!"
Chapter 239, Part 231: Peturabo
The faint light flickering in the chaotic void deep within the subspace was like a fleeting spark, forcefully rubbed against an endless black silk.
It is worlds apart from the eternally burning starlight that guided the human empire—the starlight being an ever-burning beacon like the sun, while this light is merely a weak pulse struggling to burst forth before being completely annihilated.
It flickered, its outline blurred like an illusion at the edge of vision. Yet, in this all-consuming labyrinth of warp space, even this flickering light, like a candle in the wind, was enough to become a compass of despair in the darkness, pointing the cold bow of the ship in a direction, a resolute destination.
No one could be sure whether the light was also caught by the enemy—but the Steel Lord Peturabo knew that they must have seen it too.
A chilling understanding spread through his mind: the essence of that light resonated with something deep within the hearts of the pursuer or the pursued.
Understanding? No, more accurately, it's a kind of distortion from the same source that makes these beacons in the darkness completely visible to each other.
We and they may have already shared the same corruption on the road to the abyss. This realization brings a suffocating sense of fate: avoidance has become a luxury.
In the vast space war, fleets are merely tools for extending each other's will, projecting destruction across light-years.
At this moment, the gears of fate have meshed with a deafening roar, and the cold iron rings have tightened abruptly—we must personally step into the destination indicated by the light, to… face to face. On the cold tactical screen, the target coordinates have been locked, flashing with an ominous crimson light.
The smell of rust, like a viscous substance, permeated the entire grand hall. This was not the usual musty or antiquated odor, but something active and malevolent, as if the blood of steel was slowly oxidizing, seeping out a decaying vitality.
It seeped into every crevice, burrowing into the tip of his nose, entwining between his teeth, and igniting a primal, destructive hatred deep within Peturabo's soul.
Each breath was like igniting a furnace within his built-in engine, almost breaching the barriers of his proud mechanical mind. His knuckles creaked from gripping the metal—in the past, anyone who dared to bring this foul stench to the source of his domain, even a rusty rivet, would have been reduced to molecular dust by the warhammer that had forged great military miracles.
But at this moment, inhuman willpower acted like the strongest armor of restraint, tightening layer upon layer around his boiling rage.
The title "Lord of Steel" now symbolized not only authority but also a cold, confining armor. His heavy breastplate, encased in adamantite armor, heaved slightly, not for the need to breathe, but more like a servo engine with an overloaded cooling system struggling to suppress the surging lava in its core, accompanied by a low, mechanical hiss.
He lowered his head slightly, which resembled an iron fortress, and focused his servo prosthetic eye (not a biological structure, but an array of observers flashing a cold red light) into its shadowed eye socket, locking onto the target—right in front of his boots adorned with roaring beasts, a humble, twisted figure was pressed against the cold deck.
A wizard.
The very existence of this creature is a mockery of the harsh logic of the order he believed in. Yet, in a world long since succumbed to chaos and filth, wizards are an irreplaceable poison. Even their masters—whether joyful or angry—are...
Whether it's a fickle demon prince or an indescribable embodiment of the will of an evil god—however disgusting these parasites who manipulate uncontrollable psychic energy may be, when it comes to transforming those blasphemous blueprints and whispers of the warp into tangible, destructive entities of the material universe, that nauseating secret knowledge becomes a filthy necessity.
The figures of wizards stubbornly proliferated like mold in the shadowy corners of the chaotic forces. Their ranks were worlds apart, like droplets of filth spewed from the same corrupt source at different heights:
The lowest of the low might huddle in the ruined city center of some forgotten world, living in constant fear of being torn apart by the claws of gene thieves or disemboweled by mutant thugs, barely clinging to life while manipulating ridiculous cursed dolls.
However, the very few who stand at the pinnacle of this corrupt pyramid possess unknowable power to command squads of Chaos Space Marines, becoming the core targets of pursuit and slaughter by the Khorne Fury or Tzeentch Weavers.
Without even needing to offer up thousands of souls as a stepping stone, one can directly hear the dream-like divine pronouncements of the four masters in the distorted void, guiding the sacrificial frenzy sweeping across the star field. Ultimately, one may also transform into a demon prince whose rules are distorted, and whose name becomes an eternal wound in the material universe.
These spellcasters, whose minds have been warped by the warp, are by no means a monolithic group. The gods they worship are the root of the problem, and the five main factions are fiercely competing, not to mention the wizarding sects that claim to believe in the Chaos Whole or devote themselves to fragmented minor gods.
However, no matter how they divide and fight each other, the source of the invisible threads behind them can still be vaguely traced back to those four greedy giant mouths.
Among them, Khorne, who worships absolute pure power and blood, has the fewest wizards due to his characteristics; while Tzeentch, who bewitches people with infinite cunning and boundless secrets, is like a lighthouse in a dark sea, attracting the most moths to a flame. The number of wizard factions under his command is as numerous as the stars, and their conspiracies are intertwined like an eternal spider web.
The wizard kneeling on the cold deck, enveloped by the burning red gaze of the Lord of Steel, did not possess the shimmering feathers and hundreds of all-seeing eyes that Tzeentch's domain was woven from knowledge and curses, nor the pure power imprint that Khorne's followers fanatically pursued and displayed: there was no blood axe hanging, nor the sulfurous stench of the brass altar…
It smelled only of decay.
A wizard who worships Nurgle, a messenger who delivers a message to him, and an ally he must seek in the battles to come.
"Lord of Steel".
The wizard spoke respectfully, his deference evident in his words. As he spoke, the pustules on his face burst open, and the disgusting liquid fell to the ground under the force of gravity, emitting an extremely foul odor.
"Our lord has informed his most beloved son that you should not worry. With the help of your great and loving father, you and your brother will have a fair fight. Neither the wild horse nor the black duck can affect the fair battle between you and the stubborn stone."
“That would be best... Tell Mortarian not to attack Roger Dorn, his opponent... can only be me.”