Chapter 429: Now It's Two Against One
Watching Vashtorr work always gave one a sense of déjà vu.
"Soon, soon."
Vashtorr stood on the Planet Killer.
This weapon of destruction, built by Abaddon at great cost, had now become one of his vessels. On the bridge, now taken over by his slaves and daemons, he looked through the warp portal at the Rock, which was constantly 'advancing' towards the designated area under heavy siege.
Nervousness made him clench his hands.
In the long years, this was the first time he had abandoned complex contracts and plans, choosing to act with the mindset of a 'gambler'.
It seemed to be working well so far.
Vashtorr looked down from the modified bridge. The view below was unobstructed, thanks to the modifications by the great Machine God. At some point, this secondary god had become accustomed to spacious, open spaces with a panoramic view.
Following his gaze, a dark green heart embedded in a preservation device was revealed, pulsating slowly with every beat of the ship.
The Plagueheart. Alongside the Tuchulcha Engine and the Ouroboros, it was known as one of the three artifacts, superweapons left by the extinct Old Ones.
Its known ability was to open high-speed channels in the warp and drag realspace entities over ultra-long distances. Relying on its technology and terrifying output, which are still not understood to this day, it could forcibly shatter barriers as strong as the Webway when combined.
Tzeentch had spent who knows how many years, combining world-shaking wisdom in reality with warp deception, just to open a hole inside a defective section of the Webway. It was hard to imagine what would happen if this weapon bombarded certain warp entities.
One of the components, the Tuchulcha Engine, could directly break through the warp tides stirred by the Chaos Gods, sending the Lion, Lion El'Jonson, who was trapped on the other side of the galaxy at the time, along with an entire Dark Angels fleet to Macragge on the other side of the galaxy.
Now obtained by Typhus.
As the First Captain of the Death Guard, this Nurgle Chosen also possessed extraordinary prophetic abilities like his gene-father.
As early as ten thousand years ago, he accepted the guidance of the gods to go to an Imperial Forge World to seize the Tuchulcha Engine, one of the three artifacts, but was blocked by the Lion leading the Dark Angels.
Ten thousand years later, another artifact appeared in his hands, seemingly compensation for what was lost.
'Truly...'
This made Vashtorr feel a burst of jealousy.
He had planned for tens of thousands of years without finding a trace of the artifacts, collecting fragments of Caliban everywhere, yet the Ouroboros, which disappeared after the destruction of Caliban, remained missing.
Yet a mere slave of the Plague God could lay hands on these artifacts.
Vast amounts of data passed through Vashtorr's consciousness, finally turning into conclusions leaping across various cogitators. A massive model almost identical to reality was being built.
The time for the unification of the three artifacts had not yet come. In fact, Vashtorr had not found the location of the Ouroboros, but exquisite calculations made up for this gap. After confirming the locations of two artifacts, he no longer needed to force the third.
Especially now, under the pressure of the Four Gods.
Vashtorr monitored the changes in the model, constantly simulating contingency plans.
The three artifacts were very special.
These creations made by the Old Ones existed independently in any time and space. Not only did they have independent consciousness, but they also had a considerable obsession with merging again. When they overlapped in space or time, a forced fusion sufficient to interfere with space-time would begin unstoppably.
Such power would even interfere with and twist space-time, causing the past and future to connect.
Vashtorr didn't know where the Ouroboros was now, but he knew where the Ouroboros was ten thousand years ago.
The plan was simple now.
Force the Rock to overlap with Caliban of ten thousand years ago, allowing Vashtorr to go forward with the Plagueheart, facilitate the unification of the three artifacts, and take away Caliban, which he had always coveted.
Maybe he could kill the Lion of ten thousand years ago along the way, completely cutting off the possibility of this missing Primarch's return.
Vashtorr manipulated those unit icons with ease.
Abaddon's Black Legion, a small part of Typhus's Death Guard, and those miscellaneous Chaos warbands—the overwhelming numbers made the plan advance very quickly.
Everything was going smoothly.
"Soon, very soon."
Vashtorr excitedly watched the encirclement gradually forming. His minions in the warp were also constantly informing him of the Dawnbreakers' activities.
Just as Nurgle envisioned, the Dawnbreakers split their forces.
One supported Ultramar, the other went straight to the Obscurus Segmentum to support the Rock.
But the gods misjudged the situation.
No one knew how many preparations Vashtorr had made over ten thousand years, no one knew how many cards he could play facing such a situation now.
The arrival of the Plagueheart was just icing on the cake. Under his exquisite calculations, he could not only obtain the three artifacts at the fastest speed but also retreat unscathed before that, preparing for his ascension ritual.
"This is a great plan. She is important, beautiful..."
"That will be an era belonging to me. The eternal chessboard will add another seat. The great Machine God will stand at the peak of the galaxy. This is my destiny..."
"I believe, I hope, as long as I don't make a big mistake, my ideal, mocked by countless malicious entities, is not a dream."
Hurry up. I really hope you can be faster, to witness the moment I ascend the great throne.
Watching his model gradually take shape under calculation, Vashtorr laughed at the gods' lack of strategy and the Dawnbreakers' lack of wisdom.
Everything was developing in a good direction.
"Heh."
While he was manipulating the fleets of those Chaos slaves and typing on the keyboard, Ezekiel Abaddon sneered.
In terms of style and temperament, Abaddon felt Vashtorr had no resemblance to him at all.
Practical combat and execution, these were the elements Abaddon cared about most. Of course, he appreciated the intelligence Vashtorr possessed; his perfect skills paved the way for this scene today.
But he took too much for granted, living completely in his own world.
A plan is called a plan because it has not yet been achieved.
No one knows what errors will occur in it. All wishful thinking assumptions will only make you relax your vigilance in constant self-intoxication, and finally turn into a boomerang hitting you in the face by the enemy.
That was not Abaddon's way.
He was not a person who indulged in assumptions. An uncontrollable ally was meaningless to the Long War.
He would not indulge in warp sorcery either.
Abaddon turned his head.
Those warp filth constantly screaming around him, or things parasitic in the bodies of those pitiful compatriots, as if their skins were clothes that could be discarded at will.
Behind him, the steel door screamed open, footsteps echoing on the deck.
A foul stench wafted in.
"What?"
Noticing Abaddon's gaze, Typhus asked: "Afraid I'll interrupt that bastard's thinking? And ruin his plan?"
After speaking, he glanced at Vashtorr, still living in his own world, and muttered.
"Hope his plan is attractive enough to the Dawnbreakers as he said."
This sounded as if expecting the Dawnbreakers to attack them.
Abaddon looked at Typhus. This Nurgle Chosen looked very different from the past.
Black segmented limbs combined into a spine in three parallel rows. The huge, swollen abdominal cavity was an ecosystem composed of poisonous mosquitoes and flies. The armor on his body was pulled by barnacle-like lifeforms, firmly adsorbed together, opening and closing with Typhus's breathing.
Countless tiny lives were combined and spliced together in a way that made people want to praise bio-engineering, forming this plague pig named Typhus.
A slave who only thought for his master.
Abaddon sneered again.
"I didn't think Perturabo would die before, but that pile of rotten meat is still placed on the crystal throne by those idiots of the Iron Warriors. They don't even know what is bred inside."
The Despoiler mocked loudly.
'As if you knew.'
Others might not know, but Typhus did. Who was the idiot who sent Horus to the Temple of the Serpent Lodge back then? Hard to guess.
Such a huge Lunar Wolves Legion, after the Warmaster fell, didn't even have a thought of really making a decision to find the Emperor to solve it. Why didn't they mention then that Horus was the Emperor's favorite son, the Warmaster of the Imperium, and the Sons of Horus were the Emperor's favorite Legion?
With such a loving father, why did they think of believing Erebus when something happened?
"So we need to learn the lesson, and then resist them."
Too lazy to argue with this guy living in his own world, Typhus said slowly.
Since joining Nurgle, this cunning and vicious psyker had fallen into a kind of pathological loyalty, completely different from his gene-father.
Consciousness was transferring rapidly, drilling in and out between the cracks of the warp storm, fleeing in embarrassment in the Daemon Forge World he had operated for a long time.
Finally, Vashtorr covered his head with his hands to cover the nauseating impact sounds, rejoicing in his survival as the flames dispelled the oncoming shadows.
He touched the wounds on his body. The soaked body was like a drowning wild dog, with almost no respite to stop and think about why he was there.
The memories recorded in the database were also transmitted.
Vashtorr froze immediately.
Gone.
Plagueheart, Caliban fragments, Tuchulcha Engine, the opportunity for the fusion of the three artifacts...
All gone.
Thinking of the loans he borrowed, the unequal treaties he signed, the series of prices he paid, Vashtorr lowered his head—unprecedented disappointment quickly enveloped him.
"Damn it!"
The warp god hammered the ground, venting the resentment in his heart.
The entire Daemon World shook under his feet. The magma flowing on the surface shook with his hammer blows, setting off huge waves thousands of meters high.
"Damn it! Damn it!"
Vashtorr thought one death would be the end.
He failed. What awaited him would be a long period of licking wounds, and the distant moment of ascension.
He hardly dared to recall some encounters, especially when facing that monster Arthur, the tearing sensation called death was unimaginable to him.
However, Ramesses told him with facts that this was just the beginning.
"So you are here?"
The familiar voice made Vashtorr jump subconsciously.
A large amount of fire exploded from the warp. The steel wings on his body trembled, driving him to distance himself from the source of the voice.
But when he saw the lonely figure on the Daemon Forge World, he couldn't help but slow down, beginning to carefully observe the top, wanting to see if this guy was bluffing again.
Ramesses remained unmoved, ignoring the other party's probing. Invisible light swallowed the weapons flying towards him. He just kept smiling and maintained a distance neither far nor close, staring at him.
The movements between the two seemed a bit comical, like a pushed magnet squeezing another magnet of the same pole around.
Until Vashtorr discovered in repeated probes that the other party was alone.
Vashtorr stopped.
Ramesses also stopped at the right time, the eyes under the golden mask smiling and staring at this embarrassed wild dog.
Just one person.
Data, echoes from the warp, reactions from the other party were all telling Vashtorr one thing.
Just one person scared him, who was on his home turf, into fleeing all over the place.
A strong sense of shame enveloped Vashtorr.
"You—"
Just you alone?!
How dare you chase me?
"Yeah, just me. Master Art can't enter the warp."
Before Vashtorr could finish his question, Ramesses, quick with his eyes and hands, spread his hands, spreading false information while saying innocently:
"I didn't make you run, blame me?"
Crack!
With the shattering of the scepter in his hand, as Ramesses's unique loud voice echoed in the warp, making the fleeing figures of countless daemons twitch, Vashtorr felt his dignity shattered along with other things.
He pointed at Ramesses, his voice blocked in his mouth by invisible power.
"You—"
"Hey, grandson."
"AH!!!"
Ramesses's "grandson" stabbed straight into Vashtorr's lungs. Having fleeced Junior Vashtorr for so long, Ramesses learned for the first time that this guy who PUA'd him every day could make such a sound. He could sign up as a Noise Marine with Slaanesh.
"I want you dead! Ramesses, I want you dead!"
Vashtorr was truly furious. He poured his strongest attacks on Ramesses, all the means he could think of.
The entire planet came alive under his feet. Those daemons wailed and fused with the changing metal, then pounced on the still unscrupulous golden body in the void.
However, his all-out attack seemed to miss. Energy enough to tear everything apart swallowed that figure, but after everything dispersed, Ramesses stood in a void, looking unaffected at all.
Suddenly, Vashtorr became nervous.
He felt something stirring above, right in the bizarre background of the warp, in the rolling and twisted shadows.
'Is this another trick of this deceiver?'
Vashtorr narrowed his eyes and looked ahead.
He didn't believe that the Formless Lord, also a secondary god, would be unscathed under such an attack. Maybe the other party was pretending again, waiting for him to make a fool of himself, and then laugh at him again.
Do you think I'll fall for it again?
Vashtorr took a step forward.
"Hahaha!"
Ramesses laughed loudly, turned and ran.
Thirty seconds.
The roar of cannons rumbled ceaselessly, covering the invisible twisting sound of shadows. He tore these shadows apart with force. The firepower belonging to the Machine God was almost endless with the blessing of the warp. Countless Undivided daemons fled in embarrassment, hardly daring to look at the monster over there.
His appearance was so twisted and terrifying at this moment, steaming all over, the metal on his body glowing red representing high temperature.
Only that golden figure was in his eyes. If he were a servant of the Blood God at this moment, perhaps the Blood God in charge of hatred would also cast his gaze.
Twenty seconds.
Vashtorr was about to catch him.
Vashtorr would definitely see him. No matter how this thief curled up, how he lurked, hiding in smoke and darkness, he had unparalleled detection capabilities, enough to capture heat sources and tiny movements. This thief, robber, deceiver, he would have nowhere to escape, nowhere to retreat.
Ten seconds.
He thought of his furnace. Becoming the energy of the furnace, this would definitely be Ramesses's end. He wouldn't let this deceiver die so simply. Eternal burning flames would not annihilate a warp entity, but accompanying it would be eternal torture.
Vashtorr thought viciously.
Vashtorr was about to catch him.
Whoosh!
Sharp claws tore the shadows.
Then, a dull impact sound came, and Vashtorr flew backwards.
Ramesses, who had been running head down, turned around, slowly facing him, bowing his spotless body in salute.
!!!
Vashtorr wanted to attack again, but a pair of crimson lenses pierced the darkness, staring straight at him.
Caw~ Caw~
In the tides of the warp, the cawing of crows came from far to near.
Flap flap~
As the sound of wings flapping poured into his mind, a shadow larger and more obvious than Ramesses covered him.
Vashtorr froze on the spot, his heart made of a furnace pounding wildly. Sweat mixed with molten metal and steam flowed down his forehead.
He was silent as a cicada in winter, meeting the crimson gaze, staring at the giant gradually gathering into form, instantly feeling like falling into an ice cave, feeling like an insect targeted by a falcon.
Ramesses patted Corax on the shoulder familiarly.
"Now it's two against one."
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