The Night Haunter's cloak of human skin unfurled shadows, shielding himself and Titus from the wind, sand, and scorching sun, and obscuring them from the Blood God's gaze.
The man, pale as a ghost, stared intently at Titus, his head bowed, madness in his eyes.
A torrent of fragmented emotions—intense malice, cruel indifference, disappointment in humanity, and an extreme craving for justice—flooded Titus' mind. Millions of terrifying pasts, presents, and futures appeared before his eyes.
Had there been even a trace of fear in his heart, he would have been driven mad by those scenes.
Had he committed even the slightest sin, his head would have been severed by those lightning claws.
But Titus was neither afraid nor sinful.
He met the gaze of the mad Primarch before him, looking into his pale eyes.
In an instant, Titus perceived the Night Haunter's thoughts.
From the very first time Titus saw him, saw the blurry shadow he cast in the material universe, the Night Haunter had chosen him, marked him.
The Night Haunter had died; ten thousand years ago, he had willingly embraced death, accepted punishment, accepted execution.
But while his material body had died, his Warp essence had not.
An extreme, primal, instinctive craving and extreme yearning for simple justice—this was him, the Night Haunter.
The Night Haunter instinctively yearned to continue punishing sinners and proclaiming justice, but he had lost his material body.
He needed a new body, a representative, a host to bear a portion of his power.
He needed someone to become the Night Haunter's Chosen.
This person had to be sinless, for only a sinless person could withstand the Night Haunter's judgment.
This person had to be fearless, not to be overwhelmed and driven mad by the terror the Night Haunter brought.
Titus was a suitable choice; he could bear a very small part of the Night Haunter's power, become the Night Haunter's Chosen, and carry out the Night Haunter's will.
But the Night Haunter did not require Titus' worship, did not require Titus to obey his commands, did not require Titus' loyalty.
The Night Haunter wanted nothing; the Night Haunter only wanted justice, only wanted Titus to punish evil and execute sinners on his behalf.
As long as Titus agreed, Titus could share the Night Haunter's power, stalk in the midnight like the Night Haunter, evade the Blood God's gaze, and escape this desert.
As long as Titus was willing to accept the Night Haunter's power, become the Night Haunter's Chosen, become the blade of justice.
Titus gazed at the pale, mad midnight phantom before him.
He would bestow midnight upon Titus; from then on, midnight would be Titus' cloak, and no one would be able to catch him in the night.
He would bestow eyes upon Titus; from then on, the future would appear before Titus, and no one would escape his hunt.
He would bestow terror upon Titus; from then on, fear would be his namesake, and sinners would tremble before him.
But if Titus one day could not bear all of this, all the Night Haunter would give Titus would be fear, madness, and self-destruction.
Titus slightly closed his eyes. He was not an old-fashioned person, and he also knew from Saint Doraemon that the Night Haunter was now on their side.
He could accept the Night Haunter's power and fulfill the Night Haunter's demand to punish sinners, as long as it meant fighting for the Emperor and for humanity.
As for the future the Night Haunter depicted, that destiny...
"I am fearless," Titus told the Night Haunter.
And so, profound midnight surged into Titus' body.
In the Warp, in the deepest part of the Sixth Ring, within Slaanesh's pleasure palace,
Obscene sounds echoed continuously through the palace, and hungry pleas emanated from billions of mirrors.
This was Slaanesh's Twisted Mirror Palace, where myriad ornate mirrors stood, reflecting and mirroring each other.
The world reflected in each mirror was utterly different, and the palace in each mirror was more magnificent than the last.
Whether mortal, daemon, or Astartes, anyone who gazed into one of these mirrors would see themselves reflected over and over again.
With each reflection, their figure would become more beautiful, more perfect, more flawless, until after countless iterations, the gazer would ultimately become an ornate phantom trapped in the mirror, adorning Slaanesh's sanctuary.
But now, a figure that was not beautiful, indeed, one that could be described as pale, ugly, and hunched, walked through the Mirror Palace, yet none of the billions of mirrors in the palace could reflect his form.
He was like a ghost, an ethereal thing, something that could only be infinitely approached but never seen, never touched.
Not only the mirrors, but even the master of this palace, the Lord of Hunger, could not see his form.
For he was the yearning of all beings for absolute justice, and absolute justice is something hidden behind a veil of ignorance, something that can only be constantly approached but never reached.
Even the Gods cannot cast aside prejudice and position, cannot reach out and touch absolute justice, cannot see the form of absolute justice with their own eyes, so even the Gods cannot step behind the veil of ignorance, cannot see him.
It was precisely by virtue of this ability that he successfully snatched a Chosen from the Blood God's jaws, converting the Blood God's desired Chosen into his own.
However, this ability of his was not without flaws; when he was hidden behind the veil of ignorance, he could naturally evade all gazes, including those of the Gods.
But when he stepped out from behind the veil of ignorance and began to act, he would become discoverable.
This was also why he had been lingering in Slaanesh's palace, yet had not acted for so long.
The Night Haunter looked at his twisted brother.
Each time he looked upon that body full of sinful aura, the Night Haunter lamented that the only right thing he had done ten thousand years ago was not to fully succumb to the Chaos Gods.
Fulgrim was curled up on a velvet bed, his snake-like, slug-like tail coiled, covered in sweat that carried the lingering scent of revelry.
The old crone sword, the weapon forged from the finger bone of an Eldar crone goddess, was plunged into his cloaca.
This weapon was inherently imbued with the power of the Eldar God of Death, an anathema to Slaanesh, an enemy to ecstatic perception. No one needed to wield the sword; the old crone sword itself would attack and burn Slaanesh daemons.
At this moment, the old crone sword, driven by Eldar hatred, was diligently fighting against the Slaanesh daemons.
It vibrated and trembled continuously, its blade scorching hot, occasionally emitting flashes of electricity.
Fulgrim's massive body shuddered from the old crone sword's attacks, enjoying the extreme sensory stimulation.
Konrad Curze silently watched this scene unfold.
The Night Haunter prided himself on having seen many things with his precognitive abilities.
But he had truly never witnessed a scene like this.
And more importantly...
The old crone sword was hidden in that position—how the hell was he supposed to steal it?!