The Emperor’s Angel of Death

#1936 - The Leader of Two Hundred Swordsmen (Part 1)

Ending the boarding plan, Lucius immediately led his men to the Poppy, which had been "boarded," but communication from this ship had been completely cut off ten minutes prior.

Although it was hard to believe, reason told Lucius that the hundred Slaaneshi warriors on board, who could move freely and skillfully through hails of bullets and blades, were all dead.

And if the information he received was correct, all of this was done by just one person.

Interesting, very interesting, even his intuition vaguely told him—

That this was the person he was looking for.

So, despite the dissuasion of some, he insisted on going in person. Kleion even wanted to sink the ship to be done with it, but Lucius stopped the daemon. He didn't know why the daemon was so afraid, but this was something he had to resolve.

It was something he had to end in order to achieve true perfection.

The regret left on Istvaan III also had to be ended.

Soon, several Storm Eagles carrying Lucius's most trusted warriors arrived at the Poppy, which had already stopped its engines. Along the way, the servants wailed about the tragic deaths of their masters, but Lucius ignored them.

However, these spineless creatures did tell him a useful piece of information.

The opponent was waiting for him on the bridge.

Very good, that saved a lot of trouble.

This style made him more and more certain that it should be that person.

The bridge of the Poppy was more like a nest than a command center. Tattered banners from various companies of the Third Legion hung from the ceiling, undulating in the air stirred by the ventilation fans. Luxurious carpets were made of human skin, and huge bones were arranged on the walls. As the Slaaneshi warriors strode past, the eye sockets of the broken skulls seemed to grow eyeballs out of thin air, and the jaws full of fangs laughed silently.

From the dome, chimes, wind chimes, and shackles made of human bones and skin rang out rhythmically. Slaves tattooed and branded with the symbols of Slaanesh lay on the ground, holding trays of rotten meat and other unpleasant supplies, covered in stale perfume and various stimulants and addictive drugs.

The observation window in the distance was shaped like a screaming mouth. The faint light of the pale purple blast-proof glass, combined with the smoke swirling in the room, made the whole environment seem dreamlike. At the same time, in the corners and on the walls, the remaining daemonettes could be seen emitting shrill wails, grieving over the tragic deaths of their lovers. Vicious claws rattled along with the cries, and flesh flickered, like candles swaying in the wind, struggling to maintain their material form.

In front of the observation window was a huge command throne, covered with cushions and silks. A tall figure leaned on the throne, surrounded by many snake-like things, coiled around his feet like pets. These were originally slaves of the Slaaneshi warriors, but had been forced into the service of another being by force. The high platform below the throne was entirely piled up from the defeated Slaaneshi warriors. Their armor had been stripped off, and their pale flesh had been split open, becoming stepping stones for the former slaves.

As he approached, Lucius saw the figure clearly. He didn't look very tall, wearing plain power armor and a helmet. His left fist propped up his head, and he seemed to be looking down, the mocking gaze could be felt through the dark lenses. Two swords lay diagonally beside the throne, a red power sword and another wrapped in yellow silk.

Seeing this, Lucius's brow twitched slightly. He seemed to remember something, and his expression slowly changed from the initial mockery to seriousness.

At this moment, the man also nodded slightly, seeming to be sizing up Lucius.

"I must admit, your clumsy imitation has piqued my interest."

As Lucius stopped, dozens of the most elite veterans of the Nayshall Company spread out in a fan shape, their guns aimed at the person on the throne. Their once gorgeous and clean purple armor was no longer visible. The parts not covered by human skin revealed vastly different colors and patterns, a mixture of black, silver, and rose. Some armor changed different shades like a rainbow with each heartbeat. A few still wore purple power armor into battle, but all the glory of the past was lost, instead covered in blackened flesh and blood.

The Emperor's Children Legion had been dead for a long time, and the Nayshall Company was just a fragment of a corpse, gathered only under the Legion's corruption.

The Undying One glanced at the dead Slaaneshi warriors, then sneered.

"When did you become so artistic?"

The man did not answer, but sat up straight and looked at another man without a helmet, Apothecary Keza - his face was flawless, without the scars of battle or self-mutilation like his other brothers, his thick black hair was combed back, his eyes were deep amber, and his pale face always carried a cold, gloomy gaze. The Apothecary looked unbelievably young, and it was impossible to imagine that his qualifications were almost as long as the Legion whose name he bore.

He had seen the Legion's decline, rise, and then fall again. He had fought the Laer, participated in the purification of the Istvaan V Drop Site Massacre, and had also spread screams on Terra. His long life had witnessed what the Emperor's Children used to be, and what they had become now.

Then, the mysterious man on the throne sighed softly and shook his head.

"You shouldn't be like this, Keza. You once said that you might not be able to become the most perfect swordsman, but you would forge the most perfect heart for yourself. Is this the perfection you seek?"

His voice was distorted by the helmet's modifications, but when the former Legion Apothecary heard that sentence, he took a step forward as if electrocuted.

"Who are you!"

The other party did not answer. Keza turned to look at Lucius.

"The Undying, you know him, don't you? Who is he!? Why does he know what I said!"

Lucius took a deep breath. The others in the Nayshall Company were also whispering secretly. Everyone was not an idiot. Some of them had already guessed that the man above might have once been a member of the Legion—

Those loyalists who should have been slaughtered.

"Stop your little tricks of sowing discord. I don't want to lose my apothecary so easily."

Keza was stunned for a moment, then he looked at the sword wrapped in yellow silk, and his pupils shrank sharply. Something almost forgotten emerged from his mind, which had been numbed by the surrounding environment.

"Is it, could it be—"

"He is not!"

Lucius shouted to stop Keza from saying the following words, as if it were something terrible. At this time, his scarred face was already a little distorted, and his breathing became more and more rapid.

"He is not. That person died a long time ago, died ten thousand years ago."

Then, he placed his hand on the hilt of the Blade of Laer, staring at the figure on the throne.

"This game is boring, Saul Tarvitz."