Warhammer: In the Name of Nirvana

Chapter 706 Will is being strengthened...

Although from the beginning, Magnus had imagined that he would encounter all kinds of difficulties and hardships on Nikaea, and then achieve a victory that would not be easy at all: but he never expected that the challenge would come so quickly and so difficult.

The King of Prospero didn't even have time to sort out his mood, adapt to the air filled with pungent sulfur smell on Nikaea, and then think of a topic commensurate with his beloved sister of Avalon: before these steps were implemented one by one, the Gene Father of the Thousand Sons felt that his most trusted lieutenant was calling him quietly through psychic communication.

It was Amon.

He had never been so... weak?

Magnus stopped.

He turned his head and apologized to Morgan with a smile: he still had some private matters to discuss with his offspring.

What surprised the Primarch was that his silver-haired sister seemed to have anticipated this scene long ago: Morgan looked at him quietly with her bright eyes like a lake. Just when Magnus felt a little uneasy, the Spider Queen suddenly smiled again and generously said that she would go to call the other brothers first.

Then, Morgan floated away like a white ghost, and her chief guard followed closely behind her. Before leaving, she only perfunctorily saluted Magnus: This made the gene-father of the Thousand Sons a little confused. He still had some impression of Lana. This old warrior was not such a rude person in the past.

The Primarch thought about it, but didn't come up with any too novel answer: It was probably Leman Russ and Mortarion who did it again. The anti-psychic propaganda they had been carrying out for decades could easily make the ignorant fools have this ignorant rebellious psychology, even the Astartes warriors were no exception.

It seems that the difficulty of getting them back to the right path has increased by one point.

Magnus shook his head, feeling that the responsibility on his shoulders had unconsciously become more important, and cast a serious look at Amon and others. The Primarch deliberately waited until the guards and mortal servants around him were far away before allowing his lieutenant to speak in the Sea of ​​Souls.

In a place like Nikaea, it is always right to act cautiously: even Magnus understands this.

So...

"What's going on?"

The Primarch asked first, his eyes focused on Amon first, and then swept across every heir who followed him: Magnus didn't actually need their answers, because he saw through the problem at first glance.

Then, the Primarch frowned.

"Where are your guardian spirits?"

"That's the problem, sir."

Amon held his forehead painfully. His condition looked worse than others, and Magnus knew it well: he saw ripples floating above the souls of other Thousand Sons warriors, which meant that their guardian spirits had temporarily left and were unwilling to accept the call of their masters in the real universe.

But Amon was different: there was a terrifying silence above his soul.

His guardian spirit was gone, completely gone. The Primarch stretched out his hand and covered Amon's forehead, trying to find a moment of clues or remains: but Magnus was greeted by only deathly silence and the shivering coldness in the invisible.

Did someone kill it?

Using psychic power? Grinding it to ashes?

Right under his nose?

Magnus could not help but remain silent. He tried to understand the contents further, but when his soul sense touched the place where the guardian spirit should be, the special tingling sensation made the Primarch retreat: in an instant, the gene father of the Thousand Sons widened his eyes, and a drop of cold sweat on his red skin flowed down under the gaze of his descendants.

"What's wrong, my lord?"

"No... nothing..."

Magnus' lips were dry, and he felt that he already knew the answer: at the crime scene where Amon's guardian spirit was reduced to ashes, the criminal was even too lazy to clean up his traces. Although it looked nothing, the Primarch only needed to touch it simply to feel the residual warmth of the flame passing through the ashes.

But this is not the point.

The important thing is...

Magnus turned around and quietly wiped the sweat from his forehead.

I don't know if it's an illusion, but he will never mistake this psychic breath: because the owner of this breath is the most important person to him, the existence to whom he is willing to offer his loyalty, life and soul, and the teacher who personally guided him on the true mysteries of the warp.

They have spent countless years together in that wonderful world, and Magnus believes that he will never mistake the Emperor's breath: whether it is this unusual coldness or the illusion of flames, it is almost the same as the psychic breath of the human Lord.

The more I think about it, the more similar it is.

Yes, Magnus can feel the difference in details, but even if these details are magnified, it is impossible for anyone in the entire galaxy to be so similar to the Emperor: this must be the power of his father!

In other words, his father... killed Amon's guardian spirit?

In front of him?

How did he use it? Why didn't he notice it?

Could it be through Morgan...

Impossible.

Magnus almost instinctively rejected this possibility.

Morgan couldn't do all this, and she would never betray him: Magnus was sure that her silver-haired relative was at best a master of psychic power who was on par with him. Even with the Emperor's help, she couldn't have driven out a creature from the Warp so covertly in front of him.

This was not something a human could do, not even a Primarch could do: the one who could kill this creature must be a pure incarnation of psychic power, a manifestation of the Warp in reality, a monster that even Magnus dared not think of.

It could only be his father.

But... why did the Emperor do this?

This question made Magnus more uneasy than the pain of all the Thousand Sons present. He didn't even dare to think about it. He could only cough in a pretentious manner and warn his descendants in the most serious voice possible.

"Obviously, my children."

Magnus lowered his eyelids.

"My father, our Emperor, must not want to see any large-scale psychic activities on Nikaea at this time: look at the meeting hall in the distance, it is made entirely of inert materials, just to limit our psychic power."

"You all must remember: a debate or trial will take place here first."

After the Thousand Sons nodded in turn, Magnus looked at Amon.

"I think my gene father is using this unpleasantness to warn us."

The Primarch patted Amon on the shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Amon, but please be patient for a while. Once we finish the matter on Nikaea, I will take you back to Prospero immediately and find a way to summon your guardian spirit again: the same goes for all of you, be patient for a while, and wait until the matter on Nikaea is over."

"No problem, sir."

Amon nodded, his face had become paler than ever before: the entire Thousand Sons Legion had learned to regard the guardian spirit as part of the soul in the past few decades. This long fusion made Amon, who suddenly lost the guardian spirit, feel that his soul was gradually being backfired.

This is too strange.

Amon couldn't help but mutter.

Why did his soul have so many cracks at such a fast speed, as if they had existed from the beginning, but the activeness of the guardian spirit suppressed these scars deep into the soul, so that he could not feel the pain before?

Amon shuddered: He could sense the... terrible information in this hypothesis.

In this case, why didn't the guardian spirit tell him about the existence of these scars? Or are they related to the scars?

"Don't think too much, Amon."

Perhaps seeing that his closest lieutenant was feeling uneasy at this moment, Magnus stepped forward and patted Amon on the shoulder, forcibly interrupting this disturbing thought: the Primarch then raised a hand and made another promise casually.

No one could question Magnus's love for the Thousand Sons Warriors, but even in front of his most beloved heir, the Lord of Prospero would not seriously think for even a second before making a promise, because such hesitation was a manifestation of incompetence and weakness.

Since he had enough power to achieve any great cause in the world and ensure even the most fantastic promises, why would he take the time to check it extra before he made his vows?

This was Magnus' philosophy: at least in his memory, he had never made a mistake.

"Believe me, these are just harmless little problems that can be easily solved, but there are some inconveniences here: as long as I take you back to Prospero, nothing can stump us."

"That's right, sir."

Amon nodded again, but the pain in his soul made him unable to laugh.

He lowered his head and silently followed the pace of Magnus and his brothers, enduring the pain he had never felt before: in those places where the guardian elves liked to cling the most in his memory, the pain was particularly strong, like the wounds stabbed by vampire bats on buffaloes, even the slightest pull was enough to distort Amon's face.

But what was more terrifying was that along with these pains, Amon was gradually pulled out of the world he had been enjoying before. When Amon looked left and right, he vaguely saw something creepy in the souls of each fighting brother.

Those scars...

The same scars...

Dark blue smoke still came out of the gap...

Is it his illusion...or...

Slowly, Amon swallowed his saliva.

In front, the Primarch's voice of encouragement to his offspring still echoed in his ears, but Amon had no intention of listening. His mind was full of how to find Ahriman as quickly as possible on Nikaea.

The first time.

The first time in his life.

He felt that Magnus's words of comfort were not so reassuring.

——————

"Reassurance."

"There is always a first time for everything."

"Treasure it: after all, the first time always brings a different perspective."

"Once you miss it, the loss is great."

In the depths of the Nikaea Hall, in the Sigillite's room, a bland, almost featureless voice was slowly echoing between Malcador's bookshelves. It brushed over the documents that arbitrated the fate of millions of people, danced beside the staff that carried terrible power, and finally floated to the Sigillite's own chair.

There was no one up there: Malcador was not in his room at this moment.

But there were sounds here, and there were several identical figures active here.

"This rule does not work for me."

The first figure said: he sat down in the position of the Sigillite.

"After all, this is not the first time I have done this to my flesh and blood brother."

"Not even the second or third time."

"Then you should be experienced."

The second figure stepped forward.

"This time is different."

The "Sigillite" shook his head.

"This time is of great importance, and we have no chance to change the outcome later: this is not like what we did sixty years ago, we could hide behind Jonson and Morgan, and even if we failed, there would be more opportunities. This time, even the Emperor can't help us."

"Do you understand?"

"Of course."

The third figure rushed out of the darkness, he seemed to be smiling, or laughing.

"After all, I was personally responsible for the operation sixty years ago, wasn't I?"

"Yes, you did a good job."

The "Sigillite" also smiled.

"My brothers and sisters may not be sure until the end whether it is me."

"Conrad saw it."

"He won't tell it, at least not to Morgan and Jonson."

"Others are not a concern."

"Including Horus?"

The last voice floated over.

"Not yet."

The second figure shook his head: all of them imagined so.

"And that's the problem."

A distressed sigh floated out of the darkness.

"We need Horus to be strong, but he is not strong enough now."

"He will soon have the largest private kingdom among all the Primarchs, and a legion of at least 300,000 or 400,000 people: he has initially tamed the forge worlds in the north of the galaxy, and there are countless Titan legions, knight families and mortal auxiliary troops willing to serve him."

"But this is not his own power."

"The Sigillite" interrupted the words rudely.

"What we need is the strength of [Horus] as an individual."

"Whether it is strength or will: he must be strong enough to meet our expectations."

"What kind of expectations?"

Someone laughed in the shadows.

"Can it threaten the Emperor's expectations?"

"Almost."

"The Master of Seals" admitted easily.

"At least let most people believe that Horus's power can threaten the Emperor."

"Only in this way can he be qualified enough to lift the final curtain: those hidden traitors will not surrender to a person who will obviously fail. We must let Horus's power deceive their cunning, because the Wolf God is the only one who meets the conditions."

"The Emperor doesn't think so."

"Just let him not know."

"The Master of Seals" smiled.

"If that's the case..."

One of the three shadows spoke.

"Then Horus still has a flaw."

"I know."

"The Master of Seals" nodded.

"A Primarch who can't master psychic power can't be called powerful after all."

"But Horus didn't master it."

"This is the problem we have to solve."

Fingers tapped on the Master of Seals' desk, and below was a photo of the Wolf God smiling.

"We need to make him stronger."

"Become very strong: the Wolf God should be one of the best psychic masters in the galaxy."

"Surpass Morgan?"

"That's a bit exaggerated: at least we should defeat Malcador first, and then consider Morgan, right?"

"That's right."

"Then, what should we do?"

"Rely on one person: he is the most likely to help us achieve this goal."

"The Sigillator" smiled and threw another photo on top of Horus.

"This person is the protagonist of Nikea."

Someone in the shadow laughed.

"That's the best helper."

"He is strong enough and stupid enough."

"..."

"Then let's do it."

The final word: but I don't know which shadow made the sound.

And the shadow that was originally arrogant on the seat like the master actually stood up, bent his waist deeply, and saluted the three people in front of him: he looked like he was saluting three people at the same time, but it seemed biased, and he was only making a serious promise to one of them.

"As you command."

"Lord Alpharius."

The voice floated over the new photo that obscured Horus, revealing his long red hair and skin.