My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 403: Hades Takes on Four, Plain and Simple
Hades wants only to kill now.
Beyond that, he can no longer think about much else.
Nor does he need to.
Kill everything that moves, and the war will be over.
Let death shroud it all.
. . .
Above Cadia, Kairos shrieked. The Great Daemon of Tzeentch swung its staff, and the planet's mists churned with the motion. Roiling psychic lightning crackled and snapped, blasting apart the silver rain that was plunging violently toward the ground.
"What's going on?!"
Kairos screamed. The spikes bound at its waist flashed with azure light as its two heads turned toward the distance—to that figure hanging motionless in the air, the space around him twisting into something profoundly unnatural.
"He shouldn't be like this?! How much has he devoured?!!"
"I knew he would become this! Heeheehee!!"
Kairos looked toward the God-Forsaken One. He… he was already completely different from what Kairos had once foreseen—so strange that even a Great Daemon of Tzeentch could only describe the sight as bizarre!!!
High above, the being once called "Hades"—no, "the Lord of the Underworld," or even "a shard of the Void Dragon"—stared fixedly at Vashtorr. No one could now associate this existence with the Hades of before.
Hades remained silent. He felt the power he had obtained—or rather, the power he had released, power once imprisoned within a frail body.
Even if the price would be withering decay.
For a fleeting instant, Hades found himself wondering just how much the Emperor had sealed away.
At this very moment, liquid metal flowed as his blood, electromagnetic waves raced as his thoughts. The silver-white scythe reflected flashes of light strong enough to warp space itself. Arcs of electricity surged violently, racing across the land.
A mask of the coldest, most dazzling silver in existence covered his face. Within its only slit burned a crimson left eye. The pale mask showed neither sorrow nor joy.
A pitch-black full moon rose behind his head. A deep black cloak, thin as gauze, billowed behind silver-white armor. Liquid metal crawled up the scythe's haft, coating it in a frost-like edge.
Upon Cadia, the burden of sustaining the entire physical world pressed down hard upon Hades.
He lowered his gaze. Through the silver deluge he could still clearly see those presences: the Labyrinth weaving new fates, pools of blood blazing with the fires of war, a corner of the Garden still growing, and within the Palace, graceful dancers singing to their music.
From the Empyrean, power poured endlessly into this war zone. Daemonic armies entered through countless rifts torn open across the battlefield, piling bloatedly upon the plains, trampling over the corpses of the dead.
Hades stared at them calmly—
Kairos shouted, the Oracle of Tzeentch suddenly raising its staff. The mists surged, and in the next instant a thunderbolt split the sky, carrying the fury of ten thousand blows—only to dissipate into the fog.
Seeing the lightning fail, that being slowly raised his scythe. Kairos could feel it—the madness-laced scrutiny sweeping over him.
He was choosing which one to strike first!
He was actually choosing?!
Even a Great Daemon of Tzeentch felt a strange sense of being slighted. But the four Great Daemons surrounding Hades were indeed scattered upon their respective thrones of power. Until the very last moment, it was impossible for them to advance together.
Kairos. Skarbrand. Shalaxi Hellbane. Ku'gath.
Four favored champions of the gods, each entangled with the others.
As if provoked by Tzeentch's psychic currents, Vashtorr beside Kairos let out a thunderous hiss of steam. To avoid the silver rain, the Lord of the Forge had temporarily taken shelter within Tzeentch's domain. At this moment, the silver-white glow at Vashtorr's neck was growing brighter and brighter—
That measuring gaze stabbed in again, this time laden with boundless hatred and fury. Hades chose his target without hesitation.
Kairos clicked irritably, instantly regretting allowing the Lord of the Forge to remain in its domain. Under the gaze of Chaos, the foremost Great Daemon of Tzeentch did not fear an attack from the God-Forsaken One, but it should not have been the first!
Yet just as the God-Forsaken One took his stance, a crimson figure charged forward—
"Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!!!"
Skarbrand roared the glory of the Blood God. With a resounding clang, the chains that had bound his wings shattered apart.
Scalding daemon blood sprayed across the land, hissing violently as it met liquid metal. In that instant, the Blood God bestowed His favor. Warfire and smoke surged, crushing toward the God-Forsaken One.
Skarbrand felt the surging, sky-rending rage within him. He felt the wind roar past his wings as his daemonic goat-hooves slammed hard into the ground. With a violent kick, the entire Great Daemon shot into the air like a cannonball, raising his battle-axe toward the God-Forsaken One!
"Fight me—!!!"
Skarbrand knew it. This time, he would fight this little human wretch to the end! He would not withdraw again—never again!
Kairos cackled maliciously. The Fateweaver seized the opening in an instant. Lightning flared within his staff, and while the God-Forsaken One's gaze was still turned toward the Realm of Tzeentch, a streak of deadly blue lightning suddenly stabbed toward him.
Crack—!!!
The long, curved scythe blade intercepted the lightning. But in the very next moment, the Bloodthirster's massive body smashed into the God-Forsaken One. With tremendous impact, the two rocketed upward together as the battle-axe hacked forward with crushing force.
Skarbrand welcomed the coming slaughter with wild delight. He yearned for a true duel, for a real killing fight—one where, beneath the gaze of the Blood God, he would twist off his enemy's head!
Yet in a heartbeat, the intoxicating feedback he expected from his axe never came.
Skarbrand glared at the God-Forsaken One, his eyes snapping to the icy mask—and then to his own right arm.
?!
Where his arm should have been, a fine mist of blood exploded outward. And at the center of that blood-fog was a perfectly clean, spherical void.
There was nothing inside it.
In that instant, the Blood Daemon of Khorne learned what spatial distortion truly meant.
With his mind usually containing nothing but battle, Skarbrand's thoughts went blank for a rare moment. But without hesitation, he swung again—this time with the left arm still gripping the axe.
The God-Forsaken One, still being forced upward by Skarbrand's high-speed charge, lowered his gaze to stare at the raging Bloodthirster. Upon the silver-white mask, there was neither grief nor joy. He tilted his head slightly—
—and the left side of Skarbrand exploded into a cloud of blood.
Silver-white blood flowed from beneath the God-Forsaken One's mask, lending his expression a faint trace of pity. That look drove the Blood Daemon into even greater fury; the opponent was showing him no respect at all in this battle.
And yet at the same time, the dimming, trembling space itself proclaimed the God-Forsaken One's absolute wrath.
Skarbrand felt darkness suddenly swallow his vision. But in the next instant, surging power from the Blood God flooded him once more. Thick, sinewy crimson muscle writhed and regrew, and Skarbrand's arms regenerated.
The Blood God roared commands to His slave. Skarbrand beat his wings violently, detonating the air with a massive sonic boom as he kicked the God-Forsaken One downward toward the ground.
Skarbrand hovered in the air, preparing to dive after him, but the boiling blood within him suddenly forced him to lurch forward—
BOOM!!!
"AAAAAAARRRGHHHHHH!!!"
A massive blossom of blood erupted in midair. After a brief moment of disorientation, Skarbrand realized that he too was falling toward the ground.
The wings that had just borne him aloft—along with most of the Great Daemon's back—were gone.
From Skarbrand's charge to the moment he lost his wings and began to fall, only a few seconds had passed.
Reflected in Kairos's stunned pupils was the sight of the Blood Daemon plummeting. The Fateweaver saw it clearly—if Khorne had not intervened, Skarbrand would already have been reduced entirely to blood mist.
Kairos did not know whether to mock Skarbrand. Lacking the ability to think, the Blood Daemon had no idea what he was truly facing!
And that, precisely, was why they were standing here. They needed—at the very least—to suppress the God-Forsaken One's domain to a level that would not interfere with the final ritual.
Just as Kairos began chanting once more, a sigh-like wheeze drifted from the direction of the luxuriant garden. Ku'gath swung his short, thick arms, panting as he hurled the contents of his cauldron toward the God-Forsaken One.
"Don't just stand there! Help out!" Ku'gath bellowed.
But in the next instant, within the smoke and dust kicked up by the God-Forsaken One's impact, a single hand slowly rose—
The Plaguefather screamed. He clutched his cauldron and hurled himself backward. The intestines trailing behind him were torn away forever after a twist of space—but at least he saved himself, and Grandfather's cauldron.
The concoction Ku'gath had flung surged toward the God-Forsaken One with a shrill hiss, writhing like living serpents. It was a brew crafted specifically for him—only Grandfather truly understood what they were facing!
Thus, upon ancient Barbarus, Grandfather had found a tide capable of harming the God-Forsaken One.
Putrid green liquid roared forward toward the figure slowly rising from the smoke. Each silver tear it touched blackened and scorched with a screech. It was getting closer.
Ku'gath felt himself holding his breath.
Meanwhile, Skarbrand—his flesh regenerating once more—roared and charged straight into the smoke.
Skarbrand, hold him! Ku'gath could not help screaming inwardly. Having drunk deeply of Grandfather's brew, he believed the concoction would finally unleash its true power. He stared tensely toward the smoke, the potion sloshing and trembling between folds of fat with every breath he took—
A faint arc of electricity, subtle almost beyond perception, flickered beside the Plaguefather.
The Nurgle-infused slurry erupted in a psychic blast at the exact same moment that the tip of a scythe suddenly emerged from space itself.
The blade tore through the air. The sword Ku'gath raised to block froze midair—along with a chunk of his body that had just been severed.
Stepping out from a pitch-black rift, the God-Forsaken One appeared half a body-length above Ku'gath, suspended in midair. His other hand was raised high. In the slowed flow of time, Ku'gath—toppling backward in agonizing slowness—caught sight, through the gaps between the God-Forsaken One's fingers, of an electric dragon shrieking as it plunged down from the heavens.
Pale green light from above washed over the God-Forsaken One's face, illuminating that terrifying, emotionless mask.
After a fleeting moment of regret that it was not the Rainfather who had come instead, Ku'gath mustered every ounce of strength and hurled the potion in his arms at the God-Forsaken One. He knew Grandfather would surely guide his aim.
The potion hissed as it corroded metal.
If Shalaxi's whip had not burst forth from behind the God-Forsaken One at that very instant—snaring his outstretched hand and yanking it violently backward—Ku'gath might never have lived to see another season of blossoms in the Garden.
For a brief moment, the champion of Slaanesh possessed absolute explosive power. The heavy God-Forsaken One staggered back a step—but then he pulled forward just as hard, and the whip shattered with a sharp crack.
The God-Forsaken One turned to face Shalaxi. Yet at the final instant of his turn, the long scythe hooked forward violently. Gleaming green C'tan metal struck the edge of the cauldron, and Ku'gath heard a tiny, heartbreaking sound of cracking.
Space twisted once more—but unlike before, no flesh was scattered. The Monarch of the Hunt dodged every strike with exquisite agility. In her eyes, the God-Forsaken One was merely a slow-moving creature.
"Let's play a little, darling!" Shalaxi cried excitedly. The Dark Prince was watching his beloved champion—at last, it was time for them to meet this star of the physical world!
Shalaxi thrilled as space detonated all around her. The thought that these warped, circular distortions could erase her forever filled her with a terror so intense it became madness. She felt every ripple of space sketching the outline of her form; the faint whisper of displaced air told her where the next attack would land.
She danced with the God-Forsaken One as if in a rapid, close-contact duet—though her partner was cold and dull, the icy mask utterly devoid of warmth. Shalaxi thought it could use some splashes of blood—preferably Mortarion's—but Nurgle would never allow it.
Her spear stabbed toward the God-Forsaken One, but the surging silver metal rendered most of the strikes unable to pierce his armor. Arcs of electricity flared savagely, wrapping the long scythe in a radiance so searing that even a glance made the eyes burn.
Shalaxi burst into laughter. She waited eagerly for his clumsy counterattack, even deliberately closing the distance between them—
They both knew a scythe was ill-suited for close-range combat.
At the same time, she drove her dagger down toward him.
Just as expected, the God-Forsaken One—having lost most of his reason and left with only instinct—attempted to retreat and create distance. After pulling back by a barely adequate margin, the scythe suddenly swung down toward Shalaxi!
"Hahahaha! You—"
The Monarch of the Hunt's words were cut short.
A cold, massive hand had clamped tightly around her throat. The scythe's arc froze in midair—the God-Forsaken One's true attack was the hand he had thrust straight forward!
Shalaxi was lifted off the ground, her feet dangling in empty air. She struggled, fighting desperately to pry open this unbreakable prison, but the God-Forsaken One's grip seemed to possess absolute strength. Her throat was being compressed within his palm to an utterly impossible degree.
Flesh and blood were forced out through her seven orifices. Verdant lightning erupted violently around her, scorching her body with searing pain—there was not the slightest trace of pleasure. In her ringing ears, she heard the roar of wind—
Space was warping.
Shalaxi screamed.
But her voice was drowned out in the gurgling surge of blood.
BOOM!!!
A sliver of eerie blue light flashed. The God-Forsaken One turned his head. He lowered his now-empty hand.
Behind him, the Keeper of Secrets of Slaanesh collapsed onto the ground, her body heaving as she gasped for breath—reappearing alongside Kairos, who had just finished his incantation.
The Fateweaver looked utterly bedraggled. Only he himself knew how much effort it had taken to counteract and suppress the black domain of the God-Forsaken One.
The God-Forsaken One tilted his head again. On the other side of the battlefield, the Blood Daemon—now slowly swelling—spewed bloody vapors from its maw. Crimson light ignited as immense power expanded within it. Under this infusion of might, Skarbrand's body was even beginning to tear itself apart.
Now that the God-Forsaken One's strength had been confirmed, the true gods had entered the field.
One after another, beams of Empyrean radiance flared across the battlefield.
Hades raised his scythe once more.
"Die."
Beneath the mask, a word echoed—the most commonly spoken word upon Barbarus.
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