My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 450: Blood Exchange
The Great Angel stared at Curze.
He took a deep, deep breath. The blood-red fury faded from his eyes, leaving only a chill that had endured for ten thousand years.
As he looked at Curze, the Great Angel caught, from the corner of his eye, the statue of the Flesh-Emperor slowly collapsing.
To be honest, he was tired.
Sanguinius was very tired now.
The whole world had already fallen into hell.
And Sanguinius stood in the very center of the blazing inferno.
On the dark side of the Imperium, countless planets were falling. The Great Angel could imagine the hellish scenes upon them. The Imperial Truth proclaimed by the Imperium had been shattered; daemons emerged from the shadows. Amid the flames, people screamed and clung to one another, and before their collapsing faith they mutated into monsters.
Soldiers of firm will might still be holding on. They guarded towers, warehouses, and airfields. With what little ammunition remained, they desperately sustained the final flicker of hope in their worlds.
Perhaps their Magos raised the last radio transmitter with their own bodies. Perhaps their workers defended the final signal array tower with their lives. Perhaps their warriors used flesh and blood to ensure the last ship could launch—
But in this mire of a world, where could they go?
There was no hope.
To those entities, the time bought by mortal flesh and blood was meaningless.
Because these lightless years had no end.
They could endure by faith for an hour, three hours, a day, a week—but when the last bullet was fired, those deathless creatures would return.
Facing blasphemous creations, facing the twisted monsters that had once been their wives and children, facing hope that existed only in imagination—what right did you have to blame them, to tell them not to collapse, not to surrender?
They collapsed, surrendered, died.
The final outcome would always be to become hellish wraiths.
No one would save them. No one would tell them that there was hope in this world.
Weariness filled the Great Angel's eyes.
The Imperial Truth was wrong; on the dark side of the Imperium, its collapse had brought even more unbearable consequences.
It left people with no defense in their minds.
—They needed faith to arm themselves.
The Great Angel of Baal understood this deeply.
Someone strong needed to save them. Even if only to bring a glimmer of light to their worlds, someone had to tell them that their desperate resistance had meaning, that their struggle had results.
He needed… to quickly establish a beacon of faith in the Imperium's dark half.
Every minute, every second, billions of lives were vanishing; tens of thousands of worlds were burning. Someone had to stand up now and tell them this world could still be saved.
—Not be trapped on Baal by the tide of daemons, arguing with his broken brothers.
The Lion did not understand the value of life, and Curze could barely save himself.
For the strong to neglect their responsibility was dereliction.
The Great Angel looked at Curze, exhausted. In a sense, as fellow seers, Sanguinius could understand Konrad Curze's pain.
But there was always a greater suffering in this world—misery vast enough to crush individual sorrow into nothing.
Sanguinius stared coldly at Konrad. He shoved Curze backward.
The Night Haunter slammed into the Flesh-Emperor statue. The Primarch's heavy weight caused it to collapse at once. Curze sprawled on the ground, sticky chunks of flesh beneath him.
Curze looked up. He saw the Great Angel walking toward him against the light, flickering candlelight burning upon the Great Angel's blood-red pauldrons.
Konrad felt his eyes burning. He covered them in pain. He wanted to laugh, to mock, to tell the Great Angel that what he saw was only a tiny fragment of the Night Haunter's prophecy.
Curze chuckled hoarsely; his shattered jaw grated horribly as he laughed indistinctly.
He had tried… he had failed… his struggle was only a necessary step in fate's completion—Konrad Curze, together with Lion El'Jonson, had personally pushed Fulgrim into hell.
…He had resisted… Fulgrim would fall, and he had tried to kill the Phoenician before that… he failed… he failed again.
Great Angel… Great Angel… what will you do?
You rebel against fate, but fate tells you that your rebellion is itself the necessary condition for its fulfillment.
And so you can only watch, helpless, as the world burns.
In a daze, Konrad Curze found himself envying Mortarion—the Pale Lord had successfully escaped fate. He had fled his destined end, relying on that person, relying on that person…
But…
With pain and distortion in his thoughts, Konrad Curze wondered: did the result of their struggle against fate include the death of half the galaxy now?
If they had not resisted, would there even be a dark side of the Imperium?
Curze panted, sweat beading on his forehead. The Great Angel's shadow fell over him. The Great Great Angel crouched down, intently watching Curze's pupils as they began to lose focus—
This usually meant the Night Haunter was about to enter another round of powerful prophecy.
The blood-red light in the Great Angel's eyes gleamed.
"I can prophesy too," Sanguinius said. He could see fragments of the future.
He watched Curze breathing heavily, then shook his head faintly in mockery. The Night Haunter was telling him that the prophecies Sanguinius experienced were nothing like his own.
Konrad Curze's prophetic ability was the strongest among the Primarchs. He often fell into visions, then returned to reality without knowing when; prophecy and reality interwove, and he could no longer tell them apart.
The fangs at the Great Angel's lips glinted coldly.
"I know," Sanguinius said gently.
"I know what you experience is not the same as what I do."
The Great Angel paused.
"Earlier, through your blood… I saw something."
He saw the fallen Fulgrim, saw the Third Primarch personally pushed into hell by two bastards.
And then something else flashed past.
But at the time, Sanguinius had to suppress Curze and the Lion, so he invoked the Emperor's name and forced himself out of the vision.
Now, he would face prophecy directly.
Sanguinius reached out, straightened Curze's head, forcing the Night Haunter to face him.
"Let's make a wager," Sanguinius said unhurriedly.
"We'll face the prophecy together. If I endure it, then you must actively atone—even if your condition prevents you from leading troops normally, you can still cooperate with your legion commanders to harvest gene-seed."
"And if I don't endure it," the Great Angel said,
"then you're right. You win, Konrad."
Curze could not pray to the Emperor. He needed another faith, Sanguinius thought.
But that was for later.
The Great Angel watched as Curze's pupils suddenly dilated. The Night Haunter began a new struggle.
No, no, no… no…
Curze thought. The Great Angel was still good—he couldn't let prophecy drive him mad too.
But deep inside, the sinful side of Konrad Curze roared: let this arrogant Great Angel see—let him see! Let him look! Let him know your pain! You are right!
Before Sanguinius, Curze suddenly froze. From his shattered mouth came a few faint syllables.
Sanguinius's wings trembled slightly.
Konrad Curze was saying… Ho… rus…
Yes. The Night Haunter's prophecy would reveal the cruelest, most unbearable scene.
Which meant the Great Angel would see his closest friend.
Sanguinius fell silent for a moment.
He was weighing it.
At last, Sanguinius grasped one of Curze's hands and bared his fangs.
At the same time, he extended his wrist to Curze's mouth.
"If you wish to begin the wager, then bite down."
The madman bit without the slightest hesitation.
The Great Angel did not hesitate either—he pierced in with his fangs.
. . .
Outside the cell, Sevatar stared at the two Primarchs who had simultaneously fallen unconscious.
He entered a phase of questioning reality.
Was he witnessing some kind of ritual?
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