My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 504: Before the Altar
A tremendous thud echoed from behind the closed doors.
Fulgrim abruptly turned around, but beyond the curtain of silver hair drifting before his eyes, all he could see was the tightly sealed entrance.
"Private matters," A slow, weak voice sounded out, soft and sluggish, like bubbles rising from a swamp.
Fulgrim frowned.
Instinctively displeased, he looked toward Omegon, standing not far away. A fly buzzed out from one of the latter's exhaust vents.
They maintained a proper distance between them.
Omegon seemed to completely ignore Fulgrim's dissatisfaction.
He merely smiled.
Just smiled.
Fulgrim shook his head, swallowed, and remained silent.
The violet flames on his body gradually faded.
The subtle glimmers returned to the Phoenician once more.
Jewels dropped to the floor.
Fragrant perfumes filled the air.
Yet even so, Fulgrim still resembled a beggar who had stolen a king's garments.
Beneath the heavy ornaments adorning him, the mediocrity hidden within his eyes remained impossible to conceal.
Fulgrim swallowed.
That newly appeared Alpharius… what exactly was he?
He didn't understand.
Did he even need to?
No.
All the tangled schemes, all the tiny details, all the interconnected complexities—
Before a true beast, they held no value.
For a fleeting moment, Fulgrim found himself sharing Mortarion's perspective within the Warp.
Destroy it all directly.
Violet flames burned within the Phoenician's eyes.
He could feel that familiar power.
But this time, it was different.
The power of the Six Rings of Desire wandered aimlessly.
Their master had already gambled them away for a single night of pleasure.
Perhaps that was the most extravagant indulgence in the entire galaxy.
Fulgrim remained silent.
The power clung obediently to him, quietly acknowledging him as its new king.
Has Slaanesh's power ever been this gentle?
Or was it because of Malcador?
Another tremendous crash echoed from behind them.
At this moment, either Malcador or Alpharius was being beaten terribly.
Fulgrim sincerely hoped it was Alpharius.
Following Omegon, he climbed the steps.
The hall was dominated by an altar carved entirely from blood.
It formed a vast circle, surrounded evenly by four smaller circles.
Omegon cast him a meaningful glance and led him directly to the center of the main altar.
Fulgrim paused.
His eyes darkened.
In the end, he said nothing.
His place was not upon one of the four smaller altars.
It was at the very center of the great altar.
Traditionally, that was where the sacrifice belonged.
At the moment, however, the location was piled high with gold and silver.
Omegon seemed disappointed that Fulgrim had not asked any questions.
He muttered something under his breath before turning away.
Heading toward his own smaller altar, he joined the playful Nurglings decorating that little corner with their shrieking laughter.
Fulgrim stood atop the cold altar.
An itch spread across his wrist.
Raising his hand, he saw delicate half-formed scales creeping across his skin.
Without drawing attention to it, Fulgrim inhaled sharply.
Then he forcibly turned his gaze away and looked toward the remaining four altars.
Omegon was playing with those noisy little creatures.
Next came an empty altar dripping with blood and burning with flames.
Fulgrim assumed that one belonged to Alpharius.
Then there was another altar—completely barren, utterly plain, containing nothing at all.
Malcador's place?
And then—
Countless shattered mirrors shimmered.
Each reflected a different destiny.
The scratching sound of a quill moving across parchment filled the air.
Sheets of parchment floated freely, dancing at the command of a giant crimson hand.
Fulgrim's pupils trembled.
At this point, the Phoenician decided that even if he suddenly saw Vulkan wearing a pink dress, he would no longer be surprised.
The only thing that might still surprise him...
His mind, already numbed by the sheer absurdity of reality, thought for a moment.
Perhaps a Sanguinius that claims to be a god.
"Hello, Magnus," Fulgrim spoke calmly.
Taking a deep breath, he stood at the very center of the altar.
The premonition of impending death made him feel unexpectedly at ease.
Magnus looked up.
Chaotic lights flickered within his eyes.
"Hello, my brother," Magnus replied.
The blue quill never stopped writing.
Fulgrim noticed that black spots now marred Magnus's formerly flawless crimson skin, like patches of some spreading disease.
More surprising still—
Magnus now had only one eye.
But it was not the eye he had lost before.
The remaining eye was on the opposite side.
Fulgrim inhaled deeply while listening to the sounds of destruction coming from the adjacent chamber.
"Have you betrayed them?" Fulgrim asked, spreading his arms.
Magnus froze.
His quill stopped moving.
"That is an interesting question," Magnus said.
"Have I betrayed them?"
A faint smile appeared on his face.
"I have."
"No matter which side is judging me, I am a traitor."
No matter which side is judging me?
Fulgrim felt a flash of irritation, as though he were being toyed with.
He should have known better than to expect normal people to exist in this world.
Madmen. They're all madmen.
Magnus blinked his lone eye and spoke as if he were stating an obvious truth.
"Loyalty? Betrayal? My foolish brother, those things have no value."
"For me, loyalty and betrayal have long since lost all meaning. The pursuit of eternal truth is my true purpose."
Fulgrim's lips twitched.
Feeling the currents of the Warp and the distinct psychic signatures flowing through them, he replied,
"'Eternal'? That doesn't sound like something your master would say."
"I am myself," Magnus said with a dismissive wave.
The parchment floating before him vanished.
"I am the Crimson Sinner, the Crimson King."
"I am Magnus."
Fulgrim pulled his mouth into a faint smile.
There was no point arguing further.
Just as he turned his gaze away—
BANG!
The doors swung open once more.
Malcador and the crimson Alpharius emerged, both wearing expressions dark enough to kill.
The hostility radiating from them was almost identical.
Malcador looked as though he had just walked through a rainstorm of blood.
His white robes were soaked crimson.
The old man wiped the blood running from the corner of his mouth and limped toward the empty altar.
The crimson Alpharius was not much better off.
Fulgrim noticed that one of his massive horns had been broken off at the tip.
Scalding blood trickled down from the wound.
The crimson Alpharius stepped onto his altar.
Omegon glanced at him and smiled.
Malcador headed toward his own altar.
As he passed Magnus's platform, Magnus stared at the old man with complete calmness, as though looking at someone utterly unrelated to himself.
"Good day, Malcador," Magnus suddenly spoke.
The hurriedly moving Malcador cast him a glance.
His expression grew even colder.
He did not answer.
Magnus merely shrugged.
His figure reflected in the countless mirrors behind him, fragmented into incomplete pieces.
"Well then," Magnus murmured softly.
As though speaking to himself.
In reality, Fulgrim knew perfectly well that the bastard was doing it on purpose—making sure every single one of them could hear.
"I even chose your favorite ink, Malcador."
Bent over his altar, drawing a golden ritual circle, Malcador let out a contemptuous snort.
"I'll personally thank you later," The old man replied in a hoarse, ominous voice.
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Tn: I updated the story once every 2 days, but if you want to see more chapter of this story ahead of time, please go to my Patreon.
Latest Chapter: Chapter 525: The Erasure[1]
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