Negotiation.
Bargaining.
Compromise.
Substitution.
Morgan had heard these words. She had even witnessed firsthand the meaning and process these words symbolized: the meaningless evasions and protections among the mortal bloodlines, the commonplace gathering of the mediocre.
On her Homeworld, the one she had personally chosen, that decrepit Eden steeped in chivalry, noble bloodlines, convoluted philosophies, and vain crests, she had witnessed those so-called exquisite deals and grand negotiations.
She had seen how those courtiers and border counts, in their supposedly private and secure rooms, cast off their masks of nobility and virtue, using profit and greed as bargaining chips, then engaged in fierce verbal combat.
She actually felt no particular aversion to these situations, for long before she chose this Homeworld for herself, she had roughly understood this ordinary world within the Sea of Souls—a realm that could be thoroughly deluded, enslaved, and even thoroughly motivated by lies and illusions.
The most noble, the most valiant, and the most innocent Knights, and the most humble, most avaricious, and most treacherous corrupt officials: on her scales, the weight of these figures was equal.
As she grew older, as she stepped into the forefront during the long, tedious years, gradually transforming her adoptive father, who was once a "perfect Knight," into a mere idol, those deferential courtiers also sought her out: flattery, probing, and even the greedy, reckless desire to claim her as the ultimate prize she saw it clearly in their eyes.
And all of this was concealed within the feeble words that mortals called "counsel," "transaction," "negotiation," or "political art."
Over time, or rather, when Morgan grew tired of these meaningless words running rampant before her, she instantly understood how to face these so-called "negotiations" that appeared before her.
And this time was no exception.
"A talk?"
Although still separated by an extremely vast distance, Morgan's will could already distinctly sense certain tantalizing situations within the Fate Engine. Being obstructed here did not put the Spider Queen in a particularly good mood to begin with.
Morgan smiled, her flawless face taking on a strange expression. If Corswain had seen it, he would have instantly recognized it: now, the Spider Queen's smile only signified danger.
Fatal danger.
"Negotiation, transaction, cooperation."
The voice in the Void still spoke, or perhaps merely echoed, like a precise yet ancient machine, slowly uttering pre-designed words and commands in the cold, rust-tinged space.
"This is meaningful for both of us, Soul Drinkers. Whether it is you or I, we both have things we desire, and our objectives do not conflict for now."
"For a long time in the future, we can be trading partners."
The hoarse, indifferent, and orderly voice reverberated through the Sea of Souls. Before it completely dissipated, Morgan's even colder laughter utterly dispersed it.
"Negotiation?"
"Then, before that, can you tell me, you tiny deity who boasts in the Immaterium?"
"What is your name?"
"My name is Vashtorr, the Forge Lord of the boundless oceans. My divine office is not self-bestowed, but rather..."
"Stop."
Morgan waved her hand, silencing the distorted metallic screeching that incessantly annoyed her.
"Vashtorr, very well."
"Let me tell you my attitude."
Before her words finished, the Spider Queen's azure eyes glowed with invisible flames capable of incinerating a world. These flames transformed into shrieking arrows that pierced through all souls, instantly tearing apart the remnants of the Forge Lord's voice and will.
This was not a particularly powerful strike; it was merely a casual glance from Morgan's boundless will. Morgan could unleash dozens of such effortless soul-strikes in a single breath.
And when she saw that the remnant soul left by this self-proclaimed Forge Lord couldn't even withstand this slightly more serious strike, the Spider Queen knew what attitude to take when facing this Forge Lord and its so-called "negotiation."
Before the noisy afterimage completely dissipated, Morgan spoke, ensuring her voice, her attitude, could be clearly heard by the Forge Lord lurking in the Immaterium.
"Negotiation or transaction."
"They are merely means for the powerful to feign compliance."
"I know that before the true overlords in this galaxy, I am but a humble speck of dust, but that does not mean I will maintain my humility and deference at all times, nor does it mean I will smile upon the humble."
"And if all you can show me is this, only the most pathetic will that cannot withstand even my casual strike, Forge Lord."
"Then go back to your flames as soon as possible."
———
"..."
No anger, no roar, nor the usual hysteria and malicious curses of the Immaterium.
Only the roar of the forge and the friction of gears turning without fluctuation, as if an eternally undisturbed will.
When Morgan's words reached the Forge Lord, after a remarkably brief silence, it gave an unusually calm, even sincere, reply.
"Your will and your thoughts led you to this choice, Soul Drinkers."
"Very good, I understand."
"Next time, I will change my attitude and power. This negotiation has not yet ended, Soul Drinkers, I will come back for you soon, and we can continue this negotiation and transaction."
"You will see my power. We can, of course, conduct our transaction on equal footing."
"But by then, my terms will not be as generous as they were this time."
"However, before that, please accept the gift I have prepared for you."
"Of course, if your power does not match your attitude and status, then this gift is the sole reward for purchasing your destiny and future."
"Farewell."
"Soul Drinkers."
———
No more whispers, no more lies or anger. The Forge Lord of the Immaterium ended the unpleasant conversation without hesitation, which even caused Morgan to slowly frown.
Compared to the gods and abominations she had witnessed inhabiting the Sea of Souls, this Forge Lord, who came and went so abruptly before her, was exceptionally...
Sincere.
The Soul Drinkers' thoughts paused for a second due to this sudden conversation, but she quickly realized her main task.
The Fate Engine was right there.
She took a breath, taking a step forward. The vast distance, enough to hold millions of lives, was but a thought away for her will.
Now.
It was within reach.
Morgan looked up, having arrived before this pure collective of suffering.
The Fate Engine. It looked like an excessively bloody hive city. A mere glance revealed tens of thousands of souls swirling around it, tugged by some force, struggling in pain and helplessness, wailing.
And this was but a drop in the ocean of what this horrifying soul contraption had left behind during its construction.
Morgan took a deep breath. She drew out a wisp of her will and placed it in a sufficiently safe place for later.
Then.
She walked in.
Into hell.
———
Hell.
Purgatory.
A place of madness.
Aside from these most pallid words and adjectives, Morgan could find no other expression to describe what she saw at first glance.
It was not chaotic; it was even orderly and precise. Wide roads connected spiraling spires, each rising in the most standard format, like a near-future city displayed in an art exhibition. With a gentle breath, one could even feel the wind caress their lips and cheeks: even these winds were perfectly uniform, blowing repeatedly at a unique frequency.
Upon closer inspection, one could also discern the marker stelae, the central towers, and even the wide plazas and high-flying conveyor belts.
In short, this might be a place Perturabo would love.
Of course, all this required ignoring a few small details.
For example, these seemingly wide and tidy roads were somewhat slippery underfoot: because they were made of eyeballs, each iris scooped out, their hollow depths transformed into gruesome mouths, continuously spewing agonized wails.
The wind brought not refreshing coolness, but a dampness of desperate, sorrowful cries from the verge of death. Each wisp of wind was thousands of "dampnesses" twisted together. If you were to listen carefully, you could even clearly distinguish the sound of these winds...
They seemed unusually childlike.
Every breeze was thousands of "childlike touches" caressing her face.
After that, as her senses progressed through this orderly hive city, she would see more beautiful sights: marker stelae constructed from the sinews and bones of creatures,
towering buildings where flesh and steel merged seamlessly, and the silent conveyor belts: tens of thousands of lives compressed into a space merely a few hundred meters square with unprecedented technology this was the optimal method for shaping such a perfect machine.
Morgan observed it all.
Utterly indifferent.
Around her, perhaps billions of voices were screaming, wailing, constantly questioning, condemning, and pleading with this incongruous living being, yearning for her to become one of them.
But the Spider Queen merely cast a cold glance, a glance at these entities that would cause any Astartes to feel primal nausea and revulsion. Then, she murmured, commanding her will to advance deeper.
———
This scene was indeed terrifying, disgusting, and sinful.
But compared to the pastimes and entertainments of the ancient Aeldari, which Morgan had witnessed and observed countless times throughout the eons.
It was still too merciful.
Morgan could even, in the interludes of her advance, observe the increasingly horrifying sights with a scrutinizing and analytical eye: each time her will advanced, the scene before her became at least ten times more terrifying.
Yet, throughout her journey, the Spider Queen's greatest sentiment regarding these chaotic and maddening spectacles was nothing more than:
If all this was truly the work of Vashtorr, who called itself the Forge Lord.
Then it was indeed an excellent master planner and architectural artist.
Exquisite!
———
Any creature, the moment they stepped into the Fate Engine, their sanity would undergo the most severe and violent test and assault. Nightmarish scenes would emerge relentlessly, until they utterly destroyed the san value of any visitor.
But unfortunately.
This time's visitor.
Apparently, had no san value.
———
In but a fleeting moment, as the Space Wolves on the ground were finally about to reach the edge of the Fate Engine, as the scarlet Randan blazing sun finally broke through the last veil and the bonds of gravity, advancing here at an incredible speed.
Morgan arrived at the most core and deepest corner of this city of flesh and blood.
Here, stationed were the only souls that had not succumbed to death and madness. They were the sole Overseers, each possessing power comparable to the best among the most proud and trusted Golden Creations of the Lord of Mankind.
Indeed.
Morgan licked her fingertips, thinking with lingering pleasure.
She stepped forward; the gift the Forge Lord had claimed was waiting for her.
It made a sound.
"Welcome."
This was not a sound a true living being could make; it was merely an artificial construct imitating the knowledge its creators had inadvertently imparted.
This gift spoke no more words. It presented everything it wished to convey to Morgan in a more concise and clear manner.
———
Caliban.
Fire of Old Gods.
Ancient Abomination.
Destruction and creation.
The Provoker's desire.
Selfishness.
Engine.
Tuchulcha Engine.
Ouroboros.
Dim forest.
Key.
Three keys.
Laughter and sorrow of the gods.
———
"Three worlds have shattered, and the cages set by the Ruinous Powers' servants have fallen beneath the feet of time: all but one. And we have escaped, we have scattered, and we await a new master, to use us, to acknowledge us, to unite us."
"Find us. You are capable of all this; you have the right."
"Discordant Engine."
"Find, assemble, acquire."
"This is the greatest treasure, the key to the past and the future: you are one of its potential masters."
"Find us. The remaining elements are but trifles."
"I await you."
All of it happened in less time than a single thought. When Morgan blinked again, the so-called gift had gradually vanished.
It was not a physical entity, but a phantom of a treasure left here: just like Vashtorr.
In the end, only a wisp of an ethereal voice lingered around her ears.
It was a location, a place existing within the Sea of Souls and the real universe.
And an introduction.
"Finally."
"Welcome, and goodbye."
"Allow me to introduce myself."
"My name: Plague Heart."
These past few days, my condition has been very poor: a leaking nerve in my tooth, root inflammation, and a bit of a high fever.
In short, I'm going to get through these next few days (facepalm).
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