Vashtorr was fleeing frantically.
The steel corridors stretched endlessly beneath his feet, and cold artificial light poured down from above, casting his broken figure into a long, distorted shadow. The light should have been a pure white, but falling upon him now, it seemed to illuminate a walking corpse.
At this very moment, more than half of Vashtorr's body had been annihilated.
The left side of his torso, along with his arm, had vanished completely. The wound was not flesh and blood but a solidified, lava-like substance, with dark red energy flowing slowly within it, barely maintaining the integrity of the remaining structure. On the surviving half of his body, scars of all sizes were densely packed—some deep enough to see bone, others oozing bizarre fluids.
Only the iron wings on the back of the Arkifane remained intact. Those massive metal pinions were now tightly folded against his back, a dull luster flowing over their surface, each beat propelling him forward in a burst of speed.
On the walls to either side, silent statues stood still. Astartes of the Emperor, heroes of the Imperial Fists Legion, guardians of humanity—they were carved in various poses, clutching swords and staring straight ahead. Now, as this bedraggled daemon swept past them, those stone eyeballs seemed to come alive, watching the intruder with icy glares.
Vashtorr didn't care. He was just running.
He had to run! Behind him was a pack of ravenous pursuers! Those Astartes were right on his heels, biting down hard and never stopping for a second!
However, it was only in a moment like this that he barely had the spare capacity to recall the battle just now.
What on earth was that mortal? A C'tan? No, it didn't feel like it. From his perspective, he had seen clearly that the fellow definitely had a soul. C'tan were living physical phenomena given sentience, glitches in the material universe. Souls were supposed to be nothing more than food for them.
Vashtorr gritted his teeth as he recalled the details while running. A Perpetual? That didn't seem right either. Because that guy's soul seemed to have no connection to the Warp whatsoever.
Then what was it? It couldn't be an Old One crawling out of a grave, could it? They didn't look like that. Why would an Old One wear a human skin? Or was it the Emperor possessing him?
Countless bizarre conjectures flashed through Vashtorr's mind, but he had no time to think carefully. He simply gritted his teeth and pushed forward. As a Warp sub-god, Vashtorr's speed was extreme! For a moment, in a sense, he successfully left those people behind, making it impossible for them to catch up immediately.
—Or so he thought.
A black figure flashed by. His speed was like a bolt of flowing light, dizzyingly fast!
It was Sigismund! The Black Sword in his hand was like a gale and a bolt of lightning, a heavy cleave falling ruthlessly onto Vashtorr's back!
Squelch—
The sound of the blade tearing through the remaining body was muffled and viscous. Intense pain exploded from his back! Vashtorr gritted his teeth and ignored it. He didn't even offer a counterattack, simply charging forward with his head down!
Run! The faster the better! As long as he was fast enough... As long as he could reach that place!
He had prepared a final measure within the wreckage of that transport ship! A specialized vortex grenade crafted by the Arkifane himself! That was his final trump card. Once the vortex grenade detonated, it could forcibly tear open a gap leading to the Warp, creating an extremely powerful vortex that would suck in everything nearby.
With his modifications, once that grenade exploded, it would open a direct path to his own domain in the Warp, allowing him to escape into his territory instantly. Then, at worst, he wouldn't come out for ten thousand years, actively breaking his own principles to dodge the contract with Grandfather Nurgle! It had to be done!
Close. He was getting closer.
Behind him, Sigismund continued the pursuit, the Black Sword slashing down again and again, tearing his remaining body apart bit by bit. But Vashtorr maintained only one strategy.
Ignore it!
The health pool of a Warp sub-god was essentially bottomless. Although Sigismund's attacks were fierce, they couldn't cause fatal damage in a short period. Furthermore, the other heroes couldn't arrive in time at this moment.
At the edge of his vision, the outline of the wreckage appeared. Twisted metal, broken bulkheads—although he couldn't see it yet, the device hidden in the depths—
Vashtorr's face showed a look of wild joy. I win!
He was about to let out a triumphant laugh. I laugh at the lack of planning of the mastermind! I laugh at the Emperor's lack of wisdom! If it were me, I would have set an ambush here—
Wait. How was this possible!
Vashtorr's face instantly turned ashen. A silver wall appeared in his line of sight.
No, it wasn't a wall. It was a formation. A formation of Grey Knights.
Silver armor gleamed with a metallic luster under the cold lights, and every plate was densely engraved with scripture. Those scriptures glowed faintly, the silver light resonating with and repelling the power of the Warp, stirring fine ripples in the air.
The Grey Knight at the front was a massive figure, clad in the Terminator power armor unique to the 666th Chapter. He held a massive force sword, its blade likewise covered in exorcism runes. Behind him, rows of Grey Knights stood in perfect formation, storm bolters raised in unison, muzzles aimed at the daemon charging toward them.
Holding the famous Titansword, the Supreme Grand Master of the Grey Knights, Kaldor Draigo, looked at the enemy that had suddenly appeared. He saw the Warp daemon with a broken body and the black-armored Astartes pursuing it.
It was an Emperor's Champion, wielding a Black Sword, hunting down this unknown daemon. This is truly the Emperor's might!
This scene was exactly the same as the psychic prophecy he had received after being ordered by Lord Guilliman to provide support!
The corners of Draigo's mouth turned up slightly, and then he calmly lowered the Titansword.
"We are the Hammer of the Emperor!"
"Fire!"
Boom!!!
Dozens of storm bolters roared simultaneously! Blessed bolts traced silver arcs through the air, each one reinforced by psychic power, each one stirring ripples in the void as they flew straight toward the bedraggled figure!
Vashtorr's pupils shrank. It was over.
As expected. There was no suspense.
Vashtorr's momentum was ground to a halt by this volley. He had already been heavily wounded by five Astartes in turn, hit by a black hole, and slashed dozens of times by Sigismund during the pursuit. He was now at the end of his rope.
With injuries heavy to the extreme, re-entering this storm of fire caused his speed to falter. Vashtorr stumbled violently, nearly collapsing.
Sigismund naturally wouldn't miss this opportunity. He stepped forward, his body lunging like a ghost. The Black Sword became a blur, accurately piercing into the gap of Vashtorr's ribs. With a harsh, grinding sound, the tip emerged from the other side, tearing a horrific wound through his abdomen and back.
Vashtorr cried out in pain, his body tumbling heavily onto the ground.
Leaning against the cold bulkhead, the Arkifane panted heavily, every breath tugging at the wounds across his body, the pain making his vision go dark.
Seeing things come to this, Vashtorr finally steeled his heart. Even if he had to serve Nurgle, it was better than perishing on the spot. He struggled to raise a hand, wanting to tear the Warp veil once more, only to find the barrier was as thick as iron. No matter how hard he tried, it wouldn't budge; it had been completely sealed.
"No..."
A bone-chilling sense of sorrow rose in Vashtorr's heart. His breathing grew heavier, and his remaining mechanical eye dimmed.
By now, the other Astartes had gathered around. Their steps were steady, their gazes cold, like hunters who had successfully cornered their prey. The weapons of the Grey Knights glowed with a piercing psychic brilliance, making it nearly impossible for Vashtorr to open his eyes. The purifying power within that light sent waves of stabs through his broken form.
No more moves. The thought appeared clearly in Vashtorr's mind.
At this thought, Vashtorr's heart suddenly relaxed, completely deflating. Countless questions were tangled like a mess in his mind, and the lingering confusion almost threatened to split his consciousness. Finally, all the questions clogged in his throat, turning into a barely audible sigh.
He looked at Sigismund, who was walking slowly toward him, his broken body trembling slightly.
"...Can we settle this?"
However, the only response to Vashtorr was a dead silence. Sigismund was expressionless, his eyes still as hollow as ever, without a hint of emotion. He took a cold step forward, the Black Sword tracing a flash of cold light under the lamps, falling heavily with a determination to shatter everything.
Squelch—
Vashtorr's head flew up, spinning in the air, the light in his mechanical pupils quickly extinguishing. The massive daemonic body that had carried his grand plans for godhood crashed to the ground, silent and still.
The ambitions and schemes plotted over several eons had, in the end, come to nothing.