"Before our war with one another begins, may I ask why the Harlequin Troupe desires that holy artifact?"
Eldrad's voice echoed across the desolate planetary surface, a faint, almost imperceptible trace of exhaustion woven into his icy tone.
In his hand, the Staff of Ulthamar, which had accompanied him for ten thousand years, emitted a subtle glimmer. Waves of invisible psychic ripples surged outward through the air, resembling tempestuous waves crashing across the water's surface.
The old Farseer's followers had already formed up behind him.
The wounded Aspect Warriors gritted their teeth and tightened their grip on their weapons.
Shadowseer Sylandri stood opposite him. Her colorful troupe robes swayed gently in the breeze, the expression on her face too complex to decipher.
"Because it will lead the Aeldari toward the most unacceptable outcome of ultimate destruction."
Her response was calm, without a single ripple of emotion.
"Heh."
Eldrad let out a cold sneer. "I am well aware. But without such a holy artifact, the Aeldari have no future. This is something you know as well, is it not?"
He did not wait for the other party's answer.
Things had already reached this point; all the convoluted riddles and metaphors, all the usual word games played among the Aeldari, could be set aside.
Every Aeldari present—whether the Craftworld Aeldari behind Eldrad or the Harlequin Troupe brought by Sylandri—knew with absolute clarity what was inside that large chest.
A Cronesword.
According to ancient Aeldari legends—tales so distant they were almost forgotten—these artifacts were forged from the five finger bones of one hand belonging to Morai-Heg, the Aeldari goddess who held sway over souls and fate. Five of them existed in total.
It was said that they granted their wielders the power to command life and death.
And if all five Croneswords were gathered together, they could resurrect Morai-Heg's legendary Aeldari God of Death, Ynnead.
In the grand script composed by the Laughing God Cegorach himself—a prophecy known as the Final Jest—the arrival of the God of Death would bring about the end of the Aeldari's arch-enemy.
That Thirsting Lady, the Chaos Chaos God Slaanesh, who had been devouring Aeldari souls every waking second since the Fall, would be reduced to ash beneath the blade of the God of Death.
The Aeldari's past would be restored; every Aeldari could reincarnate freely after death, no longer bound by Spirit Stones.
And to prevent this outcome from coming to pass, Slaanesh would even be forced to suppress her endless, ravenous impulses, actively protecting the remaining Aeldari instead.
That was the origin of the joke.
As far as Eldrad knew, three of the Croneswords had already been gathered.
The first, Kha-vir, the Sword of Sorrow, was currently held by Yvraine, the chosen emissary of Ynnead.
The second, Asu-var, the Sword of Silent Screams, had been retrieved from Craftworld Biel-Tan and was now held by Thousand-Faces.
The third, Vilith-zhar, the Sword of Souls, was discovered on Biel-Tan IV, a former Aeldari maiden world inside the Eye of Terror. It was the strongest among the five Croneswords.
And right now, the item Eldrad had risked his life to pull from the depths of the Webway was the fourth.
If he could gather the final remaining one, true victory would be within his grasp.
The Aeldari would be reborn from the ashes, awakening from this nightmare that had dragged on for ten thousand years.
Eldrad believed this implicitly.
With a near-obsessive certainty, he had staked all his hopes on this single cause.
"You guessed wrong," Sylandri spoke up.
She said earnestly, "There is a fatal flaw in your prophecy."
The Veilwalker's sharp eyes fixed tightly on her old friend, delivering her words one by one: "There is still time. That object is tainted by a conspiracy—a scheme from our great enemy who has plagued our race for tens of thousands of years."
"This is not the fourth Cronesword."
"This is the fifth."
The air seemed to freeze in an instant.
Eldrad's pupils contracted violently.
His fingers tightened around his staff so hard his knuckles turned white.
"What in the hell... are you talking about?"
He was genuinely stunned.
The fifth?
How could it possibly be the fifth?
Every single clue had told him that the sword deep within the Webway was the fourth Cronesword.
This was something the old Farseer had personally verified himself!
"Yes, you heard correctly," the Veilwalker said with complete sincerity.
The situation was so dire that she had no patience left for riddles.
Using a direct tone completely uncharacteristic of the Harlequins, she laid bare the answer without any embellishment.
"The true fourth Cronesword is named the Spear of Twilight. Intelligence from the Harlequin Troupes indicates its true form is a holy artifact belonging to Craftworld Iyanden. Its true identity—is precisely that Cronesword we have been searching for all along."
"And the one you hold is the fifth."
Silence.
A long, heavy silence blanketed the slate-blue wasteland.
Eldrad stood rooted to the spot, his facial expression shifting rapidly several times within a matter of seconds.
Then, he spoke.
"Isn't that even better?"
A faint, almost uncontrollable tremor shook his voice.
The old Farseer, who had braved ten thousand years of wind and rain, found even his fingers trembling slightly as he held his staff.
"As long as we join forces with Yvraine, the emissary of Ynnead, and travel together to Craftworld Iyanden to request the Farseers there to extract the Spear of Twilight—all five Croneswords will be gathered. Everything will come to an end."
"The Aeldari will either be reborn in fire or face oblivion in the clash between the God of Death and Slaanesh. Settling it once and for all is infinitely better than rotting away like this."
He raised his head, a near-fanatical light burning in his eyes.
"This is a beacon of hope our race has not seen in ten thousand years."
"Do you truly disagree with this?"
Eldrad's voice suddenly turned cold.
"Did you come here to stop me?"
"Indeed."
Sylandri's response was crisp and decisive, cutting off all room for negotiation.
Looking at her old friend's reaction, she realized that speaking the truth so openly this time had clearly failed to yield a good outcome.
In the silence, the Veilwalker gently rested her fingers on the hilt of the xenos blade at her waist.
"The intention of the Laughing God and the Harlequin Troupe is very simple. That Thirsting Lady would never sit idly by and watch this happen. We even suspect that the place where that Cronesword originally rested was likely stashed deep within Slaanesh's own palace long ago to eliminate future troubles."
"And yet, it appeared in your hands in such a bizarre manner."
"Be it the fourth or the fifth—having all five Croneswords gathered at this exact point in time hides a monumental conspiracy behind it."
"Therefore, we will never allow this to happen."
Eldrad's face darkened.
"So, this is the Laughing God's decision?"
"Correct." Sylandri nodded.
Eldrad fell silent for a brief moment.
Then, he let out a cold laugh.
"Hehehe... It seems to me the Laughing God simply cannot bear to part with his precious divine throne!"
The instant those words fell, several Solitaires standing behind Sylandri snapped their heads up.
Those masked Aeldari were the very Solitaires who voluntarily played the role of the Thirsting Lady—the most dangerous role—in the Laughing God's performances. Cold light burst from their eyes.
Cegorach, the Laughing God, was the finest master in the entire galaxy; one would be hard-pressed to find another deity who treated his followers better than he did.
Without a doubt, the Harlequin Troupe revered the Laughing God.
And such words were no different from an insult to their faith.
The sound of weapons being drawn echoed simultaneously.
The Striking Scorpions among the Craftworld's Aspect Warriors unsheathed their heavy chainswords, the hum of power blades piercing the air.
Meanwhile, the Harlequins' domino suits activated, their dazzling, multi-colored patterns twisting and flickering in the air.
The Troupe members' figures began to vanish, merging into the shadows, blending into the void.
The Death Jesters, heavy weapons specialists, raised their long-barreled shuriken cannons, their muzzles reflecting a cold gleam beneath the slate-blue sky.
The Solitaires unclasped the Harlequin's Kisses from their waists—bizarrely shaped weapons housing deadly monofilament wire within.
The flip belts equipped at their waists emitted a soft glow, ready at a moment's notice to launch them into a tumbling, leaping dance of death.
Behind Eldrad, the Aspect Warriors braced themselves for combat.
Rangers raised their long-barreled shuriken rifles, their scopes reflecting the faint, shifting silhouettes ahead.
Massive Wraithguard stood cold and silent in the ranks, the muzzles of their d-cannons beginning to flicker with blinding light.
Psychic halos flared wildly across the armor of Wraithlords. Elegant War Walkers raised their shuriken cannons, bringing their power fields online.
Swooping Hawks, Dark Reapers, Fire Dragons—all Aspect Warriors assumed combat stances at once.
Then, both sides moved simultaneously.
The hallmark of the Aeldari was elegance.
Even the largest War Walkers moved with fluid, lightning-fast agility.
War machines that would appear hopelessly lumbering to the Imperium of Man moved as lightly as a meticulously choreographed dance under Aeldari control.
Some claimed this trait originated from the War in Heaven—when facing their ancient nemesis, the Necrons, and the terrifying firepower of Gauss weaponry, the ancestors of the Aeldari ultimately chose to abandon heavy armor in favor of absolute speed and evasion.
Now, this ancient military legacy clashed violently between two Aeldari factions.
Shuriken weaponry unleashed a storm of firepower.
Thousands of monofilament projectiles wove a massive net of death through the air, gliding at supersonic speeds with graceful precision to shred every obstacle in their path.
Yet, warriors on both sides evaded the incoming fire using flawless skills honed over centuries and millennia.
Numerous figures slipped into the shadows at the exact same moment, vanishing into thin air, only to abruptly reappear within the enemy ranks a second later, blades clashing in brilliant cascades of sparks.
The brawl between the Harlequins and Warp Spiders unfolded like a precise, magnificent dance of death.
Gleams from flip belts traced graceful arcs through the air, while monofilament wire wove invisible lethal traps in the wind.
The heavy blades of Striking Scorpions crossed paths with the Harlequin's Kisses of Solitaires, every collision sparking blinding bursts of energy.
War Walkers sprayed torrents of shuriken fire, their oversized monofilament blades sweeping across the battlefield with a roar, severing everything in their path at the waist.
Just after one War Walker sliced down two Death Jesters, a Solitaire leaped onto its frame from the flank, pressing a Harlequin's Kiss directly against the cockpit.
Explosive fire illuminated half the battlefield.
Not much time had passed.
The Harlequin Troupe's numerical advantage and fresh state quickly began to tell.
The Craftworld Aeldari were forced into a steady retreat.
Eldrad's face remained dark as stone.
His psychic power poured forth like a surging tide.
High-level techniques capable of leaving ordinary psykers slack-jawed were unleashed with near-flawless precision, clashing violently against the psychic power of his old friend.
However, Sylandri was no pushover either.
The other Shadowseers standing behind her stepped up simultaneously, sending multiple streams of psychic energy converging from all directions like chains, clamping down hard on Eldrad's psychic power.
Evidently, they had come fully prepared!
This could not continue.
Eldrad realized this instantly.
In a split second between blows, he forcefully activated a psychic prophecy, plunging his consciousness like a swimming fish into the surging currents of future timelines.
This was the very method Farseers used to guide their kin away from the countless dangers of the galaxy, safeguarding the precious lives of key individuals.
Even though he was currently suppressed by multiple Shadowseers, with their disorienting psychic energy raging through his consciousness like a storm—
As a master psyker with tens of thousands of years of experience in this galaxy, Eldrad still extracted a single path forward from among fragments of countless future timelines.
Without hesitation, he acted.
In an instant, dense clusters of distorted illusions burst forth from Eldrad's Staff of Ulthamar.
These illusions were fundamentally different from ordinary psychic phantasms—to anyone with psychic sight, each illusion manifested differently, as if custom-tailored to counter the observer's own precognitive abilities.
The vision of the Shadowseers was thrown into complete chaos.
Of course, they were no amateurs either.
Led by the Veilwalker, all the Shadowseers launched a fierce countermeasure, their psychic torrents washing over the illusions like a tide to tear them apart.
However, mixed among these dense phantasms were numerous real Aeldari Aspect Warriors.
Guided by Eldrad, they threaded through the battlefield with exquisite precision, disrupting the Harlequin Troupe's offensive rhythm.
A Solitaire cut his way into the enemy ranks using his extraordinary martial prowess, sweeping his Harlequin's Kiss repeatedly to fell several Striking Scorpions. Yet when he paused to look around, he realized he had unknowingly become lost within layers upon layers of illusions.
He swung his weapon, hacking left and right to break free, but when he finally stopped, he found himself right back in his original formation.
The remaining Harlequins encountered the exact same predicament.
They saw through the nature of these illusions in short order and quickly organized an effective counter-response.
However, by the time all the phantasms finally dispersed, a vast number of Aeldari corpses lay scattered across the ground.
Aeldari blood flowed across the cracked, rocky earth, giving off faint wisps of heat.
Meanwhile, Eldrad and the chest containing the precious holy artifact had vanished without a trace.
"A portable Webway gate... This is bad."
Sylandri's face turned grim as she slowly sheathed her xenos blade. Her sharp eyes reflected the already-closed Webway portal and the vanishing form of her old friend.
"...Where could he have gone?"