Chapter 297 Glass Flower House

I don’t know whether it is something to be proud of, absurd or ironic, but the Gomorites are indeed experienced in dealing with emergencies such as curses.

After discovering that all the vaccines injected into Nefertari’s body over the years to deal with known virus weapons in the Eternal City were ineffective, the Dark Eldar immediately found several practical props from the storage room.

After a simple selection, a cabal warrior captain of the same level as Nefertari chose the last one from three tools from unknown hands: a random teleportation force field box, a glass sarcophagus for storing consciousness, and a frozen black crystal generator.

When Conrad Curze returned to the camp of the Son of Muse, he saw the young Scourge Messenger, Nefertari, who had been transformed by him, completely sealed by black crystals, fixed to the ground with chains, her life activities reduced to a minimum, and placed in the center of an empty room that had been incinerated and disinfected, waiting for further treatment - treatment, or execution.

Through the low-transparency black crystal, you can see that Nefertari's skin surface has different degrees of corruption and ulceration, and the long black and blue feathers on her wings have fallen off, revealing scarlet flesh. The freezing of the crystal inhibited the deterioration of the situation, and also hindered the thorough inspection of the organs and other parts under the skin of the female warrior.

Conrad Curze put on a pair of gloves, bent down, put his palm on a chain, thought for a moment, stood up again, and left the sculptural black crystal.

The brief and slight hallucination of the disease quickly dissipated, which made him sure that his discomfort on Fulgrim's ship was not caused by the ability of prophecy, but by his sensitivity to the energy of the four dark gods.

Going further, that dim twilight scene should not even be a prophecy, but the energy flow of the ether ocean is presenting its true nature in a concrete way.

The power that erodes reality is not extreme joy, but desperate decay. When Conrad Curze discovered the gap between this illusion and reality, he was not even surprised.

It was nothing more than fate being woven into a transformed product by an unknown hand once again.

However, if he had noticed the hint of the invasion of the High Heaven in his psychic vision at that time, perhaps things would have been better.

He did not have the means to eliminate corruption at this time. Nefertari was not guilty and was loyal to him, so destroying her directly was not the best option.

If the Emperor or the Black Craftsmen were willing to help, the problem would be solved; otherwise, if there was no pure enough life force... his choice was self-evident.

"My Lord."

A cabal warrior knocked on the door of the empty house. Curze did not allow him to enter the room.

The souls of the Eldar were already deeply coveted by the Lady of Hunger, and it was better not to introduce another new destructive force into the threat to his private army.

"Speak." He ordered through a door.

"The Blood Orcs Hexacarys and the World Singer Shanador are waiting in the hall." The warrior's voice was filtered through the black helmet, which strengthened the simplicity and coldness of the tone.

"Shanador?" Konrad Coze repeated, and immediately realized that this was probably because he had not made clear the reason for summoning Hexacarys. The World Singer from the Savage Eldar had just completed her arrangement task and took the old Blood Orcs's ride to report on her work.

"Let them wait..." Before he finished speaking, a possibility that no one had ever tried came to Coze's mind. He weighed it again and again and smiled.

To this day, the Savage Eldar still maintains a devout belief in the Eldar goddess of life, Isa. Even after the disaster that shook the galaxy, the goddess Isa disappeared, but her followers obviously still maintained a considerable degree of connection with her.

The World Singer, who resonates with the soul of the world and sings praises to the pure rebirth of the earth, is undoubtedly the best among them.

This will be an attempt, success is the best, failure is no problem.

"Call Isha's daughter Shanadore to come," he ordered Nightmare, "wait for instructions outside this door."

--

Rotten vines, swamps with flies and insects, withered and twisted plague bushes full of dead bodies like leaves... After enduring the initial tense moments, Akurduna's perception of this rotten world inevitably gradually increased, and with it came the nausea and disgust that deepened without stopping for a moment.

Perhaps the Emperor's Children do care more about their beauty and flawless appearance than some legions-well, perhaps most legions, but in essence, the Third Legion is still a qualified warrior, and Akurduna should not complain about the dirtiness of the battlefield.

But whenever he heard the gurgling, gathering and bursting of corrupt and filthy bubbles in the lakes and swamps, stepped on the meadows stained with disgusting yellow-green juice like rust, and looked at the poisonous spores spewing out from the wriggling pink-yellow giant mouths, Akurduna couldn't help wanting to use the bad words he had accidentally collected from the cultures of various planets during the long wars over the years to express his depression and annoyance.

I'm afraid the ghouls of the Ninth Legion will not eat the bloody corpses hanging here, Akurduna thought optimistically, using the tip of his sword to push away the rotten flesh that swung in front of him, holding on to a tree that looked barely not that dangerous and was covered with filthy thick pulp, and panting slowly.

Then, Akurduna stretched his limbs to tear open the healing wound on his body again, allowing fresh blood to flow out of his body and wash away the connective tissue and light yellow pus that were healing incorrectly on his wounds.

He would rather bleed to death than accept the superficial recovery of his injuries under such abnormal and troublesome conditions.

Throne, he is not afraid of leaving scars, he thought.

Akurduna's two swords were already covered with smelly mucus, severely coated with acid, rusted, and tending to break.

He continued to use them to deal with the difficulties in front of him, such as the group of little devils trying to climb up the armor whose color he could no longer identify, and some monsters that twisted like slugs. These little things wailed when they died, and then sprayed all kinds of juices on him.

It was terrible, and they would spit everywhere.

Since participating in the training of Astartes recruits on Terra, these two swords have been with Akurduna for decades. If they are destroyed now, it is considered to be fulfilling their duties, isn't it?

He held on to the trees and moved forward slowly. The swamp was reluctant to leave, and brown and yellow bone claws stretched out from the black mud one after another, trying to keep his feet. Although they moved slowly and their attacks seemed ordinary, these disgusting things could not be completely destroyed. This brought more wounds to his lower legs.

He was still inside the ship. Akurduna recognized some features he remembered through the familiar patterns of the dense forest, the tapeworm-like cables hanging in the sky, and the remaining traces of carved art.

There was a force that covered the surface of the world with an extra layer of chaotic and dirty dirt, twisting the golden and silver tents of the Emperor's Children into a moldy gauze, usurping their top craftsmen among mortals and the exquisite columns they designed in their spare time into rotten wood, and even the light and elegant indoor perfumed ointments turned into suffocating and vicious miasma.

All kinds of indescribable evil creatures appeared and disappeared in the gaps of the dense forest that used to be corridors, busy building shaky nests.

Apart from this, Akurduna could not see any additional exits. This forest of death seemed endless, falling from the land of the living to the depths of desperate death.

No matter how far he went forward, how much energy he spent to calculate a way out that might exist but had been falsified, he seemed to be repeating a meaningless thing over and over again.

At the same time, his weakness was slowly deepening with the miasma mist inhaled into his mouth and nose. With every step he took, it became more difficult for him to control his body.

His muscles and joints were extremely sore, and swelling, atrophy and nodules of varying degrees appeared on the surface of his skin. His nerves were constantly becoming numb, as if he was suffering from a replacement and substitution from the inside out. The real him flowed out of the body with every drop of blood, leaving only a weak empty shell filled with disease, falling under the dark sky without hope, and never getting up again.

Fabius, is this a precursor to the blight? Is this the disease and death faced by the Third Legion at that time?

The world in front of Akurduna was already blurred. An unknown disease caused his vision to decline rapidly, and he could only see the outline of the color block. Then, he was sure that his brain must have been affected by the disease, because the forest in his eyes began to shake with different rotten spots, and they were quickly turning back and forth, bringing more wrong perceptions.

An unexpected thought came to his mind. He could sit under this tree and rest for a while. This is a safe place, a warm and humid shelter. This is exactly the Turkish court courtyard in his hazy memory of childhood, where his family, the original family, was waiting for him.

His grandfather cared about his pain and felt sorry for it. Although Akurduna was not within his grandfather's expectations, if he was willing to push open his grandfather's small wooden door, his grandfather would kindly bring him a bowl of hot soup, pat his shoulder with concern, and invite him to stay lazily in this harsh and terrible world...

You will be satisfied, child. No need to work so hard anymore. Rest for a while, stop your hurried steps, accept the cycle of life and death, and accept everything in this world.

"Heh..." Akurduna exhaled a breath of rotten air, and it was difficult for him to smell the smell. "No, rebel," he grinned inside his helmet, even as his facial skin began to melt and stick together. "I am a phoenix, not a maggot."

He remembered Fulgrim's teachings. Perfection. The pursuit of excellence, the constant progress, all of which was contained in the interpretation of the path to perfection.

Now was not the time to give up in despair, in fact, never.

"I always see more than what I have now," he laughed, crushing the dead heads pierced by tree roots at his feet.

The swordmaster wanted to shrug, which was becoming difficult, but he did it anyway. Akurdunar was happy about this, of course, not the inexplicable, sick happiness that stopped moving forward in the decaying jungle here. He was happy just for his small victory.

If this was the blight that was decades late, if this was the despair that the Third Legion once faced, then it seemed that he would try to be the first Emperor's Children to truly overcome the genetic disease.

Despite his difficulty, Akurduna still held out hope of finding his genetic father, and wanted to do something to help or warn Fulgrim.

Blinking, he groped his way through the chaos.

He didn't know how much time had passed, maybe only a few minutes, maybe he had been groping forward for hundreds of years - no, this was definitely impossible, if hundreds of years had passed, he would have died of hunger and dehydration. He can't talk nonsense.

At this moment, something seemed to appear in front of him that was emitting light from the inside out. In this moist and dark chaotic darkness, it seemed that suddenly, a small, slightly golden bright spot began to burn coldly on the retina of his soul.

Within Akulduna's perspective, the light spot was bright and dim, swaying left and right, but the penetrating sting never changed.

Feeling the pain of the living again proved that he had not been completely eroded by this dying realm of disease and decay.

Go ahead, he thought, and pursue it. Regardless of the outcome, he will always move forward. Because he can.

——

Fulgrim soon discovered that something unusual had happened to the ship he was currently on.

This strange beginning is hidden in the most inconspicuous shadows and details, in the bases of those stone carvings where light rarely reaches, in the interior of the flowing courtyard drains, and in the tops of hanging gold tassels arranged high in the sky. , a hidden corruption is quietly wrapped around him.

Fungi are on the rise, tiny organisms are appearing in sterilized areas that were never meant for their presence, and the flowers that are changed daily change from bright light purple to reddish-brown droplets. Even if these changes occur slowly and gently, to the eyes of the Primarch they are obvious.

He first thought of some witchcraft planets he had conquered. Those spellcasters who were good at creating mental illusions or changing reality did have the ability to create such phenomena.

Nowadays, most of these psychics who are born with terrible flaws and are inherently unstable are guarded and erased. Those who were particularly valuable and obedient were given to Magnus for discipline.

Psykers can often cause some trouble when they first meet, but hurting the Primarch is a completely different level of difficulty.

In addition, a new confusion appeared in Fulgrim's mind.

This is Perturabo's Olympia, and with the Lord of Iron's paranoid protection and control over the things he values, accidents like this shouldn't happen.

Unless Perturabo himself can't stop it...

Fulgrim tightened his grip on whatever was in his hand - his left hand resting on the hilt of the flaming sword, feeling the incredible heat emanating from the weapon forged by Ferrus Manus, his right hand tightening handkerchief.

He cheered up and continued his original plan to go to Fabius Bayer's laboratory, and at the same time he became more vigilant about his surroundings.

Soon, he saw a servitor covered in gray cloth. Although there was nothing unusual about its appearance, the Purple Phoenix's intuition told him that there was something wrong with this thing.

"Stop," he ordered. "where are you going?"

The servitor obeyed the order and stopped moving. His unconscious half-metal head seemed not to support him in making any more reactions. From the equipment it is equipped with, it can be seen that this is a medical servo machine.

There is an unpleasant smell emanating from this tool.

Fulgrim moved closer, and the smell became stronger. He frowned in displeasure, wondering why the person using the servitor didn't smell the smell.

In fact, he suspected that it was Fabius Bayer's work again. Every time he thought of Bayer, he simultaneously regretted his chief pharmacist's crazy behavior and his own negligence.

He saw the servitor carrying a suitcase.

"Show what you have in your hands," Fulgrim warned.

The servitor made no response.

Fulgrim held his breath, drew his flaming sword, and approached the servitor. When the distance was close enough, Fulgrim thrust out his sword, preparing to cut off the servitor's fingers holding the box.

The servitor moved. Its reaction speed was not in line with the speed of a medical machine, and even exceeded the strength of a servitor. But its reaction was still unable to withstand Fulgrim's sharp sword. The sharp blade quickly cut off the servitor's right hand, and the suitcase fell to the ground.

At the same time, a strong smell hit his face. The strong smell of corruption and decay not only hurt the original body's keen sense of smell, but also directly stung his soul. A pool of brownish-yellow liquid dripped from the severed limb. It was similar in color to Lycaon's blood, but the smell was several times more pungent.

The suitcase was shaken open when it fell, and Fulgrim saw some surgical instruments, a test tube containing some kind of extract, and several syringes, one of which had been used. The color of the potion in the syringe was somewhat familiar. After inference, he guessed that it was most likely the heartbreaking alchemy potion that Telemanon Lyras was injected with.

Fabius Bayer. Fulgrim chanted the pharmacist's name angrily, feeling weak in his heart.

It seemed that even to the last minute, he was still telling lies.

In his conversations with Konrad Curze, he showed himself to have regained his strength, but it was clear to Fulgrim that he had a problem that had never been solved.

Why would he cultivate such a heir under his trust?

Is the way he looks at other lives so arrogant that he doesn't really see others? In his younger years, this arrogance was deliberate. Has it changed from a mask to his own face?

Or was he walking too fast, too hastily, the ever-changing landscape confusing his eyes, the Milky Way hovering overhead making him lose his judgment?

Or had he missed the first time of the Third Legion, missed their pain and suffering, so that even kneeling could not bring them closer to their hearts?

Fulgrim did often think of the last point. He had missed too many battles of the Third Legion, and when he flipped through the ancient war reports that wrote about death, he always wondered how much better things would have been if he had been there. In a sense, this was his responsibility.

The servitor staggered, then swung a claw and tried to attack the Primarch. Its movements were stiff and strange, like a walking corpse, relying on absurd instincts to regard the Primarch as its enemy. Fulgrim was naturally unable to be injured by it, and the blazing sword easily cut the opponent's throat with a beautiful blow.

After finding that this was not enough to kill the walking corpse, he quickly cut it into pieces with his sword moves. This time, the test for weakness was effective and he eliminated the obstacle in front of him.

However, his discomfort did not ease, but instead rapidly deepened. A sharp pain quickly turned into numbness, entwining his palm that did not hold the sword, and a small amount of pain remained on his face.

Fulgrim spread out his left hand. Where it touched the handkerchief stained with Lycaon's corrupted blood, the smooth white skin was sinking into wrinkles and withering, until it turned into dry powder and residue, falling to the ground. The same happened to half of his face.

Fulgrim's face was tense. Under his feet, the hard ship floor turned into soft land.

At first, this place was somewhat similar to his own private glass greenhouse that he had carefully cultivated. After witnessing the changes that the revived culture brought to Chemos, Fulgrim began to pay attention to spiritual art. This is one of the reasons why he brought the beauty of art to the Emperor's Children.

But soon it became something far more rotten and foul than his greenhouse, hundreds of plants, from trees and shrubs to flowers and grasses, all stained with plague and disease, crawling with countless worms, beetles, and more blasphemous creatures that did not exist in the biology of the Imperium.

In an instant, the whole world seemed to be on the verge of death.

Fulgrim panted softly, changed the way he held the handkerchief, pinching the corner of the handkerchief that was not stained with blood between his fingers, and stood there, observing the scene around him. He was not sure which direction to go. Ashes continued to fall from the surface of his skin.

He heard something behind him. Fulgrim turned.

It was a phantom ghost. A dead figure. A withered flower. A warrior who died of illness.

The outbreak of genetic disease blurred his face, but the patterns and decorations on his armor proved his identity.

More ghosts appeared there, faceless, similar in appearance, surrounded by an aura of pain and despair. The flowers of the garden bloomed and withered rapidly beneath their feet, the dust that formed the embodiment of the shadow of the soul facing death.

Impossible, Fulgrim thought terribly. Their souls have already rested on Terra.

They must have rested already.

But he could not lift the sword.