Warhammer 40K in a box

Chapter 632 Brothers meet
Fugen's voice was not transmitted through ordinary sound waves, but rather like some kind of corrupting nectar, directly penetrating into the depths of the soul of every conscious being on the battlefield.

The psychic whispers were strangely intertwined with chilling ecstasy and deep-seated resentment, their powerful resonance even causing the cold steel atop Medusa to groan and tremble in pain.

This is a spiritual invasion that transcends the laws of physics; it is the evil prelude to the descent of the god of darkness's favorite.

Beneath the distorted hull of the "Ultimate Carnival," which resembled a tangible nightmare, the veil of space was forcibly torn open by a savage, blasphemous force.

A subspace rift, so dense it was almost tangible, constantly shimmering with a sickly pinkish-purple and blasphemous golden light, suddenly burst open.

There were no conventional airdrop pods streaking across the sky, nor the roar of landing craft. Instead, the purest and most intense corrupted psionic energy poured down from the crack like a burst dam, as if the universe itself had been ripped open with a huge, festering wound, pouring its filth into the real world.

From that dazzling yet filthy vortex of light, a form that was both suffocating and maddening gradually coalesced and manifested.

Fuggen, once the Primarch of the Emperor's proud creation, has now been completely transformed into Slaanesh's most beloved demon prince.

He descended from the endless breeding ground of desire in chaos and set foot on the Final Forge Square, a land destined to be baptized by blood and fire.

He has become a living totem of the will of the God of Darkness.

Her once stunning beauty, which once outshone the stars, is still faintly discernible, but it has been eroded by an eternal, insatiable hunger and extreme indulgence, leaving her pale and inhuman. The carefully drawn curve at the corner of her mouth contains both a caressing allure and the deepest mockery.

His eyes burned with an inextinguishable fire of desire, and deep within his pupils reflected the extreme pain and twisted pleasure of all living beings, as if encompassing all sensory experiences in the galaxy.

His body underwent a horrific distortion during his fall, stretched and twisted, covered with a set of magnificent yet unsettling demonic armor. The armor was inlaid with countless soul gems of eternal wailing, and intricately carved with blasphemous scenes depicting endless depravity and revelry. The metal seemed to possess its own life, undulating slightly on his serpentine, flowing body.

The four arms moved slowly in a strangely elegant manner that defied physiological structure. One hand gripped the demonic sword "Stabber Sword," its blade humming with whispers of seduction and destruction. The other arms held several other strangely shaped weapons that emitted an alluring and corrupting aura.

Huge, eerie demonic wings unfurled behind him, each slow flap scattering shimmering, hallucinatory scales and subtle, constantly stimulating, evil whispers.

His very existence is a continuous violation and denial of the laws of the real universe. Any being with a weak will, even if it only catches a glimpse of his form, is enough to cause the permanent collapse and fall of its mind.

The field he ventured into was overburdened, its structure groaning and beginning to soften and deteriorate.

The cold metal floor beneath my feet seemed to have been imbued with a hateful life, gleaming with a greasy and slippery biomass sheen.

The air was saturated with a strange, cloyingly sweet aroma that made one dizzy and almost nauseous. This aroma was strangely intertwined with the heavy smell of blood, the smell of burning metal, and some indescribable putrid odor, forming a unique "atmosphere" that marked its arrival.

Deep within everyone's eardrums, a psychedelic symphony involuntarily resonates, its music capable of shattering the mind. Every note and every melody precisely stirs the most primal desires, fears, and violent impulses within.

“My dear… Felus…” Fugen’s voice was smooth and filled with a twisted magnetism, carrying a venomous coldness and stickiness.

He completely ignored the low-level demons around him who were being purified by the Knights of Light. His gaze had already pierced through the smoke and chaos of the battlefield, locking onto the cold, silver-gray figure whose fate had been intertwined with his for millennia.

"A long, ten thousand years have passed... yet you remain the same... heartbreakingly stubborn."

His tone seemed to carry pity, yet it also contained an endless possessiveness.

"Huddled within this merciless iron shell, playing these... childish and futile tricks. Are you so afraid to face me directly? Afraid of the destiny symphony between us... that has already been composed and is destined to resound eternally?"

His words were a greeting, a declaration, and a twisted outpouring of love. Feralus Manus, the Primarch of the Iron Hand, son of the Gorgon, stood like an unshakable mountain behind the defenses formed by her offspring.

Her "Gorgon Skin," made of liquid metal, flowed and deformed unconsciously due to surging fighting spirit and deep hatred, reflecting the blinding firelight from the surrounding explosions and the suffocating, foul psionic glow emanating from Fugen.

Her face was as if forged from the hardest cold iron, hard, cold, and devoid of any warmth. Only in the depths of her sharp silver eyes burned a cold rage powerful enough to melt through the armor of a starship, as well as the pain and betrayal that had accumulated for ten thousand years and had never truly healed.

“Fugen,” her voice came through the helmet’s loudspeaker, cold and flat, devoid of any emotional fluctuation, yet every syllable carried immense weight, crashing into the heavy air.

"Your very existence is the most thorough defilement and trampling of the concept of 'perfection'."

"What you are chasing is nothing but decaying dregs and the echoes of nothingness, a distorted reflection cast by the abyss of darkness."

Her gaze was sharp as a knife, as if trying to pierce through Fugen's gorgeous demonic exterior and see into his even uglier essence.

"There is no decadent symphony prepared for you here."

"The only things prepared here for you are an anvil and a forging hammer."

"It's the end."

“Ah… anvil and hammer?” Fugen let out a series of pleasant, trembling laughs, as if he had heard the sweetest and most touching love words in the world, his laughter filled with nostalgia and twisted excitement.

"How nostalgic...how stirring words, my cold sister."

His voice suddenly became deep and seductive, as if he were sharing a secret that only they knew.

"Do you still remember those bygone days? In the workshop filled with the smell of machine oil and scorching metal, you and I stood side by side, pouring our wisdom and strength into the hammer and anvil, together forging those weapons and armor that could be called divine creations?"

"That extreme focus, that pure yearning for the ultimate state of power and form... how 'perfect' it is!"

His tone suddenly changed, becoming filled with obvious regret and an almost morbid pity.

"Look at yourself now... Look at the state you've become."

"You have imprisoned and forged yourself into this... hard, cold, lifeless, and dull form."

"You have forgotten the feast for the senses and shut yourself out from the thrill of life."

His voice grew increasingly fervent, filled with a twisted desire to "save" him from his "sea of ​​suffering."

"Let me guide you and help you break free from these self-imposed, cold shackles!"

Let's return to true, ultimate 'perfection' and embrace all sensory experiences!

"We should be one, sharing this eternal and endless feast..."

(End of this chapter)