"It's better not to stay here, we're too late."
The courtyards and balconies were crowded with people, and fat priests were shuttled between the altars, accompanied by crowds of assistants, and those who were about to be sacrificed were squirming in the sacks.
The wizards walked among them, some of whom were unbreakers, wrapped around the whip in their hands, the huge deformed creatures stretched out their limbs, swollen abdomen, and staggered up the twisted stairwell, roaring and breathing.
There is also a palace in the palace.
In some places, astrologers will refer to swinging galaxies and tilt their astrologers towards the slits of thick glass windows.
In other places, alchemists work hard in front of bubbled instrument racks, and even more, surgeons will sharpen their blades on whetstones and then turn to the trembling figures tied to the table.
The occultists with seven eyes scribble on the stone tablet, their quills soaked in the pool of blood of living people, the demonists tied the screaming existence to the buckeye tree, the air pounding because of its filth, butchers walked out of the cafeteria in their bloody aprons, and the pharmacists struggled with their struggles by the many phage glass bottles that fell.
It is noisy, lively and lacks order.
Each piece of meat has acne and yellowing, and each piece of stomach is very loose and has signs of burning.
Steam surging in the brass incense burner, green flames spewed out of the carved holes in the pulsating flesh walls.
These rooms are buried deep underground and embedded on the crumbling spire of the tower, filled with life and death, and many things in the middle.
The two of them did not stop to observe these wonderful things, and they continued to walk in.
Slowly, the living bodies gradually became fewer, and they entered an area illuminated by fine candles, where the stones were wet and covered with smooth seaweed coatings.
The noise gradually disappeared, and not long after, I could only see the unbreakable people like them, silent and depressed, and busy doing their own things in the most lifeless place in the plague city.
"They are still as energetic as they used to."
Ngarta couldn't help but comment.
“Vaux has always managed it in an orderly manner.”
"You listen to him very much, are you?"
"certainly."
Now they arrived at a dangerous place, passing under the crumbling gate, to an abyss connected by a rotten cableway.
There are many shafts there, and circles of unnatural steam comes out from these shafts.
They could hear the machine rumbling in the distance, and the deep screams—all of which echoed in an incredible way, as if there was a wall that shouldn't exist, or an invisible room.
Eventually, they arrived at the inner door.
This door is modeled after the door of the palm printmaker Makado. Although it is larger, these ancient Terra designs have been distorted by the indecent divine fun.
Two death shrouds stood guard on both sides, motionless, almost invisible in the disgusting darkness.
They said nothing, but the door opened as soon as the Deathkiller approached.
"You're waiting here."
The order allowed him to enter only one, so Ngarta could only let his minions wait outside.
"clear."
Soon, he entered the inner hall.
He had only been here once before, and many people in the Legion, even some of the highest-ranking people, had never reached this point.
Only when the Primarch speaks in person can others be qualified to enter, and these words have always been rare.
It was cold here, with white frost hanging on the distant ceiling, ice on the floor, dark pillars glowing slightly, and flocks of flies crawling on the dark vault instead of buzzing.
Ngarta walked through the long nave, its design was imperial gothic – solemn, solid, heavy, so his footsteps kept echoing between the tall columns, which was creepy.
At the end of the nave is a throne, shrouded in shadows, above the throne are spears, hanging low-hanging battle flags on the spears, inserted on the arches, each with the name of a certain world engraved.
Many scrolls scattered on the stone floor, frost-filled, and the texts on them mixed with human and alien languages.
The backrest of the throne is high, with grooves, and a pile of tattered skulls on the top, a thick spider web covering it, and the swollen spider squats in the center of the web.
The size of this throne is far beyond the imagination of mortals.
Ngarta stopped, and it was almost pitch black, and all the light and heat were sucked away by this place, and by an empty heart.
The air smelled like a prison.
“Welcome, Ngarta.”
The throne's master made a low voice.
Ngarta has experienced many things during his long service and he is not easily intimidated, but seeing Motarian is an exception.
The image of the Primarch is always so shocking—thin, haggard, unknown, even when he was a child, but since he was swallowed up by the God of Darkness, the final bondage has been lifted.
He is now a giant, an extremely huge corpse, his armor was reforged and plated with demon alloy, and his gray muscles further atrophy, clinging to the extra-large bones, his back and his back were thorns and stomata piled up on his shoulders to support his old wings draped behind the rag.
As he breathed, yellow-green steam spurted out from an old and worn ventilator, Ngarta saw his sunken chest undulating under the corroded armor, under the worn hood, a pair of dull eyes looking out through the shadows, pale guards pressing against the throne's armrest.
Ngarta immediately bowed and bowed.
"It's really nice to see you again, Master."
Motarian stared at him, and it was always difficult to know what these eyes were looking at. Ngarta knew the price of ascension, and he understood that despite the great power of the Primarch, he could only perceive the real universe in a vague way, barely persevere, just like all those who made this deal.
As long as the time is long enough, most enchanters will become fools who only know how to howl, but this is a Primrose, one of the sons of the Lord of Humanity, and even if they compromise with the demons, their indomitable spirit will not be destroyed.
“I didn’t foresee this….”
The sound of the Primrose is like the iron fence of the grave being lazily opened.
"I did not foresee that the father would be so angry."
Ngarta remained silent.
"Isa, the goddess of life in the Spirit Clan, is the most cherished treasure of the father, and it does not allow her to have any flaws."
He giggled, which made his neck tremble, and the terrifying gadgets on his armor rattled.
"We never knew about this, but now it is no longer a secret. Isa's last piece of soul fragment is in the dust."
He coughed for a while, his whole body trembled, stirring the dust on the ground.
Ngarta was not sure if these words were said to him. Primarch always liked to speak loudly, and being isolated from the world for centuries made him more solemn.
"I've left my mind to fate. I look at this and that, but most of the time I'm staring into the abyss... That's what I've made, abandoning this boring little game, leaving those old worlds and old wars to the mortals, and going to invest in that real great game."
His eyes were briefly focused, and it seemed that he had finally seen Ngarta for the first time.
"So, what good news did you bring."
"Master, after a period of reconnaissance and seeking the assistance of the Red Pirates, we finally confirmed that the Ark World Usvi of the Spirits had briefly appeared in the Hamigidon galaxy, which coincided with the time when the father was angry. We are sure that the daughter of Isa is on the Ark World Usvi of the Ark World."
Motarian looked confused for a while, and then recovered.
"Ah, yes, Hajimmy Dotton."
He leaned forward on the throne, and this slight movement caused dust to fall from the roof.
"The stenosis of those thirsty ladies has been hiding in the internet for tens of thousands of years. Why did they appear in Hammigidon?"
"Just a while ago, the green skin invaded there again, which seemed to be related to it."
"This won't happen to me."
"Green skin, yes, green skin..."
Motarian gasped, and a long inhalation sound came from the filter of the ventilator.
"That place has a unique meaning for green skins. They will not give up on it, but what does this have to do with the spirit race... Ha, it's ridiculous."
"Sir, then what will we do next?"
"This is your business."
Motarian waved his hand, as if he was driving away something troublesome.
"Such a glorious mission has fallen on your shoulders. No matter what you need, just go find someone else, they will give you everything, and I... have to wait."
Ngarta tried to understand what he said, but failed.
"Sorry, my master, I don't understand."
"No need to understand, go do yours."
Ngarta thought about it, but in the end he slowly left the hall, leaving only the decaying giant breathing slowly on the throne-
Chapter completed!