My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 512: Malcador's Fall
This is truly not good.
Malcador walked upon Cadia, moving toward that small, dark figure.
In the struggle between Chaos and the Underworld, this space had long since shattered. Sight, hearing, smell, touch, taste—Malcador's senses were leaving him, drifting from his body and scattering into the colossal, iridescent vortex.
He was experiencing the Warp, experiencing madness itself.
Only now did Malcador realize the full scope of the Warp. He stared into it, and the Warp stared back. Humanity was still too narrow-minded; they could not comprehend these—all this—everything—eternity—
Malcador screamed.
He fell into the center of a train-like, distorted caterpillar. Gravity shifted like a Rubik's Cube in a novice's hands. Cream dripped onto his nose, and a trillion blinded figures charged at him, screaming and applauding. They chanted—
Al! Al! Al!
It was a part of his former name. But before Malcador could pull himself from the cliff's edge, he was already falling toward the sky once more. At its zenith lay an endless, kaleidoscopic ocean, and the obsidian eyes of the birds there reflected his own rapidly expanding silhouette.
He flailed, grasping at nothing. In his inverted vision, he saw the maddened Underworld below, where life sprouted in layers like vibrant fungi, and ravenous behemoths chewed them all.
The birds reached out to seize the soaring Malcador, intending to drag him down into this madness—
Then, Malcador's eyes caught a shadow in that field of fungi—a true, absolute blackness, perfectly concealed. It was the very last trash bin in the boundless city. He remembered why he was here.
He had come to save someone.
And he was ready. He was brimming with power.
Malcador jolted awake. His first thought was of his own voice. He roared an incantation, and the power and agony of the Four Gods plucked him from the chaotic Warp. Even the most frenzied power was more orderly than true chaos. He fell once more, plummeting toward the earth.
Thud!
Malcador slammed into the ground, his body nearly falling apart. He stared weakly at the space above him, expecting to see those maddened birds and the churning sea, only to be dragged back into another round of insanity. But instead—
The Mona Lisa was smiling down at him.
He remembered the day he had brought the Emperor to visit his residence.
The Lord Regent's home always concealed a few treasures—a personal indulgence of Malcador's, a bad habit, perhaps. But it was harmless enough, especially compared to the Exterminatus he signed in a mere three seconds. After all, hanging a Mona Lisa on one's wall was an innocent enough pursuit.
The only thing was, he had obtained this particular Mona Lisa after killing a Perpetual.
The lady with the mysterious smile hung directly opposite the dining table. Every time he "prepared" the next Perpetual at that table, she would watch him with her smile.
It was all perfectly normal back then. He had been intoxicated by power, plotting to unleash a storm upon Terra. Thus, inviting his enemies to dinner and killing them in the process was the most ordinary of affairs.
But one day, it was different. The Perpetual sat at the other end of the dining table, sipping red wine and staring thoughtfully at the Mona Lisa.
That was the Emperor—no, he wasn't the Emperor yet, and Malcador wasn't the Regent of the Empire either.
"I'll give you another one of my self-portraits."
Neoth swirled his wine glass. Malcador raised an eyebrow, his gaze shifting from the Mona Lisa on the wall back to Neoth.
"This is you?"
"It's me."
Malcador broke into a fit of coughing. But it made sense. Few people in human history could be so unforgettable—yet the Emperor was absolutely one of them.
And so was the Mona Lisa.
So the probability that they were the same person was not zero.
Malcador pursed his lips, his face remaining impassive. "Legend has it that after her son died, the Mona Lisa never smiled again. Leonardo da Vinci spent a long time coaxing her back into a smile and captured that moment on canvas—that is why the Mona Lisa is so captivating."
"This is—" Malcador returned his gaze to the Emperor's smile. "A fake?"
"Fake," Neoth said. "I smile because I see, five hundred years from now, a half-naked woman throwing ketchup at this painting."
Malcador paused. "Absurd," he murmured.
"More absurd is you," Neoth said, his gaze shifting to Malcador. Behind him hung another of the Regent's treasures—Van Gogh's Sunflowers.
"Reunite all of human civilization," Neoth said. "Establish a Human Empire."
These were the words Neoth had spoken to Malcador when they first met.
Malcador stared gloomily at Neoth, his voice low. "You can do it... The moment I first saw you... I knew this was your destiny—that this crown could only be yours."
Before this, Malcador had also harbored impractical dreams. Perhaps he would be the one to rise. But after seeing the Emperor, he knew everything that followed—it could only be him.
Malcador turned his head, his gaze falling upon the painting Sunflowers. In truth, he had always preferred the Mona Lisa.
"You have already done so, haven't you?" Malcador said softly. "...Including seeing me. I suppose you have already foreseen this moment?"
Neoth nodded in silence.
"Did you foresee my death?" Malcador asked, his eyes fixed on the Emperor with genuine interest. He had once glimpsed his own future—it seemed he was destined to be consumed by a fire tinged with metal, turning it a brilliant, golden hue.
Neoth's reply was cryptic: "There are still uncertainties in this world."
Malcador chuckled. "The Warp transcends time. We exist simultaneously in the past, present, and future. From the moment we are born, our deaths are already sealed."
"No," Neoth shook his head. "You have not yet encountered him... You will understand... or perhaps, you will be lucky—or unlucky—enough to never meet him at all."
Malcador had once struggled to understand what Neoth meant—but the moment he saw him—that bastard who came charging forward, shouting, "Old Mal! Old Mal!"—the Regent of the Empire realized: This is him.
Malcador realized with profound clarity that changing one's fate might not be a good thing after all.
At the very least, he had been content with his own fate: to be burned alive. For a Psyker, a Wizard, to be burned at the stake was a return to the purest form of his craft.
Malcador shook his head in silence. He didn't know what Neoth was talking about, but Neoth was always like this. He had long since grown used to it.
"You should prepare, Neoth," Malcador said. "The Warp will not remain calm for long. You must reclaim Terra, forge an alliance with Mars, and then launch the Great Crusade."
Neoth averted his gaze from Sunflowers and looked at Malcador.
"How will humanity see us?" Neoth asked.
Malcador replied with impatience, "The true saviors of humanity, the Masters of Mankind, the Emperors of Mankind—" Malcador began to laugh. "Tyrants, despots, the instigators of war—"
"Madman," Neoth said slowly.
The Master of Mankind continued to gaze unhurriedly at Sunflowers. "Do you have The Potato Eaters? It's time for a change."
"No," Malcador said. "A painting of ornamental plants is far easier to preserve than one of pity for the poor."
"Well," Neoth said regretfully, "in the eyes of the people back then, Vincent Willem van Gogh was a madman... and he was indeed mad enough."
The information in Neoth's words made Malcador frown. "You met Van Gogh?"
"Do you know that Van Gogh once supported a destitute prostitute? In fact, I was—"
"I am not interested in the artist's personal story." Malcador coldly interrupted Neoth, who resumed sipping his wine in disappointment.
"I know what you're trying to say—the geniuses of the past were confined by their era and thus seen as madmen. But you and I both know we ceased to care about others' opinions long ago."
Malcador urged him again, "We need to move quickly. Time is running short."
"No," Neoth replied, his gaze fixed on Sunflowers. The painting was a chaotic blend of yellow hues, twisting into sunflowers in a vase. Their petals were contorted and magnificent, bearing no resemblance to ordinary sunflowers. "Malcador, have you seen The Starry Night?"
"I've seen forgeries," Malcador replied impatiently. "I don't want to discuss this with you, Neoth. I mean—we have more important matters at hand."
"You should be more patient, Malcador," Neoth said, staring at him. "Vincent Willem van Gogh was the first human in history to observe the Warp and record it through his paintings."
Malcador froze. "What?"
Neoth repeated his words, "Vincent Willem van Gogh was the first human in history to observe the true nature of the Warp and record it through his paintings."
"He was painting the Warp," Neoth said. "Those twisted brushstrokes, the tentacle-like groves of trees, the sickly human figures—he was painting the Warp, Malcador."
Neoth rose and walked to the Sunflowers painting.
"And so he went mad," Neoth said. "Simply by gazing into the Warp, he was already on the brink of collapse."
"You must understand what we are about to face," Neoth continued. "Vincent Willem van Gogh was the most conscientious and resolute human I have ever known. Yet, merely by staring into the Warp, he was driven insane."
Neoth extended his hand, stopping just before the Sunflowers, as if to caress the petals.
"The Warp is far more dangerous than you and I can imagine, and we are now destined to make it our enemy. We will not merely be staring into it; we must raise our swords against it."
"They will haunt you for eternity—cursing your father, your ancestors, every distant branch of your bloodline. Your children will be subjected to their gaze, and your dearest friends will be seduced away from you—"
"Ultimately, you will descend into true madness and become one of them, or sink into the mire and become a slave beneath their feet."
Neoth clutched his wine glass. "Those with a conscience will choose to end their own lives before they truly fall, but some will always tumble down."
Neoth stared at Malcador, his golden pupils burning fiercely. Tears of shimmering gold pity dripped from the corners of his eyes...
Malcador felt a chill on his cheek. He instinctively reached out and touched the golden teardrop on his face.
We will both fall in the end.
Those words echoed in his ears one last time. Mona Lisa had left. Malcador coughed and stood up, instinctively searching for a cane to lean on, only to realize there was no such thing here.
"I told you, I did this voluntarily," Malcador murmured. He resumed his walk toward the imprisoned Hades, having already crossed the most chaotic region.
But in truth, he had already been caught.
It was not the Four Gods, but the Warp itself, just as the Master of Mankind truly feared—he feared the Warp's power would make him the King of Darkness. This was not the work of the Four Gods; it was the law of the Warp.
And the King of Darkness was not Neoth. Both Malcador and Neoth knew this all too well.
The region they had just passed through had once again strengthened Malcador's Warp projection. He was like a helpless, freshwater jellyfish, bursting from the osmotic pressure of a high-salt environment, brutally stuffed with more and more psychic energy.
Malcador and the Emperor were, in essence, still human, unlike the Primarchs who had been specifically created for this purpose.
Malcador's Warp resistance was still too low.
When you accumulated enough Warp power—this outcome was inevitable. The only difference was whether it happened sooner or later.
Malcador felt a certain power calling to him. The Warp had thrown open its gates, beckoning him to become something else, something higher, something no longer himself.
He moved forward in small, halting steps toward Hades, the Black Domain still refusing to return.
Malcador could not spare the strength to resist this process. He needed power—he needed to save Hades.
He had to fulfill his promise to Neoth—they would save humanity—and for that, he would accept any consequence.
Malcador felt himself shattering. He was being torn apart, his future reassembled, his very existence reshaped. His soul dissolved into particles, reconstructing into another form of being.
He felt himself screaming uncontrollably, collapsing to the ground and writhing in agony. Yet, in truth, Malcador's final, colossal act of will kept him moving, though he himself might no longer have been aware of it.
In his mind, he was screaming, turning to dust against a mountain in a sky of flames.
Every fragment of his mortal remains drifted in the Warp, buffeted by psychic tides and molded into a shape more suited for that place—
He finally reached it. This time, Hades had saved him. Even if that fool had abandoned his own physical shell just to eat, at least he had known to leave a protective Black Domain around himself.
Malcador collapsed into the Black Domain, its concentration just right. Yet he had to press on, unable to let this power dissipate—he needed it.
Simultaneously, as Malcador stepped into the final Black Domain, he disturbed the one aboard the Vengeful Spirit. There, the Black Domain began to slowly ebb away...
Before Malcador, a colossal giant in black armor knelt. His head was bowed, his shattered face devoid of expression, like a god awaiting awakening.
A massive spear-like arrow had pierced through his back and chest, pinning him irrevocably to the earth.
Malcador took a deep breath, walked forward, and tore the Finger Bone of the Emperor from Hades' neck. The bone was now utterly dull and lifeless.
Without a moment's hesitation, Malcador poured all the Emperor's power he possessed into that single bone.
Then, he carelessly tossed the necklace back into Hades' armor, taking one last, complicated look at Hades' face.
Well, he's still sleeping peacefully.
The white-haired youth circled behind Hades, his gaze fixed on the long arrow. Blue Feather, Blood Bone, Rotting Tooth... Chaos had spared no expense to seal this god.
Irregular cracks of black blood spread from the point where the arrow pierced, spreading across Hades's armor like the shackles of a sealing chain.
Even in the Black Domain, the arrow still radiated an incredibly powerful aura of Chaos, a force that suppressed Hades and made it difficult for him to awaken.
This was his goal here. Malcador carefully climbed onto Hades' back, reaching out to grasp the Blood Bone, which was covered in bone spikes—
"Hades... Hades..."
The youth sighed, wrinkles creeping across his face. His once-straight back hunched over again as he roared,
"WAKE UP!!!"
The moment he grasped the long spike, the chaotic power within the Arrow of Chaos surged toward Malcador like a tidal wave!
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Tn: I updated the story once every 2 days, but if you want to see more chapter of this story ahead of time, please go to my Patreon.
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[2] https://www.patreon.com/Thatsnakegirl/posts/my-life-as-death-164167815