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Now, it was the thirteenth day since the death of the Dawn Star.
The fleets of two legions remained anchored in the orbit of the silent world. The most conspicuous "Mighty Radiance" and "Iron Blood" formed the two core pillars of this void-faring empire. Over a hundred vessels of various sizes revolved around these two glorious queens.
The two Primarchs, their respective scions, and secondary figures like Navigators, Mechanicus representatives, and mortal auxiliary forces, all revolving around the Astartes Legions, filled out this fleet, ensuring these iron beasts operated smoothly. Amidst the breathing and work of millions, even the occasional slacking off by individual entities wouldn't affect the grand scheme.
For example, a certain high-ranking advisor of the Fifteenth Legion had been holed up in her private quarters "recuperating" for ten full days.
These ten days were not entirely isolated. For instance, Ahriman visited daily. Sometimes it was a routine inquiry about the recurrence of her soul wound, other times he would simply sit down and discuss topics concerning history, knowledge, and philosophy with the silver-haired female officer. Ahriman was obsessed with these topics; he would occasionally even lose track of time, only remembering his delayed work progress when specifically reminded.
Morgana could hear a certain low-pitched guilt mixed in the tone of this elite of the Black Crow school, and her display shelf was also filled with Ahriman's gifts: two bottles of wine said to be from Prospero, a poetry collection personally penned by Ahriman, and three excellent pieces from the private library of a Thousand Sons Captain.
Second only to Ahriman, Atal came four times. He passionately inquired about Morgana's injuries, but beyond that, they had no further common topics. Therefore, his visits were always awkward and brief, maintained only by Atal's exquisite conversational skills.
However, Morgana could smell something unpleasant from him.
This good-natured Thousand Sons member sadly recounted his warrior career. In his description, it seemed he would not return to the front lines for a long time: Magnus had taken a liking to this scion's diplomatic abilities, and the Primarch was preparing to send Atal to Holy Terra as the Thousand Sons Legion's representative stationed in the heart of the Human Imperium.
Next was Phosis. This master of Librarius Arts, brimming with an elite demeanor, was less visiting than performing a routine duty. He would occasionally discuss psychic techniques with Morgana. His critical language could not hide his outstanding achievements in relevant fields. Next to Ahriman's gifted books, Phosis's gifts were also displayed: a book on his various insights, experiences, and analyses of numerous Librarius Arts. Phosis arrogantly listed every valuable opponent he had killed in the prologue, serving as the best proof of his theories' viability.
From a utilitarian perspective alone, this single book was more valuable than all of Ahriman's gifts combined.
And the last person was Hathor, Hathor, who maintained his arrogance and solitude: he could hardly be called a visitor. Overall, this master swordsman of the Brightfeather school merely followed behind Ahriman, exchanged a few awkward pleasantries, and then quickly departed.
Although the captains and warriors of the Thousand Sons visited like a revolving lantern, that was all there was to it. For most of these ten days, Morgana fully enjoyed her absolute private space.
This gave her enough time and energy to thoroughly study her precious item.
——————
After a long time, the silver-haired failed creation returned to her mental realm.
Although theoretically, this dark void was Morgana's own kingdom, she almost never returned here, because she was very aware that this vast mental wilderness did not belong to her. It perhaps belonged to the sporadically appearing gods in the distant void, or perhaps to the radiant creator hidden in her memories, but it certainly did not belong to Morgana herself.
Nevertheless, even as she walked on the almost lightless, pitch-black ground, Morgana still felt a long-lost sense of peace. It was a feeling of relief, no longer needing to pretend, no longer needing to ponder, and no longer even needing to think.
The forces intending to control her were so powerful, so powerful that the current Morgana was completely unable to resist—this paradoxically brought a sense of ease. She didn't need to maintain the tense state she kept in the outside world, because in the face of absolute power, her thoughts were useless.
But even so, she still refused to come to this place. She preferred to maintain her taut nerves, to enjoy a brief, exhausting freedom.
In the deepest darkness, the path was formless. It was entirely an extension of Morgana's self-will and sense of direction, like a muddy path covered in fresh snow. And around this narrow passage, deep blue and bright purple terrifying riddles floated, murmuring low and ceaselessly, constantly spewing various tempting whispers.
When Morgana broke through them, she had to squint her eyes.
Finally, Morgana slowly, steadily, and safely arrived at her destination: the Rift, her scar, her curse, her only territory.
It didn't seem to have changed at all, because in these past few years, Morgana hadn't absorbed more souls for herself: although those things were delicious and nutritious, as she grew, she discovered that they were not essential for her survival, even though she would indeed need them in the future.
However, in the present, when everything was not urgent, a certain deep-seated箴言 (admonition) reminded Morgana not to indulge excessively in the wonderful feeling brought by devouring souls, as it would lead to regret.
Under her cautious nature, she ultimately chose to heed this voice deep within her heart, just as she similarly heeded the advice of this voice and did not attempt to thirstily consume the souls of ordinary humans.
Therefore, when Morgana's gaze fell upon the canyon, the scene there was almost identical to what she had first seen: the land crudely split open, bottomless layers of fissures, and at the very bottom, a few streaks of pure white that Morgana could barely glimpse by straining her eyes—these were the last traces left by hundreds of thousands of devoured Eldar souls.
Oh, and on the other side, there was a dark streak: that was the soul named [Erebus]. For some reason, it was so unique and substantial.
Even Morgana's thoughts couldn't fathom why it was so special.
Amidst this ancient confusion, Morgana opened her left hand. As she chanted the incantation, the marks on her palm slowly lit up, and a fragment of Magnus's soul named [Kalimous] slowly floated out from her palm.
Manipulation, change, secrets...
Morgana was not sure if Magnus still possessed these abilities after she took them all, nor was she sure if Magnus would encounter unexpected trouble if he lacked these abilities in the future.
When she thought of these things, unlike the cold, iron-hard heart she had during the plunder in a critical moment, when Morgana recalled these sins in peaceful times, a strange emotion flashed deep within her heart.
She recognized this emotion; it was [guilt].
Guilt... What was that?
She pondered for a moment, but because this emotion merely drifted by briefly, as insignificant as a single fiber extending from a severed blade of grass, Morgana ultimately didn't dwell on it or bother with it.
The silver-haired failed creation continued to chant the incantation. As ruthless words echoed in the darkness, the soul in Morgana's palm was finally enveloped by a frosty blue light. It slowly floated up, then steadily descended towards the deepest layer of the Rift.
[Kalimous] was like a balloon wrapped in steel, crashing into Morgana's most fragmented mental region. It was silent for a while, then, like a melting sphere of mercury, it expanded outwards across the surrounding ground.
Morgana neither guided nor stopped it. In this first action, she chose to observe and learn. She witnessed [Kalimous] freely drifting within her absolute control until it extended to its maximum possible domain: at this point, this soul had covered the bottom layer of the Rift with a layer of pure white frost, as if spreading cream on the base of a black cake.
However, one place was an exception: in the pure white kingdom of [Kalimous], the black individual named [Erebus] remained exceptionally distinct and eye-catching.
What exactly is this guy's background?
Ultimately, Morgana didn't bother with him. After all, he was just a dead man.
The silver-haired lady leaped down, landing at the deepest layer of the Rift. Her long boots stepped on the freshly fallen gigantic white soul, leaving a shallow footprint.
Morgana first looked around. She was quite satisfied to see that Magnus's soul was naturally merging with the sharp edges of the fissure. After observing for a while, Morgana began to walk towards the deepest part of the fissure.
As she walked, the darkness increasingly encroached upon Morgana's surroundings. Even the sharpest light could not illuminate the path she was taking. Morgana fumbled through this pure darkness. And in the deepest part of the fissure, in a corner where even darkness would be swallowed, lay the greatest secret of this lost Primarch.
This was a naturally formed prison cell. It had at least twenty gates, and was bound by colossal chains like those of a giant beast. These protective measures were slowly created by Morgana using her own psychic power. She used all her power in this conflict-ridden land to build this indestructible prison cell.
From the moment she discovered that thing, she had been making such efforts, only to keep that thing forever locked away, never seeing the light of day, never walking in Morgana's mental world.
She walked forward, listening carefully. Through layer after layer of iron bars, the wind brought distorted wails.
Only after confirming it once more did Morgana slowly turn around and leave. She left this death row cell that held a prisoner.
In the deepest part of the fissure, this was where Morgana kept the thing she feared most, or rather...
It was the only thing she feared.
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