Motarian felt like he was being torn apart.

This may not be correct, because time in subspace is ambiguous, and even what happened in the past or the future may be reflected in the perception of the "present" in the person's cognition.

A more correct way to put it might be this: Mortarian was torn apart in the past, or in the present, or at some point in the future. And now he is being forced to taste that pain.

He was indeed still scorched by the Emperor's psionic energy. The golden flames continued to scorch the filth and lesions of his body, causing more damage to his already rotting shell.

Motarian's biological father was undoubtedly a highly skilled and ruthless bioengineer, and the damage was done at an appropriate rate, before he could activate the supernormal resilience that he naturally possessed as a primordial, and the new, normal body tissues defied his will and quickly filled the burned wounds, prolonging the torment endlessly.

The flames brought him pain, and so did the process of flesh and blood. The sum of the two was enough to make any mortal lose his mind in such torment—but Motarian could barely feel it now.

The feeling of being torn apart is a thousand times stronger and more terrifying.

"You damn warlord, what have you done to me!" He struggled in a sea of pain, seizing the chance to surface and confronting the one he saw as the initiator.

He saw only a misty golden light with no concrete form. St. George's large, majestic posture had dissipated shortly after they had passed through the veil, and now the rumbling answer to him was only a vague, unrecognizable human form.

"I didn't do anything to you." This sentence seemed to have been uttered by many different people, but it was indeed the voice of the "Emperor" that Motarian had heard, "What you should ask is what you have done to yourself." ”

That moment, or that eternity, countless fragments poured into Motarion's mind. The truth that he himself had been convinced of turning a blind eye, the cognition he had once been blinded by chaos, the memories that he had deliberately forgotten or deliberately stripped away, were all at once vivid in his consciousness at that moment. The proto-brains were overwhelmed by the sheer amount of information, and Mortarian screamed in the uncontrolled torrent.

The emperor seemed to say something again, but Motarian did not know. His senses faithfully transmitted to him everything that was happening around him as usual, but his already overloaded brain was unable to process its contents. In the midst of so much torture and devastation, Mortarion's consciousness was forcibly shut down at this moment due to the self-protection mechanism that any living creature should have.

But what is happening is still going on outside of the perception of the original body.

——

There is no doubt that this is the outpouring of the wrath of another deity. Even those who have served Nurgle for a long time, and therefore have a close connection with the gods, will be so convinced.

The fury was pouring out of the Imperial Dream in an almost physical way.

He is one of the finest creations on Terra 10,000 years ago, a ship designed and built by the Emperor at any cost using techniques inherited from the Age of Dark Technology. His combat effectiveness has never been on par with those later assembly line products, and even compared with the Glorious Queen-class battleships assigned to the original body as the flagship, he is also superior in various parameters.

The black holes on the keel of the huge battleship lit up one by one, and within a heartbeat, ten Nova shells had already whistled out of the chamber. On a normal Imperial warship, their plasma reactor would only support one of these cannons and fire them at an extremely irregular frequency, but on the Imperial Dream, a salvo of ten shells was only an appetizer.

These shells, which are almost the size of the Titans, have been accelerated to nearly the speed of light before they are discharged, and each one is loaded with a time-lapse fusion reactor, a deflagration storm accelerator, and a polar fusion warhead. In a battle in the Void, such a salvo would undoubtedly destroy an entire fleet in the Shooting Realm, and such a terrifying attack was being projected into the gardens and palaces of Nurgle.

Time and space in subspace are unpredictable, and as a Chaos deity, Nurgle can certainly manipulate them to a certain extent—especially in his own realm. His garden was, was, and always was, but He thought He could still throw these attacks elsewhere through the turbulence of time and space.

He first stretched the distance between the Emperor's Dream and his own garden, which was clouded over, and his or her own garden—something that would never happen in a world that followed the laws of physics: if any mortal in the garden who could maintain his or her consciousness looked up, he or she would still be able to see the majestic form of the Emperor's Flagship. But the ten shells fired by the ship, which were extremely close to the speed of light, landed a full three seconds later.

Nurgle should have used the extra three seconds to divert these shells to the desolate, unimportant, or unloved worlds of his realm. But when he did try to do so, he found that the Cursed One's psionic energy was like a stubborn glue that stuck to his garden the final landing of the cannonballs.

He tried to stretch those three seconds, solidify, lock, try to find some possibility that would preserve His garden. He spent an indefinite amount of time in those three seconds, trying countless possible solutions, even trying to throw the ship itself out of his garden—but none of them succeeded. In the end, He had to admit that he had failed.

Perhaps His old adversary could have done more in this desperate situation, but He couldn't. Moreover, Motarian's essence was so distracting from his constant wailing.

Eventually, the attack that would have destroyed an entire fleet fell on top of the corrupt but vibrant garden. The thunder and fire rain that fell from the sky completely scorched the moist and stench ground, mercilessly devouring any kind of life that grew on it in eternal destruction.

The scale of the Garden of the God of Plague is almost boundless, and the palace that towers in the center of the garden alone is already larger than an ordinary planet in size. Even an attack that could wipe out a fleet falls, destroying trillions of living beings and the soil on which they live, but that's not how things work.

For Nurgle, He loved all the beings under His command equally. A tree, a man, a great impurity, an ant, or even an inconspicuous microorganism are all the same to Him.

The sheer quantity overwhelmed the quality at this point, tilting the scales in Nurgle's heart—and besides, if he didn't say anything about it, it was clear that things would just go on. He could certainly start a war against the creation of the damned, but how many of His children would be reduced to ashes and forever out of the cycle of perfection and grace in the process?

He has lost enough in this war.

As the Emperor's cannon recalibrated again, the Father of Plague sighed and unleashed the essence of the original body in his hand, allowing it to howl in pain and melt away in the golden flames. The cursed one wants His son back, so give Him back. The great game must continue, and even if Nurgle's own power will be greatly damaged by this defeat, Nurgle, as a god who can live forever with time, believes that he will one day be able to return to the chessboard.

He thought it could be over, but it didn't. The moment Motarion's essence vanished from his fingers, the Nova Cannon on the keel of the Imperial Dream opened fire again.

- Thirteen salvos. The real war will begin at this time.

In the moment before the cannonball landed, the plague god was suddenly blessed with a roar of rage: the damned wanted more than his son, more than just to push Nurgle himself off the chessboard of the great game.

He wanted Him to die.

And this is something that Nurgle could never accept with ease.

Miwoo (six o'clock)

(End of chapter)