The flow of fate has changed again.

The Lord of Change in the Crystal Palace is laughing wildly because of this. His laughter was wanton and mad, tearing at the space around him without hesitation, even if it was his own realm, his own chamber. He had been doing this for a long time: time in the subspace was always incalculable, but the realm had been reforged nine times in the laughter of the Lord God, and Tzeentch was clearly not ready to stop.

Although Tzeentch could not have explored every possibility of the future in this universe - He is the Lord of all changes, forever chasing unpredictable changes, and "omniscient" means that "every change can be predicted", which is contrary to His nature. And now, the flow of fate is changing frequently in a way that He cannot control, cannot predict, and can barely interfere with.

The introduction of microvariables has made the future of the entire universe obscure. The future has always been fickle, but to such a point that it is so fickle that for this chaotic power, it is also a literal "groundbreak". Not far from him, both of Carlos's heads looked shy, and his feathers, which were not very shiny, were even more gray than ever. Clearly, he had overwhelmed his powers by trying many times in a short period of time at the request of his master to get a glimpse of the "future" beyond his sight.

The Lord of Change didn't care about these little things, but continued to use his superb magic to pick the fragments he needed in the chaotic future of the subspace, deducing what he wanted to know at the moment, trying to find an opportunity for him to intervene and direct the fate of a grain of dust in the real universe in the direction he was happy to see. It's hard, there's another being that is hindering him all the time, and it may take a long time to decide the winner with the other party, but it's okay, the Lord of Change doesn't lack time.

There is a connection between everything, and he only plucks the strings in an inconspicuous position, and over time, this subtle vibration will be transmitted with the trajectory of fate, constantly flowing between things and things, people and people, and things and things, accumulating energy in the process, until finally setting off a magnificent wave-

But when will the waves finally hit the shore? Even Tzeentch, who orchestrated all this, couldn't tell. What can mortals use to avoid such calamities that originate in any place where they are ignorant and unconscious?

The mad laughter in the Crystal Demon Palace has not stopped, but the Lord of Change has already made a decision.

He had to meet his other brothers, and he couldn't wait for that: if there was another player on the side of the board, it would be a great thing for them.

——

Believers serving the god of war walk slowly in a sea of blood.

His name doesn't matter, his appearance doesn't matter, his past doesn't matter, and his exploits don't matter. He was nothing more than a mortal scarred, walking slowly through a battlefield made of the shells of the dead and the blood that flowed from them, and was the only living man among them.

He was thus allowed to proceed in such a decadent, miserable, and uncommendable manner: all the enemies around him had fallen, and the blood-stained souls of the cowardly and the defeated had drifted into the subspace and become him, the only survivor and therefore the only victor, sacrificed to the god of war.

But the person himself was unaware of this.

It doesn't matter whether his means of victory are unscrupulous, honorable, or fair. Importantly, he's the only one here who can still breathe. This should have been enough to prove his victoriousness, but it was precisely because he was a worshipper of the god of war that he was still terrified and did not dare to enjoy the rest after the victory: what would my lord think of this victory? I have not faced any strong enemy head-on, but I have barely survived on the battlefield, and I am lucky enough to be the last survivor - will my lord agree that this is a victory?

He did not know how to write, and he could not have any intellectual attainments, and the worship of the Lord of Blood and the Lord of Skulls was only due to circumstances: his tribe believed in this power of chaos, and he had naturally become a believer since he was a child living among these people. In his trepidation, he wanted to ask the tribal wizard about it, even if it would make it worth it to get him two sticks on the top of his head. But then, among the cascading corpses, he found the man he was looking for: an iron sword with an obsidian inlay on the hilt and a broken blade, with a hideous face and cracked eyes, lying on his back to the ground, and his loin-down body was missing.

There is no doubt that the wizard is dead.

Civilization is not high here, and under the splendor of the god of war, the creatures that inhabit this planet have invested all the resources they can find into endless and meaningless wars, and humans are no exception. This is a common occurrence on planets that have sunk into subspace. The only survivor of the battlefield had no education other than the use of weapons and combat - he was so young that he didn't know what to do for a while, and was at a loss.

He stood stupidly in front of the wizard's corpse for a moment before he realized that this was not the way to go. He needed to do something to calm his troubled mind so that he could enjoy the rest of his life with peace of mind. After thinking for a while, he chose to snatch the half of the iron sword from the long-dead wizard and began to try to find a way out on his own:

The newborn calf is not afraid of tigers, the unknown is fearless, or anything like that can be used here. In short, the young lucky man, who had little decent education, decided to perform a sacrifice to the gods he and his tribe served, asking the gods themselves if such a "victory" could be recognized.

Of course, he himself did not know how to accomplish something like this, or what the price would have to pay to accomplish it. He just remembered that he had seen the wizards of his tribe do something similar, and decided that he wanted to replicate them according to the thin impressions he remembered. He once again made a purposeful tour of the battlefield with the broken iron sword, this time to collect the heads of the warriors.

The warriors of the tribe always wore more ornaments on their bodies and heads, which was what he used to strive for. He had worried about whether he would be able to please his god by sacrificing such heads, which he had not killed, but when he began to try to cut off the heads of these people with a broken sword, the thought disappeared from his mind without a trace: for no other reason than to "cut off someone's head" was much more difficult than he had originally thought.

He knew that the number of the gods he served was eight, but he had barely survived a fierce battle, and he really didn't have that much physical strength to expend. Only four warriors had been decapitated, and the amount of work was already exhausting. For a believer, unqualified, at this moment, boredom prevailed due to excessive exhaustion, and the only survivor of this war thought to himself: So be it. and decided to use only these four heads as ritual offerings in order to fulfill his wish.

He couldn't have done it. The holy number is wrong, the sacrifice is wrong, the altar is wrong, the prayer is wrong, and the prayer is wrong. It was a false sacrificial ritual that should have been nothing more than a terrible rage for him, even if anything would have drawn attention to him. But when he piled up his only four heads in the shape of a tower on a small platform made of makeshift clay, and knelt down in front of this humble altar to pray, words that were not in his mind flowed out through his tongue:

"I beg the great god of war to cast his gaze. You are the Lord of all warriors in heaven and earth, the patron saint of glory and justice, the Necoc Yaotl, the servant of us as Titlacauan, the symbol of night and wind......"

He whispered so mechanically and blankly, his eyes blankly picked up the broken sword inlaid with obsidian, and under the hollow gaze of the four heads, with a skill that he could not have possessed or could not have exercised here, he used the severed sword as a short knife, stabbed it into his chest, and cut his heart out of the gushing blood.

- Something did respond to him, something controlled him, something came here in an immaterial form, hovering over the mountain of corpses and the sea of blood.

The dusty battlefield was covered with clouds, as if heavy rain was about to fall. As if attracted by some invisible force, the bones, flesh and blood slowly floated from the ground, rolling like a whirlpool under the shadow, unnaturally compressed to a point, and then a man's figure slowly descended from it.

"That's interesting." Texcatlippoca, once again possessing a human-like form, the Almighty God who was able to walk in the material universe through this, sneered and complained, "What kind of medicine did that blue-haired mollusk take that reason, and would choose to help me?" ”

Gray smoke bubbled around him, and the originally naked man walked leisurely in the direction of the "altar". I don't know when he has the right garments on him; At some point, he picked up a cigarette between his fingers. As he smoked a cigarette, he paced up to the "sacrifice" who had summoned him to the place under the influence of Tzeentch in a crooked ritual.

The "winner" who survived this war to the end was a boy who did not look to be fifteen years old, but it was so much that there was no point in saying anything. The boy just knelt on the spot, bowed his head, and held his heart high with his own hands. The corpse was silent, but its attitude was like a sacrifice.

Texcatlipoca sneered, took the heart from the boy's hand, which he had offered involuntarily in ignorance, and thrust it back into the boy's chest.

"Something." He grumbled, took the smoke and left the planet.

Miwoo (none)

Goo Da is going to be offline for a long time, send!

(End of chapter)