"What's wrong with him?" A voice said softly in a muffled, hissing voice, "Although...... He's been away from us for fifty-five nights, but it still doesn't seem like anything else. ”

- This man's combination of guttural voice and many imaginary syllables is pronounced in a way that is almost like the ...... outside his window

What's outside the window?

Where is the window?

Who is he?

Who thinks in his head?

Who speaks in his head?

Chaotic and painful thoughts twitched and throbbed in the biochemical tissues beneath his skull, and he realized that he was exhausted and in terrible shape.

My Su-Ann meninges weren't activated, someone was stopping the work it was supposed to begin.

An idea burst in suddenly, like a stark scrollbar floating in a haze.

Another thought came all the more suddenly, accompanied by a black electric glow that he didn't want to look at again: they were coming. They're coming. We're coming.

Who?

Who's coming?

Is this yet another prophecy of dreams and seizures? How long has it been since he left his brothers this time?

By the way, did someone just say "Fifty-five nights?" ”

He heard the soft, vicious whispers of the dead Wargang Think Tank, the accent of Nostramo like the one mixed with sour saliva would make when it corroded human flesh and skin.

Then he recalled the visions and conversations in his broken dreams.

It seemed to be the last illusion before returning to reality from that cursed talent in the depths of the soul.

Luwyn was both unlikable and rather short-sighted and inintelligent when he was alive, but after he died—especially after his missing part below the pelvis was now nailed to his bridge, a hollow skull sight ornament across his throne, the brother was noticeably smarter and more organized.

He remembered their conversations on the false bridges, and about the meaning of their legions—domination—fear—order—humanity—battle—and everything.

Those seem to have been communicated many times through the will of their original body 10,000 years ago.

On the farthest eastern frontier, beyond the light of the Torch, the world of the rotting corpses, Thesa Guarsa, the last palace of living humanity and obsidian and the ultimate art of darkness in the Eighth Legion's talents.

Only madness and madness lead to pain deep in the bone marrow, penetrating all defenses, nothing can resist it, no one can help.

"What are you going to do in the end?" Talos stood there, amidst the wails of countless and well-maintained living faces, as ominous frost and snow as the withering and abandonment of the nostrand and abandonment stained the emaciant's temples white.

"My children, my son," he sat on a throne made of the bones of countless innocents, surrounded by castles poured with the corpses of men, women, and children, or living corpses, and the faces of the stitched men on the still living floors in the corridor outside the throne let out a never-ending wailing cry towards the ceiling.

"What are you going to do if I leave? At last? Will a killer who doesn't see the light of day turn into a cockroach that hides from the sun? Scattered by the light, eating only to survive, scavenging for a living, even if the claws are sharp, it is still terrifying, but it does not make any sense. ”

This sent a chill through the spine and nerve knots of almost everyone in the throne room.

The Prince of the Night whispered, hugging his head, his long, clawed fingers haphazardly knotting his long hair into a loop at the back of his head so that his face could be revealed.

The original is getting up.

As the primordial slowly rose from the throne room like a black, bony tower, the wails began to turn into screams of genuine fear.

"Armor for me, she's coming, I'm destined to die. Sevita. He hissed softly, "Come to me." I want you to watch. ”

The voice of a company commander broke the invisible fear in the room, "My lord, Sevita is dead. ”

"What?"

The Lord of the Night, with his snow-white temples, turned sideways towards the officers, his eyes were dull, and his dark pupils were so large that only night was like a dark ocean.

"Chief Company Commander Sevitalyon has long since passed away, my Highness."

The Midnight Lord's genetic protoplasm roared angrily in the dimly lit throne room, revealing his shark-like fangs, as if to question the rest of his faithful heir, his Raven Prince, his chief company commander, who dared to die before him.

There should have been more questions and answers and battles of the past, but memories that were not too far away for him but flashed in the Milky Way for 10,000 years began to split from the edge of his retina, falling and drifting away like icebergs from the ice caps of the continental shelf.

Like every leader and every trusted brother that the Eighth Legion has lost in the conquest and slaughter that has gone with the flow.

Eventually, they all obeyed the Primordial's orders, and every Midnight Lord present knew when their father was going to die, and where their father was going to die.

Following the will of the Father of Genes, they built the last black palace for his declining and eventual death.

None of them disobeyed their father's orders, and they all made way for the Assassins.

They were silent, and none of them raised their weapons against the daughter of Kalitus.

They witnessed the last moment when the Assassins arrived in the dark throne room, and the original body rose from the throne of bones and moved forward.

The copy that was obtained from the Temple of Kalidus by Van Zoord, who incarnated as the "Supreme", was obtained by the Midnight Lords in many copies, and was carried by the Children of the Night in the warbands that the Legion had splintered into.

Each viewing re-imprints their souls.

"Good, now, at least I can control my death."

？！

No?!

Wrong!!

Wrong!! That's not what the original said at the time! That's not what he said!

What did he say?! What should he have been, what should he have said?!

"Death is not worth mentioning, compared to ......"

—————————

The Prophet twitched and exhaled on his commanding throne, and the coils of iron chains around his neck, waist, and limbs rattled at his stiff body.

The mortal crews around them, who were trying to focus on their work, didn't even dare to breathe heavily, and in the bridge, where there was only the glimmer of the bird and the data panel, hundreds of eyes reflecting the glimmer were sneaking in on what was happening on the deck of the command throne.

The pharmacist's voice was quick and high-pitched.

"Hold him down! His heart was running out of it! Both! ”

His eyes under Talos' helmet were bloodshot, and he began to roll his eyes, and psionic blue lightning crackled around him.

"Damn it!"

(End of chapter)