Chapter 497: Wounded

At Imperial Headquarters—

"The next step is preparation for the Great Crusade…"

The Emperor was briefing Malcador when—

A sudden spike of danger surged through his psychic senses.

In an instant, the Emperor drew the sword at his waist and thrust it upward toward the ceiling.

Beside him, Malcador also instinctively ignited his psychic power.

A heartbeat later—

A streak of crimson light, traveling just shy of lightspeed, crossed thousands of kilometers in an instant. It carved the entire Imperial Headquarters from south to north—

Splitting the vast land into a bottomless chasm.

Millions of civilians and support troops had no time to react; they were reduced to ash instantly—erased from existence.

Anyone who peered into the crack would see seething red magma deep below, a testament to the overwhelming force behind that strike.

If not for Terra's uniquely resilient structure, that single blow from Arik Taranis would have shattered the entire planet.

At the epicenter—

Three figures clashed in a storm of blinding speed and devastating power.

"EMPEROR!!"

Arik Taranis roared, swinging his flaming greatsword in wild arcs.

Every strike hit with the force of a warship's main cannon.

Yet the Emperor countered each blow efficiently, responding with far less effort but far greater precision.

Malcador, though weaker, wielded thousands of years of accumulated psychic discipline—enough to assist the Emperor by diverting part of Arik's attention.

Despite having superior raw strength, Arik found himself unable to overpower the two of them.

The frustration of facing opponents he could not crush only stoked his already raging fury.

His massive blade moved faster and faster, the displaced air forming hurricanes strong enough to uproot mountains.

After several exchanges, the Emperor finally recognized the twisted face beneath the demonic features.

"Arik Taranis…?" he murmured, uncertain.

He attempted to glean some information—how Arik had become this monstrosity.

But Arik did not listen.

He attacked relentlessly, muttering like a mad beast:

"Kill you! I'll kill you!!"

His hatred intensified.

And with deeper hatred came the blessings of the God of Evolution and Growth.

Arik's power spiked—his speed, strength, and technique improved before their eyes.

His blows grew sharper, more refined, more lethal.

The Emperor and Malcador gradually began to struggle against the onslaught.

Realizing that communication was pointless, the Emperor focused solely on countering.

Yet he could not help but feel a sharp tinge of regret.

Not regret for the Thunder Warriors.

Regret that the purge had not been executed more cleanly—

that he had left an opening for this catastrophe.

As for pity or guilt?

No such thing existed in his heart.

The Thunder Warriors had always been unstable prototypes—disposable by design.

If left alive, they posed a catastrophic threat to humanity's stability.

Sending them off-world was impossible; exposure to Chaos would turn them into corrupted monsters at horrifying rates.

Total eradication had always been the safest choice.

Thus, while Arik raged in madness, the Emperor simply concluded:

'My preparations were insufficient.'

He felt no sorrow for the dead.

No guilt for their loyalty.

Nothing but calculation.

In truth—

the Emperor's cold, unwavering resolve made him far more terrifying than the berserk monster before him.

A rational, capable, determined madman—

one who always knew exactly what he must do.

---

Days Later

Their battle, like titanic beasts fighting atop a fragile bubble, devastated nearly half of the American continent.

Mountains flattened. Cities reduced to dust.

The atmosphere tore open into great fissures, leaking torrents of ultraviolet radiation onto Terra.

By now, Arik Taranis had become overwhelmingly powerful, dominating the battlefield completely.

But his time in the material universe, granted by the Ascension Rite, was reaching its limit.

A crushing repulsive force pressed in from every direction—

the universe itself rejecting his existence and attempting to eject him back into the Warp.

At last, reality forced him out.

As his form was dragged into the Warp, Arik screamed:

"I will kill you! I will destroy your Empire!!

Whether it takes a thousand years—or ten thousand!!!"

His voice lingered, infused with boundless hatred,

spreading storms of madness and terror across the land.

---

The Emperor sheathed his sword.

Bloodied from head to toe, he surveyed the devastated continent with a grim expression.

He spoke to Malcador:

"Chaos has made its move. In six months, we will hold the coronation ceremony and formally establish the Imperium of Man. According to the information I've gained from Them, the Warp storms that have blocked interstellar travel for millennia will dissipate within decades. We must use this window to rebuild our foundation and strengthen the Empire."

As he spoke, blood repeatedly flowed from and receded into his wounds—his regenerative power clashing with the remnants of Arik's corruptive force.

"Yes, my lord," Malcador answered, looking far worse.

One of his arms was nearly severed.

....

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