Orsaga waited patiently after speaking.
Yet Julius only shivered on the ground, too consumed by terror to answer.
Orsaga did not raise his voice. Instead, he said evenly, with the same calm he would use to discuss the weather:
"If you don't answer within ten seconds, I'll peel the skin from your body."
There was no malice in his tone—just unshakable certainty.
Orsaga had always been like this. Even when he destroyed worlds, he did it with the same unsettling serenity. Why would he waste emotion on something so trivial?
But Julius did not see serenity. He saw death.
His psychic senses betrayed him with visions of his own skin being stripped away, his corpse dangling like dried meat.
Heart pounding, he forced a crooked smile and lowered his head, stammering out:
"...In truth… I only face an enemy too powerful. I wish for the strength to defeat him…"
Orsaga's vertical eye flicked casually through the void, tracing Julius's timeline. In doing so, he caught a glimpse of Terra—where another figure rose.
Not Rā.
The Emperor.
'So… that is the path he chose.'
The future sprawled in infinite branches, most even Orsaga could not capture. But one truth remained constant: the Emperor would be thrust to the crest of destiny's wave.
Seeing him now, standing openly beneath that title, Orsaga quietly adjusted his plans.
As for the trembling mortal kneeling before him? After a brief pause, Orsaga decided to play along.
If Julius, bolstered by his aid, somehow struck down the Emperor and inherited the destiny meant for him, then so be it. One pawn could always be exchanged for another.
In Orsaga's eyes, the game would proceed regardless.
With a low chuckle, he finally answered:
"Very well. I'll give you a chance."
Before Julius could rejoice, Orsaga's tail whipped forward, piercing his skull and driving deep into his brain. Something alien flooded inside.
The agony was indescribable—boiling acid poured into every nerve. Julius barely had time to scream before Orsaga flung him back into the mortal plane.
Watching from afar as the Emperor fought against a warlord's army on Terra, Orsaga smiled cruelly.
"A one-man play is dull. I've given you a rival worth watching~"
---
Back in Albayun, Julius convulsed in torment.
Every nerve spasmed violently. Blood erupted from his pores like a fountain. Steam hissed from his skull as though his very brain were boiling.
Howling, he staggered forward and threw himself into the sacrificial blood pool, thrashing violently.
His followers panicked, rushing to his aid. Some came with genuine loyalty. Others, hungry for power, saw their chance—if Julius died here, they could seize his throne.
But as they drew closer, Julius's metamorphosis neared completion.
One soldier, feigning concern, leaned close with outstretched hands.
"My lord, let me pull you out—"
He never finished. Julius's screams had stopped. His eyes now burned with murderous fury.
"My lord, I only meant—"
A torrent of psychic lightning burst from Julius's hands, vaporizing the man instantly. His armor crumbled to ash, the blast gouging a crater meters wide and dozens deep into the ground.
Julius turned his gaze on the others. He could feel their hidden malice, their treachery. With a flick of his hand, more arcs of warp lightning leapt out, annihilating each betrayer in turn.
The rest froze in fear.
Julius had always been powerful—an elite psyker capable of ripping tanks apart with a single blast, of burning towns to ash with fire conjured from the warp. On a world without heavy weapons, he was a catastrophe incarnate.
Now, empowered further, his might had grown beyond comprehension.
And Julius knew it.
Each death filled him with a surge of strength—palpable, permanent.
Then, a whisper burned into his mind:
[Heart of Slaughter]: Every time you slay a living being with your own hands, you will permanently absorb ten percent of their strength. Let us see how far you can rise. —The Crimson King
For a heartbeat, Julius froze. Then manic laughter tore from his throat.
"Hahaha! Hahaha!"
The Crimson King had not lied. He had been granted the power to stand against the Emperor himself.
What Julius failed to consider was the missing piece—
If he kept ten percent of each kill… where did the other ninety percent go?
Orsaga, of course, would have only smiled. A king always collects his tribute.
.....
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