"Dammekos, let's go to the theatre."
"No. I'm not going!"
Dammekos gripped the edge of his desk, unmoved by Caelan's persuasion. "I won't leave the palace!"
"Are you planning to never leave the palace for the rest of your life? If you don't flush out those assassins, you'll never know peace."
"Then don't use me as bait!"
"But among your family, you're the easiest one to assassinate."
Dammekos face tightened. It might be true, but he had his pride to think about!
"Don't worry. With me, A-Bo, and Dorn, no assassin can harm you."
Dammekos's furrowed brow relaxed slightly. "Fishing with a straight hook... will anyone really take the bait?"
"It's worth a try. Low cost."
The gods have intelligence. But the assassins holding the blades only see an opportunity. Their whispers tell them to kill the blasphemer. Even if they know it's a trap, they'll try. One success, one small cut, and their plan succeeds. Failure costs only their lives. They are willing to die for their gods.
"Well... alright." Dammekos let out a long sigh, finally choosing to relent. "But you absolutely must protect me!"
He no longer had that senseless arrogance from when the blade influenced him. Reason made him cherish his life dearly.
He was the Lord of Olympia, with plenty of time left to squander. He didn't want to fall before the dawn.
A vast galaxy awaited him. How could he fall here?
He had no great abilities nor grand ambitions. He just wanted to follow Perturabo and see different sights.
...
The Shadow Guard familiarized themselves with the route, clearing dangers. But the assassins' blades made them hard to perceive.
However, eliminating the ordinary assassins was still necessary, at least to keep the situation under control and prevent it from spiraling into complete chaos.
Despite Caelan's protection, Dammekos remained nervous throughout the journey, constantly wary of every street and alley they passed.
He couldn't help it. The repeated attacks had made him jumpy.
Dammekos looked around. "Where's A-Bo?"
The carriage held three, him, Caelan, and Dorn. Dorn, though a Primarch, wasn't his son. And he was silent.
Caelan said, "He'll come. Just not with us."
pressed, confused, "Why is that?"
"He's interrogating Lodosk."
Dammekos still felt uneasy. "What play is today?"
"Antaram."
Dammenkos grimaced. "Antaram again?"
"And by the same troupe."
Dammekos frowned. "They participated in the assassination attempt on the royal family. How were they released?"
Caelan answered, "I had Calliphone release them."
"The actors in the troupe didn't participate in the assassination. They were just innocent bystanders caught up in it. There's no need to keep them locked up forever."
"So I gave them a chance to atone for their crimes. If they performed the play they left unfinished last time, I would set them free."
However, the troupe was far from innocent.
Although their accounts were perfectly consistent during interrogation, that very consistency chilled Dammekos to the bone.
If they were truly innocent, their accounts wouldn't be so unified. They would be accusing each other to save their own skins.
How could they have been completely unaware that over a dozen assassins had infiltrated their troupe?
Dammekos wasn't that naive, and he believed Caelan wasn't either.
So the real reason Caelan released them was obvious: they were bait too.
Bait for the assassins.
Dammekos asked, "What if they don't bite?"
"Not entirely wasted. At least you'll still get to see a good show."
Dammekos remained silent. The truth was, he didn't really enjoy watching plays that much, especially when he knew there was danger lurking.
.....
"Ah! Antaram, why must you defy the gods?"
"For my kingdom! For my people! I must!"
"Oh, Antaram, why do you defy the gods?"
"For my country, for my people, I must!"
On stage, the actors threw themselves into their roles with passionate emotion. Their cadenced lines stirred the feelings of every spectator, driving the atmosphere to a climax.
This was the third act, where Antaram held aloft the Golden Apple to recruit an invincible army.
Every day, new warriors answered his call and joined this legendary legion.
And the mightiest warrior among them was his first follower, Kafon Baduna.
This warrior's swordsmanship was extraordinary; no one in any nation could match him in combat.
But he wasn't just a master of the sword. He excelled with eighteen types of weapons. Axes, sickles, warhammers, all moved as if extensions of his own body, unstoppable wherever they struck.
After consuming the Golden Apple and receiving the gods' blessing, only Antaram, a demigod, could slightly surpass him.
Kafon Baduna swore loyalty to Antaram, revering him as a father and executing his orders without question.
"Lafon Baduna! Let us fight together!"
"For freedom! For the people! For the future of humanity!"
"The gods should not rule over the mortal realm. The fate of mortals must be decided by mortals themselves!"
Led by these two powerful heroes, the Golden Apple Legion launched a grand war that swept across the world like a raging wildfire.
"Rise up, my legion! Roar, my warriors!"
"Let our howls shake the earth! Let our enemies tremble before this power!"
"For freedom! For Antaram!"
The legionaries roared as one, a sound like a mountain-shattering, tsunami-causing wave.
Caelan frowned slightly. "The plot seems different from last time?"
Dammekos nodded, "It is different. They must have made some more adaptations."
In the previous performance, although Antaram recruiting the legion was shown in detail, there wasn't such a grand, rousing oath-taking scene.
On stage, the actor playing Antaram raised the Golden Apple high. A brilliant spotlight gilded him with a sacred, golden halo.
His imposing, upright stance made him seem like a god descending to earth.
"My warriors! Today, you draw your swords not just for victory, but to defend your inherent freedom!"
"The age of the gods is over. This is the age of humanity!"
Kafon Baduna knelt on one knee. "I swear upon my life, I will follow you to the ends of the world!"
The burning, fanatical faith in the actors' eyes made this fictional epic seem utterly real to the audience.
"Are the assassins mixed in among them?"
Dammekos
nervously scanned his surroundings. He now saw every person as a potential assassin.
While adapting plays was common, with every screenwriter adding their own interpretation to ancient myths, adaptations that enriched the often dry stories and drew more people to appreciate the art, Dammekos knew assassins were lurking in the shadows. The troupe adapting the play just now seemed too coincidental, as if hiding lethal intent, making him feel like there were knives at his back.
Caelan said, "Can't tell yet. Be patient."
"Waiting for what?"
"For them to try to kill you. Then we'll know who they are."
Dammekos didn't dare speak. 'Was this how bait was used? Couldn't he just kill all the assassins?'
...
Lodosk's clouded eyes slowly focused. The actors' deafening roars on stage jolted him back to reality from a chaotic fog.
He looked around dazedly, his tattered priestly robes rustling as his body trembled.
"W-where... is this?" His voice was faint and disoriented.
Perturabo answered, "Antaram."
"What?"
"You warned me that Antaram was never just one person. What is it, then?"
Lodosk shuddered violently, groaning. "Are you sure I said that?"
Suddenly, Lodask began trembling violently, groaning in pain. "Are you sure I said that?"
"I heard it with my own ears."
Lodask lowered his head, shoving his hands deep into his dirty, greasy hair. "Perhaps... it wasn't me at all! It was the False Gods deceiving you through my mouth!"
"I'll judge for myself. You just need to tell me: what is Antaram?"
"I don't know."
"Then think carefully. The play has a long runtime yet."
"You... brought me here just to ask who Antaram is?"
"Correct."
"What if I can't give you an answer?"
"Then I will grant you a merciful death."
He kept the priest alive because he still had value. If he was lying, or worthless, he had no reason to live.
He had kept the priest because he believed the priest still had value.
But if the priest was just playing tricks or had completely lost his value, there was no need to keep him.
"You're so pragmatic!" The priest's eyes were hollow and numb. He mocked himself bitterly. "How could someone utterly without faith like you possibly understand my pain?"
"Why would I need to understand you? We are enemies. Only fools try to understand their enemies."
"Father calls such people 'sentimental'. They're not evil, but they blur right and wrong. They're easily manipulated."
"And then there are those who disregard facts, have no principles, even resorting to emotional blackmail and hurting innocents to achieve their ends. Those people are even worse, hypocrites."
Lodosk looked up at the giant, then smiled.
"I see... you do have faith."
"I don't believe in any gods."
"Your father is your god. You worship him as a god."
Perturabo argued, "They cannot be equated."
"I trust my father. It's different."
Lodosk hung his head dejectedly. "It's the same. When your faith crumbles, you'll understand sooner or later. It's all the same in the end."
Perturabo said, "We're entering the fourth act. If you still can't give me a satisfactory answer, use the time you have left for your final prayers to your gods."
Lodosk's eyes were bleak.
eyes were desolate. "There are no gods anymore. No more. The gods fell long ago!"
"The King of Kings, the Goddess of Life, the Goddes of Fate, the God of War, the God of Death... They have already..."
His lips moved silently. His voice faded. The Primarch leaned closer, but only heard the faintest breath.
"They're all dead," the priest screamed inwardly.
"The False Gods murdered them, dragged them out of their divine realms, and devoured them."
"It was the end. I witnessed it!"
"Avenge them. You know what to do."
"Last priest of the gods, hear their wails in the Warp. Complete their final revenge!"
"Take courage, my servant. You have only one chance!"
The priest's fingers unconsciously touched his chest. The black dagger was somehow pressed right against his heart, its icy blade radiating bone-chilling cold.
The priest's gaze was vacant. He had clearly handed the dagger to Perturabo. Where did this one come from?
The next moment, memories flooded back into his mind.
Ah, he remembered.
It dawned on him: this was the dagger he had used to pry open the stone tablet!
So he had two daggers.
One came from the False Gods. Their whispers tempted him, weaving traps with sweet lies.
One came from the true gods. That was their final gift, forged from the flames of vengeance.
Now, he held the dagger.
With a deadly weapon in hand, the urge to kill arose.
Kill him. Kill the Blasphemer.
He was powerless against the False Gods' whispers, but at least he could end the Blasphemer's life with his own hands.
The Black Blade was within reach now, and the Blasphemer was completely oblivious to the impending danger.
He should have searched him. Then perhaps this Black Blade would have been found.
Or maybe not.
When he was imprisoned, those foolish mortal guards had searched him thoroughly, yet remained blind to the Black Blade hidden on his body.
This sacred blade from the true gods seemed to exist between reality and illusion. Only a chosen believer could touch its edge.
All he needed was to carve an insignificant wound with the Black Blade, and the gods' purifying flames would burn away the Blasphemer's sins.
His cause would have a successor. The Blasphemer would fight against the False Gods in his place!
"Look! He's completely focused on the stage! This is a golden opportunity!"
"Do it! Just one wound, the tiniest scratch..."
"Water it with his blood!"
'Where were these voices coming from?' The priest gripped the blade, wondering.
'Were they from the False Gods? Or the true gods?'
'No the true gods had long since fallen, leaving only echoes wailing eternally in the Warp.'
'They suffered so much. Died so horribly!'
"Just like the Eldar gods." Someone's voice was choked with sobs, yet shedding joyful tears with pathos. "How delicious... I mean, tragic! So tragic they were!"
"Who are the Eldar gods?" Lodask was stunned. 'Who was this? Weren't they kicked out?'
"Don't listen to their nonsense. They're insane."
"Exactly! Grab the dagger and fulfill your mission!" a voice interrupted his thoughts, urging him on.
"Time's almost up, you know~" a saccharine voice suddenly cut in, with spine-chilling cheerfulness. "Hesitating won't please your new master."
Lodask clutched his head in pain. "I only believe in the true gods! Get out of my head!"
I don't have a new master! No!
"We are the true gods!"
"My last priest, help me!"
"Seize the moment! Complete this sacred offer... redemption!"
"Don't believe the False Gods!"
"Hee hee, someone's anxious~" laughter like silver bells suddenly came from the shadows.
"Death to the False Gods!"
"Seconded."
"Seconded."
The voices merged into three, joining forces to resist once more.
They couldn't completely stop it, because the dagger contained the imprints of their respective powers. The moment they relaxed, It would take advantage.
"Time is almost up."
The fourth act was about to end. The assassin of the Murder Cult had already plunged the Black Blade into Antaram's throat.
He had to complete his mission too.
"I must assassinate Perturabo, the Third Incarnation of Antaram."
Each strand of fate was pulled by the gods' mighty power, tangled into knots long beyond unravelling.
Their destinies were intertwined, mutually dependent.
They would ultimately die in the Wrath of the King of Gods. The gods had written the verdict on the tapestry of fate. History would repeat itself in an endless cycle.
Whether Antaram or Perturabo, their struggles would only add a touch of amusing entertainment for the gods.
They could not escape their destiny.
"One kill! Four kills!"
Lodask gripped the dagger tightly. This was his mission.
The gods were dead.
This was their remaining, final gift.
Only the God-Chosen could pick up the gods' gift.
Only the God-Chosen could write the destined ending.
Only he could complete the mission the gods had given.
"DIE, BLASPHEMER!"
The assassin on stage struck. The black dagger pierced Antaram's throat. Blood sprayed, staining the golden apple branch. This wasn't the play. The hero was dead. The killing had just begun.
"Kill the dog king! Death to the Blasphemer!"
Assassins hidden among the audience tore off their disguises. Using the Black Blades' reality-warping properties, they made their presence exceptionally faint.
The guards were completely unaware of their existence as they silently crept towards Dammekos and Caelan.
When they struck, their blades aimed straight for the necks of the two men!
"Here we go again." Dammekos was numb to it, sitting as steady as a mountain in his seat.
He had figured it out.
If Caelan could protect him, he wouldn't die even if he stayed put.
If Caelan couldn't protect him, he would die even if he ran.
So why run?
Clang!
The moment the black dagger pierced the psychic barrier, blasphemous runes on its blade emitted an eerie glow.
The azure barrier Caelan had conjured five meters away melted like grease. That dagger seemed capable of dissolving any harm caused by psychic powers!
But there was a second obstacle between them and Caelan.
Bang!
An assassin's head exploded like a smashed watermelon. A spinning kick caved in another assassin's chest, who then crashed like a ragdoll into a third assassin.
All of this happened within a nanosecond.
Mortal senses couldn't perceive the assassins' presence, but in the Primarch's eyes, these assassins were just like blurred, censored images.
They were distorted and fuzzy; even the Primarch couldn't see their features clearly and might subconsciously ignore them. Yet he could still sense them beforehand.
With him here, Father would never be harmed!
In the corner of the theater, Perturabo's gaze indeed fell upon the unfolding assassination on stage.
Rodask beside him suddenly twisted his face into a ferocious expression. A cold gleam flashed under his priestly robes. A black dagger struck at the Primarch's arm like a viper.
"Just one wound... just one wound is enough!"