This is the bonus chapter for reaching 1000 Powerstones.
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After two upgrades, the Reaper's Scythe's base damage skyrocketed to 150, its blade wreathed in a black, sinister energy that could swallow even light.
Zeke gave it a gentle swing. A pitch-black, crescent-shaped airblade roared out, striking a massive marble pillar in the distance.
The middle section of the thick marble pillar, large enough to require two people to embrace, vanished out of thin air. It was completely annihilated, leaving only neat, clean-cut surfaces.
Zeke didn't dare test it any further. The newly upgraded Reaper's Scythe definitely had more uses, but it was best not to experiment too much in this hall, lest he bring the whole place down.
After finishing his business, he would explore its other capabilities elsewhere.
"Zeke, seeing as you already have such a powerful weapon, how about the Emperor's Sword—"
"Guilliman, what did you just say? My hearing isn't too good. I suddenly remembered I have some other things to attend to. Maybe we should put off resurrecting Malcador for a bit."
Guilliman obediently shut his mouth.
Zeke took out a Shulker Box. The shell spun open, revealing the ashes inside.
The most critical moment had arrived. Zeke was also extremely curious to see exactly how the Reaper's Scythe would resurrect someone like Malcador, a person who had practically left no trace in the living world.
Without hesitation, he swung the Reaper's Scythe.
A clap of explosive thunder echoed through the skies of Macragge. Lightning shattered the darkness, and a torrential downpour began.
The civilians of Macragge ran through the streets, calling out to one another. "It's raining, it's raining!"
Inside the hall, the doors and windows were shut tight, yet a fierce wind whipped up from nowhere, howling as it swept past pillar after pillar.
The Reaper's Scythe swept up Malcador's ashes. However, the ashes didn't scatter into the air; instead, they swirled around the Scythe.
A rift tore open, several times more massive than the one created when resurrecting Sanguinius, large enough to fit a person.
The edges of the rift were densely covered in crystals that looked like shattered mirror shards.
The scenery within the rift shifted rapidly as the Reaper's Scythe began searching the entire universe for Malcador's soul.
Zeke was puzzled. Why was it just like last time? Searching like this would be impossible—were two Crone Swords still not enough?
Glimpses of stars flickered within the rift. In just a few short seconds, it displayed every corner of the real universe before finally coming to a halt.
The search yielded nothing.
Just as Zeke thought the plan had hit a roadblock, the image inside the rift froze.
Satellites orbiting planets stopped and then began to reverse in their orbits. Towering trees shrank back into saplings, and the water cascading down waterfalls flowed upwards from the bottom.
"It's... rewinding time," Guilliman stared at the scene in shock.
Unable to capture the soul in the present, the Reaper's Scythe had actually begun to erode the river of time in reverse.
The images within the rift flashed by like a filmstrip completely out of control.
The sky-blotting sea of fire on Terra, Magnus's empire-destroying "phone call," and Sanguinius falling at the hands of Horus aboard the Vengeful Spirit.
To Zeke, time had always been a terrifying concept. After all, the Chaos Gods of the Warp existed simultaneously in the past, present, and future, which made them incredibly difficult to kill.
If this was the case, didn't the Reaper's Scythe now possess the power to stand against the Chaos Gods?
The images in the rift moved faster and faster.
In an instant, the scene froze on Ultramar's past.
Guilliman saw that gentle yet resilient female figure—his mother, Tarasha Euten.
"Mother..." Guilliman subconsciously reached out, but the torrent of time permitted no lingering. The scene ultimately settled on the devastated Imperial Palace on Terra, ten thousand years ago.
In a grand yet deathly silent hall, Malcador slumped weakly on the Golden Throne. Furious psychic energy rampaged through his frail, stick-like body.
He was on the verge of dying.
Zeke and Guilliman watched the endgame of history unfold.
Step, step, step. Footsteps echoed.
The Primarch of the Imperial Fists, Rogal Dorn, along with Constantin Valdor and four exceptional Sentinels, carried the heavily wounded Emperor on their shoulders as they approached the Throne.
Beside the pedestal of the Golden Throne, the Salamanders' Primarch, Vulkan, knelt on the ground, his face radiating absolute devastation.
He closed his eyes, unable to bear looking at the cruel ritual he was performing: feeding Alpha-grade psykers one by one into the Throne like firewood.
This action deepened Malcador's agony with every passing second, but it was the only way to stabilize the Golden Throne.
Dorn, the Primarch hailed as the unyielding stone, finally felt a crack form in his resolute will upon witnessing Malcador's life dimming as rapidly as a candle in the wind.
A single tear slipped from the corner of the iron-willed man's eye.
"Do not shed tears," Malcador smiled. "Vulkan, my child. In my final moments, I am glad to have had your company."
"And you, Dorn. Seeing the tears in your eyes breaks my heart. I hope you have seen enough of the world to shoulder the responsibilities of a Primarch."
Zeke watched the scenes within the rift in silence. The feedback from the Reaper's Scythe told him the opportunity hadn't arrived just yet.
Dorn and Vulkan reached out, supporting Malcador's shriveled frame.
"This is my end and my death. There is no need for sorrow, my children."
The last to step forward was the Emperor. He had slain the Warmaster Horus and was here to relieve Malcador, to sit once again upon the Golden Throne.
"Ah, it seems I am nearing the summit." Light surrounded Malcador, and in a fleeting moment, he felt it—his time had come.
The Emperor reached out to support Malcador. He dared not exert any force, fearing that the slightest pressure would turn his old friend to ash.
It was the first time Zeke saw an expression of pain on the Emperor's face; something he had never witnessed before.
Sorrow spilled out through the psychic energy, allowing Zeke to sense a fragment of His thoughts.
It was even more agonizing than He had anticipated. He feared He would never be able to speak with Malcador again, never again exchange thoughts and words with him to plan for humanity's brightest future together.
"I still remember the night you first showed the Golden Throne to me. We talked freely of humanity's future then."
Malcador looked at his dearest friend, the Emperor, his breath as faint as a silken thread.
The Emperor extended His hand. Malcador was too small, so small that he could only grasp one of the Emperor's fingers.
Malcador nodded to the Emperor, offering a faint smile, and whispered in a voice no one else could hear: "Do not be sad, do not grieve."
Then, a wind blew through the corridor, and Malcador vanished.
Malcador the Sigillite was no more; only the Hero Malcador remained.
"Now!"
The Reaper's Scythe emitted a violent, high-pitched hum that nearly shattered Zeke's arm.
Without the slightest hesitation, he took a step into that time rift.
The laws of reality pressed down on him like mountains, trying to force him back, but Zeke simply swung the Reaper's Scythe.
Malcador's dissipating soul found its only refuge, forcibly swept into the Scythe.
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Next Goal = 1500 Powerstones.