Cold. Shaking.
The instant his consciousness reconnected with his soul, the Farseer sprang up from the ground like a marionette jerked by invisible strings.
He subconsciously scanned his surroundings. Wherever his gaze landed, he saw his comrades standing in complete silence. Their faces were both familiar and strange, like phantoms stepping out from the deepest recesses of his mory.
The Farseer's heartbeat abruptly accelerated. The final fragnted images lingering in his mind intertwined with the scene before him, leaving him montarily unable to distinguish reality from illusion.
'My comrades—'
His body trembled slightly. His throat tightened as if choked by an invisible force, making even breathing difficult. His fingers curled inward and then relaxed, yet he never dared to reach out and touch them.
He had witnessed the slaughter of his comrades with his own eyes. The radiant glow of their Spirit Stones had extinguished entirely in that mont, resembling falling stars.
Those wicked monkeys must have forged so venomous pact with The Youngest Lady of the Warp, leaving this ancient and noble race entirely powerless to resist.
In a split second, all their power and wisdom had been reduced to nothing, leaving them as nothing more than lambs to the slaughter.
The Farseer felt a profound wave of helplessness, as if all his pride and dignity had been utterly pulverized into dust.
'And now?'
He lowered his head to stare at his own hands. The palms of his spiritual form still bore the lingering scars of the past.
At this mont, he had already beco a re dessert on The Youngest Lady's dining table, awaiting his destined consumption.
The surrounding scenery twisted and turned grotesque in his imagination, resembling a ticulously choreographed farce designed solely to amuse the lofty Youngest Lady.
He gritted his teeth, struggling to control his expression so that his inner terror would not leak out.
Even in the final monts of his existence, he refused to let his race's glory be disgraced through his actions.
However, right at the exact second his ntal defenses were at their frailest, Rases's psychic energy quietly seeped in. Like an invisible, winding vine, it slowly coiled around his soul.
Those psychic tendrils probed silently into the depths of his consciousness, beginning to extract the information they desired.
'The operation in the Eye of Terror failed. We could not find a way to restart the forge on the Crone World of Belial IV. The Youngest Lady's minions forced us into a corner, leaving us no choice but to abandon the Sword of Souls: Vilich'zar.'
'Our race has truly fallen. Perhaps I was wrong. The prophecy dictated that we would never attain the Power of the Death God to save our comrades. Is that simply our fate? Even after I convinced the Seer Council, does it still end like this?'
Rases raised an eyebrow.
This Aeldari Farseer was actually quite self-aware. On top of that, it seed the Aeldari were currently so destitute they could not even manage a proper archaeological expedition.
'Fortunately, the information regarding the Sword of Souls remained undiscovered in the end. The Spirit Stones of several lords were recovered in ti, avoiding a terrible descent into the Sixfold Palace.'
'Afterward, the chosen of Cegorach, the Laughing God—a Solitaire—brought us a strategy for salvation.'
'Oretan. This ancient, incomplete world now occupied by humanity and renad Optus, harbors a Giant Soulstone.'
'When The Youngest Lady let out her first cry, the ancestors of this planet had no ti to flee. They could only abandon their physical bodies in the material universe and seek shelter within the Infinity Circuit to escape the reaping that engulfed more than half the Galaxy. And they were the very Planet Shapers who had crafted Belial IV.'
'This ti, we absolutely cannot fail. I will seek the aid of our dark cousins. The prophecy cannot be trusted; everything hinges on what we do in the present.'
'...We cannot afford to fail.'
Feeling the thick despair transmitting from those thoughts, Rases withdrew from the Farseer's mories.
He had to admit his lack of respect—this guy was actually a rare, decent individual among the Aeldari.
Yvraine's Ynnari forces wouldn't even erge for another two hundred years, yet this fellow had already started searching for the Sword of the Crone to awaken the God of the Dead ahead of schedule. He had even pinpointed the most powerful blade right off the bat.
Rases's gaze flickered slightly. Various pieces of information regarding the God of the Dead surfaced in his mind; the records hailing from the Gas Workshop Black Library were vividly clear in his mory at this mont.
Unfortunately, because of the existence of the Warp in this universe, one's fate still dictated a great deal of the outco.
Rases couldn't help but feel a sliver of sympathy for this Aeldari Farseer. When his eyes landed on the Farseer once more, they carried a hint of pity.
Before Yvraine, the chosen Emissary of Ynnead, made her appearance, not a single Aeldari could draw the Sword of the Crone. This was simply destiny.
"You really are quite different from the rest of the Aeldari. In my mory, the only one comparable to you would be Eldrad Ulthran of Ulthwé."
Rases revealed his physical form, his silhouette slowly materializing from the void as a golden-red phantom. He stared directly at the Farseer, bearing a trace of scrutiny and curiosity.
Initially, he had planned to simply dispatch Slaaneshi Daemons to handle the quota, but now, he had developed a slight interest in conversing with the captive.
With a light wave of his finger, the surrounding air seed to freeze for a split second before resuming its natural flow.
"Ulthran."
As Rases's voice entered his perception, the Farseer smiled—a smile laced with bitterness and resignation. He was not surprised that this widely renowned Great Farseer was known to his captor.
At the sa ti, he harbored no shortage of envy toward the individual who, through masterful maneuvering, had kept Craftworld Ulthwé standing strong in the Galaxy throughout ten millennia of chaos.
His eyes lowered slightly, as though reminiscing about sothing.
"That old geezer's prophecies have never been perfectly accurate. What truly commands admiration is the exceptional foresight bestowed upon him by age and relentless self-reflection."
"And he still managed to beco the Great Farseer of Craftworld Ulthwé with that track record?"
Rases couldn't help his surprise.
"I cannot speak for the other Craftworlds, but Ulthwé—"
The Farseer chuckled. Whether he had simply given up or adopted a fatalistic acceptance, he surprisingly answered every question thrown his way.
"They are constantly plagued by minor troubles. It hardly looks like they are rigidly following prophecies; rather, it seems they are continuously attempting to break free from the vicious cycle of predestination."
"Are you doing the sa?"
Rases was thoroughly entertained; the little anecdotes from the locals were always fascinating to hear.
"Yes, I am."
The Farseer stated frankly, no longer concerned with protecting this deeply hidden secret.
"The prophecy told that the God of the Dead would awaken in two hundred years. It would happen on Biel-Tan, in Commorragh, or on Iyanden, but absolutely not in my holand. I refused to accept that. I deceived the progeny who always believed in , and I led them to their deaths."
"I defied fate, yet I still marched them straight to their demise. Corollon will also collapse under the threat from beyond the Galaxy. Everything will end, and they will beco holess Sons of Asuryan."
It wasn't that the Aeldari had failed to realize the nature of these so-called prophecies—the very actions they took after listening to a prophecy were precisely what guaranteed its fulfillnt.
But they truly had no other choice. If they ignored the prophecies, they simply could not endure the consecutive, devastating losses that followed.
Just like his current predicant. He had defied fate and forcefully led his comrades to reclaim Oretan's Spirit Stone, only to end up dead himself.
The Farseer's laughter was sowhat dry. He was more than a little desperate by now.
To believe was death; to disbelieve was also death.
"Co, minion of Slaanesh."
Perhaps this brief conversation had allowed him to shed his final burdens, leaving his face etched with a resolute fearlessness. The Farseer declared,
"Unleash whatever tornts you have. The Sons of Asuryan are disciplined and resilient; we are nothing like our depraved dark cousins."
"..."
'If I actually were a Slaaneshi Daemon, you'd be crying your eyes out by now.'
Over this recent period, he hadn't skimped on capturing Dark Eldar and Aeldari corsairs, helping the Sharks interrogate them for the whereabouts of the Voidglass.
Those Archons and Corsair Princes acted incredibly tough when they were first captured, but the mont they were tossed into the Slaanesh sector of The Enclave, they spilled everything within seconds.
"I do not believe I have dulled your perceptive abilities."
Rases spoke tentatively, intending to offer a gentle reminder.
He personally had no mood for torturing people. If this captive was willing to cooperate, he wouldn't mind keeping the pressure low. After all, he wasn't a Daemon.
Of course, if the Farseer strongly requested it, he wouldn't mind summoning four Slaaneshi Daemons to keep him company.
"Hah, minion of Slaanesh, what nonsense are you spouting? This—"
The Farseer also felt quite taken aback. This encounter in the Warp was undeniably completely different from what he had anticipated.
'Huh?'
'Wait, I hadn't noticed until just now.'
The Farseer suddenly realized that the heart-palpitating dread that normally accompanied speaking The Youngest Lady's true na was completely gone.
From the mont of their birth, every Aeldari was marked by Slaanesh. Their souls were constantly, unceasingly fed upon by this Evil God, who had been nurtured and fattened by the very emotions of the Aeldari race.
The Craftworld Aeldari combated Slaanesh through strict restraint. To this end, they had invented a lifestyle known as The Path, allowing them to focus absolutely on a single discipline without being corrupted by extre desires and emotional volatility.
Additionally, upon death, their souls could enter the Spirit Stones bound to them. As long as these stones were recovered in ti and integrated into the Craftworld's Infinity Circuit, they could join the Ancient Wisdom, guiding their descendants to survive within the Galaxy.
Yet, all of this was rely a stopgap asure.
Stars would inevitably burn out over the passage of ti, and mighty empires would eventually crumble into ruin.
The Craftworlds housing the Infinity Circuits were no exception.
Over ten millennia, a considerable number of Craftworlds had fallen. Their shattered fragnts drifted through the cosmos, so even forming the planetary rings of certain worlds.
And the souls trapped within them would naturally plunge straight into the palaces of Slaanesh.
Now, one might ask: if an Aeldari is dood to be devoured and tortured by Slaanesh upon death, why not simply obliterate their own soul beforehand?
Because it couldn't be obliterated. Or rather, they could not find a painless thod to do so.
Throwing oneself directly into the raging tides of the Warp or taking a seat on the Golden Throne could indeed erase one's existence, but the agonizing experience wouldn't be much different from falling into Slaanesh's clutches.
Aeldari souls were simply too powerful. When the Old Ones created this race, they must have poured their entire understanding of the Warp into them.
During ancient tis, this race couldn't even figure out how to kill themselves, which drove them to increasingly extravagant extres on their path of hedonistic excess.
'And now...'
'Where exactly am I?'
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