Serious People, Who is Learning Magic at Marvel?

Heart season.

Distraction on the battlefield is not a good thing, and ordinary people will only die if they do so. But Angron was different. He was qualified to do so - a Nurgle demon came running from behind him, waving his claws and trying to sneak up. The Lord of Red Sand's reaction was very simple. He didn't even turn his head back, but simply waved his arm back.

"boom--!"

A huge roar accompanied his movements from above everyone's heads, and a huge cloud of smoke kept growing and dying above their heads, expanding. It is composed of ice and fire, and the manic flames are intertwined with the extremely cold freezing fog, but the fusion of each other produces a more dangerous reaction.

Among them, only Angron could see a black spot in the smoke.

The eyepiece zoomed in, and a familiar helmet clearly appeared in his eyepiece, battered and devoured by the explosion in the next second. Angron sighed. The feeling of Xinji disappeared, and another emotion rose from his heart. It was a primitive emotion belonging to human beings, an emotion that has been affecting human beings since the beginning of their birth.

Somewhere, a god began to laugh wildly in his ear.

"Shut up, scum," Angron said. Then step forward.

The Nurgle demons around him all stopped moving. Among them were brainless corpses, demons carrying the blessing of the evil god, beasts without wisdom, and the weakest but everywhere. Nurgling. They didn't attack, they stopped roaring, and the hunched and swollen corpses were the first to melt.

Its twisted and deformed skull was shattered in furious flames, and Angron began to walk. The golden lightning wrapped around the Lightning Axe began to gradually turn into scarlet flames, like blood, but completely different. He put the giant axe on his shoulder and slowly took off his helmet.

A face showing nothing but anger.

He swings his axe.

Waves of fire gushed out from his axe, forming a waist-high sea of ​​scarlet fire on the ground, and countless demons were dried up by the flames in an instant, leaving only a few twisted bones screaming - they were all screaming. The flesh and blood that was scorched into liquid squeaked in the flames, and together with their screams, relieved Angron's nerves little by little.

Angron just went forward, forward, and then on. The axe kept swinging as he advanced, tearing apart the ugly flesh and blood. Those corrosive pus and blood splashed in the air, and in the next second, they were completely burned by the scarlet flames and became the waste in the air. With their flesh, with their bones, with their soul.

He doesn't speak, doesn't roar, quietly and completely like two people before. But with such a simple walk, no demon could resist him. There is a steady stream of them, and the number of demons in the magic tide is exaggerated to be uncountable, otherwise, the Wanfu Group will not be caught in such a hard fight.

However, no demon could stop him.

The simple principle of judging strength and weakness lost its validity at this time, and this was not any kind of killing method familiar to the Custodians or the Astartes. Not stabbing a blade into the vertebrae of demons or smashing their heads with a bolter, not psionic spells or orbital bombardment. It's a form of human anger, and it's terrifying.

The demons were screaming, the Astartes were speechless. And the Custodians—they are still fighting, but many people are staring at Angron's face, their eyes are already full of other emotions.

Among these people was Trajan.

He knows the truth, or more precisely, a part of the truth. But when he really saw that face, some other emotions couldn't help but come up. The Marshal of the Imperial Guard took a deep breath and diverted his attention. He tried to mobilize some fighting enthusiasm left in his body, so as to quickly exterminate these demons.

But he can't.

He couldn't, for a voice was whispering in the head of the Custodian Marshal.

+ Trajan, get ready.

+

+What, Your Majesty? +

+run...+

Trajan stood silently on the spot. He looked around and found that the Imperial Guard had all stopped. At this time, he knew that this message was not just for himself. His lord would do the same a long time ago, just before they went into battle to kill the enemy, his lord would use psychic power to communicate with everyone and name each of them.

It had been 10,000 years since the last time he saw such a scene.

Then, a voice came from behind them.

From the depths between the thrones.

It was not a sound that humans should make, it sounded like a horn of war, and it was as loud as thunder. Like the bone-scraping cold wind in the coldest place, like the violent sound of a volcano erupting. But if Trajan were to describe it, he would say, it reminded him of a scene he saw in his childhood.

A porter, in order to earn more money, carried three times more goods than others in one trip. That was the sound he made from between his teeth as the weight of those things pressed against his crest. It rattled and was uncomfortable.

Because that was the sound of being overwhelmed and dying.

The porter died because of his greed and because he had three children to support at home. He was crushed by the cargo and broke the crest beam and rolled down the cliff. And what about their emperor?

Will he die?

Trajan suddenly felt a great fear, which almost made him breathless--Your Majesty told me to run? Why? This is the heart of the empire, the most sacred place, why should I run?

His answer was answered in the next second.

Countless voices came from between the thrones, each of which was different and had its own will. The sounds overlapped in a bursting echo, again like a tidal wave. Wave after wave, never ending. Every demon in the magic tide died the moment they heard the sound, and the death was extremely simple. They let out a short cry, and then fell to the ground and turned to ashes.

The scarlet sea of ​​fire faded away, and Angron's face was only calm. He picked up the axe and stared intently at the closed door opposite.

The monks of the Imperial Fist have completely lost the ability to speak, even Maximus. His heart rate soared because he couldn't understand the situation in front of him.

The never-ending sound reached its peak after a long or short period of time, and everyone present lost the ability to perceive time. One second may be a year, and a year may be less than a second. This absurd illusion made Tula really have the urge to laugh. He wanted to bow his head or move his neck, but he couldn't.

No one can move.

The sound stopped.

"Ugh......"

A sigh came from the closed door, and then it was pushed open. The huge door several hundred meters high was pushed open by two bronze-colored hands. It was rough, with the simplicity of a laborer, and it was covered with calluses. It is not the calluses forged by holding a weapon, but the calluses forged by holding a hoe and weaving a basket.

A sad face appeared in front of everyone, with black eyes and black hair. Metal-cast leaves weave a crown over his head. His long hair was tied up and swayed slightly as he walked.

This Eurasian barbarian from ancient Terra, dressed in a robe, came out of the throne room without any weapons.

He moved his fingers without looking at anyone. The golden light enveloped everyone and made them all leave here. Trajan tried to move away from the golden radiance, and at the last moment he took part of the power within him. But the barbarian glanced at him, stopped him, and left here with everyone.

He put his hands behind his back, looked around, and saw that this great hall, which was built by countless talented craftsmen who spent their lives, was tarnished to what it is today, and let out a heartfelt sigh. Tears rolled down from his eyes, and behind him, from the slightly opened door, came a shrill laughter.

"You came down, you lost."

"No one wins," the barbarian responded, with an undisguised weakness in his voice. "We all lose, we all die. But humans don't."

He waved his finger again, and golden brilliance surged from the door. The fiery temperature and astonishing pressure instantly transformed everything inside into endless light and heat. And the barbarian stood there, as if waiting for someone.

A burst of blue light appeared, and a man in a black robe stepped out. He was tall, thin, and pale. The golden eyes are like two suns shining in their sockets.

"It seems like the first time we've had a face-to-face conversation," the man said with a smile.

"Yes." The barbarian nodded slightly, tears still streaming down his face. "I wish I could talk somewhere else, a quieter place."

"If possible, I hope we don't have to meet like this. Don't blame yourself, it's normal for you to be blinded by Tzeentch, and you can't see what's going on in the palace. No one can do everything."

"I'm not blaming myself." The man smiled brighter. "You're dying, is there any chance of recovery?"

The barbarian shook his head calmly.

"No, there must be other ways. Ascension to God, or transforming other life forms, listen, I have many ways, we can try-"

"—No need," interrupted the barbarian. "This ending cannot be changed."

"Damn ending!" The man suddenly roared. "I'm a mage! A cross-border mage! I can walk freely in countless worlds, how could I not find a way for you to survive?! There must be! Absolutely!"

"Maybe, but I can't wait."

The barbarian smiled, and he spoke like a wise man: "Living is a burden to me now, Mage. I am in so much pain. That chair... exceeded my expectations. In a For thousands of years, it and this duty have divided my soul. Billions of pieces, millions of pieces of pain. Now, they're all coming together. Because Tzeentch got me out of my chair."

"You want to stop here?" the man said slowly, his right hand clenched into a fist behind his back, trembling. "We're almost there - this war is over and I've brought so much new power, how can you fall here?"

"Because I don't want to be a god," said the barbarian, fluent in Chinese. "Nor can I be a god to humans. Humans' futures should be forged by their free will, not by a ridiculous god. And, without me, you too will be successful."

He nodded firmly: "Yes, you will definitely rise."

He Shenyan stared at him in disbelief.

crazy.

He must be crazy.

"Do you have any idea what would happen if you died?"

"I know, so I'll do another thing."

The barbarians are gone. In its place is a giant of giants, wearing golden armor with symbols of unity and empire on it, and the humming of the joints is not the sound of the servos made by the power armor. It is a distant rhythm played by ancient advanced technology.

He held a long sword in his hand, with unbelievably complex lines engraved all over the blade, making the originally pitch-black, copper-colored metal glow with a icy icy blue. It is very gorgeous, and in the hands of a Terra noble, it will definitely become a treasure that has been passed down for thousands of years. But in his hands—in the hands of the Emperor, the sword, no matter how ornate, was strikingly simple.

"What are you going to do?"

The Emperor looked at him patiently, like a father looking at his child, expecting him to solve the problem before him. Given his age, he certainly deserves it. He was still smiling, the tears in his eyes did not stop for a moment, they flowed freely, like a storm. He Shenyan suddenly understood - he was not crying for himself.

After a long silence, he understood.

He Shenyan whispered, "You're going to kill Tzeentch, right? That way even if you die, the technology of the Empire can be developed again... escorted by me and the new Primarch, the Empire will sooner or later. To stand in the galaxy again."

"Strictly speaking, I am dying." The Emperor looked at him sadly. "It wasn't me who died then, but a god."

"Don't blame yourself, okay?" He took a step forward and put his hand on the mage's shoulder. "Having power doesn't mean you have to put everything on your shoulders. It took me my whole life to understand this truth. I know what you think, but the future of mankind does not need a god like me."

"I have to die," he said. "forgive me."

The Emperor disappeared, leaving the mage with his head down, standing there alone, speechless.

-------------------------------------

Guilliman - Robert Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines, a god.

He stepped down from the transporter, with fighting intent and the impending victory of the season, all these emotions disappeared in the next second, but turned into a deep sadness that made him instantly kneel on the ground. The Astartes stared blankly at their genetic father, and Insel stepped forward in panic, trying to help him up, but failed.

Guilliman began to cry slowly—with his cry, a golden sun rose slowly over Terra. People might think of this as the Emperor's apparition, but only a few understand that this is his farewell.