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Chapter 137: Farseer: I'm begging you, if you can't put my race in the little black room, I'll—
🕑 Added 2025-09-08 12:55:27 +0000 UTCChapter 137: Farseer: I'm begging you, if you can't put my race in the little black room, I'll—
Cold. Trembling...
The moment his consciousness reconnected with his soul, the Farseer shot up from the ground, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings.
He instinctively looked around. As far as his eyes could see, there was a group of his compatriots, standing quietly. Their faces were both familiar and strange, like phantoms walking out of the depths of his memory.
The Farseer's heart suddenly accelerated. The last image in his mind intertwined with the scene before him, making it impossible for him to distinguish reality from illusion.
My kinsmen—
The Farseer's body trembled slightly. His throat tightened, as if an invisible force were choking him, making it difficult to even breathe. His fingers curled and uncurled, but he dared not reach out and touch them.
He had witnessed the scene of his kinsmen being slaughtered with his own eyes. The light of their soul stones had been completely extinguished in that moment, like falling stars.
Those evil monkeys. They must have made some kind of vicious pact with the Youngest Lady to render this ancient and noble race so powerless.
In an instant, all their strength and wisdom had turned to nothing. They could only be slaughtered at will.
The Farseer felt a deep sense of powerlessness, as if all his pride and dignity had been completely crushed into dust.
And now?
He looked down at his own hands. The palms of his soul still bore the scars of the past.
At this moment, he had become a dessert on the Youngest Lady's table, awaiting the fate of being devoured.
The scene around him became twisted and absurd in his imagination, like a carefully choreographed farce, designed only to please the high and mighty Youngest Lady.
The Farseer gritted his teeth, trying his best to control his expression, not to let the fear in his heart show. Even in the final moments of his life, he would not allow the glory of his race to fall from his shoulders.
However, in the moment his mental defenses were at their most vulnerable, Ramesses's psychic power silently infiltrated, like an invisible vine, slowly wrapping around his soul. The psychic tendrils silently probed into the depths of his consciousness and began to read the information they wanted.
"The operation in the Eye of Terror has failed. We could not find a way to restart the furnace of the Crone World, Biel-Tan IV. The minions of the Youngest Lady forced us to abandon the Soul-Sword: Vilith-zhar."
"Our race has truly fallen. Perhaps I was wrong. The prophecy foretold that we would not be able to obtain the power of the God of the Dead to save our kinsmen. Is that fate? Even after I convinced the Council of Farseers, is it still so?"
Ramesses raised an eyebrow. This Eldar Farseer was quite self-aware. And the Eldar were now having trouble with their own archaeology.
"Fortunately, the information about the Soul-Sword was not ultimately exposed. The soul stones of several of the lords were recovered in time and did not fall into the six-ringed palace."
"Afterwards, the chosen of the Laughing God, Cegorach, a Solitaire, brought a strategy for salvation."
"Aurethan, this ancient, unfinished world, occupied by humans and named Optus, contains a giant soul stone."
"When the Youngest Lady let out her first cry, the ancestors of this planet also had no time to flee. They could only abandon their bodies in the real universe and take refuge in the circuit to escape the claim that covered most of the galaxy. And they were the Star-shapers who had created the world of Biel-Tan IV."
"And this time, we absolutely cannot fail. I will seek the help of our dark cousins. The prophecies cannot be trusted. Everything depends on what we do now."
"...We cannot afford to fail."
Feeling the deep sorrow transmitted from those thoughts, Ramesses withdrew from the Farseer's memories.
My apologies. This old fellow is a rare, decent person among the Eldar.
Yvraine's Ynnari still had over two hundred years before they would appear. This guy was actually starting to look for the Crone-Swords now, preparing to awaken the God of the Dead early. And he had found the strongest one right away.
Ramesses's eyes flickered slightly, and various pieces of information about the God of the Dead appeared in his mind. The records from the "GW Black Library" were now clear in his memory.
Unfortunately, because this universe had the Warp, you still had to rely a bit on fate.
Ramesses couldn't help but feel a trace of sympathy for this Eldar Farseer. When his gaze fell on the Farseer again, it held a hint of pity.
If Yvraine, the chosen of the God of the Dead, did not appear, no Eldar could draw the Crone-Swords. This was fate.
"You really are different from the other Eldar. The only one I can think of who is similar to you is Eldrad Ulthran of Ulthwé," Ramesses said, his form slowly condensing from the void, a crimson-gold phantom materializing. He looked directly at the Farseer, a hint of inquiry and curiosity in his gaze.
At first, he had planned to just send the Slaaneshi daemons to do their work, but now he was a bit interested in talking to him. His fingers flicked slightly. The air around them seemed to freeze for a moment, and then resumed its flow.
"Ulthran," the Farseer said, a bitter and helpless smile on his face. He was not surprised that the other knew of this widely known Great Farseer. At the same time, he couldn't help but feel a sense of envy for the man who, through his maneuvering, had allowed the Craftworld of Ulthwé to stand tall in the galaxy for ten thousand chaotic years. His gaze lowered slightly, as if he were recalling something. "That old fellow's prophecies were never accurate. What is more admirable is the profound insight and foresight that years of self-reflection have given him."
"And he can still be the Great Farseer of Craftworld Ulthwé?" Ramesses couldn't help but be surprised.
"I do not know about the other Craftworlds, but Ulthwé—" the Farseer smiled, it was unclear if he had given up or what, but he was answering every question. "They are constantly in minor troubles. This does not look like they are always abiding by prophecies. It is more like they are constantly trying to jump out of the strange circle of prophecy."
"Are you also like this?" Ramesses asked, intrigued. The little stories of the locals were quite interesting.
"Yes, I am also like this," the Farseer said frankly, no longer caring about this deep secret. "The prophecy told me that the awakening of the God of the Dead would be two hundred years later, on Biel-Tan, in Commorragh, on Iyanden, but not on my homeworld. But I was not content. I lied to the children who had always believed in me. I led them to their deaths."
"I do not believe in fate, but I still led them to their deaths. Kher-Ys will also collapse under the threat from beyond the galaxy. Everything will end. They will become the children of Asuryan with no home to return to."
It wasn't that the Eldar hadn't discovered that the so-called prophecies, and their own actions after hearing the prophecies, were what was helping the prophecies to be realized. But they had no choice. If they didn't believe the prophecies, they couldn't withstand the successive losses.
Just like now. He didn't believe in fate, and he had stubbornly led his kinsmen to reclaim the soul stone of Aurethan. And now he was dead.
The Farseer's laughter was a bit dry. He was a bit desperate now.
To believe is to die. To not believe is also to die.
"Come on, you minion of Slaanesh." Perhaps this brief conversation had allowed him to let go of his last burden, a look of fearless determination on his face. The Farseer said, "Use whatever methods you have. The children of Asuryan are restrained and resilient, not to be compared with our fallen dark cousins."
"..."
If I were really a Slaaneshi daemon, you'd be crying by now.
He had caught quite a few Drukhari recently, and Eldar Corsairs, helping the Sharks to interrogate them for the whereabouts of the Void-stone. Those Archons or Corsair Princes were all so tough when they were first captured, but a few seconds in the Slaanesh-park, and they would confess everything.
"I don't think I have eroded your sensory abilities," Ramesses said tentatively, trying to give him a hint. He himself had no desire to torture people. If this one was willing to cooperate, then a little less pressure was fine. After all, he wasn't a daemon.
Of course, if this was the Farseer's strong request, then he didn't mind sending four Slaaneshi daemons to accompany him.
"Hah, minion of Slaanesh, what nonsense are you talking about? This—" The Farseer also felt quite surprised. This encounter in the Warp was indeed different from what he had expected.
Hmm? Wait, I didn't notice before.
The Farseer suddenly realized that when he had just called out the name of the Youngest Lady, the feeling of heart-palpitations was gone.
Every Eldar, from the moment of their birth, was marked by Slaanesh, their souls constantly being siphoned by this Chaos God that had been nurtured by the emotions of the Eldar. The Craftworld Eldar's way of dealing with Slaanesh was to be restrained. For this, they had even invented a way of life called the "Path," which allowed them to truly focus on one thing, and not be influenced by extreme desires and emotions. And their souls, after death, could enter the soul stone that was bound to them. As long as it was recovered in time and injected into the Craftworld's Infinity Circuit, they could become a part of the ancient wisdom and guide their descendants to survive in the galaxy.
But this was all just a stopgap measure.
Stars would extinguish with the passage of time. A powerful empire would collapse with the passage of time. And the same went for the World-ship that carried the Infinity Circuit. In ten thousand years, the number of fallen Craftworlds was not small. Their fragments drifted in the cosmos, some even becoming the star-rings of certain planets. And the souls within would naturally enter the palace of Slaanesh...
Sigh. Some might say, since the Eldar will be devoured and tormented by Slaanesh after they die, why not just annihilate their own souls in advance?
They can't. Or rather, they can't find a painless way.
To face the tides of the Warp or to go and sit on a certain golden toilet could indeed solve the problem, but it didn't feel much different from falling into the hands of Slaanesh.
The souls of the Eldar were too powerful. When the Old Ones created this race, they must have poured all their understanding of the Warp into them. This race, in ancient times, couldn't even find a way to kill themselves, which was why they became more and more exaggerated in their pursuit of hedonism.
And now...
Where am I?
(End of Chapter)
