The Guardian gods
Chapter 527

Chapter 527: 527

Boltthrower vividly recalled the sting of pity he’d felt then, witnessing his brethren descend into what he’d believed to be madness. He’d stood amongst the crowd, a knot of fear tightening his gut, as the afflicted were dragged away, their desperate pleas echoing in the cavernous halls. Now, a horrifying realization dawned within him: he was experiencing that same unsettling shift. Was he, too, succumbing to the dreaded "demon-taint"?

But a fierce, instinctive denial clawed its way through his despair. This wasn’t madness. The energy he sensed felt undeniably real, a tangible presence vibrating in the very air. And then, a horrifying confirmation. He saw it coalesce, a swirling vortex of the same strange energy gathering at the maw of a hulking daemon. A guttural roar ripped through the air, and a searing torrent of fire erupted, washing over the ranks of nearby ratmen. Their armor, forged in the heat of the forges, buckled and melted like tallow in the inferno.

Boltthrower recoiled, the stench of burning flesh and superheated metal stinging his nostrils. This was no delusion. This raw, destructive power, this energy he now perceived, was real and is a weapon wielded with terrifying efficacy. Was this truly the psychosis the mages spoke of?

A grim understanding settled upon Boltthrower. The fate of those who had spoken of such things was a stark lesson etched in his memory. Silence, a cloak of normalcy, was now his only shield. The mages, cloistered in their arcane towers, remained blissfully unaware of this creeping "taint," this subtle shift in perception, until some desperate soul, driven by fear and a naive hope for salvation, foolishly confessed their experience. Their pleas, Boltthrower recalled with a shiver, had been met not with understanding, but with swift and brutal termination.

Under the cloak of night, as the relentless tide of daemons continued their advance, Boltthrower deliberately lagged behind the main body of the retreating ratmen army. This ebb and flow was a grimly efficient tactic, a silent acknowledgment of their limitations. Unlike the daemons, fueled by some unholy and inexhaustible power, the skaven knew fatigue. As one wave of their warriors, bloodied and weary, fell back, a fresh horde surged forward, their numbers seemingly endless, many bearing strange, newly devised contraptions designed to exploit the darkness.

The trek back to the relative safety of the fortified camp felt like an eternity, each step heavy with the weight of his secret. Finally, the rough-hewn walls loomed into view. But instead of relief, a fresh wave of chilling horror washed over Boltthrower. Standing guard atop the ramparts, their silhouettes stark against the flickering torchlight, were the mages. And surrounding each of them, swirling like an invisible aura, was the same energy he now perceived. Yet, unlike the raw, chaotic emanations that clung to the daemons, the energy around the mages felt structured, disciplined, almost... cultivated.

A profound unease settled deep within Boltthrower’s gut. "What secret was the Empire hiding?" The unspoken question hung heavy in the night air. He now saw the truth that had been invisible before. This energy was not alien to his people; it was a constant presence, woven into the fabric of their world. But they remained untouched, oblivious, their bodies somehow rejecting or ignoring its subtle influence. He, however, was different. His very being now resonated with this strange power, divergence from his kin. The implications were staggering, hinting at a hidden layer of reality, a secret the Empire guarded jealously, and his place within it was now terrifyingly uncertain.

Finding a secluded spot, Boltthrower settled down to await his meager meal, his thoughts turning inward, focusing on the strange lot of his people.

Despite the undeniable coercion, a sliver of gratitude flickered within the ratmen. They were, at least, permitted to wage this brutal war on their own terms.

This necessity, this constant pressure to survive, had become a potent catalyst, forging a rapid advancement in their peculiar arts of war. Their crude yet effective technology was a testament to this desperate ingenuity.

The true nature of their enemy was now brutally clear: an inexhaustible, overwhelming force. An unspoken consensus had formed – outright victory was an illusion. Survival, by any means necessary, had become the new, grim objective.

The very ground beneath their feet was a shifting battlefield. The corrupting essence of the daemons seeped into the land with each of their foul deaths, solidifying their claim.

Viewed from above, the grand strategy of this agonizing war painted a stark picture: the ratmen steadily yielding ground, while the demonic tide relentlessly pushed forward.

This grim realization had once sparked a daring, almost suicidal notion among the ratmen: to cede more territory to the daemons, hoping to finally provoke the distant Empire into decisive action.

But this audacious strategy survived only a few fleeting days before the keen eyes of the Empire’s goblin mages discerned the pattern. Swift and brutal countermeasures were enacted, crushing this nascent rebellion of despair.

Now, even as the demonic legions pressed relentlessly forward, the ratmen were forced to hold their ground, each inch of territory fiercely contested under the threat of the Empire’s iron fist. Their choice was no longer victory or defeat, but a grim dance with inevitable death.

Occasionally, when the demonic tide threatened to overwhelm their lines, the Empire would reluctantly unleash its power: mages wielding arcane energies and hulking ogres smashing through the demonic ranks, creating temporary breaches. But the abyss responded in kind, sending forth more formidable horrors that could match the mages and ogres, sometimes even overwhelming them completely.

These interventions, so few and far between, only solidified the ratmen’s bleak understanding of their fate. The Empire would not squander its precious resources, its elite forces, unless absolutely necessary. They were nothing more than expendable pawns.

A bowl of bland mush paste was thrust into Boltthrower’s grasp. This was their sustenance, a meager portion that, strangely, seemed to stave off hunger for an entire day.

Lifting his crude spoon, Boltthrower prepared to eat. As he scooped up a mouthful, he noticed it – the same faint energy he now perceived permeating the very paste. A moment of hesitation flickered within him before he swallowed, the familiar taste a stark reminder of countless past meals.

Soon, the bowl was empty, scraped clean with ingrained habit. To his surprise, a gnawing emptiness remained. Boltthrower glanced around surreptitiously, noticing that he seemed to be the only one left wanting more.

At the same moment, a peculiar tingling sensation drew his attention to the wounds he had sustained in battle. Focusing on a deep gash along his forearm, Boltthrower’s eyes widened in disbelief. The edges of the wound were drawing closer, a slow but undeniable process of healing.

He could feel the same subtle pull at his other injuries, a faint tingling that spoke of accelerated healing. Yet, a horrifying correlation emerged: the stronger the tingling, the more voracious his hunger became, his very being craving to absorb the ambient energy.

Boltthrower risked a furtive glance towards the mages in the distance, every fiber of his being straining to suppress this newfound, primal instinct. His nascent sensitivity to this energy revealed a stark truth: he was a novice. The Empire, through its mages, had clearly been interacting with this force for far longer. If this insatiable hunger and energy absorption were a common occurrence, any unusual fluctuations would be immediately apparent.

Rising from his spot, Boltthrower moved towards the distribution point for the mush paste. He dared to approach only because it was his own kind who served this meager fare. The goblins and ogres of the Empire considered such menial tasks beneath their station, leaving it to the skaven.

Boltthrower approached the skaven server, a wiry ratman with perpetually twitching whiskers and nervous darting eyes. The server ladled out the paste with a grudging efficiency, barely making eye contact.

"More," Boltthrower rasped, his voice low and urgent, glancing around to ensure no overseers were nearby.

The server’s ears twitched. "More? You had your ration."

"Still hungry," Boltthrower insisted, his gaze fixed on the vat of greyish paste. "Battle takes much energy." He subtly gestured to his bandaged arm.

The server hesitated, his gaze flicking nervously towards the periphery. "The quotas... the overseers..."

"Just a little more," Boltthrower pressed, a hint of desperation creeping into his tone. "No one will notice." He reached a clawed hand towards a smaller, discarded bowl hidden beneath a stack of empty platters. "Just enough to... settle my stomach."

The server, a flicker of understanding or perhaps just fear in his eyes, quickly spooned a small amount of the paste into the hidden bowl. "Eat fast. And be gone."

Boltthrower snatched the bowl, offering a curt nod of thanks before retreating to a more secluded corner, his senses on high alert for any sign of unwanted attention. The extra portion was small, but even as he consumed it, the gnawing hunger persisted, a terrifying testament to his changing nature.

The urge to return, to brazenly demand more of the unsatisfying paste, gnawed at Boltthrower. Yet, the ingrained instinct for self-preservation, amplified by his newfound awareness, held him back.

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