The Guardian gods
Chapter 529

Chapter 529: 529

The gloom receded, revealing a small, intricate tech cube suspended in the air. It began to rotate slowly, gradually increasing its speed until its form blurred into a shimmering vortex of motion, thrumming with an unseen energy.

A synthesized voice emanated from the rapidly spinning cube. "Connection established."

The robed figure inhaled deeply, the fabric of their garment rustling softly in the stillness. "Make contact."

Across the planet, a subtle shift began to unfold. Boltthrower’s camp was not an isolated recipient of the "Emperor’s gift." Numerous other ratmen encampments, scattered across various battlefields and hidden strongholds, had also received the mysterious containers. The instant the order to "make contact" was given, a silent, invisible wave began to spread.

Deep in slumber, shielded by his new armor, Boltthrower felt a faint, fleeting tingle, like an errant itch. He scratched at the spot absently, dismissing it as a minor irritation before drifting back into unconsciousness.

Across the sprawling network of ratmen camps, every skaven clad in the Emperor’s "gift" experienced the same subtle prickle, an almost imperceptible itch that was readily ignored in their exhaustion. Unbeknownst to them, this sensation was the work of minuscule needles embedded within the armor’s lining, silently drawing minute samples of their blood.

Inside the armor’s intricate framework, a newly activated mechanism analyzed the collected blood. It searched for a specific biological marker, a unique substance that, once identified, would transmit its signature back to the orbiting cube.

In the darkened chamber, the robed figure watched intently as a holographic projection materialized from the humming cube. A vast network of red lights bloomed across the display. A slow, satisfied smile spread across the figure’s hidden face. "Finally," they murmured, their voice laced with a chilling triumph. "Found you all."

Simultaneously, the robed figure issued another command, their voice carrying a note of cold precision. "Administer dosage to the marked targets."

This order was executed with immediate effect. However, this time, the subtle intrusion was not uniform. While the majority of the ratmen wearing the new armor earlier had experienced the ignorable itch, those designated as "marked targets" were subjected to a different, far more debilitating sensation. A familiar prickle returned, but this time, it was swiftly followed by a terrifying paralysis. Their muscles locked, their bodies rendered completely immobile.

Their minds jolted awake, trapped within their frozen shells. Panic flared as they realized their utter helplessness, unable to scream, unable to twitch a single whisker. Boltthrower, still lying in his makeshift bed within the bustling camp, was one of these marked targets, his consciousness a frantic prisoner in his body.

A voice, smooth and calming as a subterranean stream, echoed directly within the minds of the paralyzed ratmen. The unexpected intrusion, though unsettling, possessed a soothing quality that managed to quell some of the raw panic seizing their thoughts.

"My brethren," the voice resonated, devoid of any harshness, "I sincerely apologize for this... unorthodox method of introduction. This marks our first true contact, and I hold the fervent hope that it will not be our last."

A profound revelation followed, one that sent a fresh wave of disquiet rippling through the captive minds. "Many of our kind are unable to perceive this message, as you now do. This is because they have not yet undergone their awakening. They have not yet sensed and interacted with the mana that permeates our surroundings." The confirmation of their long-held secret, the very ability that set them apart and necessitated their careful concealment for survival, now broadcast into their minds, ignited a surge of fear and vulnerability. Had their hidden truth been exposed?

The voice, seemingly attuned to their mental turmoil, interjected with reassuring tones. "You have no reason to fear for your lives. I assure you, I am not affiliated with the Empire and their fear-mongering propaganda of ’Demonic taint’." The disavowal, though direct, hung in the silent spaces of their minds, leaving a residue of uncertainty. Could they truly trust this disembodied voice that had so invasively breached their thoughts?

"I understand that my words alone may not be enough to quell the apprehension that now grips you. I wish I could reveal my identity to further ease your minds, but alas, circumstances prevent me from doing so at this juncture. I can only implore you to trust that my intentions align with your own survival."

The voice continued, its tone earnest. "This armor you now wear, these weapons you now wield – they were not conceived in the Emperor’s forges. They came from my hands. Their delivery under the guise of an imperial gift was a necessary deception, a means to introduce them without suspicion, bolstering the Emperor’s image while secretly providing you with the means to endure this brutal conflict."

A ting of sorrow entered the voice. "Too many of our kin, both the seasoned and the innocent, have perished in this senseless war, a war we should never have been forced to fight. Though I am not present on the battlefield and cannot stand alongside you in the fray, believe me when I say that I see it all. I understand the relentless pressure, the constant losses."

"The mana you now sense, the awakening you have experienced, it is not a curse, not a taint. It is a part of us, a latent potential that the Empire, in its ignorance and fear, seeks to suppress or exploit. This armor, it is designed to help you harness this potential, to protect you in ways their crude steel never could. The connection you feel now, the paralysis – it is temporary. It is the means by which I can speak to you directly, bypassing the ears of those who would silence us."

A pause hung in the mental air, allowing the weight of the words to settle. "Soon, this paralysis will pass. When it does, you will have a choice. You can continue to hide your awakening, to live in fear of discovery. Or... you can choose to understand more, to learn how to wield this gift, to perhaps even change the course of this devastating war.

"I will reach out again. Be ready to listen. Be ready to question everything you have been told." The soothing voice began to fade, the mental connection slowly dissolving, leaving Boltthrower and the other marked ratmen trapped in their immobile bodies, their minds now a whirlwind of confusion, fear, and a nascent flicker of hope.

In the secluded sanctuary, the robed figure approached the now quiescent cube and gently placed a hand upon its smooth surface. "Please, Guardian," they murmured, their voice imbued with a quiet reverence.

A surge of power emanated from the figure, flowing into the cube. The connection established, the so-called Guardian processed the data regarding the marked targets, presenting an overview within its intricate matrix. To the Guardian’s perception, many of these individuals were now touched by an inner spark, a nascent flame flickering within their being.

This inner flame spoke of a potential they themselves were yet unaware of. In some, this spark was faint, barely discernible. These individuals were noted by the Guardian before the connection with the cube was severed.

A silent message passed from the Guardian to the figure, who now sighed softly as they reached up and slowly lowered the hood that had concealed their features.

The figure was indeed a goblin in appearance, its old but youthful features known to many as "Nixbolt," a seemingly unremarkable member of the Empire’s underlings. But beneath the illusion, a different truth resided. This was Rattan, a ratman who had infiltrated the ranks of his enemies, a shadow walking in plain sight.

The message from the weakened Guardian struck Rattan like a physical blow, a fleeting spasm of pain contorting his features as he clenched his fist. The moment he had anticipated, the moment of decisive action, was upon him, yet a tremor of hesitation ran through him. He fought it down, taking a deep, steadying breath before issuing his command to the silent cube. "Administer countermeasures."

Across the battlefield camps, among the ratmen who had received the enigmatic message, a hidden undercurrent of thought stirred within some. A familiar itch resurfaced on their slowly awakening bodies, but this time, a terrifying anomaly accompanied it: their mouths refused to obey their commands. Other limbs remained responsive, but their vocal cords were inexplicably paralyzed, trapping their burgeoning thoughts within.

Rattan’s trust in the Guardian was absolute. It had never steered him wrong, its subtle power allowing him to discern the treacherous intentions of those who would betray him for their own gain. This contingency, the "countermeasure," had been carefully considered. Today, it would silence their voices. Tomorrow, as they faced the horrors of the battlefield, their entire bodies would succumb, ensuring their silence became permanent.

Phantom, the "Guardian," looked rough. His body was now in a smoke like state, with big chunks of him just gone. It was clear he’d been through a lot. But oddly, his eyes sparkled with excitement. He knew the big price he’d paid was about to pay off.