Outside the plague planet, people don't make much mention of the death guard's residence.

In addition to some large and impressive vague rumors, even most people in the eyes of fear know little.

In fact, outside the boundary of hell, few people really understand it.

For the people of the Empire, the name motalian only represents a warning of the past, which is meaningless.

And this is exactly what the Lord of death wants.

To understand this, we must first understand the character of the mother. Even among his fallen brothers, he is also a complex person.

He can't be described directly with anger, not like people can directly describe the king of slaughter angelan. At the same time, he doesn't have the desire to control like the Priest King Luojia.

Compared with most of his brothers, motalian carries more of the past, and according to him, it all came too late and too unacceptable.

He was the last one to yield and convert to the dark gods, and the last one to arrive at Tara to participate in the siege.

According to controversial rumors, he was also the last to evacuate Tara.

For motalian, there are contradictions, conflicts and opposites above all. His heart is full of hatred - for his father, his experience, the Empire and himself.

The world in which he was fostered was so poisonous to him that even if the emperor treated him differently, he could not remove the scars in his heart.

The knell messenger ngarta knew these things, which was no secret in the Legion, and would not reduce ngarta's respect for his master.

In his belief, "harm" is not something to worry about - it should be celebrated, cultivated and, if possible, expanded.

They understand that attempts to stop corruption will only bring the greatest disappointment, but those corpse King running dogs can't understand - there's no need to shut it out. Learn to embrace it, learn to use it, or you will fall into a long and tired failure.

Nevertheless, ngarta was anxious.

Time has passed for a long time. Although the passage of time in the eyes of fear is strange, it has been measured by the rotation of the plague planet for at least several centuries.

The Legion is used to silence and doing their own things.

Typhons, the intolerable puppet, became the nominal leader of many of them in the empty years, although many of his successes never offset the doubts he aroused among the older generation.

"We know exactly what you did to us."

Ngarta thought as he walked.

"We won't forget."

He walked there with the ferryman Mosen, which took them a long time because the terrain was deliberately designed to be rugged and difficult to walk.

They meandered along the steep shoulder of the steeple, sometimes forced to go down, where the air was rich and the mutant drove many mortal slaves.

They strode across the altar full of rotten things and squeezed through the crawling pile of flies, where they could see the mill wheels turning forever and the wet ground under their feet was full of bones.

After a long time, the terrain began to rise, the black soil glittered with moisture, and the dark leaves spread around them.

The devil hissed at them from the warm shadow, a pool of stagnant water was boiling disturbingly, and the huge monument shook by the side of the road, badly worn by the corrosive wind.

At last, they saw a heavily guarded castle.

The steep side wall of the fort rises from the Green Valley, hundreds of meters high and has no handrails.

This place is like a mountain. Its terrain is high and uplifted, far beyond all practical considerations, reaching the crazy state of arrogance.

The towering spiral towers are crowded with each other, lanterns are hung on the spires, and stone steps are coiled around the inclined flanks of the hall, sometimes leading to a place, sometimes ending in a mass grave or a place filled with smoke.

Here is God's decadent church, which is empty and rises like an abandoned tomb. In the air, incense is mixed with the sweet smell of the dead, the dying and the resurrected.

"You can never fully adapt... How huge it is."

The bell messenger looked up at the fort and sighed.

"It's said to be getting bigger."

The ferry people echoed the voice and didn't seem to be very interested.

"Only God knows what's going on."

Here is the palace of the Lord of death. There are beggars, messengers, wizards and prophets everywhere. On the battlements stretching for several kilometers, countless mutants and Demons crouch.

Pilgrims lined up to the gate so many that they filled the causeway across half the continent.

The priests of the rotten God preached to them endlessly, and their screams were interrupted by the sound of broken bells.

The pilgrims stared out of their worn hoods, hungry eyes waiting for one of their brothers to fall so that they could chew a little cartilage that night.

Above their heads, spaceships and gunboats floated, leaving wisps of smoke in the hot Aurora night sky.

In addition, only the sound of the floating shroud is as strange as that of the whale, glittering like the mysterious midnight ghost.

Ngarta doesn't need to emphasize his own existence here. When he and the ferry went to the gate, the crowd spontaneously retreated and made a gesture symbolizing three on their chest. Even those demons with infected whip stopped to stare at the knell messenger.

The blind haulers stopped trembling, the truck full of thin and soft fruit shook on the greasy axle, and the mutant stared at them with shining big eyes, panting, and spitting out a string of saliva from his fanged mouth.

"Is the scale always so large?"

Ngarta asked, looking at the crowd with interest.

"Yes."

The ferryman said as he walked slowly to the gate.

"I never knew why they came."

"The same reason as ours."

Ngarta signaled the guards in the distance, and then the iron shaft began to rotate.

"But only we can go in."

The gate, like everything here, is a poor imitation.

It is said that they are seven centimeters higher than the eternal gate on Tara, only seven centimeters.

Motalian did many similar things - basically trivial things, as a mockery of fate. For example, the turret was slightly higher than the Imperial Senate, and the wall was seven degrees steeper.

Nevertheless, the effect is impressive.

The fake gate was dragged by a group of mutants with chains and took ten minutes to open.

Only then will the dark interior of the house appear.

A pile of rotten stones that are crumbling and half in ruins are piled up disorderly, higher and higher, connected and intertwined, forming a fragile and bloated City, like a nest of thorns high in the clouds.

There is a layer of mist around its foundation, boiling on the black surface and leaving stains on the rocks.

The great devil roared from the arcane prison deeply buried in the magic tower, shaking the wet earth to the center of the world.