Dukel meticulously recorded various parameters, a faint smile appearing on his face despite the anguished cries of the xenos.
His understanding of this particular strain of Tyranids had deepened, and he was gradually uncovering effective countermeasures against them.
There was no doubt that the Hive Mind was unique.
Its structure bore similarities to the Noosphere or the Greenskin gestalt, yet it was fundamentally distinct.
The Tyranid Swarm operated much like a vast, hyper-intelligent AI, remotely coordinating its bio-weapons across the stars.
Even the so-called "synapse creatures," which seemed to possess intelligence, functioned more like programmed subroutines—autonomous but devoid of true sentience.
In essence, every Tyranid organism was a biological drone, an extension of the Hive Mind's will.
This also implied that the Shadow in the Warp cast by the Swarm had reached a scale rivaling that of the Ruinous Powers.
Dukel had found himself incapable of siphoning even a fraction of its essence during battle.
Corrupting one Tyranid in hopes of spreading taint through the Swarm was a fool's errand—each individual was merely a node, devoid of independent thought.
At first, he had been uncertain how to approach such an existence. But that did not mean it was beyond his reach. By capturing live specimens and experimenting through relentless trial and error, he knew he would eventually find a breakthrough.
And today, he had.
The revelation was akin to searching frantically for a lost artifact, turning over every stone and shadowed corner, only to find it resting in plain sight upon one's own desk.
Dukel reveled in this discovery.
To counter the Tyranids, he had tested every tool at his disposal—biological warfare, psychic phenomena, even esoteric energy manipulations. While these methods were effective against their physical forms, they did nothing to affect the shadowy presence lurking in the Immaterium.
He had been on the verge of abandoning the search when realization struck him.
The answer had been within him all along. Within all intelligent life.
Extending a hand, Dukel conjured forth an amorphous black liquid, a spectral substance shifting between reality and unreality. To the untrained eye, it was simple darkness. But those who stared into it long enough would discern the wails of the damned, the roiling fury of hatred and despair, the whispers of enmity and betrayal.
This was malice distilled to its purest form—the corruption that had led the Second Primarch to his fall, the venom that could make daemons weep and gods decay. The most insidious poison in existence.
For most of his life, Dukel had wielded energies born of humanity's higher emotions—the psychic force of will, the fire of the mind. He had avoided the malignant essence of raw hatred.
He had drawn upon it only once—when faced with the corruption of the Daemon Blade. Even the entity within that accursed weapon had succumbed, drowning in the overwhelming tide of concentrated malevolence.
He had forgotten that poison, too, could be a weapon.
With calculated precision, he directed this toxic malice into the high-tier Tyranids before him—their designated synaptic conduits.
"Aaaaaahhh!"
Creatures that had never known pain—never possessed emotions at all—suddenly convulsed, their cries a cacophony of suffering, saturated with agony, despair, and wrath.
At its core, malice alone could not destroy them. It inflicted no physical wounds, nor did it truly harm the Hive Mind lurking beyond the veil.
Yet this experiment raised an intriguing question: Was pain an objective phenomenon, or merely a subjective perception?
Regardless, for the Tyranids—beings that theoretically should not have felt pain—this was a poison with no cure.
Toxicity, after all, was meaningless without considering dosage.
Fortunately, Dukel possessed malice beyond measure—harvested from countless human worlds, forged in the crucible of untold wars and conflicts. His reserves were limitless.
The Swarm, however, had limits.
Less than a minute passed before he heard it.
A sound filtered through the veil of reality—a wretched keening from an unfathomable, eldritch entity lurking within the Immaterium.
It was impossible. The Hive Mind was insatiable, an avatar of predation and consumption, incapable of emotion or hesitation. How could it wail in suffering?
Yet it did.
And with it—
"Ugh!"
The Tyranids under Dukel's control all began to retch in unison.
Perhaps it was an instinctive reaction, an attempt to expel the malignant influence. Or perhaps the Hive Mind itself had ordered them to purge their own bodies in desperation.
Either way, the result was clear.
One after another, they vomited forth torrents of acidic bile and viscous ichor, spewing their own liquefied organs in a futile bid for relief. They continued until their emaciated husks collapsed, lifeless.
Dukel observed the phenomenon with detached amusement, scribbling his findings into his notes.
"The Great Devourer has now become the Great Vomiter," he remarked dryly.
The experiment had exceeded expectations.
Unfortunately, this "malice toxin" was not a weapon that could be mass-produced. At present, only Dukel and his progeny could wield it effectively.
But that was enough.
The transformation of the Second Legion continued apace, bolstered by the rapid expansion of the Noospheric Network.
Once this war was concluded, he would develop weapons tailored to harness malice—perhaps a Power Sword infused with distilled malevolence? The forging process would not be difficult. Standard issue weapons could be mass-produced, then outfitted with specialized psychic receptors.
Satisfied, Dukel turned to his next objective.
The study of the Blood Angels afflicted with the Black Rage.
In a previous campaign, he had retrieved nearly fifty Astartes lost to the throes of madness.
Yet even with such an extensive sample, a cure for their twin curses—'The Red Thirst' and 'The Black Rage'—remained elusive.
The flaws of a Legion were not so easily remedied.
Even with the combined expertise of the Noospheric Network and the finest minds of the Mechanicum, he had barely managed to counteract the Second Legion's own weaknesses.
A true cure? That would take more.
Perhaps, if Sanguinius could be resurrected, there might be hope.
His only viable approach lay in Baal. If he could use the Noospheric Transmission Array to locate and reassemble fragments of the lost Primarch's soul, there was a chance.
The device, after extensive testing, had been christened as agreed—"The Varro Psychic Navigator."
Yet doubt gnawed at him.
Would it even work on a Primarch?
There was one way to test it.
Dukel's gaze drifted to his waist.
Magnus' soul, too, had been shattered. The fragment before him was the largest, embodying the primary aspects of the Crimson King's mind.
If the Psychic Navigator could reintegrate Magnus, it would prove its efficacy.
He placed the preserved head of Magnus upon the table, a gesture of respect.
"Brother, do you wish to reclaim your soul?"
Magnus sighed. "Ah? You're using me as a test subject again?"
He sounded resigned, but unsurprised.
…
💎 Support this novel with Reviews & Power Stones! 💎
…
✅ Check out my Patreon for +40 extra chapters 📚 on all my fanfics! 🎉
🔗 [p@treon.com/LordMerlin]
🙏 Thank you for your support! ❤️