Dao Of Heaven
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Chapter 655: Amon, Oh Amon, Your Evildoings!
🕑 Added 2025-09-24 16:16:51 +0000 UTCWas this truly one of the legendary creators, the Xel'naga?
But why had none of the Xel'naga relics he had handled ever reacted, yet this psionic girl had activated it with a single touch? Was it that only psionics could awaken it?
Could it be that these humans invading the Koprulu sector, besieging Korhal, were followers of the Xel'naga? Were the goddess statues upon those violet-gold warships the incarnations of the Xel'naga themselves?
At that moment, aboard the Hyperion beyond the Korhal system, the Terran crown prince—or rather, the second Emperor of the Mengsk dynasty, Valerian I—fell into deep doubt. Countless questions surged through his mind.
This prism was undoubtedly of Xel'naga make. As the foremost archaeologist of the Koprulu sector, Valerian trusted his own judgment.
Yet soon he pushed such thoughts aside.
He looked toward the twisted projection formed atop the silver-gray prism.
Its luminous image mingled with silken hangings on the walls. Starlight, lamplight, and the fire of nearby explosions and shield ripples fractured across its surface, splitting into countless irregular facets, like a fragment of a distant nebula.
The 'Xel'naga' stood there, high in the chamber's vaulted dome.
A will was being conveyed.
The winged psionic girl had lost all her earlier arrogance. She obediently offered up the artifact's activator—the lighter—placing it reverently in both hands. Even the head of Arcturus, which she had caressed so fondly, was set aside.
Tears welled in her eyes, her figure slumped in disappointment. None of her previous majesty remained.
Valerian thought, I rather preferred you when you were fierce and ready to cut me down.
Of course, such words would never be spoken.
He could not understand their language, but it mattered little. One hand rested on the hilt of his ornate cage-handled sword, the other brushed the decorated pistol at his hip. He strove to maintain his dignity.
He studied carefully the first 'Xel'naga' to appear, weighing its authenticity.
Valerian had once imagined what the Xel'naga might look like, but never had he thought they would appear in human form.
The figure was clad in a resplendent robe of platinum and white, regal in the fashion of royal courts. A collar of white lace framed its face like blossoming flowers. Golden rings spread across its fitted attire. Projected by the artifact, it seemed to hover upon clouds.
Silver hair spilled loose, gleaming in the light streaming through the windows, refracting like prisms, flowing like a river of stars. Following its lines revealed a flawless visage of exquisite beauty, carved as though by the will of the cosmos itself—features so perfect they seemed sculpted.
Like Venus herself, a goddess.
Yes, a goddess. A goddess of authority! A sudden shiver jolted Valerian—within the glint of that gaze, he saw the same piercing quality as Arcturus, his father.
But lacking cunning, replaced by overwhelming dominance.
Selene's brow twitched faintly as she cast a sidelong glance at Valerian.
"Taking Arcturus Mengsk's head as your first trophy, I understand. It is a fine collectible. But to behave so before outsiders…"
A maiden of spring, rubbing her cheek against an old man's severed head, still dripping blood—dear heavens.
Even one as twisted as Selene found it twisted.
They would need to be reforged, remade entirely!
They appeared normal, with principles, loyalty, and honor—but the Flügel's worldview was incomplete. It needed reshaping.
Collecting enemies' heads? Fine. The Empire would not forbid it. Display them in their homes, even.
But to fondle corpses with intimacy—that was another matter entirely…
Selene even suspected that if she commanded these Flügel to kiss their severed-head trophies, even without any Mental Seal, without [Discipline], without Honkai-born chains of obedience, they would still do so eagerly, delighted.
That was not cruelty—it was perversion.
Once we return… Sebas, I do not demand you turn the Flügel into proper ladies. But such behavior—dancing with corpses, nuzzling the heads of the dead—must be strictly forbidden!
Yes, I am an autocratic monarch. But I am not a Chaos God!
Slaanesh corruption must be stopped!
"Yes."
Wiping blood from her face, Jibril knelt suspended in the air, raising her head to listen to Selene's lecture. Her expression was docile, graceful, obedient, understanding.
Whatever Selene said, Jibril nodded vigorously, like a pecking chick.
"You'll face discipline later… And you—do you wish to present a declaration of surrender?"
The latter words were spoken to Valerian across the screen. Though Selene used Imperial Common, Valerian, light-years away, understood it instinctively, as though her voice sounded directly in his mind.
Her criticism of Jibril, unfit for foreign ears, was erased.
Selene had already infiltrated the pyramid-palace's systems, reaching into its highest databases. The recordings of Jibril's disgraceful behavior were deleted. Even the Hyperion, light-years distant, was hacked in under a millisecond through its comms 'line.' All images of Jibril's actions were erased.
"Yes, Your Majesty. I have conditions…"
"Mercy for the civilians of the Dominion. Leniency for the Terran forces of Korhal. Retention of some political standing for House Mengsk. Protection from enemies' reprisals—hence your request for a private army. Did I miss anything? These are your terms."
Her voice was certain.
A sudden silence.
Valerian's breath grew ragged.
Those were precisely the terms he had just formed. Not hard to guess, perhaps—but to recite them word for word, tone and pauses alike—this could mean only one thing: his thoughts, his very mind, had been laid bare.
Psionics?
Across not just light-years, but tens of light-years…
From the corner of his eye, he saw it: every reflective surface on the bridge—mirrors, gauges, holo-displays—all now showed the same radiant platinum figure, calmly watching him.
At once, his senses, his body, his consciousness fell into trembling nothingness.
So this is the Xel'naga, creators of all life? Valerian thought.
"To set conditions, you must first have leverage. And what leverage do you have? What can you deliver? I give you a task. Beyond the Korhal system, how many Terran worlds can you persuade, can you lead, to present their surrenders? That shall decide the fate of your House Mengsk."
"I await your good news. Remember, your time is short. The sooner—the higher your score."
Her image slowly faded.
Zzzzt— The displays shut off.
Thud! Valerian collapsed, teeth chattering, fighting the urge to vomit.
"Your Highness, are you well?" came a crewman's anxious voice.
"I'm fine! Quickly—set course away from Korhal! To the nearest Terran world—now!"
"But, Lord Raynor—"
"Do it!" Valerian staggered upright. He was no fool. He knew resistance was impossible. She could end him at any moment, no matter how many light-years away he was.
"This is the only way to save us all!"
...
"Jibril."
A voice like a goddess's gaze, warm as spring sunlight.
"H-h-here! I'm here! Jibril is here!"
"Now, find Samir Duran. Bring me this fallen Xel'naga's head. Remember: in front of outsiders, mind your conduct. Behead, if you must—but no perversion."
In the next instant, Selene's gaze sharpened, fixing intently upon the little one before her. The sudden surge of ill intent made Jibril, eyes already spiraling like a mosquito coil, squeak out a faint "Eek～."
"Yes, Jibril promises to complete the mission!" the Flügel girl answered, scrambling away in a flurry.
"Don't lose your own head."
"Oh."
The grand pyramid-palace fell quiet once more.
Selene withdrew her eyes and turned to the gilded portraits of the Mengsk lineage.
"The United Earth Directorate is the true prize. The Koprulu sector is nothing more than an appetizer."
The Terrans' ancestors had been colonists from Earth centuries ago, an expeditionary force abandoned by the UED government—a rebel fleet.
The survivors established three colonies, which became the core factions of humanity: the Terran Confederacy, the Kel-Morian Combine, and the Umojan Protectorate.
Truth be told…
Selene cared little for the tangled grudges of this tiny corner of the galaxy, a backwater on the rim.
Her attitude toward it was one of indifference.
The only reason it had become the eye of a galactic storm was its proximity to the cosmic rift near Ulnar—the birthplace of life. It was the nearest cluster of settled star systems around that abyss.
Beyond that…
Such a small place, and yet it had gathered together the Protoss, the Zerg, and the Terrans—three interstellar powers.
The Protoss, their golden age long past, divided and exiled from Aiur. The Zerg, bereft of their Overmind, only just regathered under the Queen of Blades' psionic call. And the Terran Dominion—holding the greatest population and most planets—stood at its peak.
Under Arcturus's rule, the Dominion had risen from the Confederacy's ruins, swallowed the Kel-Morian Combine, suppressed the Umojans, and welded the Koprulu's humans into one rope, forging a true sector-wide power.
Yet even so, the Dominion had properly developed fewer than twenty worlds: Korhal, Kel-Moria, Umoja, Tarsonis… many already scarred or destroyed by political strife and war.
The Koprulu sector was too small to hold three ascendant species.
From the moment Selene projected her secondary consciousness into reality, she had already judged:
Breeding ground. A crucible.
That was her first impression, after surveying the Koprulu sector and infiltrating the Dominion's networks.
When she had torn the so-called "essence of body and spirit" from the husk of Amon, the last of the Xel'naga creators, all the vague threads of fate became clear.
Reports and sealed fragments were mere scraps. Far better to seize the being itself, rip it apart, devour its essence, and claim its memories, its experiences, its truths as nourishment.
And so it was.
The Terrans were newcomers, immigrants.
But the Zerg and the Protoss—both their origin and their evolution stemmed from the same creators: the Xel'naga.
Guided deliberately along divergent paths of evolution.
The Zerg were made as pure flesh, of essence and will, endlessly adaptive and unyielding.
The Protoss were made as pure spirit, of form and psionic power, capable of bearing the Xel'naga's essence.
Together, the Protoss and Zerg were to be the next "cycle."
When they had reached the height of evolution, they would be led to the cradle of life. There, the eldest Xel'naga would give its life, its essence, gifting it to the chosen race. In doing so, they would ascend as the next generation of Xel'naga.
For the Xel'naga, though mighty, their species' lifespan—as a whole—was fleeting.
Thus they created countless civilizations. When the time came, two of the strongest would be chosen, fused, reborn. The process was called the Cycle.
The previous Cycles had gone smoothly. But this one, unsurprisingly, had gone awry.
With the Sacred Selene Empire's legions invading from beyond so effortlessly—how could it not?
Selene had strode into the vast void of the Xel'naga's Cycle, brazenly issuing her challenge. A queen to face the gods themselves: she to strike down the creator-race, the Xel'naga, while her legions spread her glory through the stars.
She waited, and waited… only to be met with silence. Her arrogance met only emptiness.
No Xel'naga came. Nothing but decay and ruin.
A battle had been fought here long ago—a war of betrayal.
Selene could sense it: the lingering wills of great beings unwilling to disperse, their disappointment and resentment staining the void, thick enough to take form.
One being, cowering in the void's corners, a so-called creator god, had abandoned all responsibility. It seemed almost eager for Selene, the foreign "outer god," to destroy the universe it had once cultivated so carefully. To wipe it all away.
Had Selene not slyly turned her gaze upon the rift between void and realspace—upon Ulnar, the Xel'naga's temple—and threatened to shatter it, releasing the ancient being imprisoned within, then the last surviving Xel'naga of this void might have remained a turtle in its shell forever.
Among the Xel'naga, there was the "Fallen One," the "Dark Voice," the creator who wished for the universe's end: Amon.
He could accept Selene's invasion of his universe. He already despised the stagnant Cycle, saw only futility, carried only hate. He sought to annihilate all.
But Selene's intent to free his sealed nemesis—the Infinite Cycle's guide, the eldest of the Xel'naga, Ouros—that, Amon could not abide.
Roaring, he struck Selene in ambush.
And Selene admitted: fallen, corrupted, strengthened by devouring his kin's essence, by imprisoning and absorbing the power of his own teacher—in the void, at his peak, Amon was indeed formidable.
Truly, darkness magnified his strength many times over.
