Interlude 17: Traces

Destruction, violence, slaughter.

He swung his sword.

The blade sliced swiftly through the air, but the sound it produced was not a crisp, clean cut; rather, it was a terrifying, heavy, muffled thud, like the howl of a monster. This was because the person wielding it was not using it as a sword.

He was using the blade of his sword to strike his enemy.

The smooth blade struck heavily on the chest and abdomen of a woman in a black robe, sending her flying.

The sound of bones breaking filled the air. She screamed and lay on the ground, writhing in pain as if she couldn't breathe. But the murderer paid no heed. He calmly and indifferently walked to her side, and with lightning speed, reached out his right hand and grabbed her tongue.

Then he pulled it out, and blood gushed out, falling onto the grass and bending it over. Crimson blood droplets mingled with the dew, silently sliding down and into the soil.

Amidst the indistinct wails, Karyl gazed thoughtfully at the black eight-pointed star mark in the center of the tongue, and slowly shook his head.

Nuceria, a world with little religious faith. Most people simply practiced ancient ancestor worship, even the slave owners.

Karyl believes that the biggest reason they don't establish a religion might simply be that they no longer need a means to better oppress others.

They themselves are the greatest oppressors. Under such circumstances, it is naturally absurd to expect them to be the first to worship a particular deity.

And this mark.

He lowered his head, opened the cloth bag at his waist, and threw his still blood-stained tongue into it.

This is the 172nd. Before this woman, 171 people had been cruelly murdered by Karyl on Nuceria, all of whom had this black mark branded on their tongues.

So, who exactly are these people?

Karyl released his grip, and the psionic longsword he had casually conjured slipped from his grasp, scattering into the air within half a second. Then, he stared at the woman who was howling in fear and pain, and with just that gaze, her sanity began to crumble.

The trees were silent, their leaves rustling in the breeze. The fresh scent of grass and earth wafted from nearby, and some small wild animals watched the scene with curiosity from the grass.

Everything is beautiful if you ignore the woman who is bleeding.

And that pale giant staring at her.

"You are the 172nd, madam," Karyl said softly.

"I've spent two days traversing all of Nuceria. Your souls are broken, and I can't see much, but fortunately, I can locate you through some clues. However, there's one question I still haven't been able to answer."

The woman looked at him in fear, a sob coming from her throat, like a plea or a defense.

Karyl listened patiently for a while, then shook his head.

"No." His tone remained gentle. "I don't want to know who you are. I just want to know why you were able to briefly control the Butcher's Nails using psionic magic, and why you used psionic magic to briefly halt the Ultramarines' attack that day in the Desh'ea Arena."

The woman sat up, weeping, and raised her blood-soaked hand, trying to grab Karyl's trouser leg to beg for his forgiveness, but he took a step back.

"Are you begging me for forgiveness?" he asked softly.

The woman nodded quickly, blood of despair gushing from deep in her throat. She had lost the ability to speak or think; her heart was gripped tightly by fear.

In just two days, less than one in ten of her companions had died, their life-giving sparks fading away one by one in the field of inspiration, all done by the giant before her.

However, that wasn't why she was afraid of him.

She could vaguely see what lay beneath the human skin—in her vision, what stood there was not a pale-skinned, black-eyed giant, but a monster draped in human skin.

Whenever he spoke, jet-black flames spewed from his fanged mouth. Whenever he gazed, thunder and lightning flashed from his empty eye sockets. His voice was deep and terrifying, like the echo of the dead, the howl of ghosts.

His mere presence was enough to drive women nearly mad.

Karyl smiled.

"Why beg for my forgiveness?" he asked softly. "Six Ultramarines and forty-three Gladiators died because of your magic. The Vengeance spirits couldn't find you that day, so I came."

He crouched down and sighed softly.

"Do you understand what this means?" he asked.

The woman didn't answer, only sobbed. Karyl raised his hand and slowly pinched her cheek, letting the tears gather little by little on his fingers that touched her cheek. The tears were warm, no different from those of a normal person.

He flung his hand away in disgust.

"What's the use of crying?" he asked coldly. "Many of you were there that day. Why? Was it to escape the attack of the Ultramarines in the less crowded arena? Or was it because their attack interrupted something you were doing?"

The woman stared wide-eyed in terror.

"Yes." The monster in her eyes spewed black flames, delivering its verdict in the voice of the dead. "I know what you originally intended to do, and I know you fled because of my arrival."

The monster extended its right claw again, seized her head, and slowly squeezed it shut. The woman screamed, her death throes a violent struggle.

"Hush," Karyl said, gazing at her. "Stop struggling. Rest in peace."

He clenched his right fist.

--

"Based on today's examination, Lord Angron has fully recovered, but he should consume plenty of nutrients over the next six months. Furthermore, the research on the Butcher's Nails has yielded some preliminary results, Primarch. We have dissected the remains of the victims in the Desh'ea Laboratory."

Valentius Dollo paused, looking somewhat hesitant. His Primarch looked up from the pile of documents and glanced at him.

"What's wrong?"

"Considering Lord Angron's medical report, his condition is not optimistic," Dolores said.

He Roboute Guilliman for a moment, then leaned back in his chair and sighed.

"Even the strongest of ordinary people can only have one Butcher's Nails implanted, but your brother has had a full sixteen. What's worse, their extensions have become intertwined."

"With current medical technology, to remove the Butcher's Nails, we would have to completely pull out all those densely packed spikes that were wrapped around his spine and brain in one go."

Roboute Guilliman pursed his lips and continued Valentius Dollo's words, "And that's impossible."

"Theoretically speaking," Dollo lowered his head reluctantly, "We can."

But what about in practice?

"No," the Ultramarines said. "The Primarch's healing factor has completely fused his flesh with those things. To remove the Butcher's Nails, we'd have to cut him open completely."

Roboute Guilliman closed his eyes, turned his head, and uttered a low Macragge slang term that was nothing short of a curse.

After a long silence, he spoke again, "So, that thing has completely merged with him? Do you have any more bad news, Dorothy? Tell me all at once, so I can tell him everything this afternoon."

"Yes, the Primarch."

"Then let's talk." Roboute Guilliman calmly tapped the table. "It's alright, we'll find a way to get that thing off him completely sooner or later."

"Your brother possesses a psychic talent," Dollo said slowly. "The Librarian have confirmed this, and he himself mentioned it in conversation. He can sense our emotions and dispel some of them in some way."

"However, the Butcher's Nails is a psionic surgical implant. Its power source is not only the victim's life, but also psionic energy. The evidence is as follows."

"Your brother is uncomfortable with the Librarian's presence, and the Butcher's Nails briefly comes alive in the process. Moreover, when he uses his talents to think or experience emotions like pleasure, the nail also briefly becomes active."

Roboute Guilliman tossed aside his quill, clenched his right fist, and placed it under his nose. He looked thoughtfully at the table and shook his head.

"You mean, if he continues to use his talent, Nail is very likely to make a comeback?"

"That possibility cannot be ruled out, Primarch. But they have lost their drilling capabilities and can only bring him pain."

"You say they are due to psychic energy or activity, but why do they cause him pain when he thinks about them?"

"We don't know the principle," Dollow said dejectedly. "After discussing it, we can only guess that it must have some underlying logic that only allows the victims to become mindless bloodthirsty beings."

Roboute Guilliman sighed slowly, picked up his quill, and shook his head with a hint of complaint. "You've brought me nothing but bad news these past few days, Dolores."

"I'm sorry, Primarch."

"What are you apologizing for?" Roboute Guilliman looked up irritably, but all his frustration vanished the moment he saw Dollow's dejected expression.

"It's alright," he reassured softly. "We'll find a way."

A few minutes later, Valentius Dollow left his Primarch's study. Roboute Guilliman continued his work of correcting documents, seemingly calmly writing and drawing on the papers, but a question quietly arose in his mind.

--Karyl Lohars is undoubtedly a Psyker as well.

So why didn't his brother feel pain when he stood next to Angron?

"."

Roboute Guilliman had no answer.

Update complete.

I might take a day off on the last day of this month to rest. The workload was even heavier when the book was released, so it was a bit tough. My main goal is to maintain quality; if I write too fast, the pace might break down.

And that guy who told me to take it down and put it back up again, you little brat!