19. Red Sand (VI)

In the afternoon, the sky over Nuceria turns an extremely calm, deep blue, with thick clouds rolling across the canvas-like expanse. Later in the evening, the sky transforms into a blood-red hue.

Here, there aren't many tall buildings to block out the natural scenery; the sun appears and disappears without reservation.

Karyl gazed thoughtfully at the foreign sky, remaining silent for a long time, until a voice came from behind him. "Instructor."

He turned his head and saw a serious face. He was now standing with this man on a plain, far away from Desh'ea.

Nuceria has many areas that need to be properly organized, Ultramarines hope that their cousins will arrive to find an orderly planet, making it much easier for them to take over.

This kindness is natural; Karyl appreciates it and needs much of what it brings.

He followed the Second Company of the First Chapter closely, observing their every move: communicating with tribes, persuading cities still resisting to surrender, and treating the locals peacefully. He took in every detail.

The purpose of this trip has been completely changed, but that doesn't mean he will abandon his goal—he is an instructor in the Eighth Legion, a position that, through Konrad Curze Curze's repeated changes, has acquired duties and powers similar to those of Primarch's lieutenant.

Therefore, once he returned to the Eighth Legion, his tasks went far beyond simply teaching martial arts.

Every step he was seeing now was the accumulated experience of the Ultramarines. It might not be useful to the Eighth Legion, but knowing it was better than not knowing it.

"Second Company Miro," Karyl smiled slightly. "What brings you here?"

The Second Company simply made a gesture. "I'm here to apologize."

To whom?

"To you," the Second Company said, "I have learned of their reckless behavior from my brothers in the company, and I must come to apologize for it."

"They didn't do anything they shouldn't have done, Second Company, why are you apologizing?"

The Second Company did not answer, but stared at him stubbornly, his serious expression revealing to Karyl a certain flaw of his—a kind of obstinacy that could almost be called pedantry.

He made no attempt to hide it, even displaying it with an almost proud air. He came to apologize, with an extremely strong desire for Karyl to accept his apology.

Karyl knew the reason.

He shook his head. "It's nothing, just a few sword duels. Isn't it a very common form of entertainment among the Astartes to relax by sparring with each other in their spare time?"

"But they used real swords," Miro said solemnly. "That is unacceptable and unforgivable. I have reported their mistake to the Chapter Master, and he will decide what to do. Punishment will come, but I still need to express my apologies to you."

Karyl finally gave up.

"Alright, alright, I accept." He raised his hands. "But please, could you also go and tell Chapter Master Gage not to punish me too severely?"

"I'll do my best." The Second Company nodded. "However, if you'd like, I'd like to offer some suggestions."

Karyl almost agreed—or rather, he should have agreed.

A sharp, loud noise interrupted his reply. Looking up, he saw a blinding flash of light and a rapidly falling meteor. It streaked across the sky, replacing the sunset hours later and turning the sky blood red.

"What's going on?" Miro's voice came from beside him. The Second Company calmly and quickly inquired over the communication channel.

"Which of our transport planes or Storm Eagle malfunctioned? Immediately pinpoint the crash site, organize manpower to provide support, search for survivors, and remember to evacuate the local natives. I'll report this to the Primarch."

That's a reliable response, Karyl thought to himself, listening to his words.

Roboute Guilliman did indeed raise his sons according to his vision, entrusting his legions with things unrelated to war, and they did not disappoint him.

But

He looked up again, gazing at the crimson trail left by the meteor, and after half a minute, he let out a slow, soothing sigh.

A burning plane crashing across the horizon would only emit thick smoke, and the flames could not possibly spread for so long in the air without any burning material, let alone turn half the sky into such a terrifying blood red color.

"Don't send anyone over yet, Second Company," Karyl said softly. "Not anyone."

Miro looked at him, puzzled.

"Report this to your Primarch," Karyl said. "Do nothing else."

What do you mean by that?

Miro stared intently at him, wanting a definitive explanation. But Karyl said nothing, only letting out a soft sigh.

"I hate riddles just as much as you do, believe me, Second Company," he said.

--

Calm down, think calmly. Kharn advised himself with a rational voice he had learned from years of bloody war.

He learned a lot from the war, one of which was controlling anger. Anger is human nature; everyone experiences it. But as a soldier, you need to learn to control it.

He succeeded.

Then came more emotions—anxiety, fear, pain, confusion. He sighed patiently, and amidst the billowing smoke and the suffocating smell of blood, he slowly unfastened the safety harness around his waist.

He collapsed to the ground, a piercing pain shooting through his chest. All he could hear was distorted noise and a constant barrage of alarms; his Power Armour was warning him that it was damaged and might not be able to help him in any further combat.

"Okay, okay." He mumbled as he removed his helmet, barely opening his blood-blinded eyes to see what was before him.

Then he saw blood.

Boundless.

Kharn froze, for a brief moment he almost forgot where he was—right, where are we?

He frowned, and the movement caused a wound on his forehead to bleed even more, but this did not stop Kharn from thinking.

Amidst the burning metal ruins and the corpse of his brother, Kharn of the Eighth Company of the War Hounds began to recall with pain and rage.

What happened? Where am I? Why am I here?

He had no answer. He pondered, but still had no answer. So Kharn picked up his helmet and put it on again. A steady light flashed across his retina, and he began to call out on the communication channel, steady and calm, like the voice most often used by War Hounds in war.

"This is Kharn of the Eighth Company."

His brothers had fallen, but their deaths meant the war was on. He didn't know who he was fighting, but the War Hounds never showed weakness; they would fight to the last man and never give up.

Kharn knew there was probably something wrong with his memory, and he guessed it was because of the impact during the landing. Thinking of this, he couldn't help but look back at the metallic ruins again, trying to find some evidence, but he couldn't see anything familiar.

Everything was chaotic and bizarre, with remaining metal joint marks on the ground indicating that this should have been a landing module. Yet his seat was Storm Eagle- style.

Wrong.

He frowned, his thoughts and calls interrupted by a sound coming from behind the burning flames. The sound was like a roar, yet also like a wail.

What was that sound?

Kharn had no answer, but he chose to remain silent, and then his gaze began to search the burning ruins.

Eight seconds later, he found a Chainaxe. Eight seconds after that, he cautiously stepped out of the metal ruins, treading over broken reinforced glass and blood. The readings on his goggles told him that this was a safe, unpolluted world, but he absolutely refused to take off his helmet.

He had no weapon, only a Chainaxe, but that didn't stop him from moving forward. The visual aid module of the eyepiece spontaneously transformed the world he saw into black and white, allowing him to see every detail in the darkness.

Kharn gripped the unactivated Chainaxe tightly and walked toward the direction from which the sound came.

He trudged heavily across the grass, his Power Armour humming softly. The wound on his forehead still ached, but he paid it no heed. He had to figure out what was causing this—

" --Kharn."

He whirled around, axe raised high, and then he saw a familiar face.

"Company Commander Jager?" He lowered his weapon, puzzled. "What happened?"

Jager, the company commander of the Fourth Company, smiled and nodded at him without answering. His armor, a blend of blood red and brass, reeked of blood. On his right shoulder, which once bore the insignia of War Hounds, now hung a strange symbol decorated with a skull.

He wasn't wearing a helmet, and his entire face was contorted by that smile. His flesh trembled, and his once calm eyes were now sunken in their sockets, rapidly and nervously scanning Kharn's face, observing every detail of him.

"You don't know?" the Fourth Company commander asked in a low voice. "Kharn, don't you know what happened?"

"Of course I don't know—what's with your armor, Company Commander Jager?"

Jager didn't answer; his face began to twitch, and in the next instant, an attack that caught Kharn completely off guard suddenly struck.

The Fourth Company commander burst into maniacal laughter, striking Kharn down with terrifying fury, his Chainaxe digging deep into his side—in pain and disbelief, Kharn stared into Jager's eyes, and then he realized something.

The Fourth Company commander—calm, rational, respectable, and the Jager who had saved the Eighth Company many times—is no more.

"Blood for the Blood God!" he roared. "Skulls for the Skull Throne!"

Finally, an update is out!

Try to guess what's going on; if you guess correctly, there'll be an extra chapter.

Incidentally, Kharn wasn't the company commander of the Eighth Company at this time; in historical records, he was only promoted passively after all his superior officers had died. As for why, I won't go into details.

Oh, right, like I said before, I don't post grotesque pictures.