29: Those Resurrected from the Grave (Part One)

Few people might believe this, but there is indeed a medical hall on the Nightfall.

It is located between the upper and lower decks, a quiet and cool place where the heat transmitted through the pipes in the walls has no effect. It is a place that cleverly avoids all noise and commotion.

It was as quiet as a cemetery, and in fact, it did look like one; a thin mist would even rise there.

Now, if you can pass through twelve security gates and through layers of isolation rooms separated by airtight bulletproof glass, you can reach its main hall, a huge ward with power cables spread across the floor.

This place is completely different from a typical hospital ward; it's dimly lit, gloomy, and cold. But for those who have lived here briefly in the past, none of that matters.

In other words, the Eighth Legion didn't care what their "wards" looked like. And neither did Konrad Curze Curze.

At this moment, he was silently gazing through bulletproof glass at a corpse covered in numerous medical instruments. Jairzinho Guzman, the medic of the Eighth Legion, stood beside him, silent as well.

Thirteen minutes later, a Cogitator in the corridor emitted a heavy hum. Guzman immediately ran over and returned a few seconds later with a report.

He looked up at his tall, thin, and gloomy Primarch and handed him the diagnostic report, but Konrad Curze Curze did not reach out to take it.

"Would you mind telling me the result directly, Jairzinho?" the commander of the Eighth Legion asked softly. He stood with his hands behind his back, his right sleeve empty.

"Yes, Primarch."

The physician immediately complied. He lowered his head, quickly glanced at the documents, and then began to speak.

"According to the examination report, the deceased showed no signs of life, and there was no organic tissue on the bones that could be examined. From a medical and physiological point of view, he was completely dead."

"And what was the cause of death?" Curze asked again, his expression calm.

Guzman was momentarily at a loss for words to answer the question.

Four hours earlier, when his Primarch brought this corpse into the medical hall, there were four medical teams trying to conquer the miners' lung disease, hoping to reverse the progression of the disease in those patients who had progressed to the late stages.

This is very important, not only because Konrad Curze Curze himself said "Every man's life is precious," but also because every member of the Eighth Legion had seen Nostramo with their own eyes.

No one should live like that; that's their consensus.

Now, they have left with their equipment and dispersed to various medical rooms on the ship to continue their research.

Konrad Curze Curze explained his reasons for doing so and offered his deepest apologies for disturbing the medical officers' work—but Guzman was certain that his medical team would not be able to produce any results that night.

After all, the remains were named Karyl Lohars.

"The cause of death was intense heat," Guzman replied softly. "However, no Phosphex flame can burn away flesh without damaging the bones, Primarch."

"Based on our understanding of science and the laws of physics, yes. Moreover, ordinary flames could not keep his bones at a high temperature."

Curze lowered his head and looked at the medical officer, his expression still calm, as if the emotional turmoil of four hours ago was nothing but a dream. However, unseen by Guzman, his hands were repeatedly opening and closing.

"Primarch, are you referring to psionic powers?"

The commander of the Eighth Legion fell into deep thought and did not answer. He was extremely calm, even frighteningly so. Staring at his profile, the medic felt a chill creeping up from the depths of his heart for some reason.

"No." After a moment, Konrad Curze Curze said, "More than that—that's enough for tonight, Jairzinho, you can go and rest."

And you, Primarch?

Jairzinho Guzman forced himself not to speak; he stood there, silently keeping his Primarch for a while longer. Konrad Curze Curze looked up and sighed softly.

Then he smiled.

"I'm fine." He lowered his head and winked at Guzman in the same way. "You should have work to do tomorrow, right? It'll be eight in the morning in six hours. If I remember correctly, it's your turn to be on duty on the ground today?"

"Yes, Primarch," Guzman said. "I'm in charge of Quintus."

"Then you'll need to take some time to rest," Konrad Curze Curze said patiently.

Jairzinho Guzman did not insist further; he quickly left the gloomy and quiet cemetery, leaving their Primarch and a corpse there. The physician was extremely calm, but instead of going to his room, he went to the upper deck.

This matter must be known to all the soldiers of the Eighth Legion. He didn't know why their instructor had returned in the form of a corpse before the five hundred men who had gone with him, but he didn't care much about it.

"This is a blood feud," Jairzinho Guzman thought calmly. "And we will surely Vengeance."

Night Haunter slowly exhaled a cold breath. Jairzinho Guzman was gone, everyone was gone, and he was now alone in the medical hall. This was for the best; he no longer had to bear the responsibility, and he could briefly become someone else.

Two minutes later, he passed the check and entered the hall. Mist lingered at his feet, not dissipating with his movement. The Wraith slowly approached the skeleton lying on the iron platform with the steps he had learned.

He gently pushed aside the instrument and the connecting cables, moving the metal table to a more open space. Then, he slowly sat down against the metal table, as if leaning against a corner of a wall.

After a long silence, he finally spoke.

"I know you're still alive, Karyl," the Night Haunter hissed. "I can feel it. I wasn't hallucinating, was I?"

There was no answer, only a cold, deathly silence, and a glimmer of icy blue light. The corpse trembled slightly, its right hand sliding off the iron platform and gently resting on the Night Haunter's shoulder.

The Wraith was taken aback for a moment, but quickly burst into laughter.

"I knew it," he said firmly in a gentle tone. "So, come back to life quickly."

He lowered his head again.

--

Drifting, a familiar feeling, cold and desolate. The Ghost was unmoved by this, only wanting to wake up quickly.

He still has a lot of work to do. That doesn't include comforting the Night Haunter, yes.

The Night Haunter doesn't need the comfort of a Ghost; he is strong enough.

However, perhaps he should no longer be called Ghost; he is no longer a nameless monster.

Karyl Lohars, a name he claimed, became the very anchor that grounded him in reality.

Even on the covenant, he had written this name. He turned his eyes, trying to figure out where he was, but the world suddenly shifted in the next instant.

A weary man, his face stained with filthy blood, stood before him, sword in hand, staring at him thoughtfully.

"Karyl Lohars?" he asked slowly.

Karyl nodded at the same slow pace as him.

The man sighed and casually tossed the sword aside. He tapped his temple, and a flash of light appeared, replacing the previous brightly lit room.

The firewood crackled inside the fireplace, the dim yellow light was very warm, and if you asked Karyl, it looked like a hunting lodge nestled in the woods.

He turned his head and began looking for a window on the wall.

"There are no windows here," Neos said. "This is a corner of my memory."

Karyl raised an eyebrow, turned his head, and watched him slowly sit down.

Neos shook his head.

"I know what you're trying to say—that it's pathetic to seek rest in one's own memories. Is that what you're going to say?"

Karyl smiled, but didn't go over and sit down with him, even though the chair Neos was sitting in looked so comfortable. He crossed his arms, leaned against the wall, and shook his head.

"Aren't we all like this?" he calmly retorted. "At this point, the only true rest is death, but we cannot attain true death."

Neos was silent for a moment, then changed his clothes again. Now he was wearing dirty boots and a thick plaid shirt, his hands covered in calluses, making him look like a lumberjack.

"It took me a long time to realize what you just said," he said. "I used to live a secluded life in the mountains, working as a carpenter, occasionally hunting animals, skinning them, and selling the hides to shops in the town below. That's what I looked like back then."

Karyl glanced at him a few times and nodded.

"You look sloppy." He smiled and shook his head. "It's not easy to take a bath in the deep mountains, is it?"

"It's more than just that it's not easy to take a bath," Neos laughed.

"Back then, I was determined to be an ordinary person. I often shivered in the cold during winter and frequently forgot to move firewood from the warehouse, causing it to become damp and difficult to chop and burn. But looking back now, I was truly happy."

You are very happy now.

"Indeed." Neos nodded. "Seeing humanity's future gradually improve is truly a source of happiness for me."

"What a great statement." Karyl smiled, but the smile was fleeting, and he quickly became serious.

"How could that thing ignore the Veil?" he asked calmly. "What price did it pay?"

"Blood," Neos replied. "His own blood."

"That's all? Is that all? Is that all He can do to ignore the barrier of the Veil and forcibly turn the War Hounds into His slaves?"

Neos sighed silently.

"Yes," he said. "But what He gave was not 'just that,' as you say. He gave much more than you and I know."

Karyl narrowed his eyes.

"Very good." He nodded. "That's good."

He said nothing more. After a brief silence, they resumed their conversation as if he were truly a reclusive carpenter and hunter entertaining his friends.

But is it really so tragic to seek a haven of rest in one's own memories?

Perhaps no one has the answer.

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