31: One Resurrected from the Grave (End)

Jairzinho Guzman felt that his identity as a physician was being challenged in a strange way.

What? Where does this challenge come from?

The challenge lies in performing a physical examination on a massive skeleton that shows no signs of life but can move freely and even speak.

"How are you?" the enormous skeleton draped in black robes asked, its voice surprisingly carrying a hint of relief that left Guzman at a loss for words. "I hope my condition has improved somewhat."

"Instructor, you—" Guzman stopped speaking, took a deep breath, and began to tell himself that only he could handle this.

After all, coming back from the dead is a terrifying thing, no matter what. At least until Karyl Lohars' body is fully recovered, Konrad Curze Curze doesn't want too many people to know about it.

"--Your body still doesn't show any relevant data—I mean, at least our medical equipment hasn't given me any relevant information," Guzman said. "In other words, you're still a dead man, Instructor."

The skeleton nodded calmly.

He had expected this.

The library aboard the Emperor's Dream contains much lost knowledge—memories that will never die, waiting to be touched, read, and memorized again. Words possess a magic; they can sometimes carry immense weight. For example, history, the true cause of a king's death, or even profound concepts.

The Perpetual.

In that book written by an anonymous author, the Perpetual are people who enjoy divine gifts and possess immortal life.

But that alone is not enough to be called "immortality." They are not simply immune to aging. In fact, no conventional method can kill a Perpetual; even if you throw him into lava, he will eventually climb out.

After reading the book, Karyl did not agree with the so-called "gift from God." The secret and origin of Perpetual were undoubtedly an unsolved mystery for humanity and even the universe as a whole, and even the Emperor himself could not answer this question.

However, both he and Karyl knew that the gods never bestow blessings.

The gods only take.

He himself is certainly not Perpetual. The reason he can "come back to life" and walk in the material world again is only because of a covenant.

It is essentially an anchor point, and also a precious testament. But he has died, that much is undeniable, and the influence from behind the Veil still ravages his current body.

In Karyl's vision, he could see the ever-burning flames of blood scorching his skeleton, trying to take possession of the body.

Fortunately, they were already very weak and unable to break free from the constraints of his power to influence others.

Those two weeks of fighting were worthwhile.

"Instructor?" Jairzinho Guzman asked softly, concealing his unease at the silence well, but not quite. "Should we repeat the check? Perhaps this time the result will be different."

"No, no need," said the skeleton. "Medically speaking, I am indeed dead. This must have upset you, Jairzinho, I'm sorry."

"."

The physician nodded silently, neither denying it nor denying it.

Karyl smiled—and if he still had muscles and skin on his face, Guzman would have seen the smile, but he didn't. So all he could see was the skull's jaw slightly open, and the blue light in its eye sockets flickering steadily for a moment.

"You're very direct, Jairzinho, that's good. So, if you don't mind, I have some questions I'd like to ask you about the current situation in Nostramo. Would you be willing to answer them for me?"

Guzman breathed a sigh of relief—he had thought their instructors had changed their minds and were going to do another check; he would rather stay in the dueling cage for eight hours than do that.

"Of course I'd like to, Instructor, but what would you like to know?"

"It's just some basic stuff about what happened after I left," Karyl said.

He could see the physician's relief, so he smiled silently again.

Karyl had to admit that he was starting to like this state where he didn't have to keep a calm expression all the time—although staying in a skeletal form for too long wasn't good for anyone, he might be able to make a similar mask after he recovered.

It may sound somewhat pathetic, but he was beginning to understand why the Emperor maintained a terrifying detachment and composure in most situations.

--

With a certain emotion he didn't want others to see, Kharn calmly lowered the company flag in his hand.

This is a huge flag, originally hanging in the council chamber of the Firm Resolve. It belonged to the Eighth Company and was old and bloodstained. It was made up of many different flags sewn together, flags that came from the fallen standard-bearers of the Eighth Company, crossed countless battlefields, and were stained with countless lives. In the end, they were sewn together.

The War Hounds did this before setting off: they resolved to leave everything to the Primarch's decision, and thus sealed away their past honors.

And now, it's being used as a cover in a cemetery; no one would have imagined it would be used for something like this. Beneath the flag are countless raised edges, and Kharn knows what they are.

They were iron coffins, and inside lay the ashes of their brothers.

The lower decks of the Firm Resolve have been cleared out. This place originally belonged to many civilians; it was their home. The War Hounds gave them their freedom, but left behind this place where generations had lived together. Now, it is an empty lot.

All the metal utensils, walls, and even pipes were completely melted down and cast into coffins. A vast area was cleared out, large enough for the War Hounds to stand there, dispersed into companies, and cover the coffins of their fallen brothers with the blood and honor of the past.

Their Primarch, Angron, said that the protector should reside in the protected object after death.

Kharn agreed with this statement, but still felt an overwhelming sadness.

The Twelfth Legion 'War Hounds now have only 53,213 men left. The situation varies from company to company, with the First Company, Third Company, and Eighth Company suffering the most severe losses. The casualties among high-ranking officers and the middle command chain are even more horrific, with almost one in ten surviving. This is undoubtedly related to the sudden betrayal of half of them.

Kharn closed his eyes, stopping his thoughts; he didn't want to recall the terrible things that happened during his Warp voyage.

A few minutes later, he opened his eyes again and heard their Primarch's voice on the communications channel. He looked up and saw a giant with his back to everyone on the iron platform not far away, the steel braids of cables behind his head trembling.

"Remember the dead, remember their names, their faces, everything about them," Angron whispered.

His voice, which had been ravaged and become terrifying, now sounded slow and calm.

"Because if we don't remember, they will truly die. We will become an extension of the dead; we will bear their honor, their pain, every drop of their blood. We will take their place and wield their lost weapons."

"Then we will Vengeance them, you War Hounds."

After the funeral, Angron slowly returned to his room. The pain from the Butcher's Nails still tormented him, but more than the nails, it was this room that made Angron feel most lost.

He could sense the care the War Hounds had put into setting it up from those details, but precisely because of that, he didn't want to live in the room.

They were dead, and the room held no warmth, only sorrow. Angron sat silently in a chair; everything here was intact, having miraculously escaped the hail of bullets during the battle aboard the Firm Resolve.

But what about the others?

This question swirled in his mind, causing him to sigh and become unbearable. He began to silently recite names again, from Oenomaus, Akar, Milkan, Yanio, to Jill Birdwin, Jager, Kunna.

Given the Primarch's memory, remembering everyone's names wouldn't be difficult. However, some people's appearances could never be matched with their names again.

Angron gently raised his hand, pressed his index and middle fingers against the area below his eyelids, and then slowly traced them downwards. He felt a rough texture, followed by the warm blood spreading from his fingertips.

He was thinking, the nail wouldn't allow it, so he started to bleed.

Or tears.

Say whatever you want— Angron didn't care anymore; he remembered them, he would always remember.

Never forget.

Update complete.

I've already written nearly 250,000 words this month. It's almost the end of the month, and I'm thinking of writing less, saving up some chapters, and preparing for some extra chapters or something.

Thank you all for your support.