The Silent Banquet
"What's that word again? Ancient Terra Terran—ah, I remember now."
Xianni of the First Company let out a snort, "Is this how you would put it, Richter?"
"You actually went to the trouble of pretending to be illiterate just to show off your Terra accent, that's really something, Xianni."
Richter Nair of the Eighth Company sighed deeply and began to ponder why he was on duty with Richter tonight.
"Compared to you, I certainly don't know as much about literature," Xianni grinned. "At least, I can't just launch into a long, eloquent literary analysis of Ancient Terra playwrights."
"Are you mocking my company commander?" Richter turned his head, his brow furrowed.
Xianni smiled broadly, but still shook his head. "Just a small retaliation for what you said last time—who was it that said our company commander always had a stern face like a statue?"
"In short, it wasn't me."
"Yes, it wasn't you—it was your company commander who said it!"
"Quiet down, Xianni." Richter shook his head helplessly. "We're on guard duty."
He was right; they were standing guard outside the banquet hall. Normally, no one would be needed to keep watch here, but things were different today.
As Xianni from Terra said, the Nightfall is indeed in a very prestigious position. After all, a banquet with three Primarch in attendance is currently being held on the Nightfall.
However, this is just what the people of Xianni think; the actual situation is certainly not that normal.
--
If possible, Roboute Guilliman wished he could temporarily lose his sight so he wouldn't have to passively use his terrible observational skills to discover his brothers' thoughts.
Lord Macragge, his face taut, extended a fork the size of his Primarch and speared a large, tender, and juicy piece of meat.
He slowly and steadily placed it on his plate, then began to cut it with a knife. As he did so, he kept glancing at Angron's expression out of the corner of his eye.
Then he noticed that his brother's face was completely dazed. Angron ate very slowly, sometimes chewing dozens of times before swallowing. There was no doubt that he had no interest in food at the moment.
Roboute Guilliman lowered his head and put a piece of meat into his mouth. It was the Serrated Beast of Nostramo, which was tougher than the meat of Grox. Although the taste was comparable, this toughness brought a kind of untamed wildness.
To be honest, it was delicious, but Roboute Guilliman couldn't focus on it at all.
He subtly raised his head while chewing, glancing at Konrad Curze Curze out of the corner of his right eye. The Eighth Legion Commander calmly chewed his Serrated Beast steak, his eyes fixed on the tablecloth, seemingly showing no intention of speaking.
"."
Roboute Guilliman picked up his glass and downed the wine in one gulp. The familiar taste lingered on his tongue; it was Macragge, his usual favorite. He put down the glass, his throat bobbed a few times, and then, with great courage, he opened his mouth.
"Isn't Karyl coming to this banquet?"
The words had barely left his mouth when Roboute Guilliman began to regret them—what had he just said?
He lowered his head in regret, not understanding how he had suddenly turned his silver tongue into a stiff one. The words he uttered between his lips and teeth were almost unbearable even to himself.
But Konrad Curze Curze did not embarrass him.
"He won't be attending this party," Curze replied softly. "After all, this is a gathering of Primarch, and you know what kind of person he is, Roboute, don't you?"
Roboute Guilliman breathed a sigh of relief.
"Yes, I understand," he quickly replied. "He always does things according to his principles."
"Sometimes not." Konrad Curze Curze smiled slightly, as if his brief outburst of emotion had completely vanished; he now appeared remarkably calm, composed, and gentle.
He looks like a completely different person.
After a brief silence, Roboute Guilliman decided to follow his brother's lead. "Sometimes?"
"Yes." Konrad Curze Curze nodded with a smile. "He sometimes loses his temper, and so do I."
"."
Roboute Guilliman made another decision, choosing to directly address the implication in his brother's words. "If you're referring to the misunderstanding on the tarmac, Konrad Curze, I want to tell you, I don't care."
But I do care.
Konrad Curze Curze said that at that moment, the smile on his face had disappeared.
"I want to apologize to you. I'm sorry for losing control. I should have controlled my emotions better. I will remember this incident; it will be a lesson for me, something I will keep deep in my mind to motivate myself to become a better person, someone like you."
"."
This time, Roboute Guilliman remained silent longer than anyone else. He found himself unable to discern the true meaning behind Konrad Curze Curze's words; he didn't know if Curze was being sincere, sarcastic, or both.
Immediately afterwards, he heard someone slowly put down the knife and fork on his left.
"I don't think you need to do this, Konrad Curze," Angron said in a low voice, his ravaged voice highly recognizable, echoing in the dimly lit banquet hall of the Eighth Legion.
Everywhere on the Nightfall seemed so dark, never truly bright, yet these lights never disappeared. They existed faintly, dimly illuminating the darkness and those within it.
They are not real, bright lights, but what they do is no different from that kind of light.
"What for?" Konrad Curze Curze asked back.
"At your age, you're taking on things you shouldn't be taking on," Angron said slowly, relaxing his facial muscles to make sure his features weren't too tense.
He didn't want his expression to become a potential source of misunderstanding; the Butcher's Nails continued to inflict pain on him, but that didn't matter. All he needed to do now was release his precious goodwill.
"So? What are you trying to say, brother?" Konrad Curze Curze raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying that at my age, it's understandable and forgivable for me to make mistakes?"
"No," Angron replied. "Everyone should be held accountable for their actions, let alone a Primarch. If you do something wrong, you should apologize or pay the price. What I'm saying is, for your age, you've done enough."
He lowered his head, his light blue eyes holding an emotion that neither Guilliman nor Konrad Curze Curze knew how to react to.
"So you don't have to force yourself to communicate with us with this air of responsibility." Angron looked at Guilliman, then back at Konrad Curze Curze, who was finally no longer calm, and nodded to them. "We're brothers, aren't we?"
"."
Konrad Curze Curze leaned back in his chair in silence and sighed slowly. His expression remained unchanged, only slightly relieved, and in the smallest details, Roboute Guilliman could detect a rare relaxation.
"Yes, we are indeed brothers."
After a brief silence, he spoke.
"But my age doesn't mean anything. I didn't force myself to take on these responsibilities; I was meant to bear them. I am the commander of the Eighth Legion, and their Primarch. According to Imperium law, Nostramo will become my homeworld in the future. I have many responsibilities to bear, which is why I cannot forgive myself for losing control."
He finally looked at Roboute Guilliman —and met his gaze; this time, the Lord of Macragge did not flinch.
"In that instant, I abandoned my responsibilities. I didn't care whether you would actually attack Karyl because of some stimulation I could no longer bear. I just couldn't bear to see that happen before my eyes. In my memory, he had been seriously injured and near death three times, and twice he had actually lost vital signs."
Konrad Curze Curze lowered his head silently again, his long black hair falling over his forehead, obscuring his eyes and half his face. His pale skin was hidden in the dim light, appearing and disappearing like Ghost.
"I don't think I can take another one," he said in a low voice.
--
When will you arrive?
+ Three days, or fifty-nine hours if you need a more precise description.
Karyl shook his head.
+ Nostramo's orbit is now occupied by three different military forces: the Ultramarines, the War Hounds, and the Eighth Legion. If the Emperor's Dream were to also be moored there, are you sure this wouldn't be given greater political significance?+
Politics itself is a meaningless and illusory thing; it has only one meaning, and that meaning is given to it by my own hand.
The Emperor of mankind coldly narrated with his psychic powers, therefore, you need not worry about any possible rumors.
"You really are a ruthless emperor. Hearing you speak like that really makes me uncomfortable."
+You should get used to it. Neos is in the minority; most of the time, I'm a tyrant with terrifying ambitions. I've been cursed by many who say I'll bring about the destruction of all humanity because of my ambitions.+
Karyl smiled.
Ambition? He wouldn't use that word to describe the Emperor's vision for the future of humanity; the word was too insignificant compared to it, too small to even be compared.
However, the Emperor of Mankind spoke again, "I am indeed very worried about this; the Great Crusade must end as soon as possible."
"You should get there first before we talk about this; let's discuss it in person."
I will do it as soon as possible.
Karyl hung up the communication and began to wait in the office of the Lord of the Eighth Legion. The banquet would end sooner or later, and he still had a conversation that required the Night Haunter's participation.
The pale giant tapped his fingers on the table, his expression calm, yet a hidden bitterness simmered in his dark eyes.
Okay, that concludes this month's update. See you next month for over 270,000 words!
By the way, I'll only update with 4,000 words tomorrow to maintain my perfect attendance record, because I'm going to the dentist tomorrow.