23. One-Day War (I)
"I come from Nostramo, Anric," Karyl said in a low voice. "A decaying star, a planet soaked in the blood of the innocent. You've seen it, Captain. What's your impression of it?"
Anric Barbatos remained silent for a long time before giving his answer amidst the tremors of the ground.
Before this, he had been holding the helmet, unable to take his eyes off Karyl Lohars —the armor of intertwined black and white, the cloak that was both alive and Shadow, and the cold, deep blue light.
He stared at these details, feeling his teeth and tongue stuck together, with a bloody, sweet taste. And speaking was a painful ordeal.
Anric survived this ordeal.
It should be baptized by fire.
"Yes."
The skeleton slowly nodded.
"It should be burned, reduced to rotting dust, and destroyed by warships. Nostramo forever altered my and your Primarch. It taught me many things, and I will never be grateful for them."
Anric heard a cold, soft laugh—he had never heard an instructor from the Eighth Legion laugh in such a terrifying voice.
In fact, in his, or their, perception, Karyl Lohars was not only mild-mannered, but also very responsible. By all accounts, he didn't seem like someone who should be in the Eighth Legion.
But at that moment, Anric Barbatos suddenly realized something.
Before that?
Before they knew him, before Karyl Lohars became an instructor in the Eighth Legion, who was he?
More details came rushing in, like roaring waves, raging through Anric's mind. He opened his mouth blankly, inhaled a large breath of air, and tasted the extremely strong stench of blood on his tongue.
The darkness continued to gather, growing heavy and oppressive. Thunderous roars, like the pounding of a heart, swept in from all directions, and the ancient dead began to wail, scream, and curse.
Anric clenched his fists, his teeth grinding together, and stood trembling on the edge of darkness, awaiting the pronouncement of the one who had summoned them.
Or an answer.
After a five-second silence, Anric received his reply.
"It only takes nine seconds to drain a person's blood, Anric. I learned this from a nobleman who proudly wrote these figures down in his notebook with a blood-stained quill."
"To obtain this data, he murdered 3,471 people. I killed him, and he didn't regret it; he was just confused—confused that I would kill him for this."
"Similarly, I was also puzzled. I was puzzled as to how he could regard such cruel torture as a pastime, an achievement to boast about at dinner tables and dances. Later, I understood why. And now, I want to know."
How long does it take to drain the lifeblood of a civilization?
Anric looked helplessly into the skull's eye sockets, which were burning with Black Rage, and said hoarsely, "I—I don't know, Instructor."
"I don't know either," Karyl said calmly. "But we'll find out soon enough."
Karyl slowly opened his arms, but Anric's heart began to race. A new fear rose within him; he realized something, and he realized it was definitely not a good thing for him.
A hoarse, broken sound emerged rhythmically from the deeper darkness, and following the tremors of the ground, the spire itself began to tremble.
The characters that the Harkosus people had etched between the metal floor and walls began to shine brightly at this moment. Then, they began to melt, and the voices became clearer and clearer until they resounded completely in Anric's ears.
After a moment of silent listening, Anric finally realized what the sounds were doing.
They were chanting, singing a hymn of hatred, of Vengeance, of the lingering obsession of the dead—of a name.
Anric bent over, feeling a tangible burning sensation rise within him. An excruciating pain followed, and he slowly braced himself against the ground as the names of the dead swept over him. Between illusion and reality, Anric Barbatos raised his head and, with all his might, uttered a single question.
"What price will you pay this time, Instructor?"
"Good question," Karyl said.
He did not answer.
--
Konrad Curze Curze strangled the last Xenos with his bare hands, tossed the body aside, and calmly stood up. He began to walk forward with the softest of movements, like a drifting Ghost rather than a human with actual weight.
Van Cleef followed closely behind him, almost never leaving his side—the company commander had already decided to create a separate guard position for the Primarch after this war.
Konrad Curze Curze almost never operated with his legion; he was always at the forefront, leaping into the crowds to wreak havoc. This was quite a test of the Eighth Legion's nerves, since it was difficult to see exactly where Curze was.
Once he begins his killing spree, he's like a fleeting, ominous cloud, descending upon any enemy. But before that, you'll never know when he'll arrive.
No one—or any living being—can look up at the sky forever.
The wind has shifted.
Konrad Curze Curze suddenly spoke. He stood in the center of the battlefield, the sky crimson, like the bloodshot eyes of a dying man. He bowed his head, muttering to the corpse of a Xenos, as if speaking to it. But Van Cleef heard his own name from the Primarch's mouth.
"Can you feel it, Van Cleef? The wind has shifted."
The company commander looked blankly at Curze —he tried to answer, but his heart suddenly pulled him into a chaotic scene.
A rain of corpses fell from the crimson sky, spreading wildly, while an eerie green swept in from the other side of the starry sky, only to be firmly blocked by the burning Black Rage. This scene appeared for only a moment, but Van Cleef knew he was not hallucinating.
He was fully conscious.
"The wind has shifted." Konrad Curze Curze turned to look at his company commander, his eyes thoughtful, his gaze seemingly possessing a magical quality, like two constantly spinning black vortexes. He stood there, pondered for a moment, then suddenly turned and left, leaving behind only an order.
"Prepare to contact the Nightfall, Van Cleef. Phase Two has begun."
The company commander watched his Primarch leave with a complicated expression, and then sighed heavily.
It started to accelerate.