33 Conscription (End)

Fer Zalost tried hard to remain serious.

The Chief Librarian was dressed very formally today, bringing out the clothes he had worn in the days immediately following the Primarch's return.

It was a long black robe with dull gold trim, neither shiny nor particularly detailed. But it was far better than the training clothes he usually wore over a robe or cloak.

His adjutant, Adebiman Basley, was quite different. He leaned listlessly against the steel railing on the second floor of the training field, staring down. Far from being serious, he was dressed no differently than he had been decades ago, shortly after his release from Terra prison.

The same casualness, the same nonchalance. The black sleeveless top and heavy boots made him look like a gangster standing at a crossroads collecting money—if you ignored his enormous size.

Fer tried hard to suppress the urge to sigh and said softly, "Aren't you really going to go back and change your clothes, Adebiman?"

"Do you really think it makes a difference what you wear when facing them, my company commander?" The adjutant turned around with a half-smile. "I might as well change into the robes that the Word Bearers are used to wearing, and bring along a book with the Emperor's sacred words, personally copied by him?"

"I don't object to you doing that." Fer smiled dangerously. "In fact, I'd love to see you do it, Adebiman."

"No, thank you, Company Commander." The adjutant shrugged. "I'm not that stupid."

"But you've become as undisciplined as those Fenrisian," Fer said with a cold laugh, making no attempt to hide his attitude. "Do you also want to get drunk every day, and even drag the Auxilia out for a feast after the battle until they have to face disciplinary punishment?"

"I'm not averse to alcohol," Adebiman said, feigning confusion. "But we don't seem to have worked with them much. How do you know that so clearly, Company Commander?"

"Because I'm the company commander." Fer gestured a throat-slitting salute to his adjutant. "And you're just an adjutant—so go back and change your clothes right now before you come back. Are you trying to get the recruits to think you're a gangster?"

Adebiman reluctantly complied, and for the sake of at least doing so, Fer forced himself to ignore the two Ancient Terra slang phrases Adebiman uttered as he left.

He walked to the railing, straightened his clothes, and then looked down.

The formation of 1,223 units didn't even occupy one-fifth of the huge training room inside the Nest, and this was just one training ground within the Nest.

They were all dressed in the same loose-fitting black uniforms, each with a different expression. Fer took a moment to observe them all and convinced himself that they were actually all children under sixteen—a realization that left the Chief Librarian momentarily stunned.

He saw absolutely no trace of childishness in the reservists' expressions; in fact, some of them looked like they had been through a lot.

Being overly mature usually implies rapid growth, and rapid growth...

Fer sighed.

"What's wrong, Chief Librarian?" A voice sounded from behind him, very soft, almost like the sound of the wind.

"Nothing, Yarod," Fer told their sixth company commander without turning around, unfazed by the sudden outburst. "Just that we think our recruits probably all have one or more psychological issues."

The sixth company commander smiled silently. His burned right cheek twitched slightly, and the terrible scars slowly returned to calm after a few seconds before he spoke again.

"Don't talk like you don't have any psychological problems, Fer. Don't you know who we were in the past?"

"At least 70 percent of my psychological problems were acquired during the war," Fer finally turned his head. "And what about these reservists? The vast majority of them were already like this before the war even started."

Yarod slowly shook his head.

"And these problems will only increase, and eventually, time will turn them into people like us."

"People like us? You sound like some kind of righteous crusader, it's astonishing. What's wrong, Yarod? Have you had a change of heart after so many years as an executioner?"

"I don't have anything like that," the Sixth Company Commander replied expressionlessly. "I'm just telling you a fact: regardless of the type or method, war is essentially a meat grinder that grinds away humanity. Sooner or later, they will all break apart like us."

Fer was silent for a moment, seemingly deep in thought, while Yarod patiently awaited his brother's response. But to his surprise, Fer simply burst into laughter.

"So that's why you like writing poetry." The Chief Librarian shrugged mockingly. "Do those self-indulgent lines really help you piece together what little humanity you have left, Yarod?"

Faced with his sarcasm, the sixth company commander nodded again.

"Very good," he said calmly. "Classic Eighth Legion style—to be honest, Fer, I don't really enjoy writing poetry. I just want to keep myself occupied when I have some free time. The war will always end, and then what will we do?"

Fer Zalost frowned.

He suppressed his smile and stared intently at his colleague. The expression on his face made Yarod think he might suddenly throw a punch, but the Chief Librarian ultimately did not.

"No, that's not it, brother," he said softly and gently. "Before clocks were invented, there was a profession on Ancient Terra: bell ringer—or something else, I can't remember."

"They will ring an artificial sound-producing instrument in their hands as dawn breaks and the night ends, to wake people from their sleep. Others may still have time to rest, but our war will only end after the clock is invented. We are the bell ringers, Yarod, we will only be abandoned by the times, we will never retire voluntarily."

The sixth company commander nodded silently and said in a low voice, "You're fucking pessimistic like a lunatic, Fer."

The Librarian laughed merrily, agreeing with his brother's assessment, and casually pointed below the railing. There, a group discussion was beginning.

"Let's pick someone," Fer said softly. "I'll choose the twenty-sixth in the third row. What about you?"

"I'll choose him too."

"Oh no, don't even think about it—you're cheating."

"Who says you can't choose the same person twice?" Yarod smiled dismissively. "That kid looks pretty good. I'll choose him. If you don't like it, you can choose someone else."

Fer squinted, and half a second later, he tossed the two Ancient Terra slang phrases his adjutant had uttered to him a few minutes earlier to the sixth company commander. The latter grinned and began whispering the slang to the Chief Librarian.

--

Tense, extremely tense. But beneath this tension, a sliver of reason remained. The boy named Shen breathed slowly, suppressing his emotions, and waited for the group assignments.

In reality, although he appeared calm, his mind was still in turmoil. The dream he had experienced two hours earlier still left him feeling uneasy and angry.

Okay, let's be frank—no surviving Nostramo didn't hate the nobility.

No. Unless he has no memory. Therefore, Shen is not actually able to organize his thoughts to deal with what is about to happen.

He stood there, watching the people in front of him leave one by one. Those giants, dressed in black robes and with faces as pale as their own, were assigning them dormitories and the squads they would be assigned to.

Shen was in the third row, so the people in front of him quickly disappeared. The two giants came to the far right of his row and began to speak to them one by one, their voices so soft that they were barely audible.

Shen lowered his head, repeatedly telling himself there was no need to be nervous. He took a deep breath, and when he looked up again, the two giants were already standing in front of him.

At that moment, the boy's rationality was completely shattered. He had told himself countless times not to be nervous, but now even his fingers began to tremble rapidly. One of the giants smiled, but the smile was not friendly.

"Are you scared, kid?" he asked with a chuckle. "Are you going to cry, or what?"

"No"

"Answer him louder," the giant standing before him said, his voice hoarse and as cold as ice.

Shen felt a chill, his back tingled, and cold sweat began to break out on his forehead and back. This should have been a moment of collapse, but somehow he held on.

A sudden surge of calm made him raise his head, and he spoke clearly in Nostraman: "No."

Call me sir.

"No, sir."

"Very good." The giant nodded to him, offering a word of praise but remaining expressionless. "Your name is Shen? Interesting, but clear and easy to remember. You've been assigned to the seventh squad. Now, go over there; your Servitor will tell you which way to go."

He raised his hand and pointed to a small gate on the east side of the training field. Shen nodded to him and quickly left. His clothes swayed back and forth as he ran, and the cold wind blew past, making his sweaty back feel icy cold.

Shen felt a sense of relief, but it didn't last long. He had just approached the small door when he was startled by something that looked like a person but wasn't quite.

The thing had a blank, deathly pale face. Its paleness was beyond human comprehension; even the Nostramo people couldn't match its skill in disguising corpses. It had no eyelids, and its blue eyes, a color that should have been beautiful, now appeared as stagnant pools.

It stared blankly at Shen, and Shen stared blankly back at it, feeling a chill run from the soles of his feet straight to his forehead.

"You..." Shen began with difficulty. "You, who are you?"

The creature didn't answer, but tilted its head in confusion, seemingly not understanding. The stalemate continued for a while until a mechanical sound came from beneath its robes. After a moment, as if confirming something, it actually nodded to him.

"Please follow me," it said stiffly, then immediately turned around and walked forward.

"What?" Shen was confused. He quickly followed and reached out to grab its shoulder. The sensation that followed made Shen immediately release his grip as if he had been electrocuted—he didn't feel the touch of flesh and blood, but rather a coldness as hard as steel.

It stopped, slowly turned around, and stared blankly at Shen with its eyelids missing. "An order?"

"."

Shen stared at it blankly, without saying a word.

"Command?" it asked again, but Shen still didn't answer. So it turned around again.

This time, Shen followed it silently. Ten minutes later, he stepped through the dissipating mist and arrived at a room so spacious that Shen could barely open his eyes.

He looked up, awestruck by the candles burning in the chandelier on the ceiling, feeling their silent burning, unaware even of the Servitor's departure. Then, he turned his neck to the left and saw fifteen enormous bookshelves.

The heavy books on the shelves silently gazed at Shen. In front of these bookshelves were five long tables arranged in a row, and eight flags hung on the surrounding walls. Many people were already discussing in hushed tones beneath them.

Shen wasn't one to join in the fun, so he didn't go over. He continued to observe the room, eventually spotting a massive stone door behind the long table.

A coat of arms gleamed on it, looking like a sharp blade that had just pierced a heart.

Shen approached with awe and began to examine it closely. He knew this was the emblem of the Midnight Blade. He stared at the emblem for a long time, almost mesmerized. He didn't notice the sound disappearing in the room, or the breathing that had suddenly appeared behind him.

It took Shen a few minutes to realize something was wrong—he immediately turned around and saw a man much taller and stronger than himself. He was almost as tall as those giants, and the man was looking down at him.

His expression wasn't exactly malicious, but it certainly wasn't friendly either. A faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

"You seem quite engrossed in it," the man spoke first. "Don't you know where you are, recruit?"

"I don't know," Shen answered honestly.

"This is the entrance to my room," the man said. "And you're blocking my way—do you know who I am?"

"Have no idea."

"I am your superior." The man chuckled. "Can't you tell? Now call me 'superior' and let me hear it."

Shen raised his head, his brow furrowing slightly. He scanned the small giant from head to toe, then gave a negative answer, "No, you are not one of them."

His smile froze. Sevatar raised an eyebrow, a hint of surprise in his expression, but he still wanted to continue this impromptu charade, "You've got some nerve, recruit. How dare you say that?"

"Because you don't have that kind of aura they have," Shen replied calmly. "And you're not tall enough, not strong enough either."

Sevatar waved his fist at him. "At least a beating would be enough for you. You've got some nerve, recruit. What's your name?"

"What's your name?" Shen asked in return. This person's behavior made him increasingly certain of his suspicions. Therefore, he was now completely unafraid.

Sevatar couldn't help but laugh, "You're really not afraid of getting beaten up, are you, recruit? Okay. My name is Jago Sevatarion, everyone who knows me calls me Sevatar."

My name is Shen.

"That's it, that's it?" Sevatar frowned. "How could there be such a short name? Are you kidding me?"

"If you're unhappy, you can go find my father at the Third Public Cemetery," Shen said, looking up. "He's in number sixteen."

"."

Sevatar squinted, then reached out with annoyance and swiftly but gently pushed Shen away. He placed his hand on the emblem, and the stone door slowly opened. Then, all the reservists present heard his voice.

"This will be your dormitory from now on. Your biometric data has already been entered. Just do what I just did to open the door. My name is Jago Sevatarion. I arrived a little earlier than you. I was the first reserve."

He pointed maliciously to his dark eyes. "So I'm the boss now, does anyone have a problem with that?"

"I have a problem with this," Shen said. "This is gang behavior; you shouldn't bring it here."

Sevatar silently lowered his head, stared at Shen, and slowly shook his head.

"Are you out of your mind?" he said. "Do you really think I won't lay a hand on you?"

"You can try," Shen said, straightening his chest. "Unless you kill me on the spot, and I bet you won't dare."

"What are you willing to gamble with? Your own life?"

"Yes," Shen nodded. "The Midnight Blade is the Emperor's Eighth Legion, the Judgment, punishers, and executioners. But they are not nobles or gangs. You can kill me, but they can also kill you."

The young boy, much shorter than Sevatar, suddenly sneered. An emotion that seemed familiar to Sevatar surged onto his face, making Shen's expression look extremely ferocious.

"I swore an oath, and so did they. So if you're going to kill me, then come on."

Sevatar turned his head and saw the reservists silently surrounding him. They were not as tall as him, nor as strong, nor did they know as many methods of killing as he did now. Yet they surrounded Sevatar Dreadnought.

One thousand two hundred and twenty-three pairs of dark eyes gleamed, silently gazing at him.

"They will Vengeance me," Shen Qingrou said firmly. "And what can you do, Jago Sevatarion?"

Sevatar blinked, and half a minute later, he smiled.

"You guys are fucking hilarious," he sneered. "Come on in, I'll show you around the dorm. Tomorrow, you won't have this much energy. And you, Shen."

He lowered his head and met the latter's gaze.

"I'll remember you," Sevatar said softly.

"Me too," Shen replied seriously.

Update complete.