Names

Shen leaned against the cold wall, carefully wrapping bandages around her fingers.

Kassati Nuon, one of his squad members, sat beside him. Shen's injuries weren't serious, but Kassati's were different. He had fought an Imperial Fists to the very last moment in an extremely bloody bare-knuckle battle, winning a Pyrrhic victory.

At this moment, he had just slowly awoke from his coma. Blood was still dripping from the open wounds on his forehead, and he seemed to have no intention of treating himself. He kept licking his lips and the flowing blood with his tongue.

Shen had no intention of commenting on his brother's behavior and preferences, but others had different opinions.

"Are you ever going to shut up?" Karen O'Fion, a member of the First Squad, asked impatiently.

"Did I affect you?" Kasatti laughed dismissively. "A little bit of blood makes you nervous? That's quite amusing, dear Karen. Sometimes your behavior reminds me of a child trying too hard to appear mature."

Karen Orfion grinned and slowly stood up. His chest was covered in bruises, and his left hand hung limply at his side, starting from his wrist.

"You can choose to shut up yourself, or I can make you shut up, Kassati."

"Come on," Kassadin replied to Karen Orfion, his words muffled as he dipped his finger in blood, shoved it into his mouth, and said, "Try it, dear Karen."

"Don't go too far." From a corner of the room, Jago Sevatarion's somber voice came from there.

"You all seem to have inexhaustible energy, but if that's the case, why did you struggle so much in the cage?" he rebuked.

Shen raised his head and glanced at the First Reserve, whose expression surprised him slightly. The pale, Ghost face now displayed a serious expression, an expression that Jago Sevatarion almost never wore.

The flippant smile that used to grace his eyes had completely vanished, replaced by an unsettling coldness. For some reason, Shen felt that he seemed to have changed.

"That guy didn't beat me," Karen O'Fion replied to his captain, turning his head.

His voice was low, conveying a sense of submission and yielding—it might seem inappropriate, but a new order was spreading among the Night Lords recruits.

Unlike the Terra people who don't place much importance on rank, this is a beastly habit that distinguishes status by strength. Strangely enough, this habit doesn't seem to affect the relationships between the new recruits.

Sevatar stared coldly at his teammate, and after a full five seconds of that familiar gaze, Ofion lowered his head deeply.

Sevatar slowly parted his lips, revealing his gleaming white teeth to the air. "What's the difference between not winning and losing, Orfion?"

". No."

"That's more like it, so why are you acting like a victor?" The First Reserve officer sneered. "And you guys—"

He turned to look at his other eight teammates, his expression beyond mere gloom; that word was far from sufficient.

He now looked almost like a dead man who had just crawled out of a graveyard, filled with rage and resentment. His voice echoed in the room like the howling wind blowing past tombstones at midnight.

"Are you gloating? Orfion may not have won, but at least he didn't lose. What about you, Valtek?"

He walked up to a bald man and forced him to look him in the eye.

Did you win?

"No, Captain," Valtek said.

"You were beaten like a rat in a sewer by that guy with an axe, don't try to deny it, Valtek, I saw it all."

Valtek's face quickly changed from pale to a weak and haggard ashen—he lowered his head and clenched his fists. Sevatar didn't press him any further, but turned to look at Shen.

He was smiling, though there was no real smile in his eyes. Shen stared at him, silently becoming more vigilant. Whether in battle or in life, Jago Sevatarion was not an easy person to deal with.

"Congratulations, Shen," the first reserve said, head held high. "You won. If Somers, who walks in a few minutes later, doesn't win, then you'll be one of the nine winners here. You played very well, very well. I must express my respect to you."

"I'm truly flattered," Shen said. "But you seem to have something else to say, Sai?"

"Don't call me that monosyllabic thing; that's Primarch's privilege," Sevatar retorted, baring her teeth. "But you guessed it, I do have something else to say. Actually, I'm worried about something."

"What?"

"What the hell could it be?" Sevatar laughed, his neck twitching slightly, almost nervously. "Our name—!"

His eyes widened.

"Have you forgotten the squad's name? This mission was supposed to be our chance to earn one. We came to Holy Terra with the Primarch and the Instructors; what a disgrace it would be if we failed to do so!"

"I don't think the instructors or the Primarch care about this," Shen replied, seemingly calmly.

"Yes, they certainly won't. But those bastards will, and they'll keep bringing it up over and over again—"

Sevatar's smile grew even brighter.

"--Perhaps Company Commander Van Cleef wouldn't, perhaps those Librarian wouldn't either. But what about the others? Let me think, the Chief Medical Officer! Yes, he'll definitely laugh at us. And Xianni, he'll definitely bring it up endlessly during training sessions with us. We might be laughed at by everyone."

He looked towards the door, staring intently at the large black iron gate, and slowly shook his head.

"If Somers doesn't win, our chances of winning will be less than 50%, so how are we going to get the title?"

"What you're saying won't help, Sevatar."

Shen remained calm, though his eyes narrowed slightly.

"You just said that there's no difference between not winning and losing. Well, even if Somers wins, what if ten out of the twenty of us are winners? A draw is no different from a crushing defeat."

"Of course I know all that." Sevatar looked away, tilted her head, and closed her eyes.

"I just want to tell you that you'd better start recognizing yourselves as losers from now on. Throw away that pride of being chosen by the Primarch and the instructors; we are nothing."

Shen pursed her lips.

"Some of you may already be internally disagreeing with me, thinking that this outcome is good enough. Yes, it is good enough for mediocre people and mediocre Astartes. But we are the Midnight Blade, and we have all sworn oaths."

Sevatar finally opened his eyes, his expression contorted with rage as he raised his right fist. "And for this oath, any self-indulgent indulgence is shameful!"

Shen silently clapped.

The first reserve soldier froze, and a few seconds later, his pale cheeks quickly flushed red.

Are you mocking me, Shen?

He asked in a very soft tone.

"No," Shen replied seriously. "I was just expressing agreement; what you said is absolutely correct."

Sevatar took a deep breath, breaking the serious atmosphere. He tilted his head back, as if trying to say something, but failed.

The black iron gate was pushed open at that moment, and Konrad Curze Curze and Karyl Lohars led in a bruised and battered Somers. Somers's limbs were stiff, and the way he walked was completely different from his usual swaggering manner.

"Go in and show off to them, Somers," Konrad Curze Curze said softly with a smile.

"Primarch--!"

"Instructor!"

Konrad Curze Curze grinned, looking quite pleased, and pushed Somers back among his brothers.

Karyl nodded silently. He stood behind the Primarch, arms crossed, as silent as a ghost.

However, their arrival slightly altered the atmosphere in the room. Shen, who had previously remained calm, was now taking deep breaths, while Sevatar's gaze became noticeably unfocused.

"Why do you all look so dejected?" Curze asked with a smile. "Don't tell me you feel your performance wasn't enough to earn your team a name?"

He easily guessed what the recruits were thinking, but the atmosphere didn't improve; instead, it became even more somber.

The reservists couldn't figure out what their Primarch was thinking at that moment. This sense of mystery stemmed from the polite smile that Konrad Curze Curze always wore, a smile that had almost become his signature expression.

While he appeared to be full of goodwill, his gentle tone and unique manner created a contrast. In other words, if he felt unhappy or had other emotions, the recruits would hardly be able to tell.

Unless you know him very well.

"Why isn't anyone speaking?" Konrad Curze Curze raised an eyebrow and turned to Shen. The latter shuddered and immediately straightened his back. "Shen, would you mind explaining to Karyl and me why you're so frustrated?"

"We—" Shen took a deep breath. "—We are indeed, just as you said, worried about whether we can earn a name."

"Just for this?" The Night Haunter shook his head, unable to suppress a chuckle. "Just because of this, they're all looking so miserable? Don't underestimate yourselves, reserves. Ten out of twenty won, and four drew with their opponents. What's wrong with that?"

"We..." Shen blinked, revealing an uncharacteristic hesitation. "But, Primarch, is such an achievement something to be proud of?"

"For me, yes," Konrad Curze Curze said softly. "For me, the fact that you recruits, who have only been in the army for two or three years, have achieved this in your interactions with the Imperial Fists is enough to make me proud."

"But—" Sevatar began anxiously. "—We. We..."

"What's wrong with you guys?" Curze frowned, looking at his first reserve. "Sai, why are you suddenly stuttering? Did the battle with Sigismund damage your language module?"

"What? No, of course not!"

"So what's wrong with you?"

"I just—" Sevatar gritted his teeth. "I just think our performance wasn't good enough. It might have been decent, but it still didn't live up to our expectations."

Konrad Curze Curze frowned, scanning the room. The somber atmosphere and the twenty pairs of eyes that avoided his gaze made him feel somewhat annoyed. He narrowed his eyes and gave a cold laugh.

"Look at you all, you don't even dare to look people in the eye," he sneered, crossing his arms in a posture that suddenly mirrored that of someone behind him.

"Is it a disgrace? Is it hard to accept? Get this straight, you're fighting the Imperial Fists! They're a legion with a long list of honors, their Primarch is Rogal Dorn! And how could they not send their elite to respond to a duel challenged by another legion?"

"Or is this my fault? Ah, perhaps. I shouldn't have had any intellectual expectations of you. This is truly disheartening. The twenty reservists I personally selected and brought here are all brainless idiots—!"

Sevatar stared speechlessly at Karyl, looking at him with pleading eyes, but all he received was a slight shrug.

And Konrad Curze Curze was still going on.

At first, he may have just wanted to try using reverse psychology. This method worked on the reservists, but it also worked on him—he was genuinely angry that no one dared to heed his words.

"Nobody's going to say anything? Nobody's going to argue with me?" He looked around, his eyes gradually turning contemptuous.

He nodded knowingly. His completely dark eyes reflected the room's light, and a few wisps of hair on his forehead began to sway with his movements.

"Very well, I apologize for my inappropriate wording. You are not brainless idiots, you are not stupid, just simply have limited intelligence and comprehension. Even a brain-damaged Ogryn might be more sensible than you. Ogryn understands that there is nothing shameful about retreating when you can't win, but you—"

He sneered again, this time with a much greater force, his sharp, white teeth snapping together, his canines gleaming, their sharp curves chilling.

"--never mind."

He suddenly stopped speaking, turned around and walked away, leaving only one sentence behind.

I forgive him.

He left without hesitation, without even looking back. But Karyl didn't, and so all the eyes of the reservists fell on him.

"Why are you looking at me?" Karyl smiled slightly. "Don't worry, he's not really angry."

"But we've never seen Primarch so enraged," Somers said in a low voice. "Are you sure?"

As soon as he asked the question, Kassati Nuang, who was standing next to him, suddenly shoved him away, his eyes almost showing signs of despair.

"I'm certainly sure," Karyl nodded, answering softly. "Just as he said, he's satisfied with your performance. His anger isn't because you didn't fight well, but because you didn't show any resistance to his deliberate insults."

Twenty people stared at him blankly.

Karyl narrowed his eyes.

"Alright," he said. "Actually, this question can be summed up in one sentence: What is our legion's name, Sevatar?"

"The Midnight Blade," Jago Sevatarion whispered, his voice hissing.

"Yes, we are blades, blades held in someone's hand. But the one wielding the sword will also be yourself."

Karyl turned around and walked steadily out of the room, his last words echoing clearly in the ears of everyone inside, transcending the limitations of distance.

In other words, he wanted a person to wield the sword, not a heartless machine or something worse.

I had a fever this afternoon and didn't wake up until around 10 pm, so I'm sorry for the late update. This chapter is 4.5k, I'll write another one that's 5.5k.