A Deserter (3)

In Karyl's view, the Invincible Reason was a very special ship. This specialness did not come from its decorations, but from the knights wearing winged helmets.

They were almost silent, yet a quiet, mysterious atmosphere permeated the entire corridor. This atmosphere was as striking as their dark green and black armor, and a distinct scent of incense lingered in the air.

The corridor was wide and devoid of oil paintings or other decorations; it was not ornate, but the presence of the knights gave it an extremely somber atmosphere.

Karyl stood by the door, observing them. The people beneath the winged helmets also stared at him; these Dark Angels, each with a different insignia on their shoulder armor, silently paid him homage, each with a sharp sword at their waist. Half a minute later, a knight approached.

He had met Karyl five minutes earlier and even introduced himself fully. That's how Karyl learned his name: Corswain.

The knight had been waiting behind the gate for some time and wasn't surprised when Karyl emerged. Clearly, he wasn't there as a guard, so the Lion El'Jonson had probably come prepared for this.

As Karyl pondered these seemingly insignificant matters, he slowed down his perception of the outside world, along with his vigilance and a certain instinct that had been subtly cultivated within his body.

Corswain nodded to him, his winged helmet concealing all his expression, only a slightly somber voice escaping from the breathing grille. "I apologize for keeping you waiting, Instructor Karyl. Now, please follow me."

"Thank you for showing me the way, Lord Corswain."

"It's my duty."

The knight turned and left, with Karyl close behind.

He walked with a relaxed gait, his hands hanging naturally at his sides, swinging lightly. His gait naturally changed, and at this moment, he even gave off an air of arrogance, with a flamboyant smile on his lips.

The smile originated from the balls of the nobles of Nostramo, but he was now using it. A few seconds later, the sharp gaze shifted in intensity.

The knights remained wary and attentive to him, but no longer as focused as before. Karyl remained in his disguise, following Corswain through three halls and two corridors, finally arriving at a tower.

Its base was humming, steam billowing out and forming a thin mist. The faint sound of boots hitting the ground could be heard nearby. The Dark Angels made no attempt to conceal their pursuit, but neither did they make everything public.

Karyl lowered his head slightly, his deliberate arrogance amplifying the contempt he exuded from his four-meter height—the winged knight gazed at him calmly, without uttering a word, as if waiting.

Is this our destination?

"Yes," Corswain said. "Lord Luther is doing his work right here."

"I've heard of him, a brave warrior?" Karyl struck up a conversation with Corswain using a technique that even he found nauseating. "He's the Primarch raised your Primarchs, isn't he?"

"The Knight Commander has done far more than just this one thing," the Winged Helmet Knight said curtly.

"Would you mind telling me a thing or two, Lord Corswain?"

"This is beyond my jurisdiction, Instructor Karyl. If you wish to know, you can inquire with the Knight Commander himself, or with our Primarch. As for now, please excuse me, I must depart."

Karyl stepped aside to make way for him. But Corswain didn't accept his offer and walked away in the other direction. Watching him leave, Karyl smiled silently.

Arrogance—even feigned arrogance—will lead to a bad outcome.

But what could he say? This wasn't outside his expectations; in fact, it was one of his goals.

What dirty political tactics. Karyl thought with disgust as he stepped forward and pulled a brass handle on the tower door. It had two wing-like flaps, both delicate and imposing. Pulling it up and letting it fall, the door opened immediately.

A voice came from inside, echoing mechanically. "Please come in, Lord Karyl Lohars. Please come directly to the top floor to find me."

The top floor—actually the tenth floor—was not equipped with a rapid elevator system. The only thing Karyl could rely on to move upwards was a spiral staircase, designed to be very large to fit the size of the Astartes or Primarch.

Torches were lit inside, not lamps, and the aroma of animal fat permeated the entire staircase. The wooden handrails were carved with exquisite patterns, which Karyl guessed must have come from Caliban.

The galaxy is vast, so it's reasonable to decorate the warship with things that remind people of home.

The walls, constructed of brick and steel, are adorned with oil paintings, mostly depicting knights battling giant beasts or protecting innocent people in deep green forests. Only a few are portraits, one of which is by Lion Eljonsson, but without a clear view of the face.

The Primarch in the painting wears a dark green cloak and shimmering armor, wields a greatsword, and rides a warhorse that has slain a colossal beast. The warhorse is almost as large as the prey in the painting.

Each of the ten levels has a platform to help people determine their current location, but their stone doors are all tightly closed, and there is nothing on the platform except for the cursive numbers.

Karyl withdrew his gaze, ceasing his observation and pursuit of more information. Maintaining his disguise, he slowly made his way to the tenth-floor platform, where he encountered a man.

He had short hair, a broad forehead, a firm chin, and a thick, neatly trimmed beard. His face had a distinctly weathered look, and his eyes, deep-set behind his straight, thick eyebrows, were now sharply fixed on Karyl, looking up at him without any servility.

With just one glance, Karyl smiled.

"Hello, Lord Luther."

He ripped away his disguise and facade, offering a soft greeting. His voice had changed, as had his face. The bloody truth was laid bare on his shattered face, flesh and blood splattering, falling to the ground with a sticky echo.

Luther was struck dumb.

--

Sitting on the sofa, the Lion El'Jonson surveyed his brother with a calm gaze.

They were now sitting on a precious sofa; such a creation, capable of supporting the Primarch's weight and identity, was naturally not cheap. Konrad Curze Curze sat to his right, his posture more serious compared to the Lion El'Jonson's slightly casual demeanor.

The Lion El'Jonson did not miss this information; his observation was meticulous, and the results he gleaned during those few seconds of silence began to gradually take shape in his mind.

Konrad Curze Curze also gazed at his brother, who, of course, did not know what the Lion El'Jonson would ask him, but he would tell him everything truthfully within a certain range.

He might be honest.

He wanted to be honest.

"So, the first question, brother," Lion Aljonson spoke in his distinctive voice, not loud, almost a whisper. "What exactly is your purpose?"

"I thought you'd want to talk about things unrelated to work first," Curze sighed. "But... well, I did make a promise, after all. I have no ulterior motives, Lion. I just want to fulfill my duty, to complete the task Terra assigned me, nothing more."

"Duty precedes the mission, very good." The Lion El'Jonson nodded expressionlessly, his voice carrying approval, but his expression was surprisingly cold.

"I don't mean to comment on your age, but you are indeed too young, Konrad Curze. You don't understand me and my legion, which is why you took on this mission."

"Is that what you think?" Curze asked.

The Lion El'Jonson stared at him for a moment, then suddenly—he spoke in a stern voice.

"You don't understand my duties, you don't understand what I've taken on, and that's why you're here. Yes, that's it, that's what I think, Konrad Curze. You're just a toddler compared to me, just like your legion. The Eighth Legion is an executioner, but the First Legion has gone much further in that respect!"

Curze slowly narrowed his eyes.

"Listen, Lion, I'm not here to argue with you or try to prove myself," he said calmly.

"My age is essentially a trivial lie; it could be one, it could be one hundred—what difference does it make? Our minds are already beyond the reach of ordinary people, so how can you judge and evaluate me with worldly eyes?"

"Because I don't want to convince myself that it's all because you don't agree with me," the Lion El'Jonson replied in a low voice.

His eyes held an eagerness—not the eagerness of a "human," but the eagerness of a wild beast, the eagerness of a wild beast that had finally found its kind.

"Fulgrim excelled at inspiring the world with his eloquence, while Ferrus crushed all fools who dared to defy the Imperium with his iron will. Rogal Dorn silently shouldered everything, and Roboute Guilliman's ideals filled every world conquered by the Ultramarines with gratitude towards the Imperium."

"But I am different, Konrad Curze. All I leave to the Imperium are unspeakable, unsearchable names and ashes. Most of the victories my legions have achieved must be hidden in history, but has anyone ever heard me complain?"

"My father entrusted this responsibility to me, and I carried it out. And I can smell a similar scent on you, Konrad Curze. You are a beast too, the only difference being that I was born in the forest, while you were born in steel and concrete. I have fought against giants; what about you?"

His sudden, lengthy discourse ended with a question: the Lion El'Jonson tore off his coat, cast aside his identity as a knight, and left the shackles of civilization in the dust.

His words were sharp, and his questions went straight to the heart. But his purpose was actually very simple—he just wanted to know more about his brother.

Konrad Curze Curze then answered him honestly.

"Evil," he answered softly, unsurprisingly catching the change in the Lion El'Jonson's eyes.

One more chapter.