48. A Deserter (VI)
Holguin, one of the Hexagrammaton of the Dark Angels, the lieutenant of the Deathwing, felt his stomach churning.
His sword hovered coldly on his belt; its weight had comforted him countless times, but not this time. His winged helmet rested in the crook of his left arm, waiting steadfastly, just like him.
The reason is the actions of the master and Primarch to whom he swore allegiance at this moment.
The Lion El'Jonson of Caliban stared at him, his face expressionless, his muscles still, his skin undisturbed. He could hardly be called "expressive" now. He stood with his hands behind his back at the front of the long table supported by steel pine, observing Holguin.
The table was made from one of the tallest trees in Caliban, as tall as his Primarch among them. And now, the gaze cast from those superior eyes was entirely focused on studying him, almost as if they were dissecting him with a scalpel.
Holguin endured all of this, obediently straightening his back. He revealed his inner self, and also exposed his neck to the Primarch.
His attitude was almost pleading.
The Lion El'Jonson did not overlook this matter; he withdrew his unbearably sharp gaze and began to formally inquire.
This wasn't the first time he'd done this; long before Holguin, many people had already been questioned by him.
In a corner of the audience hall stood a door, black as if made of stone, with intricate patterns on it. Behind the door, six Servitor dressed in dark green robes were writing furiously, surrounded by piles of handwritten documents—one of the pieces of evidence of what the Lion El'Jonson had done.
"You swore an oath, Holguin." The Lion El'Jonson narrowed its eyes and spoke slowly. "You are not Caliban, you come from the homeland of all mankind, but that does not prevent you from joining the Order. Raise your left hand."
Holguin did as instructed.
His Primarch then stepped forward and grasped his left hand. The Ceramite armor blocked further tactile sensation, but it did not prevent the Lion El'Jonson from lifting Holguin's left hand.
He stared into the lieutenant's face and said, "You had your hand cut by a sword, you swore with your own blood to protect the people, you promised to abide by every rule and constraint of the legion, and never divulge any secrets. Tell me, Holguin, do those two oaths still hold true for you now?"
Deathwing's face flushed red—for the first time in his life, he abandoned his usual taciturnity and fortitude.
He wasn't yet a directly selected captain, but he already had enough prestige within the Deathwing. His brothers trusted him, as did the Primarch. But just now, the Lion El'Jonson had verbally insulted him.
"I swear they still exist! Primarch!" the lieutenant roared in response, his voice creating a storm of echoes throughout the audience hall.
He harbored no resentment or blame towards Lion Aljonson's actions, only an eagerness to prove his point.
"So, are you willing to be honest with me, Lieutenant?"
"Unless I die." Holguin looked at his Primarch and repeated firmly, "Unless I die, Primarch."
"Very good." The Lion El'Jonson nodded to him, and a smile finally appeared on his unusually serious face.
He nodded to Holguin, put his arm around his shoulder, and spoke again in a low but affectionate tone, "A knight's honor cannot be tarnished, do you agree, young man?"
Holguin felt a little warmer—his Primarch was finally calling him by that name again.
"I absolutely agree," the lieutenant said.
"Yes, but the honor of the Order is being stripped away," the Lion El'Jonson said in a low voice. "The honor we earned with our own hands, the achievements we made by shedding blood and dying over the corpses of our enemies, are all vanishing."
"It was veiled in a thin layer of gauze, stained and corroded by the blood of the loyalists. We are surrounded by shame, Holguin."
The lieutenant's face flushed again, this time with unease and anger. He breathed heavily, awaiting the Primarch's next words.
"And this disgrace was forged by our own hands." The Lion El'Jonson stared coldly at him, its green eyes like merciless gems.
"We are the Emperor's Angel of Death. We have committed far more killing and destruction than salvation, and many loyalists have died by our hand. They did not have to die, but we have no right to let them live."
"For the sake of all humanity, they had to die. Sacrifice was necessary, even for ourselves. We shed far more blood than they did, but..."
The Lion El'Jonson slowly released his grip and moved away from the lieutenant. He turned around, shook his head with his back to Holguin. His blond hair fluttered, and a certain coldness flashed across his face.
"However, we will never deprive others of their honor." The Lion El'Jonson turned its head, its profile as cold as ice, and spoke its last words to Holguin.
"We can stain our hands with the blood of loyalists, we can let others disappear, die, or sacrifice themselves for the sake of the common people. But we will never let them become deserters, don't you agree, Holguin?"
The lieutenant remained silent for a few seconds, then his face quickly turned deathly pale.
"You—you mean—" he began to gasp for breath. "—Someone?"
"Yes," said the Lion El'Jonson. "So go there and report all relevant events that passed through your hands to the recorder Servitor."
He pointed to the stone door.
"Grand Master Luther will be listening, as will my brother Konrad Curze Curze and Eighth Legion instructor Karyl Lohars. They represent Terra, so you know what to do."
"I understand." Holguin bowed, turned around, and walked through the stone door without fear.
He introduced himself to the three people present. Luther already knew him and had a reassuring smile on his face, seemingly encouraging him to tell the truth.
His self-introduction was mainly aimed at the other two, who, in Holguin's eyes, were almost identical. They were equally pale, with the same black hair and black eyes, and the same rather tall and thin build.
The only difference is that one is a bit taller and seems a bit more ruthless.
Holguin took half a second to decide where to begin, and then began to speak eloquently—he recounted these events without pause, as if he had prepared a plan in advance, or had talked about them with others every day. In fact, that was indeed the case.
Each Dark Angels carried out these tasks was required to remember all those they executed.
As time passed, one name after another was mentioned, their fates of disappearance, death in battle, or sacrifice echoing in his cold voice.
Luther had long since stopped laughing, and Holguin's posture prevented him from glancing at the other two's reactions. He simply continued speaking, while the recording Servitor scribbled away, their pens flying across the paper as they wrote down his words.
He spoke continuously for a full seventeen minutes before finally ending, at which point he immediately bowed to them and left.
Luther sighed inwardly, forced a smile, and said to Konrad Curze Curze, "Sir, please forgive Brother Holguin's taciturnity. He's always been like this; he's never been a lively person."
"I understand," Curze replied softly, his pale fingers tapping lightly on the armrest of his chair. "But you seem very nervous, Sir Luther."
"I am indeed a little nervous, sir." Luther nodded, acknowledging his current emotions. Of course he was nervous; how could he not be?
Lion Aljonson trusted him and knew his abilities. Therefore, the Lion El'Jonson entrusted a large part of the Legion's operations to Luther.
According to procedure, while the Legion's officers could decide for themselves which loyalists needed to be forced to sacrifice themselves for humanity, they were still required to report the entire matter to Luther afterward.
In other words, the person primarily responsible for this matter is actually him, Luther himself, not anyone else.
But the Lion El'Jonson didn't do that; he decided to have the officers report first. Luther wasn't sure what he meant, and this only made him more worried.
His concern was not that the Lion El'Jonson would be angry with him, but that the honor of the Order would be diminished, thus bringing shame upon Lion El-Jonson himself.
Although, in reality, this disgrace has already been established.
Luther chuckled inwardly and added, "I have no intention of hiding this. I am indeed very nervous, Lord Curze. It's not something I can control. After all, as you can see, I am not a complete Astartes."
He shrugged, laughed self-deprecatingly, and gestured with his arms, subtly pointing out something. Curze nodded slightly without saying a word, remaining silent, but the person behind him spoke up instead.
"However, this does not prevent you from achieving honor," Karyl said in a gentle yet serious tone. "I don't know much about the First Legion, but you clearly place extreme importance on ability and honor. There is an inherent connection between the two; your ability to assume this position means that you yourself are no less capable than Astartes."
"Every knight who has come to this room has glanced at you at least once, their eyes filled with an earnest expectation that you would show them some support. This means they respect you, so don't belittle yourself, Lord Luther."
Luther nodded and smiled with slight gratitude—but while he appreciated Karyl's comfort, he was also genuinely startled by his insight.
"Next!" The Lion El'Jonson's voice came from outside the stone gate. Inside the audience hall, his figure remained upright, his armor gleaming. The door was pulled open, the sound of iron boots striking the ground echoed, and a hoarse voice followed. "Primarch, I've arrived."
"Very well, Corswain, I have something to ask you."
Luther lowered his head and sighed softly to himself. Combining what his Lion El'Jonson had said many times before with these reports, he almost understood why Terra had sent people.
No secrets stay hidden forever, and Luther didn't believe the Legion's actions could be concealed indefinitely. But what he truly couldn't understand was...
Why would an internal Legion matter that even he was unaware of be reported to Terra?
One more chapter.