52. Other Things Forgotten

Hatred and anger are unrestrained.

Karyl understood this perfectly. Driven by hatred, people will do many things they wouldn't normally do.

Hearing this description alone, you might think that it means they have lost their minds, but that's not the case. A person full of hatred would probably only truly lose their minds when they get their revenge.

Before that, they would all be contemplating how to reduce their enemies to ashes, as if they had fallen into an ice cellar. Of course, some would also proclaim that Vengeance was useless, or that Vengeance would only bring more hatred.

Karyl had pondered these two questions, and through hands-on experience, he concluded that Vengeance felt wonderful.

It wasn't empty, not at all. There was no bitterness whatsoever, only pure joy and ease. What could be more liberating than avenging a great grudge and shedding all responsibility?

As he pondered these things, a mark was slowly rubbing against his palm. It still carried a burning heat, but it couldn't raise the temperature of his hand. His body temperature remained no different from that of a long-dead corpse.

"This is so strange, isn't it?" Karyl thought to himself. A living person, a living person with a heartbeat, breathing, and blood flowing, yet the body temperature is like that of a corpse buried deep underground in the freezing cold.

Don't let Jairzinho find out about this.

He couldn't help but chuckle softly. Konrad Curze Curze's voice came from behind him, tinged with obvious displeasure. "I think a person shouldn't be disturbed when they're working. What do you think, Karyl?"

"I'm sorry," Karyl apologized obediently. "But I didn't laugh because of you. Besides, you weren't working; it was Jairzinho who was working."

The chief medical officer coughed lightly and solemnly.

"If you laugh because of how I look now, I don't mind," Curze replied listlessly.

It would be difficult to make him listless; normally, Konrad Curze Curze is the most energetic person on the Nightfall besides Xianni. But not now; he's being harvested for his Gene-seed.

This process should be serious, shouldn't it? Most people believe it carries a sense of sacredness and mission. However, the reality is far from that.

The Astartes possess gene glands, and the surgery they undergo when their seeds are harvested is indeed very serious. Konrad Curze Curze, being Primarch, is different; he only needs to provide genetic material as a sample, in other words, he is actually just having his blood drawn.

Yes. As long as you ignore the amount of blood drawn.

"If I were to laugh out loud about this, I'd probably have a problem with myself."

"Since I have no objections, and you have no objections either." Curze turned to look at Jairzinho, who, as if anticipating this, took a deep breath and finished the sentence Curze hadn't said, "I have no objections either, Primarch."

"No, you have to have a problem with it, like why I had to have the physician do this instead of the Apothecary," the Night Lords said, feigning seriousness. "How can you not have a problem, Jairzinho? You're working overtime."

"When have I ever rested?" the chief medical officer thought to himself, yet he maintained an awe-inspiring expressionless face—a rare quality that allowed him to achieve remarkable success in talking in his sleep with his eyes open.

"I love my job, Primarch," said Jairzinho. "So I never rest."

A soft laugh came from behind the physician.

Curze suppressed a laugh, his lips trembling slightly as he uttered Nostraman: "This guy used to say he hated humor."

"Please, gentlemen—" The chief medical officer painfully steadied his hands, continuing to operate the equipment to extract the Primarch's blood, and complained with a smile, "--I'm just trying to get started!"

"Alright, I'll take my leave then," Karyl said with a hint of regret. "What a pity, I was hoping to tell a few more jokes I'd carefully prepared, and see if they were effective."

"What have you prepared so meticulously?" Curze asked, his eyes wide. "What are you going to do, make a joke?"

"It's always good to be prepared, Commander," Karyl said, seemingly mildly. "After all, the biggest bet within our legion is about to be revealed, so I naturally need to make some preparations."

The chief medical officer's hand suddenly froze, and his smile vanished.

"A bet?" Konrad Curze Curze sat up from the iron bed, puzzled. "Why would you tell a joke in that situation, Karyl?"

"Believe me," Karyl shook his head meaningfully. "The moment the mystery is revealed, we have to lighten the mood with a joke."

"Okay, but what's this bet about? I haven't heard a thing about it."

Karyl chuckled, turned, and left the medical room, not continuing the conversation. He had already said enough; revealing more would only diminish the enjoyment.

But will Curze remember this little incident and investigate it further? The answer should be yes; he eagerly anticipates the Night Lords's expression when he discovers the truth.

While it's good to be willing to take responsibility, he doesn't want Konrad Curze Curze to forget other things because of it.

--

Breathing, Lion, breathing.

The Lion El'Jonson opened his eyes and did as he was told. A faint white light appeared before him, and a man holding a long scroll of parchment looked up at him in awe under the light, stammering as he spoke.

"My esteemed sir—" His voice sounded high-pitched and ridiculous, but Lion maintained his composure. "Welcome back to Terra!"

The Lion El'Jonson slowly exhaled a breath of stale air, something he did every time he disembarked and set foot on solid ground. It had almost become a habit, and the official and his Imperial Guard were still watching him.

Their eyes held reverence, Lion El'Jonson, as if accustomed to it, let a smile play on his lips and nodded with elegance and majesty, "Then, I must also thank you. I am grateful that you did not arrange a parade."

"I dare not, sir!" The official bowed his head in fear and quickly left. After he left, the Lion El'Jonson immediately resumed his expressionless demeanor.

He wore a black cloak with the insignia of the Order fastened to his chest, beneath which was a solemn and magnificent dark green ceremonial robe. A ceremonial sword rested at his waist, held firmly with one hand.

His short, golden hair swayed slightly in the air, creating a stark contrast with his deep green, ruthless eyes.

Corswain's voice came from behind him. "Primarch, as per your orders, I have investigated. The Nightfall left Terra two weeks ago. The Departmento Munitorum did not hide this from us."

"They must have said something else as well?" the Lion El'Jonson asked casually.

"The official who was in charge of liaising with me did indeed hint at something," Corswain stated unemotionally. "He believed that the disappearance rate of the Auxilia fighting alongside us was too high. Every year they meet with many parents who come to inquire about their children's bodies because they haven't found them."

The Lion El'Jonson gave a soft snort, resting his right hand on the hilt of his sword, offering no comment and remaining indifferent.

Terra has at least tens of millions of helipads, with at least several thousand even at the foot of the Imperial Palace. As the Primarch, he has the authority to land directly near the Himalaya Mountains. At this moment, he is standing atop a city wall, looking down below.

The workers moved about like a river, walking across the white ground, piling up stones, or carrying goods. The Lion El'Jonson watched this scene indifferently, still proud, but a strange bitterness welled up inside him.

In the past, he wouldn't have been swayed by other people's opinions. But now it's different; now, he—

--"Lion."

The Lion El'Jonson turned its head.

"Rogal." He nodded slightly in greeting. "It's always good to see you."

Corswain lowered his head and slowly backed away, leaving the scene to the Lion El'Jonson and his brother Rogal Dorn. The Rock, with his short, grey hair, was frowning, his expression not pleasant.

"It's good to see you, but Lion, if you were coming to the Imperial Palace, why didn't you talk to me first?"

"I didn't know you were here," the Lion El'Jonson said knowingly.

"The Phalanx is currently in low Earth orbit," Rogal Dorn replied expressionlessly. He knew what Lion was up to, but didn't expose him, instead bringing up something else entirely.

"I plan to leave Terra next spring. My father gave me some new work before he left. Anyway, are you here to see someone?"

Beneath the Lion El'Jonson's cloak, his right hand tightened its grip on the sword, not as an attempt to attack, but simply out of emotional reaction.

"You know?"

"The Sigillites mentioned this matter to me, but only in a few words. Besides, even if I didn't know, I could glean something from your demeanor during this trip. What surprised me most was that you didn't hold a military parade."

Dorn stared intently at Lion's face, trying to glean something from it. His gaze was anything but gentle. Through him, Lion saw a row of yellow figures standing not far behind his brother.

They weren't carrying many weapons, but compared to Corswain and himself, they were quite fully armed. Dorn himself wore his famous Archon's uniform, his waist empty, unarmed.

This contrast began to make Lion's temples throb. He suppressed the urge to roar, stifled the arrogance born of pride, and even swallowed the resentment he felt at being treated this way.

Then, he spoke in a gentle tone.

What did the Sigillites say?

"He only said that you came looking for someone, and told me to take you to see him immediately after I saw you."

Lion lowered his gaze, then raised it again after a moment. "Then, please lead the way for me, brother."

Dorn nodded, slightly surprised.

Twenty-five minutes later, Lion Aljonsen met the Sigillites himself in a secret room beneath Imperial Palace. The Primarch's memory made it almost impossible for him to forget anything, and among those things he remembered was naturally Malcador's face.

He was exactly as Lion remembered him: a frail old man, holding a scepter that looked almost identical to someone using a cane. His face beneath the robe and hood was covered in wrinkles, his skin dry and wrinkled like a bronze parchment scroll, with countless lines.

There is only one difference.

His eyes.

At that moment, an emotion that Lion couldn't fathom was churning in those eyes.

I need an explanation.

The Lion El'Jonson took the initiative, seizing the upper hand rather than waiting for Malcador to speak. He knew what Malcador was capable of and would not underestimate him because of the latter's aged appearance.

"Explain what?" Malcador asked, his voice low and deep, as if it came from a grave.

"No—" Lion took a deep breath, miraculously suppressing his rising anger once more. "Don't ask questions you already know the answer to, Sigillites. I respect you. I don't want our relationship to deteriorate from this cold respect."

Malcador smiled.

"Even when you're saying nice things, it sounds like you're threatening me," he said with a smile. "Very well, great Lion, I'll tell you the truth. The person you're looking for is no longer here."

Lion opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He remained silent for several seconds, his muscles relaxing and tensing repeatedly as if he were undergoing a spasm.

"What do you mean?" he asked reluctantly.

"Sir Luther has left," Malcador said.

He spoke without expression, his smile vanished. His eyes, like two whirlpools, stared at them, drawing away the Lion El'Jonson's anger. At that moment, the emotion he felt was more of a sense of powerlessness.

"Dead?"

"No, he's gone," Malcador repeated. "You came to Terra not just to find someone, you also want to get the truth. You're trying to clear his name, a noble act, but Sir Luther probably doesn't want you to do that."

Where did he go?

"I cannot tell you," Malcador replied, his voice almost devoid of emotion. "He is a man of principle, and I respect such men. I will not inform you of these things against his will."

"His wishes?"

The Lion El'Jonson took a step forward—a step that created a tremendous echo within the chamber. The ensuing roar amplified this echo, transforming it into something even more terrifying.

Malcador looked at him without surprise, intending to dissuade the Lion El'Jonson from speaking, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. He raised an eyebrow in considerable surprise.

Lion El-Jonson's expression now.

What kind of face is this?

This face is perfect; it's perfect from any angle. This perfection isn't the obsessive perfection created by extreme handsomeness or beauty, but rather the perfection created by the accumulation of every detail.

Eyebrows, eyes, nose, even beard—every detail makes this face look incredibly dignified. Is it handsome? Of course, but no one cares.

This is a face born of royalty, ruthless and calm, with profound majesty. When expressionless, it is calm and serene; when enraged and roaring, it is like a storm, its majesty amplified.

And now, that face is contorting.

Emotions—extremely complex emotions—are distorting it. Its owner, however, doesn't care; it's breathing heavily to calm itself.

Lion Al-Jonson was suppressing his instinctive rage with his precious reason, while the indignation and sorrow arising from the whole incident piled up deep in his eyes, causing his deep green eyes to tremble and blink incessantly.

The Lion El'Jonson closed his eyes and began to take another deep breath. Some words echoed in his ears, words that had been repeated countless times on his way to Terra.

They are thunder, lightning, the sound of bombs being launched, the silent wail of missiles hitting ships in the vacuum, and the faint screams of the ground after being baptized by flames and trampled by iron boots.

They are the sounds of a man patiently and meticulously teaching a wild beast, instructing it in language, combat, etiquette, and life. He gives everything to the beast, transforming it into a human.

They are still some words that man kept inside his belly, words he never uttered.

"Yes. I can't resist the temptation to achieve great things; I need honor, even if it's stolen."

"But you're just making me a commander, Lion. I don't like that. I also want to go to the front lines and fight, to kill the enemy of humanity alongside others."

"I didn't want to see you standing Radiance atop the mountain, looking down on me, Lion. You should stand with us, on the same level. You can't stand there, so I did these things, I made your legion suffer this humiliation today. Frankly, I'm glad."

I need honor.

I am a knight, and I should fight alongside others. You cannot "protect" me simply because of your own wishes.

You should stand with us, Lion.

You can't stand on a high mountain overlooking everyone; you can't stand there all alone.

I am happy to do these things, and I am willing to sacrifice for them.

I need honor.

So why don't you take these honors back yourself?

Lion Aldridge opened his eyes.

Malcador was very surprised by this.

"You've matured." The Sigillites suppressed most of his emotions and shook his head with a slight sigh. "At least you're now able to think from other people's perspectives. I'm genuinely happy for you, Lion."

"I need not your pleasure," the Primarch said calmly. "Malcador, what exactly does Luther mean? What has happened to him? I beg you to tell me these things."

Malcador sighed regretfully.

"If I could, I would tell you. Even just because of your rare request, I should tell you the truth. But I cannot, otherwise it would be against my own principles. Sir Luther wants me to keep these secrets for him, and I cannot break my promise."

"Then, what about the truth?" he pressed. "Where is the truth, Malcador? I came to Terra with two things I wanted to accomplish. The first is destined to go against my wishes, but what about the second?"

"Of course I can talk about that part."

"Then speak," Lion El-Jonson said in a low voice.

He gripped the ceremonial sword tightly, with a completely different mindset, as a human being, not with the heart of a lion.

This chapter is 5k words, an extra 1k words. Tomorrow's update will be 9k words.

By the way, I'd like to recommend this Warhammer novel, Warhammer: The Phoenix Reborn, the protagonist is the Great Western King.