Sevatar's Odds and Ends (2-in-1)

Kharn won.

The outcome was not in doubt—in fact, even Sevatar himself did not think he could win; he was not arrogant enough to think he could beat a company commander.

Although he usually acts like an ignorant and foolish idiot, who would believe his clumsy disguise? Perhaps only real idiots would mistake this facade for his true self.

Sevatar, panting, struggled to sit up. His sword was still in his hand, but he had already lost.

A merciless, pale light fell from above, coldly observing his defeat. The First Reserve used his Chainsword to prop himself up, slowly rising from the pool of blood.

Frankly, if you disregard rank, age, qualifications, and everything else when looking at Kharn, Sevatar could only describe his opponent as terrifying. Beyond that, he really didn't know how else to describe the man.

He even began to doubt whether Kharn was even human.

Sevatar raised his left hand and wiped away the blood that had slid down his forehead to his eyelids. Even so, his vision remained blurry.

However, this did not prevent him from observing Kharn.

The eighth company commander of the War Hounds stood there, holding his blood-stained Chainaxe, two intersecting wounds on his chest oozing blood. Yes, this was all that Sevatar had left for Kharn.

The latter was striking the blade of the Chainaxe with his left hand. Blood splattered into the mud pit with his movement, and the War Hounds cheered for him, excitedly shouting the victor's name.

And what about the Night Lords?

All right

Sevatar thought he would hear laughter, but there was none.

Even those who hadn't supported him before the war remained silent, watching the First Reserve, who had suffered a crushing defeat, with strange looks. His supporters, however, hoped he would rise again and "do what Night Lords should do."

What exactly does Night Lords's job entail?

Sevatar grinned in annoyance and, with his usual expression, plunged the Chainsword deep into the ground.

This weapon was not originally designed for this method of use. If there had been any Techmarine present, they would probably have already started yelling at him with the same force as Shouting Xianni to make him draw the sword.

However, the Chainsword didn't seem to mind his brute force.

"You won," Sevatar said, tilting her head and raising her hands. "I couldn't beat you."

Kharn looked at him for a moment, then suddenly shook his head. The pale light didn't linger on him, nor did the night. He stood there, yet he seemed not to be there at all.

Sevatar wasn't sure if he was hallucinating, but he felt that Kharn now looked like a sane madman. A madman who didn't fit in with his surroundings.

"No," said the Eighth Company Commander. "Actually, my victory was dishonorable, while your defeat stemmed from underestimating me. You don't like using Chainsword, do you?"

"You actually noticed that?" Sevatar's lips twitched, forcing himself to make an exaggerated expression. "My God, you really are a smart person."

Kharn smiled.

"I hope we'll have another chance to fight again, Jago Sevatarion." He nodded politely to Sevatar, then turned and left the dueling pit.

The War Hounds shouted his name over and over again as if welcoming a champion, and the lively atmosphere spread wildly and enthusiastically.

Sevatar stood in the mud, the cold wind blowing, his blood freezing. He frowned, feeling a chill.

Ten minutes later, he stood in front of Karyl.

His squad's Apothecary, Vakendwan Lyle, was treating his injuries. The Apothecary was quick and skilled, though perhaps a little too forceful. Sevatar's eye twitched, but despite this, he spoke calmly.

"I'm sorry, I lost, instructor."

"Don't apologize for this," Karyl said. "I don't think you have anything to apologize for to me. The person you've truly wronged is yourself, Sevatar. Why not use the chainsaw?"

The first reserve soldier looked up, his expression clearly one of utter speechlessness. Karyl, however, remained patient and asked again, "You're clearly better at the chainsaw, aren't you?"

"I—" Sevatar pursed his lips and shook his head. "--But even with the chainsaw, I might not be able to defeat him."

"So, are you content to lose without giving it your all?" Karyl asked with a smile.

Sevatar slowly clenched his right fist.

"It's human nature to make excuses and justify oneself after failure. However, preparing a way out and reasons for oneself before success or failure is even known will only make one weaker, won't it?"

Karyl tilted his head back, his expression thoughtful.

"Going headlong into the distance is a foolish path, but the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. What do you think?"

"I don't understand what you're saying," Sevatar replied with a blank expression.

Karyl chuckled to himself.

Vakendwan Lyle slapped his captain on the back, nodded coldly, and said, "The bleeding has stopped, dear captain. It's a pity you didn't break any bones."

"."

Sevatar watched him walk away in silence. He then looked at Karyl, wanting to say something more, but his instructor spoke first.

Karyl shook his head at him.

"Just take responsibility for yourself," he said gently. "Let's not discuss anything else. As for now, you can go and rest, Sevatar."

The First Reserve silently complied. Karyl stood there watching him leave, without moving himself. He stood there, breathing calmly for a moment. A few minutes later, Angron walked over with a smile.

The Nuceria was clearly in good spirits; the aftereffects of the Butcher's Nails made his smile look horrifying, but it didn't bother him.

He always finds a way to show more goodwill.

"What a magnificent battle!" the gladiator exclaimed. "It's a pity that Krest and Karelian aren't here; I almost miss their cheers."

How are they doing lately?

"Karelian received three commendations, and Krest five," Angron said. "In fact, most of the veterans of Burning Sands have already received at least one commendation."

Karyl raised an eyebrow in slight surprise— Burning Sands was a special Auxilia of the War Hounds, and its soldiers were all Nuceria.

The veterans are a bit more special; they were once slave gladiators whom Angron regarded as brothers and sisters, and they still fight alongside him now.

However, it is remarkable that such merits could be achieved amidst the intensity of warfare endured by War Hounds.

Karyl spoke softly, "May the dead rest in peace."

Angron lowered his eyes and smiled calmly. He raised a finger and tapped the swaying steel braid at the back of his head. He said nothing, yet it was as if he had said everything.

--

The Orks on Brasius I were completely wiped out five days after the War Hounds joined them.

Did we win?

The answer is no—for an agricultural planet, even if all the Orks were wiped out, it could never return to its former state. Any land stained with Orks blood would require a complete "renovation."

Normally, land becomes more fertile after a war. The bones of the dead nourish the soil, making crops grow more abundantly. But fighting Orks is different. If you dare not take any disinfection measures, just wait for them to inexplicably emerge from the ground and come back to fight again.

And if you have taken disinfection measures

Sevatar stood on the transport plane with a hint of regret, looking down at the land that was becoming increasingly distant, and slowly shook his head.

Will the war end?

He thought of those children, and unusually, he didn't mask his thoughts with harshness, but simply offered them his blessings. Next, he activated the magnetic attraction at the bottom of the boots via neural connection.

Takeoff, weightlessness, docking. One tedious procedure after another was carried out, and finally, the Night Lords of the Second Expedition returned to their battleships.

This is a Punishment-class battleship named "Tredesia," unlike those ship names that carry a strong purpose and sound like oaths. Her name sounds like an elegant poem.

Although Sevatar wondered why all the captains used "she" to refer to their ships, he genuinely liked the name.

What else could he say?

The first reserve force dispersed the lingering mist, a cacophony of voices erupting as Power Armour hummed and its joints scraped against each other. Amidst the commotion, the Night Lords quickly returned to their posts, conversing amongst themselves.

Servants and crew members bustled among them, carrying toolboxes and other helpers. They were off to perform maintenance on the transport planes and other aircraft.

The Techmarine will conduct the checks afterward; their primary task at present is to repair the severely damaged Power Armour. The Apothecary and medics have gathered together, and the collected Gene-seed will be handed over after their series of examinations.

Thinking of this, Sevatar couldn't help but grind his teeth—war inevitably involves sacrifice. And Orks are never easy opponents; it's impossible to avoid death.

He convinced himself with these words, and then set off for the ship's command center.

The captains of the hunting squads had to go to the command room to give a numerical report after each battle; their instructors would sometimes listen in and sometimes not.

These battle reports are stored in Tredesia's data stream in a combination of audio and video, and are returned to the "The Nest" after a "return home" every eight months.

Newcomers always need to use these experiences, so even the most unreliable person will become serious at this moment.

No one wants to send a group of new recruits to their deaths just because they say a few less or more words, and no one will change their attitude about the matter just because the instructors are listening in or not.

It took Sevatar four and a half hours and twelve minutes to finish the task before he dragged himself to the bridge.

The interior of the Tredesia was extremely gloomy, a common problem with almost all Night Lords ships. There was no way around it; whether Terra or Nostramo, their eyes preferred dim light sources.

He walked to a platform and peered through a porthole at the ship's spine, which stretched for kilometers. Artillery positions, defensive turrets, laser lances, torpedo tubes...

Staring at them, Sevatar couldn't help but smack his lips.

Marvelous.

He finally rallied his spirits, pulled himself out of the emptiness following the war, and began his journey to his destination. Amidst a commotion, Sevatar entered the first bridge of the Tredesia.

A tall figure had been waiting there for some time.

Karyl Lohars stood with his back to him behind an exquisite statue and a huge ship's wheel, no longer wearing the armor, but instead a black and white dress. The crew ignored him, going about their own business with focused attention.

Sevatar breathed a sigh of relief—at least he wouldn't have to see that eerie cloak anymore.

He walked over to his instructor, only to find the latter engrossed in studying a tactical sand table. A complex star map was projected, with stars appearing as points of light through technological power. Sevatar glanced at them and then looked away.

"What are you looking at?" he asked.

"Let's see where we're going next," Karyl said thoughtfully, then suddenly reached out and pointed to a planet on the sand table. "Cappadocia."

Following his direction, Sevatar looked over. He glanced at the series of readings displayed below the cursive script of the planet's name and quickly grasped the information he needed most.

Defense strength: High

The first reserve officer frowned.

"Treason?" he asked succinctly.

"Yes," Karyl nodded in reply. "High defense capabilities mean we'll need to fight several boarding maneuvers before landing. It's time to notify the destroyers and frigates to prepare."

"Why is it that there are always people who betray us?" Sevatar asked, slightly puzzled—he wasn't being sarcastic, but genuinely asking the question.

To those unfamiliar with him, the difference between the two is subtle. After all, Jago Sevatarion almost always sounds like he's mocking someone. But for Karyl, it's not a problem.

He slowly flicked his fingers, shrinking Cappadocia, and selected four other planets, encompassing them all into a newly formed star system. Only then did he answer Sevatar's question.

"What do you think?" Karyl countered. "What's the classic reason for betrayal, Sevatar?"

Sevatar couldn't help but let out a wail.

"It's that same old story of corrupt governors and nobles again?!" He spread his hands, his expression shifting from slight confusion to a grimace. "How many more of these fat, bastard bastards do we have to deal with?!"

"Watch your words, young man." Karyl glanced at him and shook his head. "You can express dissatisfaction in Nostraman, but in High Gothic, ' hybrid' has a derogatory connotation. The Imperium has no shortage of subspecies soldiers and workers."

I apologize.

"Apologizing to me won't do any good," Karyl said with a half-smile. "Keep it until you really need it."

He lowered his head, his voice turning cold.

"The governor of Cappadocia comes from the Rasbaya Family, a distinguished noble family of Terra origin. Unfortunately, the glory of the Rasbayar ancestors has been utterly disgraced by their last descendant. He has somehow managed to unite the four surrounding planets, creating a loose interstellar federation. Based on current intelligence, the reason cannot be determined at this time, but that's none of our concern."

Sevatar laughed, a ferocious laugh unlike his usual one.

"Don't laugh yet, Captain of the First Squad," Karyl said. "This suppression isn't just about us. You haven't forgotten what I meant by cooperation, have you? The War Hounds are involved too. In fact, it was their scouting fleet that discovered the mutiny."

"Are they going to join us in attacking the same planet?"

"Perhaps," Karyl replied noncommittally. "The War Hounds are equally interested in killing things that don't deserve the title of noble. In any case, I'll let you know the specifics after I discuss it with Angron. Also—"

He turned around, straightened his collar, and kept his back ramrod straight. But for some reason, Sevatar felt that he seemed extremely tired.

"--Do you still remember Mr. Bellros von Sharp?"

Sevatar's expression suddenly darkened.

"Yes, I remember."

"Very well." Karyl lowered his head expressionlessly and glanced at him. "Our Remembrancers is very displeased with your repeated abandonment of him on the Tredesia."

"I've arranged for him to enjoy the starry sky from the observation deck."

He is Remembrancers, not a photographer.

"Isn't it about the same, Instructor?" Sevatar tilted his head, feigning incomprehension. "Remembrancers, journalist, photographer, poet, critic, writer—he has so many titles, but I think photographer is the most suitable for him."

Even if you were to strip this respectable gentleman of his talent and confine him to photography for the rest of his life, he would still be a war photographer.

Karyl patted Sevatar on the shoulder with a hint of warning.

"So you'd better not let him come to me complaining again, dear Sevatar, or I'll have to let Shen lead his squad in the next boarding operation. As for now, I'm leaving. A shuttle is waiting for me."

"Where are you going?" Sevatar managed to ignore Karyl's threat.

"The Firm Resolve," Karyl said. "Or what? Back to Terra?"

He left laughing, Sevatar sighed, unable to help but miss the instructor when he didn't tell jokes as much.

--

"The Midnight Blade, a mysterious legion. Their predecessor was the Eighth Legion, known as the Emperor's executioners, and said to be composed entirely of criminals."

"Rumors often circulate within the Imperium that they enjoy drinking human blood, eating raw human flesh, and using human skin and bones for decoration. In my opinion, these are all false rumors."

"While the Midnight Blade are rather sinister and often appear ruthless, this does not mean they are as barbaric as the Blood Angels of decades past (praise be to the great Sanguinius, and may my next stop be the Red Tear)."

"In short, I am Bellros von Sharp, and this is my record."

A gray-haired man slowly put down his pen; that was the seventeenth opening he had just written. He sat in a rocking chair, with an open bottle of beer beside him, along with paper and pen.

He wore gold-rimmed glasses, had a hooked nose, and deep-set eyes, which seemed more natural than fatigue. He came from Terra and had been a painter and poet. Now, he was one of the Imperium Remembrancers personally appointed by the Emperor of Mankind.

The Emperor trusted them and required them to record everything about the Great Crusade —good, bad, neutral—it didn't matter. After all, the Remembrancers only needed to record.

Bellros von Sharpe knew very well what the materials they had acquired through their time and effort would ultimately look like in the hands of a group of officials; he was well aware of it. But he could not resist the temptation to travel with Astartes.

To personally participate in this revival war to conquer the stars—what art could be more romantic than this?

So he still came, and even though he was constantly being given the runaround, he never thought of leaving.

There has never been a shortage of brave people among mankind. Bellros does not consider himself brave, but he is by no means cowardly either.

That's why he was able to open his room door five minutes later and speak sarcastically to the person who knocked.

"It's you again, Captain Jago Sevatarion!" Bellros spread his hands in feigned surprise. "Your arrival is truly an honor. Tell me, which observation deck would you like me to sit on for a few days this time?"

Sevatar looked at him with a slight headache, his face expressionless, but unusually unsure how to begin. It took him a good ten seconds before he finally answered the Remembrancers.

"What do you think?" Sevatar asked emotionlessly.

"How could I dare to have an answer?" the Remembrancers chuckled. "You are the First Captain, how could I dare to offer my humble opinion to the great First Captain?"

"You—" Sevatar's face twitched visibly. "--Fine, since you keep trying to die, I won't stop you."

He shook his head gloomily, then suddenly grinned, a smile full of mockery.

"Next time we're in battle, my squad will take you with us. I'll issue you basic armor and a light gun. I hope you can still use your tongue so fluently to speak your mind into your recording device."

Is this really true?!

"Really."

"Thank you!" Bellros von Sharp clenched his fists excitedly and slammed the door shut, leaving Sevatar outside. He stood there until heavy footsteps sounded before bursting into laughter.

The gray-haired Remembrancers's eyes gleamed with the unique light of an idealist. He turned around, lunged at his suitcase, and dumped its contents onto the ground.

Half a minute later, he grabbed a gold medal shaped like a lightning bolt, hugged it, and kissed it hard.

"For the sake of unification!" the Remembrancers said with deep emotion.

Written while staying up all night, update complete.