26: Visit of the Dark Crow (I)

The blade itself has no thoughts. It is a weapon, a symbol of killing and violence. It is made for the purpose of committing murder, but it has no thoughts of its own. The blade is forever just a tool held in a person's hand.

The person is the murderer, but the knife is not.

"Executioner!" the man bound to the ground roared in despair. "You will all go to hell!"

A hoarse laugh answered him, followed by Jago Sevatarion's voice. "Open your eyes and look around, sir. Aren't we already in hell together?"

With a chuckle, Sevatar pulled his chainsaw from the mud with a brutal motion. Yes, he once again plunged the chainsaw head down into a place that the Techmarine would never recommend.

Undoubtedly, he would be cursed by them again afterward. But that was after the war; right now, Sevatar just wanted to say a few words to the man in front of him.

And then he was killed.

Can't you see the color of the sky?

Sevatar rested his fingers on the chainsaw, slowly tapping its metal grip with his index finger. A monotonous sound followed, echoing the reverberating gunfire and creating a symphony imbued with the aura of death.

His tone was thoughtful, and though it should have been gentle, it was transformed by the breathing grille into a hoarse and unpleasant screech, as monstrous as a twisted groan.

"Raise your head, sir, look at this blood-red sky. Look at the executed soldiers and the burning city. How can you say we are not already in hell?"

The man's lips trembled; he tried to say something more, but couldn't. His anger subsided quickly, and Sevatar fell silent, staring at him quietly through his visor, and slowly raised his chainsaw.

The man's head fell to the ground, marking a significant milestone in the recapture of the planet.

War is usually divided into two parts: the first part is ongoing, and the second part is after it ends. For Sevatar, he would prefer to see this person's death as a turning point.

Staring at the terrified head, Sevatar bent down and picked it up. Crimson blood was still gushing from the arteries of the headless corpse, meandering wildly across the muddy ground.

Sevatar plunged the chainsaw into the mud again, head down, and casually removed his helmet. He carefully observed the man's face with unobstructed eyes and finally came to a conclusion.

"He could have surrendered," Sevatar said. "But he didn't."

"Not everyone will surrender immediately upon hearing our names; there are always some who are willing to give their lives for their ideals or something else," a voice said behind him.

"Don't you think this is stupid, Shen?"

"Do you think this is stupid, Sai?"

Sevatar sighed, a rare occurrence, and bent down to place the head next to the man's corpse.

"Don't call me that," he said coldly. "You know I don't like being called that by others."

Shen smiled slightly, the laughter quite noticeable. Sevatar squinted, turning his head away with a hint of displeasure.

Shen's armor had undergone a significant change; he was wearing an MK4 Power Armour. The main color was midnight blue, with gold being a rare feature, only appearing as gold thread accents on the shoulder armor. Crimson had become the second main color after blue, ubiquitous and much darker than blood.

His right shoulder armor had a rather distinctive engraving: two crisscrossing, gleaming blades. This signified that he had been promoted to the Fourth Company and was no longer a member of the hunting squad.

However, this is not a promotion. In some ways, the captain of a hunting squad has no less power than a company commander, and naturally bears the same responsibilities.

Sevatar understood why Shen did this, but he naturally wouldn't say anything like that. That's just how he is; no Night Lords would expect to hear a single word of praise or compliment from Sevatar.

So, he naturally began to mock.

"You abandoned your squad, you abandoned Kassati Nuon, you abandoned Somers, you abandoned Keluntaini. How can you still laugh, Shen? Don't you have a heart?"

Shen immediately stopped smiling and frowned.

"You always have a knack for rubbing salt in the wound," the sergeant from the Fourth Company said, squinting. "How many times do I have to explain to you? I was thrown there by them all. Do you think I wanted to leave my men to become a sergeant in the Fourth Company?"

Sevatar scoffed, "If you don't want to, you can simply refuse."

"Yes, you refused to accept the 'consent' signed by both the Primarch and the instructor regarding the rank promotion and position change?" Shen shook his head expressionlessly. "You're still the same as before, Sevatar. To gain some verbal advantage, you're willing to ignore common sense and even distort the truth."

"Then why did I refuse?" Sevatar spread his hands and shrugged. "Why could I refuse a job change request?"

"You didn't refuse; you just put it away and refused to report to Van Cleef, that's all."

Shen laughed coldly, a smile that shouldn't have appeared on his face. It was too ruthless and too terrifying, making him look like a cruel serial killer.

Is he? Perhaps. In some ways, Shen is indeed a serial killer, but he isn't cruel.

Although he continues.

"The Primarch, the instructors, and even Van Cleef have tolerated your little whims, but how long can that tolerance last, Sevatar? You've already delayed your arrival by eleven Terra months; a whole year will soon have passed."

Sevatar did not answer Shen's question, but his eyes twitched slightly.

"It seems you want to say something to refute me. Well, to avoid you bringing this up again, I'll just say what I need to say."

Shen's smile gradually brightened, "How many planets can we reclaim in a year? How many wars can we quell? Time will pass, Sevatar."

"Macragge has almost become the center of a galactic federation over the years by the Ultramarines. The War Hounds have passed through the Ghoul Stars several times, and we've gradually been transformed by those rumors into monsters that emerge from the shadows, tearing the living apart and drinking blood. How much longer do you think you can keep running?"

"You'd better take those two words back," Sevatar spat out through gritted teeth. "This isn't running away; I'm just not as cold-blooded as you. I won't abandon my squad."

"Do you really think they still need you right now?" Shen asked softly.

Sevatar didn't answer, but simply put on his helmet. An hour later, the Midnight Blade left the planet. The Second Expeditionary Fleet, led by the Tredesia, set sail again, heading towards Nostramo. They would return home once more.

How many more times can we do it?

--

Karyl closed his eyes and withdrew the blade. With a mere thought, it instantly collapsed and disappeared into the shadows. In the blink of an eye, the ghastly white skeleton with twisted bones transformed into human form.

He opened his eyes again and saw a pale person in a mirror, everything as usual. His body itself had not changed; it was not weak, but it had not become stronger either.

Karyl stared at it expressionlessly, a blue Radiance shining in his eyes. His vision was altered in that instant, the limits of mortal eyes were instantly surpassed, and something extraordinary arrived quietly, as promised.

At this moment, the person in the mirror now wears a shattered crown on their head.

Its shape is grotesque, enveloped in a surge of crimson light within the darkness. It is still broken, several drifting fragments forming its current form, connected by thin, blood-like threads that also provide traction.

Karyl frowned and casually withdrew his psionic energy. He didn't like the crown, but whether he liked it or not didn't matter. Some things wouldn't change based on your likes or dislikes.

Silently, the Night Lords instructor slowly stood up, left his room, and headed towards the bridge.

Captain Gisbil Hasir is still working here. It's 3:24 a. m. Terra time, but he has to stay here, just like the other crew members.

Unlike the defense forces stationed on the planet's surface, the Imperial Army on the ships operate on a schedule that defies common sense. Three-shift or even four-shift work is a regular occurrence.

As often as before, the old man was the first to notice Karyl's arrival, but he did not greet him aloud or announce Karyl arrival to anyone else. He did nothing more than offer a glance.

His years of war experience gave Gispil a thorough understanding of the Night Lords; in fact, he knew every single Night Lords on the Tredesia.

Such a memory is practically superhuman for ordinary people, and the old captain wasn't exactly known for his exceptional memory. Karyl could only attribute it to Gisbil Hassir's stubbornness.

He guessed that the captain probably had a notebook with names on it, just like the Remembrancers still on their ship; old-fashioned people always preferred to write things down with pen and paper.

Karyl walked toward him—he was looking for someone to talk to, and Gisbil Hassir was the perfect person for it.

"Good evening, or rather, good morning, Captain Gisbil."

The old captain, who had been greeted, looked up and glanced at Karyl with a hint of surprise.

"You seem a little different today," he said, somewhat tactfully. "Is something the matter, Instructor Karyl?"

"It would be hypocritical of me to say no," Karyl said. "But I can't explain to you what happened either."

Gisbil Hasir nodded calmly. "I see. So you've come to see this old man just for a chat. I'm honored, but I must inform you beforehand that I'm not very good at talking."

"Do I look like I'm particularly good at the art of language?" Karyl winked at him, making a joke that was neither funny nor particularly funny.

He remained silent for a while, and Gispil patiently joined him in silence.

The old captain's workbench was located on the side of the bridge, far from all the crew members, yet it offered a superior vantage point to observe them all, as well as the Tredesia's six enormous observation windows.

A corner of the shimmering Milky Way was cut off by the porthole, while the Tredesia's straight spine and turrets undulated faintly at a slightly lower angle. The scene was forever captivating, yet forever monotonous.

The six destroyers of the escort fleet sailed ahead, sending radar reports every two hours. This information and data would be compiled and uploaded to the Cogitator array on the Tredesia.

The Tech-Priest from Mars replaced it, making it the latest model. Data aggregation, which used to take a long time to produce results, can now be completed in just two to five minutes, more than twice as fast.

Everything has changed.

"In short," Karyl finally spoke again after a long silence. "I do want to say something, Captain Gisbil. But the words are on the tip of my tongue, and I can't say them. They seem somewhat ridiculous, do you understand, Captain?"

"I don't understand," the old man replied seriously. "My thinking ability isn't particularly good; in fact, my colleagues often mock me as having a 'stubborn head.' Therefore, I don't understand what you're implying, but I can somewhat understand your current mood."

Karyl looked at him, awaiting his answer. The old captain shrugged, the large scar on his face contorting at that moment, terrifying yet strangely comical.

"To be honest, you've just fought too many wars. I've seen many soldiers like that. Years of war have completely changed their minds and bodies. They only seem like human beings during wartime. In their spare time, they hardly even speak."

"He hardly ever talks?"

"Yes," Gispillar said. "Just endless pre-war preparations, like sharpening knives, maintaining weapons, and daily training. He's no different from a madman."

Karyl laughed; he couldn't help but draw a comparison between the old captain's description and the Astartes —was Gispille deliberately making a slightly offensive joke?

Karyl didn't get the answer from that scarred face, nor did he want to delve deeper; he simply silently memorized the joke.

"I truly believe you should take a break. This return voyage might be an opportunity. You could spend some time on Nostramo, or perhaps visit Macragge. I've heard the Ultramarines have developed a tourism program, but unfortunately, I'm too old; otherwise, I'd really like to see it too."

"Thank you for your suggestion, Gisbil," Karyl said. "I will consider it carefully."

He turned and left, and the old captain watched his figure disappear completely before lowering his head and returning to his work. He didn't speak, but focused intently and tirelessly on handling the various affairs of the Tredesia.

The people whose lives were changed by the war were far more than just the soldiers he mentioned.

This chapter is 4k words long; there's one more chapter to go.