Ullanor's News

The loading and unloading deck of the Tredesia was teeming with a frenzied energy. Workers and sailors hurried across the deck, while the Techmarine in charge of logistics stood in twos and threes among them, holding Dataslate and observing the data of various vehicles.

Not all of them were willing to do this job; quite a few wanted to go back to the ground and rest for a few days. But it was their duty, and they had no choice but to accept it.

While there is no shortage of rebellious individuals and a culture of defiance within Night Lords, no one would be foolish enough to defy the authority of bombers and gunships. Without them, how could the war be waged?

The Servitor, having traveled a long way from the other end of the hangar, were laden with tools and pushing carts. They did not complain, nor could they. They simply walked mechanically from the other side of the ship and mechanically left, returning to where they came from.

Pre-programmed rules control their remaining consciousness as they operate within their mechanically crammed bodies. They have been alienated, but they are completely unaware of it. They are controlled by the program and will live this way for the rest of their lives.

But do they really have a concept of "life"?

Sevatar watched them leave, without pondering any answers.

He stood lazily in an inconspicuous corner, arms crossed, leaning against the wall, his expression nonchalant, even a little languid. This was certainly not a particularly pleasant posture; he looked like a clean-cut version of Nostramo gangster.

Karyl granted his request, and so the young First Company members were able to stay on the Tredesia under the pretext of "temporarily assisting with logistics," which was good, in fact, very good.

Sevatar, of course, had no idea why the Imperial Fists and Sigismund would travel all the way to Nostramo, but he couldn't be bothered to care.

During the Great Crusade, Astartes' footprints covered the entire galaxy; whether you wanted to go to certain places or not, you had to go. Sevatar didn't care about Sigismund's arrival; he only cared about when Sigismund would leave. It sounds cruel, but that was his true feeling.

He didn't want to stay on the track forever; he'd been longing for the large bathhouses on Nostramo, exclusively for the Night Lords. He couldn't possibly enjoy a bath on the ground without getting rid of Sigismund.

He had always liked bathhouses since he was a child, which even gave him a certain fondness for Ultramarines.

As his thoughts wandered aimlessly, Sevatar felt a long-lost sense of relaxation. He closed his eyes and began to listen to his own heartbeat.

This habit was learned from Bellros, who didn't wear wire-rimmed glasses.

The Remembrancers was traveling with them through a fallen city when, while Sevatar was preoccupied with his own affairs, he killed six rebels with a knife and then strangled the last one with his bare hands.

When the Night Lords found him, Bellros was kneeling amidst the corpses, breathing deeply with his eyes closed. When Sevatar asked him what he was doing, the Remembrancers said he was listening to his heartbeat.

Bellros's expression was calm, showing no emotion towards the killing. He wasn't wearing his glasses, and the emotion in his eyes was a frightening indifference.

Absurd.

Who would kneel beside a corpse and listen to their own heartbeat?

Thinking of this, Night Lords couldn't help but let out a cold smile.

He simply opened his eyes, no longer focusing Ethereal on his past memories. This was not a good thing; the things he had experienced since enlisting were enough to completely change the consciousness of an ordinary person, turning them into a serial killer or a madman.

These events shaped him into who he is today, but they also inevitably brought about some changes in him.

With a sarcastic smile, Sevatar turned and left. He had completed his task of "temporarily assisting with logistics," and the routine maintenance of the loading and unloading deck was no longer a concern for him.

Now he was free to do as he pleased. Whether it was to rest, meditate, or vent his energy on the Combat Servitor in the training field—with this thought in mind, he stepped into the misty, dimly lit corridors of the Tredesia.

Unfortunately, accidents always happen first. Between tomorrow and accidents, the accident always comes first. It will stand coldly at the boundary between peaceful tomorrow and today, mocking everyone who thought they could get through it uneventfully.

What a bastard.

Sevatar took a deep breath.

His boots touched the cold deck, and in that instant, a sensation far surpassing the coldness spread throughout his body. In that instant, he seemed to become another being. He was no longer human, but a torch radiating light.

A kind of flame, not of this world, erupted from his mouth, nose, eyes, and ears, turning the world itself into a very faint black and white. Sevatar involuntarily lowered his head and glanced down at the deck below.

His actions were no longer under his own control; instead, he resembled a machine being pulled along.

His gaze pierced through the metal, the machinery, and the core of the Tredesia that no one was allowed to peek into, reaching a shuttle moving through the sea of stars.

Sigismund, the Imperial Fists, stood by the porthole of the shuttle, waiting for the short journey to end.

Sevatar bent over, letting out a low growl from his throat. It sounded more like a monster than a human. A voice sounded behind him, tinged with obvious surprise. "Another attack?"

"Shut up, Malcharion," Sevatar said without turning his head, his expression grim.

"Don't be so sarcastic, brother." The man called Malcharion chuckled twice. "We all know you need to see Fer Fell regularly for some kind of ritual, but it seems to be happening more and more frequently lately, hasn't it?"

"Do you want to go into the duel cage?" Sevatar straightened up and asked softly.

"I have no objection if it's a fight with you," Malcharion said with a chuckle, the sarcasm in his voice still obvious and undisguised.

Sevatar snorted and walked away—he wouldn't admit it, but the truth was just as Malcharion had said: his hidden talent had been flaring up more and more frequently lately.

Sevatar certainly didn't reject the power of psionic energy, and he knew how strong his psionic talent was. The only reason that stopped him from using it, or even from sealing it with the help of Fer Zalost, was actually quite simple.

The fate of the Primarch.

He still remembered the scene that day when Konrad Curze Curze summoned him aboard the Nightfall.

Their Primarch sat in a large, crimson-backed armchair, gazing at him. His pale face held an inscrutable expression, his eyes lifeless, unlike the gaze the Night Lords were usually familiar with.

It had been seven years since Karyl Lohars became a stranger, but the Night Lords had not changed much. At that time, he was less than two years away from earning the title of "Lord of the Blades".

[You need to lock down your talent, Sai.]

Konrad Curze Curze said this, his expression calm, but his eyes held a hint of sadness.

[This power is essentially a curse, but you were born carrying it. You are a cursed person, and you've joined a cursed legion like ours. In a sense, it's quite by chance. But I don't want you to be consumed by the curse yet, so go find Fer Zalost.]

Sevatar did as he was told without asking why—after all, he didn't usually use psionic powers at all; in battle, he relied on his chainsaw and Boltgun, not large-scale psionic spells.

Blocking it wasn't unacceptable to him, but somehow, after the blockade, his talent actually became stronger.

Occasionally, it would break free from Fer's power and bring Sevatar something he couldn't see before, much like Sigismund on the shuttle.

Night Lords sighed in annoyance. Ten minutes later, he returned to his room and changed into a training shirt.

--

"Long time no see, Sevatarion," Sigismund said. "I didn't expect you to be so enthusiastic."

"Are you going to fight or not?" Sevatar looked at him with one hand on his hip, holding a training chainsaw in his right hand. It was much lighter than his usual one, but still within an acceptable range.

"The area has been cleared, and your sword has been prepared. A two-handed sword, just right for your style. So, are you going to fight or not?"

"You actually know my habits?" Sigismund raised an eyebrow in surprise.

Sevatar paused for a moment, then sighed, "Are you going to call or not, cousin? My time is very limited."

The Imperial Fists laughed.

Aside from their different hair color, he and Rogal Dorn are very similar. All Astartes are like this; they already carry the mark of a demigod before they have even met their Primarch.

It's quite normal for a son to resemble his father, but it's rare to see one to the extent that Sigismund resembles him. Unfortunately, he's smiling now, while Rogal Dorn...

"Although I am tempted, I did not come to you seeking a fight." Sigismund shook his head and casually placed the greatsword he was holding back on the weapon rack.

"I never intended to fight you before I came, and besides, you seem to have lost all passion for combat now, Sevatarion."

Sevatar didn't deny his statement, but just smiled coldly, "How do you know I have no intention of beating you up?"

Sigismund wisely ignored Sevatar's taunts.

"Venting anger and simply enjoying fighting are two different things. Richter Nair, the swordsmanship master in your legion, is the one like me. You, on the other hand, wield the chainsaw only to complete a mission. I don't believe you experience even a moment of enjoyment or pleasure from using violence."

"We've only met twice, why are you acting like you know me so well?"

Sevatar asked, somewhat incredulously—his incredulity stemming not from Sigismund's words, but from his overly familiar manner.

He couldn't understand how an Imperial Fists could be so easygoing.

Sigismund chuckled again, choosing not to answer Sevatar's question, and instead brought up something else. "Do you know Ullanor, cousin?"

"Unless I'm deaf, blind, an idiot, or disabled."

"Are you always this sarcastic?" Sigismund sighed helplessly. "Well, anyway—we've won."

He deliberately gave Sevatar a few seconds to react. It was thoughtful, but unfortunately, Night Lords's expressionless face completely ruined it.

He showed no joy, nor did he reveal any emotion. The way he looked at Sigismund made the latter feel as if he were just a wall.

"Hmm." Sevatar nodded. "It's fine."

"The Imperial Fists stared at him in disbelief."

"What's with that look?" Sevatar asked, slightly annoyed. "It was indeed a great victory. Luna Wolves, Ultramarines, and White Scars, along with countless soldiers, thwarted a dangerous opponent under the Emperor's leadership—but what does that have to do with us? We weren't even in this war."

"Oh!" Sigismund exclaimed, suddenly understanding. "So that's why you chose not to celebrate. Many of my brothers share the same thought. That's true."

He sighed softly, "Who wouldn't want to fight alongside the Emperor under his direct command?"

"I don't want to," Sevatar said expressionlessly. "I saw our Emperor once, and my eyes hurt for days afterward. Our veterans said I was lucky; if the Emperor had been wearing golden armor, I might have gone blind on the spot."

"It's not that serious, is it?" Sigismund said with a hint of skepticism.

"Believe it or not," Sevatar rolled her eyes dramatically. "Do you think our eyepieces all have built-in brightness adjustment?"

"Okay, okay, I didn't think it through—" Sigismund raised his hand, apologizing repeatedly.

"--In short, we have won, and the Emperor has announced that he will hold a triumphal procession on the planet Ullanor. Many Primarch and their Legions have already declared their intention to travel there; no one wants to miss this momentous occasion."

"Then why are you still here?" Sevatar asked bluntly. "I mean, why did you come all this way?"

Sigismund's smile finally froze.

"Because," he said slowly, "My Primarch sent me to inform his brother that he doesn't want anyone to miss this grand event."

"No, I mean, here." Sevatar pointed to the ground. "Tredesia, why did you have to come all this way, Sigismund? Wasn't it better to stay on Nostramo?"

The smile on Sigismund's face vanished completely.

"Alright." He expressionlessly extended his right hand and took the sword down again. "Best two out of three, agree?"

"You're too kind, brother." Sevatar chuckled. "How about we set a standard of twelve hours and see how long we can last?"

"Fine," Imperial Fists replied through gritted teeth.

This chapter is 4k words long.

Also, the code.