The Scarlet Sons

Never in his life had Angron Tey felt so lost. Anxiety, trepidation, and uncertainty about the future mingled together, almost like a poison that would gnaw him out of his skin.

But somehow, perhaps miraculously, he managed to retain a sliver of reason. Ironically, Angron Thai understood that this reason actually stemmed from a much stronger emotion within him.

Hatred.

"Will he see us?" he heard one of his brothers ask, his voice rough and worried. His name was Hermot Russ, a Colchis, an experienced priest.

"Maybe yes, maybe no, why do you care?" another person he brought, Batusa Narek, asked in a calm voice.

It's obvious he's looking for trouble.

"Because I clearly care about more things than you do, Batusa!" the priest retorted in a low growl.

His anger was so palpable that it formed a striking contrast with his black armor—of the three Word Bearers, only his Power Armour was painted black.

This is to commemorate the destruction of the Perfect City; the events of that day have left an indelible mark on them.

"Really? Then please give me an example," Batusa said, patting Hermot on the shoulder in a friendly, not provocative manner, manner, but Angron Tye knew exactly what he was doing.

This is not a provocation; it far surpasses a provocation.

For a fleeting moment, he almost felt he would see them fight each other. But they didn't—once again, a miracle occurred.

Hermot suppressed his temper, even letting out a cold snort, "Arguing is pointless, Batusa, you stonehead."

"Quiet down," Angron Tey said. "Arguing here won't get us anywhere. Whether he sees us or not is up to him. Who in the galaxy can force Karyl Lohars?"

"The Lord of Blades?" the old priest uttered, his voice suddenly filled with unwavering conviction. "He should be able to; after all, he is the Son of God."

Angron Te closed his eyes in anguish.

"Sometimes I really don't understand how you can still believe in the Emperor, Hermot," he murmured. "You're a madman."

"How many of the 1,300 men who came with us aren't lunatics?" Hermot immediately retorted. "Or rather, in our own legion's perception, how many of these 1,300 are considered 'normal'?"

"Not a single one," Batusa uttered coldly. "We are traitors, madmen, fools, villains. The only bridge between the Legion's blades and our flesh is Lorgar Aurelian."

"Lorgar Aurelian when he's lucid," Hermot corrected again, this time his voice almost a murmur than Angron Tai's.

Yes, it's Lorgar Aurelian when he's lucid, but how long can he stay lucid?

As this question surfaced, Angron Tei silently lowered his head. Before him appeared a golden-skinned giant, whose face sometimes twisted and sometimes remained calm, like an ever-changing cloud.

However, he only had a brief moment of peace on a very few nights; the most common state was a frenzy so intense it contorted his features.

In this state, he would walk barefoot from one end of the ship to the other, waving his arms, with believers following closely behind him, listening to him loudly proclaim the ancient beliefs of Colchis.

This change began after the destruction of the Perfect City. Initially, the Word Bearers were terrified and panicked. Everyone could see that the Primarch's mental state was abnormal, but with the assurances of Erebus and Cole Fallon, this fear gradually changed.

Later, Lorgar Aurelian proved his normality in many wars. The Word Bearer, as always, loudly rebuked the enemies of the gods, brandishing his scepter and leading the charge on the front lines, slaughtering indiscriminately in the name of the gods.

Only a few noticed the strange shift in the atmosphere within the Legion and remained vigilant. And only a few could see Lorgar Aurelian when he was lucid.

Don't think this is lucky; there's nothing more unfortunate than this.

"Go find Karyl Lohars, take someone you trust to him, and go to the triumphal procession."

That night, Lorgar Aurelian stood in his inscribed house, growling at Angron Tay, his fists clenched.

Go find him, tell him my words are unreliable, tell him—

The Primarch abruptly stopped speaking, golden characters began to writhe on his skin, and a chilling golden Radiance emanated from beneath it. The next second, Lorgar Aurelian's face once again took on that twisted fanaticism.

He smiled at Angron Tey and began reciting scriptures to himself. He was so friendly, so charming, his eyes almost became two shimmering vortexes that seemed to devour one's soul.

Angron Tey didn't know how he left afterward; he only felt fear and pain. He had replayed that scene millions of times, experiencing fear and pain millions of times. He had to do this to make sure he hadn't seen it wrong and that he wasn't mentally unstable.

Logically, he should have been numb, but he wasn't. The suffering of the Primarch was far greater than his, Angron Tay preferred to suffer and perish himself rather than see Lorgar Aurelian undergo such a change.

Yes, his Primarch did indeed undergo some kind of change, a change that he could neither comprehend nor understand.

If one side's account is not credible, then the other two people standing here, Hermot Russ and Batusa Narek, can also attest to it.

They too were unfortunate, witnessing firsthand the Primarch's shifts between madness and tranquility. Angron Techai—this is probably one of the reasons why the hot-tempered Hermot could tolerate Batusa.

They could only trust each other.

In the eerie meeting room of the Nightfall, three Word Bearers waited empty-handed. They didn't know what verdict Karyl Lohars would deliver; they only hoped he would at least see them.

A person pushed open the door to the reception room and walked in.

"Please wait a few more minutes, cousins. Our instructors are busy instructing the new recruits," he said softly, his High Gothic accent strange, with a very noticeable aspirated quality.

This signifies that he is from Nostramo, and for the Astartes, changing their accent is an easy matter. In Angron Te's view, deliberately retaining the accent of his native language is an outward expression of pride.

Like all the Midnight Blade of Imperium legend, he wore somber, dark blue armor and was as pale as Ghost or a corpse, but Angron Tai noticed some other details.

For example, this person's shoulder armor was adorned with gold trim, and his hands were stained a deep crimson, a color far more intense than blood. Two crisscrossing blades gleamed on his right shoulder armor.

"And who are you?" the old pastor asked immediately—of course he had to ask, he was always an impatient man. Besides, this was the first person they had seen after sitting in the meeting room for seventeen minutes.

If we don't ask him, who else should we ask?

"Shen," the man replied politely. "The adjutant of the Fourth Company. I apologize for keeping you all waiting so long, but verifying your identification codes is no easy task."

Angron Ty knew what he was implying; he understood the adjutant's metaphor. The Word Bearers gave a wry smile, rose from the sofa in the reception room, and went to shake hands with Shen: "I'm sorry."

"It's nothing." Shen squinted, smiled, and then released his hand from Angron Tai's. "It's just a small matter. Please wait a moment longer."

He politely glanced around, nodded to them, and then turned and left the reception room. Angron Tey remained standing, watching him leave, his mood unusually calm.

He took a deep breath and simply sat back down on the sofa. He thought, "We've already come this far, what's the point of being anxious?"

The Word Bearers simply closed his eyes, letting the face of Lorgar Aurelian appear before him once more.

He began to silently recite the words of the Primarch, those devout verses filled with sincere hearts that had cleared the dust from his eyes in the days following countless wars. Angron Thai was accustomed to war, but he disliked it.

However, in the brief moment of thought, he suddenly felt a chill. He didn't know where the feeling came from, but it was so real that it felt as if someone was holding a blade to his neck.

The Word Bearers suddenly opened his eyes, stood up, and instinctively reached for his waist with his right hand.

Unfortunately, it wasn't until his fingers touched the empty belt that he realized he had voluntarily surrendered his weapons when he boarded the Nightfall with his two companions—and now, he stood empty-handed and awkwardly in front of a giant.

The latter gazed at them calmly, shadows swirling like living things among the pale-armored skeletons. Malice was undisguised; it roared silently.

Karyl Lohars.

The Eighth Legion's "Blade," a legendary Ghost, a monster whose mere mention sends chills down your spine.

Angron Tey gritted his teeth and forced his right hand, which was trying to grip the weapon, to extend in a distorted, awkward handshake gesture.

"Hello," he said in a deep voice. "I am Angron Tey, a member of the Word Bearers. I have something to tell you."

Karyl looked at him calmly, tilted his head, and neither answered nor shook hands. Half a second later, a chilling blue light flashed in his eyes.

Update complete.

Yes, I'm about to start delivering some angst, or rather, advance the plot.