A Good Show Begins (End)

Bellros von Sharp looked up at the giant standing before him. The giant was undoubtedly an Astartes, and the armor he wore was the very familiar midnight blue.

Like lightning flashes, the patterns danced incessantly on the armor's surface, adorned with touches of gold. His hands were a pure, deep crimson, unlike the duller red of the rest of the armor. That red... it was as if he had just killed someone with his bare hands.

His helmet was grotesque, a mask resembling a skull. The red visors reflected Bellros's face, and he could even see his own expression.

He paused to think for a moment, tapped his head, and then, quite seriously, struck a pose as if holding a pen and paper, and began, "Sir, may I interview you?"

"No," the man hissed in reply.

He stood before five massive, pale, rough stone pillars that supported a stark white palace. Inside, it was pitch black, and Bellros could see nothing.

"Really?" The Remembrancers shrugged, replying in the same hissing tone. "Look, I've come all this way. This is an opportunity, after all. Give me a chance, sir?"

Astartes sighed and casually removed his helmet. His face beneath was extremely pale, just like every Nostramo Night Lords that Bellros knew.

This man was very handsome, but some details in his eyes and brows suggested a harshness in him. He had three twisted scars on his left eye, cheekbone, and cheek, one of which even extended to the corner of his mouth.

This was quite different from the person Bellros remembered.

"Are you satisfied?" Jago Sevatarion asked.

"Pretty much right, Sevatarion Leon." The Remembrancers laughed merrily. "It really was you. I thought I'd only seen a Shadow outside."

"I have no Shadow," Sevatar said. "But the fact that you can see me here means you're lucky, old man."

"What do you mean?" The Remembrancers raised an eyebrow in surprise and took a closer look at Sevatar.

The latter's scarlet hands and the altered company insignia on his right shoulder did not escape his notice; these details made his expression serious. Sevatar did not try to hide them, but instead generously displayed these details.

"How is it?" He crossed his arms. "Did you see that?"

Bellros fell silent. He should have asked some questions, but he didn't. He habitually raised his hand to remove his gold-rimmed glasses, but the empty feeling reminded him that he had already taken them off before even entering the so-called Great Ocean.

"So, where is this?" After a period of silence, Bellros asked.

"The kingdom of a god," Sevatar answered softly, "And also the burial place of countless unjustly killed."

"You died too?"

"No, I've just been here for a very long time. There's no concept of time in the Warp, Bellros. The me you see now isn't the me you know. In fact, you shouldn't even be here."

Sevatar chuckled and made a rather crude gesture at him, "So, I think I roughly know where you are now, Nikaea, right?"

"Yes," the Remembrancers admitted with a hint of curiosity.

"Magnus just took you into the Warp? Let me think, he must have had you put your hand on that damn device."

Sevatar pondered for a moment, nodded, and spoke again in a confident tone.

Then you passed out.

"What?" Bellros asked incredulously.

"You were unconscious; to be more precise, your consciousness left your body for five days. We almost thought you were brain dead, but you returned on the fifth day. After a series of complex tests, you were declared healthy."

Bellros raised his right hand and waved it hesitantly, as if to say something.

He seemed to have a lot to say, but not a single word came out. He blinked, trying to organize his thoughts, wanting to ask something constructive, but Sevatar didn't give him the chance.

"This whole thing is actually quite complicated." He shrugged, the scar at the corner of his mouth twitching, turning his smile into a mocking sneer.

"That idiot Magnus thought his so-called Great Ocean was a wonderful place. He brought you in, wanting to open a door for you, give you psychic abilities, and then cast a spell on the spot."

"In short, he actually wanted to use you to prove the controllability of psychic energy. Since a novice Psyker can cast spells so easily, doesn't that mean psychic energy is indeed controllable? Unfortunately, he failed because you somehow ended up here with us."

"And even if he hadn't failed, the whole plan was incredibly stupid, completely unlike what a Primarch should have done."

"You guys here?" Bellros repeated, temporarily ignoring Sevatar's disparaging remarks about Magnus; he seemed completely unconcerned about it.

"Wait, you just said this is the kingdom of a god."

He slowly widened his eyes.

"Keep guessing," Sevatar chuckled maliciously. "You'll never figure this out, no matter how hard you try, and you'll forget everything I said as soon as you leave here. I've wanted to disgust you like this for a long time, you old codger who's always following us around."

The Remembrancers looked at him strangely, then suddenly laughed, "I guess my books must have been selling quite well."

"Bullshit, nobody buys your lousy books."

"So I'm dead?" Bellros suddenly asked. "You just said this is the kingdom of the gods, and the burial ground for the unjustly killed. I don't believe in any gods, so I'm dead?"

"You're not dead now," Sevatar said. His eyes suddenly became complicated; Bellros had seen similar expressions countless times before.

He himself had cried out over the corpses of his comrades in the mud of the battlefield. Humans are not plants or trees; even someone like him, who was called "the executioner of warlords," had feelings. Therefore, even without further explanation from Sevatar, the Remembrancers already understood what had happened.

"If, and I mean if," he began slowly, "There were a war in the future that would require even an old man like me to take up a gun and go back to the battlefield, what kind of war would that be?"

"That's none of your business," Sevatar said coldly, abruptly changing the subject.

"It was just a war, nothing more. Now let's talk about what happened after you fell into a coma. Did you know that Konrad Curze Curze smashed that machine after you fell into a coma? He could have done it sooner, do you want to know why?"

"I'm not really that interested in knowing," the Remembrancers smiled helplessly and nodded in agreement. "But, Sevatarion Severan, has anyone ever told you that your ability to change the subject is truly terrible?"

"Do you want to hear it or not?" Sevatar looked at him, her expression already carrying a hint of threat.

Didn't you say I'd forget everything after I left here?

"That's true, but do you want to hear it?"

"I'll listen, I'll listen," Bellros said, raising his hand with a wry smile. "Fine, I'll listen."

--

"I've placed too much trust in you, Magnus."

Inside the amphitheater, the Master of Mankind spoke slowly, his voice booming like thunder. With just these words, the Crimson King, kneeling on the ground, began to tremble—he clenched his teeth, trying to resist what might happen next.

The Remembrancers, who were already prepared, and the privately hired recorders of the lords and nobles, began to write rapidly with their heads down. No one chose to use machines instead of human labor on this occasion; they seemed to feel that doing so would be more respectful.

The sound of pen scratching paper was so clear in the silent hall, but the Emperor's voice was even more striking. As always, whenever he spoke, he was the center, the sole sun in the sky.

"Psionic energy is fickle and dark. It's an abstract, conceptual construct, not a simple, straightforward, and readily understood scientific theory. To view it as mathematics, or to compare it to firearms or weapons, is incorrect. Psionic energy is a force that needs to be pursued, and that's where its danger lies."

"Pursuit means fascination, means addiction. Pursuers often forget the purpose of seeking power, instead turning their vision into power itself. They will lose their way, becoming slaves to power in the darkness."

"Ambitions vanished like bubbles, resolve crumbled like smoke, and before that, they almost all believed they could resist such temptation."

The Emperor slowly lowered his head and looked at Magnus.

Just like you.

"Father—!" Magnus called out in a trembling voice, almost like a wail.

"What you seek is not there, Magnus. The knowledge you crave is not there; there is nothing there." The Emperor looked at him, unmoved by these words.

"The place you inhabit is emptiness, a dark place filled with venomous snakes and traps. There are few kind individuals there, and even if there are, they are too busy taking care of themselves to offer you a helping hand."

"I have let you run rampant for far too long, long enough for disaster to strike. Today you dared to kill your Servitor in front of everyone here, using it as a prelude to bring Bellros von Sharp's soul into the Warp. Who knows what you did behind our backs?"

He looked up and surveyed his surroundings.

"Therefore, hear my verdict."

"From this day forward, Magnus will leave his legions and the Great Crusade. He will stay by my side until he understands the mistakes he has made."

"From this moment forward, the Thousand Sons is prohibited from using any form of psionic energy or witchcraft. All research and exploration related to psionic energy is forbidden. All psionic facilities on Prospero must be completely destroyed within one year."

"You may still fight, but you are never allowed to use any psychic power. Learn from your cousins how to destroy your enemies with Boltgun and Chainsword, not with witchcraft, lightning, or curses. Be grounded like humans, not riding on illusory clouds, drifting away."

"The Librarius for other legions will be retained, but it must be used with extreme caution, recording every action, and its size will be reduced to less than three hundred. This is an ultimatum, not a warning or admonition. Anyone who violates this will be destroyed and plunged into endless suffering."

The Master of Mankind lowered his head again and lifted the limp Magnus from the ground with one hand. His movements were cold, devoid of any "fatherly" emotion.

"Whoever it is," he said, and then left.

Update complete.