42. Interlude: Warmaster

Ollanius Persson, or Ollanius Persson, is thinking.

The former is an abbreviation of the latter. Ollanius is an overly long name, difficult to write and even more troublesome to pronounce. He has been called Ollanius Persson for many years, but he himself doesn't know exactly how long.

Such a description would be quite strange for an ordinary retired soldier. Unfortunately, he is not; he is a branch of the human race, a branch possessing mysterious talents.

In the past, some called them the Immortals, while others worshipped them in awe, considering them gods. Ollanius Persson disagreed with both of these interpretations.

First, he didn't believe in the existence of immortal beings. Second, they weren't gods; they were simply Perpetual. Some might think this was incredible, but for Ollanius Persson, it was a curse.

Living a long life won't bring you anything except painful memories.

He met some people, parted ways with them, then met more, and parted ways again.

He had lived too long, but his memory was not very good; he had long forgotten most of his life. This might be some kind of self-protection mechanism, so that he wouldn't be overwhelmed by the immense grief, or it might simply be because he refused to accept those things.

To this day, he doesn't even know his real age; he can only guess.

Inside the lower deck of the Macragge's Honour, in his assigned room, Ollanius Persson wrote down a number in pencil on a piece of paper classified as D-3: 45,000.

The room was named because of his status as a retired soldier, and also because he had saved some people during the Calth War, gathered a not-so-small army force, and fought alongside the Ultramarines for a period of time.

He got the pencil from a painter, and so did the paper. D-3 paper was inexpensive; it was very soft and would tear easily, but that's why it was favored by painters who pursued the pinnacle of their skills.

They claimed that as long as one could paint on this paper for an extended period, one's painting skills would be greatly improved. The painter clearly believed this, as he carried many of these papers with him, and he didn't even throw them away when fire rained down from the sky.

As for that string of numbers, it was his guess about his own age.

He is probably 45,000 years old, maybe more, maybe less; this number cannot be accurate because he has forgotten too many things.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his door.

Ollanius Persson stood up and carefully placed the pencil on the table, not wanting it to fall to the ground. It was something he had earned from the painter after posing as a sketch model for two hours.

He walked to the door, thought for a moment, and then remembered how to open it. It wasn't by pulling a handle, but by pressing a button. He looked at the wall to the side and, sure enough, spotted a button painted green amidst the gleaming metal.

Ollanius Persson pressed the button, and the door slid open slowly, revealing a figure much taller than himself standing outside.

"Soldier Persson," the Astartes began, "You have been conscripted once more in the name of the Emperor."

"I understand," said Ollanius Persson. "What time should I report tomorrow?"

Astartes lowered his head and glanced at him with slight surprise.

He never expected that a veteran, after so many years of retirement, could face a war so calmly. Ollanius Persson's attitude didn't seem like that of someone who had experienced the brutal war on the surface of Calth; he even acted as if nothing had happened.

"Terra time, 8:00 AM, 60th level bridge, soldiers' review area." He nodded to Ollanius Persson. "I am Sol Damocles, company commander of the Sixth Company. You will be the company commander of the Osiris 78th Infantry Company, and will be fighting alongside us in the coming war, Company Commander Persson."

Company Commander

Ollanius Persson fell silent for a moment; he hadn't taken on this responsibility in a long time.

A high military rank is seen as a good thing by some, as it represents immense power. But for Ollanius Persson, it was simply a responsibility he had long tried to escape.

Being the commander of an infantry company meant being responsible for the lives of at least several thousand men. His silence was interpreted by Sol Damocles as bewilderment, so after giving an Aquila Salute, the commander of the Sixth Company quickly left.

His personal visit to inform Ollanius Persson meant that the Ultramarines had taken note of his experience on the battlefield.

Ollanius Persson gave a wry smile. He closed the door, returned to his seat, and tried to write something more, but couldn't utter a single word. So he simply put down his pen and lay down on his bed.

He already knew what he had to do from now on; just like before, he would lead many people—a great many people—to fight for the Emperor.

But he disliked the Emperor.

In fact, he didn't even want to think about the Emperor —the word was almost like poison to him. Instinctively, he reached out and gripped the cross, instinctively calling out the word "God."

What am I doing?

Company Commander Peisong closed his eyes helplessly, preparing to fall asleep and welcome the next day.

Yes, yes. He dislikes the Emperor, that's true, without a doubt. People will consider him a heretic for that, and might even kill him if he were to speak out. But that's just a private matter.

His dislike for the Emperor was his own business, and it did not mean he would side with the other. He understood what the other side the Emperor faced.

"It feels like a lifetime ago," he murmured to himself in the last few minutes before falling asleep. "So many years have passed, and I'm a commander again."

He was asleep, or perhaps not. He smelled a pungent burning odor in the darkness, and Ollanius Persson awoke with a start to find himself in complete darkness.

He got off the bed, stood up, and began to cough, maggots oozing from his throat. He immediately understood where he was: the Warp, a place where nightmares converged.

But why is he here?

With this question in mind, he began to look around. Then he discovered the truth—the darkness was not what this place was originally like; it was actually flames.

Ollanius Persson stared at them in astonishment, involuntarily sniffing. He raised his hand to touch them and found that he was bleeding. The pungent smell of burning grew stronger and stronger, and the ground trembled at a frequency identical to that of a ship's deck during navigation.

A guess began to swirl in his mind; Ollanius Persson realized that this might be a ship.

The Macragge's Honour?

No, is it really possible I'm still dreaming?

He turned around in confusion, trying to find his bed and go back to sleep. He had experienced too many unbelievable things, and from these experiences, Ollanius Persson had learned a lesson—if you ignore them and don't actively seek them out, these things will most likely not bother you.

Just like the Emperor.

Then, he failed.

His bed was gone, leaving only a huge iron door, at least ten times his height, solemn and imposing, with rubies inlaid on its edges, now looking as if it had been violently destroyed.

Ollanius Persson walked through it and came to a corridor. He tried to find a porthole, but failed again. All the portholes in the corridor were covered by flames, and there was no way to see outside. He continued on and came to a new room.

Then, he was speechless at what he saw.

An angel lay on the ground, a embodiment of beauty, but broken. Some pure violence had ravaged him, breaking his wings, and blood flowed like a river beneath him. His eyes gleamed, and something far redder than tears was streaming from their sockets.

The culprit who caused this tragedy stood to one side, shrouded in darkness, his body wreathed in surging flames, his armor as grotesque as bones.

Pale white and pure black intertwined, forming a twisted spectacle. His face was a skull, the world burned beneath his feet, and he held a sharp blade in his hand.

The mere sight of him filled Ollanius Persson with boundless terror. In that instant, he felt as if he were transported back to that volcanic eruption, that earthquake, that world war—he began to back away uncontrollably, and the murderer heard his movements.

He turned his head and stared at him.

"Ollanius Persson."

The murderer uttered his name in a low, calm voice. Then, he raised his hand and pointed to the side.

The world burst into light in an instant, the darkness vanished, and a golden Radiance far surpassing anything else shot out from the porthole. Ollanius Persson stopped in his tracks; he knew this Radiance all too well, and he immediately understood who had brought him here.

As this thought arose, the angel and the giant, whether or not he was the murderer, vanished, replaced by a meadow. A man with his back to him sat under an apple tree, waiting for him.

Ollanius Persson has no past.

"Enough, enough." He gripped the cross at his chest. "Let me go."

The man turned around, his profile as ordinary as ever. "Are you sure?"

"I'm fucking sure!" Ollanius Persson roared at him. "We had an agreement!"

"Really, Ollanius?" the man asked him. "Think carefully, recall, and then you will see a promise that never existed."

"I will not fight for you again," Ollanius said resolutely.

"But you're already here; you've joined the Osiris 78th Infantry Company."

"Just because I'm on your side doesn't mean I'll fight for you, do you understand?" Ollanius glared at him and said.

"I'm on your side only because I still have my sanity. I'm not as crazy as you, Eldrad, or Malcador. I'm a normal person, and I just want to live a normal life! To stay normal, I must stay away from you and your ambitions!"

The man smiled gently and apologetically, without saying a word.

"What the hell do you want?!" Ollanius roared at him, holding the cross high to his chest. "God, what the hell do you want?!"

God did not answer; God simply handed him a gem.

"Give it to him," said God. "I beg you, Ollanius."

Update complete.