Burning of Five Hundred Worlds (III, 5k, Don't Let It Sit)

(Let the brothers raise it some more until it dies)

After the meeting, Roboute Guilliman arrived as scheduled, his steps rather hurried. 69ᏕᏂᏬጀ.ፈᎧᎷ

He wasted no time, even ending the meeting early. In wartime, he had more to do than usual. Without careful time management, some things would have to be postponed.

This unexpected meeting would disrupt some of his original plans, such as the gathering of refugees and the hunt for the remaining Word Bearers in the galaxy, but he believed it would be worthwhile.

On his way here, Roboute Guilliman had convinced himself that some things were more important than Vengeance.

He pushed open the door and entered the reception room. In the spacious room, Angron Tey had been waiting for a long time. He stood straight and had come alone, without any of his brothers or acquaintances.

Much of the greyish-white paint belonging to the Aurelian's Sons had peeled off the armor, revealing a more lifeless steel color, making it appear mottled. The helmet slumped over the belt at the waist, one of the visors was broken, and there was a clear sword mark on the breastplate.

He still smelled of blood, clearly having rushed over after a hasty clean-up following the battle. His eyes, though serious, held a palpable numbness, like a stagnant pool.

Lord Macragge sighed inwardly, Angron Tai was the first to offer his greetings.

"Sir." He bowed slightly, making an Aquila Salute with his hand in front of his breastplate. "Van Cleef said you wish to see me."

"Yes," Roboute Guilliman replied solemnly with a bow before speaking.

However, after this brief affirmation, he hesitated, pondering his words—though he had indeed prepared a draft in his mind, intending to be direct, to bluntly point out the current predicament of the Aurelian's Sons, and to persuade them to leave.

Unfortunately, when he faced Angron Tey, those words became extremely difficult to utter.

Roboute Guilliman faced numerous predicaments, such as those involving false gods or Daemon. Going back further in time, he also experienced the devastating loss of his father. For most people, experiencing even one such event would be extraordinary, but his memories are a veritable encyclopedia of suffering.

Reason crammed every page, overflowing the spaces between words. But what truly made up the pages? Pain brewed over the years.

Just like now.

Roboute Guilliman painfully forced himself to make a sound.

"I hope you can stay away from this war for now, Angron Tey."

The Aurelian's Sons paused for a moment, then nodded slightly.

"It's a real distance," Roboute Guilliman emphasized, looking him into the eyes.

He could easily have looked away to examine the paintings on the wall or simply observed the view through the porthole, which would undoubtedly have made him feel much better. But he didn't want to; sometimes, people would rather their consciences be bothered.

However, to Roboute Guilliman's surprise and bewilderment, Angron Tey did not object or raise any questions.

"I understand," he said, head bowed. "I know that a hundred men are of no use in such a massive war. I actually expected what would happen today."

If anyone asked, Roboute Guilliman would admit—hearing that sentence truly relieved him.

"That's great! I'm glad we reached an agreement," Roboute Guilliman said hastily. "I'll arrange a ship and supplies for you right away—"

"--But, sir," Angron Tey raised his head, interrupting him, "Where can we go?"

He successfully stumped Roboute Guilliman, which was a remarkable achievement.

"Yes, where can we go?" Lord Macragge asked himself, regretting his oversight—he hadn't even considered this question.

The main routes from the Ultima Segmentum to other starfields have been completely blocked by the sacrifices of the Word Bearers, and deadly Warp Storm are raging through the Materium. Ships attempting to navigate through them will either disintegrate or be thrown into the Warp turbulence.

If the storm doesn't dissipate, sailing away will become impossible.

So, how about finding a suitable recruitment site within the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar?

In the past, this wouldn't have been a problem, but now it's a truly regrettable situation—the vanguard of the Word Bearers had already entered the territory of the Five Hundred Worlds long before they arrived, and the scenery along the way could only be described as hell.

They had no bottom line; most civilians were sacrificed, and they wouldn't even stay to be slaves. Those who survived were tortured and subjected to a certain degree of pollution.

If the Night Lords didn't possess some means to identify those who still possess reason, the Ultramarines would likely only have one solution to choose from.

There is still resistance from other worlds, that's for sure, and Macragge, as the core of the Five Hundred Worlds, cannot possibly fall in such a short time. This is one of the reasons that keeps Roboute Guilliman and the Ultramarines rational.

But how can they find a safe world to recruit soldiers within these Five Hundred Worlds? Even if they could find one, the Aurelian's Sons would need time to train new recruits, and by then, the war would certainly not be over.

In that brief second of contemplation, Roboute Guilliman's expression shifted many times. His reactions elicited a helpless, wry smile from Angron Tei.

"My lord," he pleaded, "Why not let us fight to the death?"

"What nonsense are you spouting?!" Roboute Guilliman frowned immediately, his voice rising. "Think of your father, Angron Tai! You are the last Aurelian's Sons, do you intend to extinguish his bloodline completely?"

"We hope to leave behind a batch of Gene-seed for you," Angron Tei said, looking deeply into Roboute Guilliman's eyes with a very serious expression.

"If the Emperor blesses us and some of us are fortunate enough to survive, we will reclaim these seeds and seek to rebuild the Legion. If we all perish, at least the newborn Aurelian's Sons will be able to carry on this name, cleansed of sin by our blood, and walk on with a pure heart."

Roboute Guilliman's two hearts stopped for a moment, as a heavy pressure quietly descended upon him.

After leaving Calth, the hellish scenes he had witnessed along the way—the wails of refugees, the faces of the dead—all merged at this moment with the ambiguous, both weeping and smiling face of Angron Tai. He understood what Angron Tai was saying; it was a trust, an absolute confidence.

But he couldn't agree.

In the past, they still had to consider how the Primarch's bloodline should continue, and there were other things they had to be mindful of. But if he agreed to Angron Tai's request, Roboute Guilliman didn't even dare to imagine what the Aurelian's Sons would do without any worries.

"That won't do," Roboute Guilliman said instinctively. "I can't agree to that. If you all perish, who will tell the story of the Aurelian's Sons's past and traditions? A Legion deserves its own proud traditions."

"Our past is filled with sin," said Angron Tye. "And our tradition, our inner tradition, is nothing but Vengeance. If the war ends, to whom will the newborn Aurelian's Sons seek Vengeance?"

"I cannot agree." Roboute Guilliman pursed his lips, his deep blue eyes beneath his gray hair filled with deep conflict. "I appreciate your trust, Angron Tai, but I absolutely cannot agree to this. I see your intentions."

The Aurelian's Sons sighed regretfully, "But do you have a third option?"

Once again—he forced Roboute Guilliman into silence, which was truly astonishing. To ask two questions in a single day that even the Lord of Macragge couldn't answer is something few in the entire galaxy could accomplish.

Roboute Guilliman knew that he didn't.

He had no third option, because there was no option to begin with. The Aurelian's Sons could neither leave nor find a suitable peaceful world to recuperate; the only path before them seemed to be death in battle.

After all, could Roboute Guilliman possibly issue an order forbidding them all from participating in the war?

He couldn't do such a thing, and for Astartes, it would be the most serious insult, tantamount to a blood feud.

Lord Macragge slowly closed his eyes; he no longer intended to persuade Angron Tai. However, he still wanted to say something.

"My brother Rogal Dorn has always believed in a theory," he said with his eyes closed. "He believes that if a person has enough willpower, that person can do anything."

"This person can endure illness, survive man-made disasters, and overcome natural calamities through sheer willpower, and may even temporarily refuse death. He uses the premise of 'sufficient willpower' to eliminate any potential objections we might raise to this theory, such as adrenaline or a surge of the will to survive."

"Then he supplemented this theory with other things."

Roboute Guilliman opened his eyes and looked at Angron Te.

"The last time I heard him mention this, he spoke to me about faith," he whispered. "Faith, Angron, faith."

"It can transform a child into a soldier in just a few months, and it can inspire some people to forsake the lure of fame and fortune in pursuit of a cause that requires a lifetime of dedication. It can be a flag, a book, or a simple sentence."

He approached Angron Te.

"Have faith," Roboute Guilliman told him. "In the past, you craved Vengeance. That was not wrong, it was perfectly justified, but you should think about what comes after Vengeance, you should have a plan, Angron Tye."

"What will happen to Lorgar's blood if you die? Don't bring up your theories again. Without Legacy, the newborn Aurelian's Sons are just blank slates, and might even be tainted by the culture of the Ultramarines."

"I don't want to see that happen. If it does, your blood will have been shed in vain, and the blood of your father Lorgar Aurelian, will have been shed in vain."

"But--"

"--Write this down, turn it into a belief." Roboute Guilliman interrupted him and reached out to press his shoulder.

The expression on his face did not belong to someone in a high position, nor to someone who boasts. His face was full of compassion, his brows were tightly furrowed, and a golden light seemed to suddenly flash in his pupils.

"Have faith, Angron Thy," he repeated. "The world we live in is no longer as black and white as it used to be. Things beyond reason and reality are rushing towards us one after another, so if you have enough will, if you have enough faith, perhaps..."

He stopped speaking, looked up, and took a few steps back.

"Furthermore, I permit you to recruit soldiers on the Macragge's Honour," Roboute Guilliman said.

Angron looked at him in astonishment.

"Yes." He smiled, a smile full of lightness, all his pent-up frustration vanished, and eventually it even turned into a hearty laugh.

"Go prepare for conscription, Angron Tai!" Roboute Guilliman shouted. "There are quite a few eligible children on the Macragge's Honour. I was so blind to this; why didn't I think of this sooner?"

Laughing loudly, he strode out of the conference room and rushed to his next task. Angron Tey stood there bewildered, and after a while, he raised his hand and rubbed his sore eyes.

"Faith." The Aurelian's Sons bowed his head. "Faith."

--

Carrying his chainsaw, Sevatar slowly stepped out of the transport plane.

The boarding deck of Night's Soul was as eerie as ever, dimly lit, with Night Lords, crew members, and Servitor moving like Shadow in the light, and even a cold mist spreading across the floor.

It's terrifying and a perfect breeding ground for horror stories. But such an environment only makes Sevatar feel comfortable.

Thinking of this, he couldn't help but give a sarcastic laugh—nothing more than mocking his own animalistic tendency to prefer darkness.

But he forgot one thing: upon returning to the deck, he would be inspected by the Techmarine.

"What are you laughing at, Sevatarion?" a Techmarine asked, his mechanical arm swaying back and forth in a friendly manner.

"It's nothing," Sevatar said, handing over the still-dripping chainsaw.

The sergeant stared down at it for a moment, then suddenly uttered a low, angry curse, "Sevatarion, have you stuck your chainsaw into the ground again, head down?!"

Sevatar sighed, sheathed his chainsaw, and took a few steps back, causing the people waiting in line behind him to curse him several times.

"I've already replaced the serrations, how can you still tell?" Sevatar complained as she backed away. "Do all you Techmarine have implants in your eyes?"

"You bastard, you're usually as lazy as a rat sleeping in a mine pit, how could you possibly replace your serrations with a brand new set after the battle?" The Techmarine sneered as he walked towards him, the mechanical arm behind him already lifting a heavy wrench.

He threw the wrench away and then dashed off like lightning, intending to grab Sevatar and punish him according to the rules.

Unfortunately, someone was faster than him. A strong hand grabbed him firmly from behind, followed by a series of joint locks that trapped him in place.

Sevatar caught the wrench with his backhand, and upon closer inspection, he was surprised to find that the person who had saved him from dire straits was none other than Xianni.

"Well?"

He gripped the wrench with one hand suspiciously, as if he were about to throw it at any moment, looked at Xianni, and shrugged.

How could you...?

Xianni glanced at him, his eye suddenly twitching. The Techmarine, who was held in a joint lock by him, laughed loudly.

"You'd be better off not helping him, Xianni. That kid never knows gratitude. How many times have we repaired his weapons? Oh, wait, this seems to be the tradition you taught him—he reaps what he sows, Xianni from Terra."

"Put that damn thing down!" Xianni roared. "And you, damn it, stop your sarcastic remarks! I came to see him because I have business to discuss; how could I possibly watch you take him to be punished?"

"I don't think making someone who disrespects weapons and equipment help his brother with three hours of maintenance is a punishment at all," the Techmarine chuckled. "It's practically correcting his bad habits."

"Stop kidding, Tarnis." Xianni pulled him closer, whispering in a threatening tone, "You can have him clean the deck or sharpen blades later, I don't mind him working all night, but you'd better have him come with me now."

"What are you talking about over there?!" Sevatar shouted.

"Why?" The Techmarine, known as Tarnis, ignored him and asked a question in the same whispered voice.

"It concerns Mourning Bird," Xianni explained simply, and released the soldiers' hands.

The latter raised his left hand and put his dislocated right hand back in place, his expression now quite serious. He looked at the still vigilant Sevatar and made a gesture to him.

"Get out of here, Sevatarion," Taannis said. "I'll let you go this time, you rat."

"I'm not a rat," Sevatar said. "Take a look at the bat wings on your insignia, sir. Otherwise, I'll suspect you've been hit on the head by Xianni, or caught his carelessness."

Tarnis glanced back at the gloomy-faced unarmed combat champion, whose expression immediately turned his anger into joy. He laughed and returned to the team to continue doing his job.

"So," Sevatar asked, following behind Xianni, "What is it?"

Xianni did not answer.

"What is it, Terra?" Sevatar changed his tone, addressing Xianni in a very flippant manner. "Tell me about it."

Xianni still did not answer.

"Well, looks like you're not in a good mood today?"

"I was in a good mood until the company commander told me that he was going to take you to see Fer Fell Zalost," Xianni replied through gritted teeth.

He knew that if he didn't say something, Jago Sevatarion would keep repeating himself until he got the answer he wanted. That was always the case with the First Reserve, stubborn in some ways both annoying and admirable.

This is limited to combat, and Xianni will absolutely not tell him about it.

Absolutely not.

"Oh." Sevatar nodded thoughtfully and said nothing more.

Behind them, a cold, thin mist, not belonging to the world of the living, slowly crept in, obscuring everything.

This chapter is 5k words long, one more chapter to go.