115 Terra (I)
Rogal Dorn threw his glove, a black and white leather glove, onto a red lacquered wooden table, followed by his cloak, jacket, and ceremonial armed sword.
He threw them all onto the table.
Adeptus Custodes raised his hand and rubbed his temples. Lately, he had been feeling a persistent weariness lingering in his heart.
This is certainly not normal; ordinary work cannot make the Primarch feel tired, let alone, he is Rogal Dorn.
But the exhaustion he displayed at that moment was genuine. So, is there really a job in the world that can push even a world-renowned rock to its limits?
The answer is yes.
Dorn went to his window without saying a word and began to observe the scenery outside.
It was theoretically winter in Terra, and the biting wind made the windows embedded in the stone walls creak. Nothing can escape the laws of nature, just like the temperature in his study.
The fireplace crackled and popped. The firewood, transported across two star systems, had been carefully chopped into strips by the servants with small hand axes and lit twenty minutes before his return, but it still couldn't raise the temperature.
This is also not a natural phenomenon. From an architectural point of view, this fortress, which resembles a watchtower, was designed from the very beginning to withstand the cold, but the temperature is what it is and it cannot be raised.
Dorn, deep in thought, pushed open the window, and a gust of wind immediately howled in, rushing into the room. Documents were blown away, and the corner of his cloak, held down by his sword, kept hitting the side of the long table.
His short hair was blown backward in the wind, the flames in the stove went out instantly, the charcoal began to turn to ash quickly, the heat dissipated, leaving only coldness.
Dorn didn't react, simply feeling the supernatural cold silently, his expression unmoved. A few minutes later, he calmly closed the window and, as if nothing had happened, began to bend down to look for the fallen documents.
The specially designed perpetual lamp provided him with sufficient light, though it made no difference whether it was there or not, and did not affect Dorn's ability to see in the dark. But having light and not having light are two different things.
He meticulously sorted through the documents, uncovering several manuscripts and architectural drawings. One document in particular was quite unusual; compared to ordinary paper, it was much thinner and not at all bulky.
Few people in the Imperium used such soft and ordinary paper; bureaucrats usually preferred to use parchment when writing important documents, or simply have two stonemasons carve a stone tablet to give to their superiors.
Ordinary people cannot afford such paper, and besides, they have little opportunity to use paper to write documents.
Within the current Imperium, only one legion uses this special paper—to elaborate further, it is actually manufactured by themselves.
Dorn picked up the document and began to read it again.
He still hadn't figured out how to reply on behalf of the Departmento Munitorum. This was a hot potato that had been dumped on him. The bitter expression on the face of the official who had sent it to him still lingered in his mind.
He stood up, clutching the paper, silently folded it, and put it in the pocket of his vest. The eagle insignia of the Emperor's Children Legion was faintly visible on the half-corner of the pocket that peeked out.
After a moment 'Dorn, Dorn returned to the long table and began to put his clothes back on.
Five minutes later, he stepped out of the fortress, where a servant, bundled up in the cold wind, immediately came to greet him.
"Sir, you've only just returned, and you're already going out again?"
"Yes, Al." Dorn nodded to him, but said nothing more.
The servant bowed slightly to him, and about thirty seconds later, a black vehicle that matched the Primarch's size arrived before them, braving the cold wind.
Dorn got into the car without a word, and the driver smoothly started the engine, carrying the Primarch away from the fortress. Twenty minutes later, they arrived at a magnificent building.
No one questioned them, no one came forward to guide them; the place was unusually quiet, with not a single pilgrim, a sight common in other parts of Terra.
Dorn turned and closed the car door, striding into the building. The black car disappeared abruptly into the night behind him, vanishing without a trace.
The lobby on the first floor of the building was in typical "Terra style," or rather, the Emperor style. The Adeptus Custodes silently turned right, ascended a long staircase to the second floor, and then began another twelve-minute, tedious walk.
The corridors were magnificent and winding, complete with oil paintings, reliefs, and Stone Statue, resembling a medieval palace restored by a nobleman.
There were even quite a few knights in armor with no defense whatsoever, wielding longswords and assuming different attack stances, letting Dorn walk right past them.
Finally, he arrived at his destination.
Dorn looked up at the door before him; the purple and gold eagle emblem gleamed and caught his eye. He reached out and knocked twice, and the door was pulled open from the inside.
The door was primitively designed and still required manual opening. Though primitive, it was reliable. The person standing behind the door was an Astartes draped in a purple-gold robe. Upon seeing Dorn, his first reaction was not to greet him, but rather to pause slightly in surprise.
The Adeptus Custodes glanced at him, then politely bowed and asked, "May I go in?"
The Emperor's Children, Jofiel de Mugia, quickly replied, "Of course, sir!"
He moved aside to let Dorn in. 🐚🐠 ☞🐧
This would have been an effortless action for anyone, let alone for an Astartes. His appearance was as handsome as any Emperor's Children, and anyone could tell at a glance that he was a son of Fulgrim.
But now he moved with incredible clumsiness, his legs feeling as if they were made of lead. Dorn did not enter immediately, but waited until Jofiel was completely away from the door before taking a step.
The embarrassment on the latter's face did not escape his notice, Dorn did not intend to bring it up now.
"What brings you here?" he asked, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
Dorn knew what Jofeel Demuchia was most concerned about right now, so he immediately cut to the chase without any hesitation.
"Unfortunately, the Ministry of Departmento Munitorum still hasn't approved your request. They believe your dream cannot be used as evidence—" Dorn paused. "In fact, dreams indeed cannot be used as evidence."
The Emperor's Children's shoulders slumped instantly. He immediately realized his lapse in composure, quickly straightened his expression, and began to face Dorn with a more solemn and serious demeanor.
"I understand, sir. That's only right. But you shouldn't be the one informing me of this. Is there anything else?"
He looked at Dorn inquiringly, a hint of longing still on his face.
"Indeed." Dorn nodded. "If I may, I'd like to ask you for more details about your dream."
Jofiel looked at him, waiting for him to continue.
"Details," Dorn repeated patiently. "You omitted some details in your application to the Departmento Munitorum; I can tell."
He reached into his vest, took out the folded document, and handed it to Jofeel de Mugia.
"You only say you dreamed about your Primarch and your Legion, but you didn't mention how many times you dreamed about them. You believe they are in danger, but you didn't say what kind of danger."
"These are all blatant pieces of evidence of concealment. Anyone familiar with the rules and regulations knows that the application must be detailed, yet you have concealed numerous details. This is unusual for an Emperor's Children. That's why I'm here, Jofil."
The Emperor's Children fell silent; he couldn't help but be silent—most people who had dealt with Dorn had at some point shown the same expression he was now, a complex expression of having their thoughts completely exposed.
There was shame, and resentment, but Jofeel de Mugia's emotions were even more complex; he even seemed somewhat relieved.
A few seconds later, his shoulders, which had been raised, relaxed again.
"Okay," he said hoarsely. "Forty-one days have passed since I first had that dream."
"Forty-one days?" Dorn frowned immediately, while the Emperor's Children smiled wryly and nodded.
"Yes, sir. It happened at exactly the same time as this unusual cold snap."
Dorn silently gestured for him to continue.
"I tried meditation four times, and each time I was directly drawn into the dream. Then I tried light sleep seven times, and without exception, I entered the dream each time. Finally, I tried deep sleep four times on my own initiative, and it was the same; I entered the dream the moment I closed my eyes."
"Post-war." Dorn frowned, reciting a few key words. "Warp travel, surrounded by Space Wolves, and what else? Your vague wording in the report has led many to believe you're hallucinating."
"They suffered heavy casualties," the Emperor's Children replied blankly, his gaze unfocused. "I saw blood, so much blood. Every one of my brothers was covered in wounds, they were circling the phoenix, and the phoenix itself—"
He couldn't continue speaking; a sudden sway forced him to shut his mouth. Dorn looked at his legs, which, hidden beneath the robes, were not human flesh, but rather a completely metallic sheen.
Those were two prosthetic limbs personally crafted by Fulgrim.
Before his injury, Jofeel Demugia was one of the most outstanding swordsmen among all the Emperor's Children, with a distinguished record of victories. Now, however, he is merely a crippled man.
For Astartes, physical disabilities can actually be completely replaced by prosthetics, but surgery is risky, and even the most skilled doctors cannot guarantee 100% success.
Jofiel happened to encounter this extremely rare failure, and not just once. He underwent a total of six surgeries, and for the last one, Fulgrim specifically called in an Iron Hands.
As everyone knows, they are quite experienced in this area, but even the Iron Hands Warrior was powerless to help. Just like Zephon, the Announcer of the Blood Angels, Jofil Demugia was also a poor soul who suffered a strong rejection reaction to the prosthetic limb transplant surgery.
He not only lost his once-proud, precise footwork, but even walking became quite difficult for him. He could no longer participate in battles, and therefore, he could only stay in the Throne World.
He was not alone in his experience; Zephon was one of them.
"Please don't mind me," Jofiel said softly, bending slightly and grasping the outside of his thighs with both hands.
The abnormal tremor quickly subsided, and he wanted to continue his story, but he couldn't. The Imperial Fists emblem on Dorn's chest vibrated intensely, the highest level of warning.
The Adeptus Custodes tore off his medal, pressed it, and the alarm began to play in his ears.
The built-in earpiece relayed the reporter's words to Dorn in detail. The entire brief communication lasted for three minutes, during which Dorn only uttered a short sentence.
I'll be there soon.
After speaking, he looked at Jofeel Demugia: "I'm afraid you'll need to come with me, the Decapitator."
He uttered a nickname, which startled the Emperor's Children slightly. He hadn't been addressed that way in a long time; the title was once a great honor, bestowed upon him personally by Fulgrim.
It originated from a grueling defensive battle. Jofiel's squad was ambushed, and he was the last survivor. Like all legendary tales, the one who survives is always bestowed with various titles.
"Sir? May I know the reason?"
"According to regulations, I shouldn't disclose the specific details of this matter to you without your consent, but this is a special case," Dorn said expressionlessly. "I need you to be mentally prepared."
The Emperor's Children took a deep breath. He had a vague premonition of something, but he wasn't sure yet. He had been disappointed many times and dared not raise any more hope.
Staring into his eyes, Dorn took it all in. The Rock calmly composed himself and began to speak, each word carefully chosen.
--
Karyl slowly opened his eyes.
A fierce wind immediately began to howl, creating a terrifying echo within the cave he was in. Frost formed on the ground, and the two Adeptus Custodes standing at the cave entrance silently glanced back. Karyl nodded to them, indicating that he was unharmed.
However, sometimes it's best not to make absolute statements.
The very next second, a sinister flame burst forth from between the skeleton's ribs, defiantly breaking free of its body's constraints. It was a chorus of millions of voices, filled with terrifying, deathly hatred that transcended the realm of hearing; even a deaf person could likely hear it.
Moreover, for some reason, their howling sounds quite like a shout.
"Calth--!"
The cloak, which had been languidly hanging there, jerked violently upon hearing the voice, instantly emerging from the shadows to cover the pale ribs. The gale paused for a moment, and Karyl lowered his head to pat it, a fleeting smile playing on his lips behind the mask.
"I need to leave for a while," he said politely to the Adeptus Custodes. "Please tell him I will be back soon."
As soon as he finished speaking, he vanished from the spot. The Adeptus Custodes turned away silently, stepped into the cave, and sprinkled some glowing powder onto the frosty ground.
Two or three more chapters, code.