116 Terra (II)

This is certainly not something that can be casually mentioned. Anyone with a sense of shame would probably feel ashamed to wake up screaming from a nightmare, let alone him, an Astartes.

Despite his disability, the Decapitator's pride was not diminished in the slightest; on the contrary, it became even stronger because of his disability. He was unwilling to talk about it, just as he was unwilling to mention the name "Decapitator" to others.

For six long years, no one had called him that before Rogal Dorn mentioned it today.

Accepting disability may be easy, but accepting loss is truly difficult.

Physical disability is just the easiest part of the process; you can easily adapt to clumsy legs and figure out how they work in just a few days. But what comes after that? That's hell.

Returning to the dream, Jofiel didn't lie to Rogal Dorn, but he also couldn't finish his story. He desperately wanted to tell the Adeptus Custodes just how terrifying his dream was, but the latter didn't give him the chance.

They left the heavily guarded building, changing three different modes of transportation before finally arriving at their destination—by which time, three hours and forty-one minutes had passed since their conversation ended.

Terra is vast and expansive, and transportation is inconvenient. The skies are crowded with airships day and night, not to mention the ground.

The recent cold winds, which have lasted for more than a month, have only exacerbated the situation. Their intensity has clearly exceeded what Terra's barren natural environment can handle, and they have almost become a natural disaster.

Jumping off the airship, the Emperor's Children struggled to his feet. He refused the guards' offer of help, focusing instead on staring at the fortress before him—he had been in Terra for six years, yet still dared not claim to know anything about it.

Jofiel understood that what he saw of Terra was but a drop in the ocean, nothing more. Just like this fortress, something he had never seen before. 💎✌ Claws 🐍🐠

It was entirely black, yet under the night sky it reflected a faint purple hue. Looking at it, the Emperor's Children even felt a stinging pain in his eyes. He didn't understand what was going on, but he figured it couldn't be something an ordinary mineral could do.

Rogal Dorn exchanged a few words with the two Imperial Fists in the cold wind before turning back to him, a gleaming power scepter now in his hand. Jofiel was slightly taken aback, but Dorn had already handed him the scepter.

"In the upcoming situation, a warrior should carry a sword. However, I don't know what style of sword you prefer, and it would be difficult to find a Power Sword with a suitable center of gravity for you on short notice. Therefore, I hope you will accept this power scepter, Jofil."

"Thank you, sir."

Dorn nodded calmly and strode forward, showing no intention of waiting.

Jofiel grasped the scepter and gave an Aquila Salute to an empty Imperial Fists. The latter raised his right hand and gently pounded his chest, and they stepped into the deep darkness.

Catching up with a Primarch is difficult, especially when he's not willing to slow down and wait for you. But Jofiel had no objection to this; he struggled to move his iron legs, keeping a tight grip on Dorn's back.

They descended and soon arrived at a gate made of pure Adamantium, inscribed with the emblem of the Midnight Blade of the Eighth Legion.

The Emperor's Children couldn't help but feel a little puzzled.

Why would there be an Adamantium gate bearing the mark of the Eighth Legion's blade beneath a Terra fortress guarded by the Imperial Fists? He swallowed his question and began to wait.

Rogal Dorn stepped forward and stood before the door. Without him making any movement or calling out, the door opened by itself—or more accurately, it seemed as if it had been forced open by something.

The deafening roar echoed throughout the underground passage, accompanied by an eerie, wailing sound. As they entered, Dorn's leather boots and Jofiel's steel feet produced two distinctly different sounds on the ground.

Once they were fully inside, the large Adamantium door slammed shut. At the same time, a sudden burst of light illuminated everything within.

The vast space contained only one Cogitator. The data Servitor, amidst a tangled web of processing cables, listlessly raised its head, looked at Dorn, and spoke to itself.

"Require?"

"Meet."

"Object?"

"Fulgrim."

"Searching for the time the target was found?"

Dorn glanced at Jofiel, put his hand on his shoulder, and uttered two words.

"Now, teleport alone."

A blinding blue light suddenly struck, and in the biting cold, Jofeel Demuchia quickly opened his eyes, only to find that the room had vanished.

He looked around and, judging from the energy transmission pipes on the walls and the portholes, he came to the incredible conclusion that he was on a ship.

But how is that possible?

The Emperor's Children could no longer contain himself and looked at Rogal Dorn, seeking an explanation, only to find Dorn not even beside him. At that moment, he remembered the demands the Adeptus Custodes had made of the Servitor.

"Separate teleportation," he muttered to himself. "Where am I?"

As expected, no one answered his question, so the Decapitator had no choice but to grip his scepter tightly and cautiously continue his advance.

His steps were incredibly slow, his back and hands bulging beneath his robes, and the way he held the scepter was not awkward at all, but rather strangely familiar. Clearly, even with his disability, he had never neglected his training for a single day.

As he continued forward, he gradually began to hear sounds, like conversations or arguments. The Decapitator silently increased his vigilance, slowed his pace again, and began to move in that direction, his power scepter already raised high.

A few minutes later, he peered around a corner and saw two busy maintenance workers. Frowning, he moved away from his chosen cover, deliberately making some noise, and began to advance towards the two maintenance workers.

One of them glanced back—and at that moment, Jofeel keenly noticed that the worker's eyes held an obvious sympathy and respect.

"I don't need your pity!" the Decapitator cried out in his heart. "Take away that respect, I'm just a damn cripple!"

His lingering emotional turmoil came and went quickly. Jofiel pursed his lips, forcing himself to remain calm, and was about to speak when the worker spoke first.

"Sir." He shook his head, sweat trickling down his dirty face. "I thought you had all left the Nirvana."

Once again—Jofell showed obvious surprise.

"We?" he repeated. "What do you mean? We?"

This time, the workers stared at him in astonishment, his colleagues turned away, while he was much more wary.

The man gripped a long wrench that could be used as a weapon, and sized him up. "No offense intended, sir. But where did you come from? Who are you?"

"I am Jofil Demuchia, Emperor's Children," the Decapitator answered instinctively, his mind a jumbled mess.

"But you shouldn't be here, sir." The worker who spoke first scratched his head in confusion. "Primarch Fulgrim said you've all disembarked."

A buzzing sound, like a thunderclap, immediately filled Jofiel's mind. A few minutes later, he dragged his mangled body to the boarding deck of the Nirvana.

A batch of Power Armour and weapons in dire need of repair were waiting here to be transported away. Their familiar colors and insignia made the Decapitator stop in his tracks, and even his breathing became cautious.

He stood there for another ten seconds or so before remembering what he should do. Gripping the scepter, he squeezed through the Servitor carrying cargo and the throngs of workers, and stepped out of the Nirvana.

A group of people stood not far from him, one of whom was particularly tall with a full head of white hair that fell down his back.

The Decapitator opened his mouth silently, his voice gathering in his throat and finally forming a broken, almost comical scream that echoed through the dock.

They immediately turned around.

--

Karyl had anticipated this day; ever since he learned the truth, he knew this day would inevitably come.

Sooner or later, it's just a matter of time. But he still feels somewhat lost about his current situation. Fortunately, it doesn't affect what he's currently doing.

A gentle breeze whistled through the Imperial Palace's stone pillars, and the place was packed with pilgrims, yet the cold remained ever-present.

Aside from those who were extremely devout and only focused on bowing, most people noticed the excessively tall man in black robes. Whispers arose, and some were even frightened enough to seek out the guards.

Seeing this, Karyl quickened his pace—he knew that this ordinary mode of transportation would cause trouble, but he didn't expect it to escalate to the point of having to call the guards so quickly.

Did he regret it? Not really, just a little regretful that he didn't have many opportunities to see Terra now and interact with the Terra of this era.

Perhaps I shouldn't have done something so foolish, Karyl thought. I was merely using them to preserve my humanity; how hypocritical.

"Gentlemen?"

A voice sounded in front of him. Karyl looked down and saw a child wearing a cotton-padded coat, whose face was purple from the cold. She stared at him, her face full of curiosity.

"What is it?" Karyl asked gently.

"Are you the Primarch?" she boldly asked, before Karyl could answer.

A woman in the crowd let out a piercing wail, rushed over, and carried her away, continuing to kowtow to him as she did so.

Her forehead repeatedly struck the stone bricks inscribed with her name, producing a dull echo. People watched this scene in silence, and surprisingly, they too began to kneel in worship.

The denial that should have been uttered was swallowed back down his throat. Karyl sighed and quickened his pace to continue. But this time, he vanished as he passed a certain stone pillar, like a gentle breeze.

In the night sky, it blew towards a dock.

There's more.