122 Terra (V)

This wasn't the first time Rogal Dorn had sought out the Sigillites...•♫•♬• •♬•♫•.

After the Emperor announced that he would devote himself entirely to other matters, Malcador began to act on his behalf. Although no formal declarations have been made, no one has raised any objections.

After all, who could be more suited for this position than this short, elderly man?

He was always the Emperor's Shadow, just as the Adeptus Custodes were the eternal watchmen of the Throne Room. The Emperor and Malcador, the Adeptus Custodes and the Imperial Palace. When people talked about one, they would think of the other.

Dorn walked steadily, but his thoughts unpredictably sank into some abyss.

Time.

He pondered the word, comparing Magnus's words back and forth, as well as his brother's expressions, reactions, and even the smallest details when he spoke.

He wanted to know if Magnus was lying; it was a cold calculation and consideration, shameful to use on someone close. But Dorn had no choice; he had to be cold.

Compared to the responsibilities he bears, this small humiliation is something he could easily swallow.

Ultimately, he concluded that Magnus was not lying.

In the past, the Crimson King had faced numerous repercussions for deserting his troops and abandoning his allies on the battlefield. Each time, he found excuses to deflect the blame.

Dorn knew how he looked when he lied, and that was one of the pieces of evidence that led him to the above conclusion.

He turned his thoughts back to Astropathic Court's reply, and the data began to float in his mind; not a single detail escaped his notice. He even constructed in his mind the real appearance of the parchment scroll containing that data.

The edges are rough and wrinkled. Ink transported from another galaxy has smudged across the parchment scrolls, revealing dates, times, and data.

And there's Malcador's annotation: Normal, normal, normal.

Everything was normal, no problem. The Sigillites used his quill to leave his mark on the parchment scrolls, a serious assessment, and perhaps occasional annotations.

"We need to pay close attention to Magnus's mental state. Did he experience any dramatic emotional fluctuations during the communications?"

Then came the responses from the Astropathic Court Psyker.

"Occasionally."

The words faded into the distance, Dorn frowned—what exactly was wrong?

His thoughts began to branch out, Dorn couldn't help but recall Fulgrim's words. The first thing that came to mind was the pronoun Fulgrim used to refer to "Horus."

It.

What a cold word it is.

It's not a term for brothers, not a term for humans, and shouldn't even be used to refer to enemies. The Xenos has a clear pronoun, not "it," which is vague, low, and threatening. Then there's the expression on Fulgrim when he talks about "it."

Dorn suddenly frowned.

His boots creaked as he stepped on the wooden floor.

This shouldn't have happened. This place has always been well-maintained, and the buildings are equipped with some ingenious technological support. He would probably have to wear his Power Armour and step over them to make the floor make such a loud noise.

Dorn slowly lowered his head, and the sight that greeted him made the hairs on his neck stand on end for a moment.

He did see the floor—but it was a dilapidated, old, rotten wooden floor, and more.

Some faintly visible skeletons were exposed beneath the dilapidated and missing pieces of wood.

Dorn squinted, slowly taking a step back, the air he breathed in filled with the smell of dust. A chill crept up his spine, so real.

He had been to this place many times. Just as Malcador had visited him many times; they had spoken in the fortress, in the Imperial Palace, or at Lion's Gate Spaceport and Pilgrim Gate.

If either Malcador or the other wasn't too busy, then most of the conversations would be face-to-face. Communication is just communication; some things can only be resolved in person.

In other words, Dorn is familiar with this place, just as Malcador is familiar with the places he might appear, just as a Terra is familiar with a wandering pilgrim. ♘🐺 ඏ🐉 In Dorn's memory, this place is not like this.

This is an old building constructed of wood, stone, and glass. It is old, but it is by no means dilapidated.

It is part of the Imperial Palace, not open to the public, and does not appear on any map, but it is directly guarded by the Adeptus Custodes Guard, and servants clean and maintain it every ten hours.

So where exactly did things go wrong?

Dorn didn't get an answer to the question; instead, he heard a soft sound, like birds perched on tree branches, rubbing their feathers.

Then came a voice, soft yet tinged with laughter.

"Time," He whispered in the ear of the stubborn rock. "Time waits for no one, great Rogal Dorn."

He chuckled softly.

While you are preoccupied with your leisurely affairs, something unseen is happening in the galaxy. And your brother's time has come. A debtor has exhausted his creditor's patience, and he will repay what he owes with interest.

"A fledgling bird must eventually grow up, don't you think? He can't stay under his father's wing forever; he has to mature. He's been hiding in his father's Shadow for four years, and now he can't hide any longer."

"Who are you?" Dorn demanded sharply.

He still didn't get an answer, but suddenly he saw a raging inferno and a dazzling golden light. They quickly dissipated, and the air returned to normal, just like the world before him.

Malcador the Sigillite, wielding a scepter, stood before him, his eyes blazing, his powerful psychic energy pulsating through his aged body, briefly bringing a certain reality to the world.

"Time," Malcador said grimly. "That thing is manipulating time—!"

He sounded almost like he was roaring. Outside the window, the wind howled, lightning flashed silently through the dark clouds, and thunder followed.

--

Karyl slowly opened his eyes.

These days, he rarely observes the world with his own eyes unless absolutely necessary. His perception of the outside world has been diminished, which is inevitable, and he needs to focus more of his energy on the other side of the galaxy.

This was a call from the depths of his being, and a responsibility imposed upon him by the crown that floated above his head. He had been observing the world being destroyed through the eyes of the dead and the fighters.

Calth.

He knew its name, but had never been there. But now he knew it very well, even better than some people who had lived there their whole lives.

He knew the plains, the city, the ancient customs, and how it looked when Roboute Guilliman first visited.

The victims told him everything, but the gods wouldn't listen; they would only give them the power to seek Vengeance. But Karyl Lohars would.

Indeed, these things should have been nothing more than the murmurs of wronged souls, as insignificant as the evening breeze in a cemetery. But he could not turn a blind eye. A person should have empathy and should sympathize with and help those who suffer innocently.

Moreover, he taught these things to Konrad Curze Curze, and education never encourages giving up halfway.

Once again, Karyl stood up from the chair. Something was happening; he had just sensed it.

That thing was cunning, as cunning as ever. Instead of carrying out its plan in a sweeping manner, it subtly woven subtle changes into a weekly intergalactic communication.

Looking back now, it's likely that every communication during those four years contributed to this change. He exploited a father's last shred of pity for his child—shamelessness, but He had to be shameless, because it was their punishment.

"He's not a real god after all," Karyl thought regretfully.

But what can He do with Magnus?

His once-proud psychic powers are now far less powerful, firmly controlled by the Emperor. Even if He could miraculously manipulate a Primarch's will on Terra, what threat could Magnus pose?

Karyl's expression gradually turned cold.

He hid him away using stolen time.

The voice of the Master of Mankind emanated from the depths of the Webway, carrying an unmistakable ruthlessness.

+Find him.+

How would you handle this?

If necessary, you can kill him.

What about you?

Something awaits outside the Webway, and I can sense it. My nemesis lies here.

Karyl let out a soft breath.

"Very good," he said.

A gaping hole appeared behind him, and black flames flashed by. Pale Ghost emerged from it, respectfully raising their hands to place the skeletal mask on the deity.

In the cold wind, his senses began to spread to every corner of Terra. In the dark clouds, the face of the gods was appearing and disappearing.

The common people were completely unaware of this. The pilgrims remained devout, the soldiers stood firm at their posts, and Rogal Dorn and Malcador began to mobilize the army. Only one person was missing.

Magnus —the voice of the gods fades away in the storm—where are you?

Where am I?

Magnus stared blankly at the scene before him, his mind exploding, his reasoning challenged—he couldn't understand; one moment he was on his way to the Throne Room, and now, where was he?

However, deep within the Primarch's mind, Magnus actually had an answer, but he was unwilling and dared not admit it.

The burning world around him and the bombing city made him unwilling to know where he was. Every sleepless night of the past four years had come into play at this moment. He already knew what was causing the trouble, but he dared not admit it.

How can he defeat Him?

Then the voice began to whisper softly in his ear.

"This is Prospero," He said with a soft laugh. "The land ravaged by Space Wolves, my dear Magnus."

Just as He had said, Fenris's pack appeared before the Crimson King.

A carnival of slaughter.

Update complete. By the way, I'd like to recommend a translation of a fine work by Ting; it's a promising early work, worth nurturing.