128 Terra (VII)

Malcador could hear the sound, the roar. He heard it so clearly.

The sound was a scream from an ancient, barbaric era, originating from one of the earliest murders in human history, between two men, brothers, sons of the same mother.

The assassin's weapon was a spear, a rough wooden stick with a sharpened tip fitted with a flint. It was savage and primitive, yet it still possessed the power to kill.

The assassin plunged the spear into his brother's chest, and amidst the splattering blood and their bloody struggle, the first murder was committed.

For tens of thousands of years after that, it echoed in the Warp.

It should have been unremarkable, because this was by no means the first killing in human history; killing existed long before language was invented.

At first, it was fists and teeth, then sticks and stones. Primitive people wore animal skins and used spears and stone axes to hunt animals, obtain food to fill their stomachs, expand their tribes, and reproduce.

So this wasn't the first killing, and it wasn't even the first killing driven by hatred, although the murderer did indeed harbor hatred for his brother—so why was it so special?

Malcador knew the reason, and even knew the malevolent nature it had been given within the Warp.

He stood calmly, his robes billowing, and bursts of spiritual energy erupted from his chest, reaching the ears of some amidst the bone-chilling cold.

He has temporarily become the cornerstone of Terra's massive bureaucracy, the sole cornerstone; his existence is what allows the machine to continue functioning for the time being. But he doesn't care about that.

He was thinking, or more accurately, reflecting.

He thought to himself that he had been planning for this day for far too long, but it still didn't seem to be enough.

But what is the reason? What made the Sigillites have such thoughts? You must know that he and the Master of Mankind have devoted themselves to this day for decades.

Humans are a race incapable of adapting to the mindset of longevity. Some people may live forever, but they still view the world through the lens of short-lived species. Malcador happens to be one of them; decades are by no means a mere speck of dust to him.

Every day he spent was a preparation for today.

The spies scattered throughout the galaxy can prove this, the secret orders originating from the Terra court can prove this, the successful formation of Roboute Guilliman's anti -Psyker forces can prove this, and countless other things can attest to it.

But that's not enough.

Not enough.

It's still not enough, it's just not enough.¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸ ¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸

You can never be prepared enough to deal with them. In the end, you can only rely on sacrifices to build up a future, using the blood of your own kind to buy a reasonably bright future for the entire race.

How many people will die or sacrifice themselves on Terra after today?

The Sigillites asked himself this question in the wind and snow, trying to find the answer, and then he found it.

His gaze suddenly became scattered, and in an instant, thousands of different perspectives and images simultaneously flooded his mind.

He saw the Hive City's inhabitants, completely unaware of the situation, gazing up at the gloomy sky, cut through by metal and cables, on filthy streets overflowing with sewage.

Black snow fell from the sky and landed in a child's eyes.

She was dressed in tattered clothes, wearing a thin knitted hat, and rubbed her eyes. Her father stood beside her, pushing her mother, who was in a wheelchair, as they listened to the sheriff's words along with other anxious people.

The sheriff was a middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed mustache. He had undergone implant surgery, and one of his eyes had been replaced with a mechanical prosthetic. He was standing on two wooden planks, speaking to thousands, if not tens of thousands, of people through a megaphone.

He had not received any notification from Malcador, nor from his superiors, nor from their superiors—they were not of sufficient rank. Yet he remained calm, his tone of voice very even.

He told the people that the beam of light was nothing to worry about; it was just one of the Emperor's countless creations at work. The Emperor wanted the winter to end quickly, so he created the beam of light with a device, and the snowstorm would soon stop.

Malcador could tell his true thoughts: the sheriff had no idea what he was saying; he was simply doing his duty to maintain order. The public was panicking, and he couldn't let that panic escalate into something worse, so he chose to lie.

He covered it up with a white lie, the truth of which he himself was unsure.

There are millions of sheriffs like him, scattered throughout Terra, striving to maintain order at the grassroots level of the Imperium. The number of people gripped by panic is several times, even ten times, greater.

The lowest levels of the vast bureaucratic system possessed by the Imperium of Man are slowly collapsing.

Then, Malcador saw the pilgrims still prostrating themselves in the wind and snow.

They still believe in the gods born from the books compiled by Lorgar Aurelian, and chant their doctrines. The largest of them is praying on the outermost edge of the Imperial Palace, forming a long line on the vast snowfield.

The first enemy they faced was the frigid temperature of minus forty degrees Celsius, which continued to drop. They had found the thickest clothing they could wear, but it still couldn't ward off the biting cold. ♔💋 💘💥

The gale, like a cold blade, ravaged their exposed bodies, even their eyes seemed to be cut. They kept bowing towards the direction of the Imperial Palace, where a blinding beam of light reached straight into the sky.

Malcador discerned their thoughts; he saw the truest reflections in the hearts of these ascetics, from the dying old to the fanatical teenagers, from top to bottom, all sharing the same idea.

If this is the test from the gods, then we will prove our piety with our deaths.

Our faith is pure; we will be the first martyrs, so that the storm may cease.

But this was still not the end. The Sigillites closed his eyes and saw another group of guards running around— the Imperial Palace guards.

They were clad in black armor, with Power Sword swaying at their waists. They were completely black from head to toe, except for the golden Aquila shining on their chests. They were called the Lucifer Blacks, and the Aquila were proof of their identity and one of the outward signs of their honor in guarding the Imperial Palace.

They sprinted forward, gradually merging with the main force, and then the black figure disappeared, as if flowing into the ocean. Armor and robes of various colors mingled together, warriors stood shoulder to shoulder, and armored vehicles and hovercraft roared past.

They stormed into the Throne Room, their arrival witnessed by the wide doors through which even Warhound Titan could easily pass, amidst a deafening roar from the hall filled with a vast array of instruments.

Scientists and laborers screamed, the mist emanating from the Webway robbed them of their minds, and few could resist. Twisted entities poured forth; a demonic tide had descended upon the Throne. Why was this happening?

Has the advance force been completely wiped out?

Malcador continued deeper and finally saw the warriors who had first entered the Webway deep within. The answer was quite the opposite; they had not been wiped out. They were incredibly brave and had managed to advance thousands of meters through the maze-like Webway.

However, this was not enough to change the overall situation. They could penetrate deeper and leave behind a trail of bloody Daemon corpses, but the demons didn't care, because they were everywhere.

The mist that had seeped in through a breach had completely filled the entire Webway. Those who came later had to pass through it to advance, and the vanguard had no way to retreat but to move forward.

The Titan's cannons had turned crimson red. The servants of the Omnissiah were praying that the Machine Spirit would calm its anger and stop for the time being, but the Machine Spirit's roar was deafening.

The Adeptus Custodes' golden armor was covered in foul-smelling blood, their red tassels fluttering, and piles of minced flesh lay at their feet, while rivers of blood flowed around them.

The Sisters of Silence carried out their slaughter without uttering a word, using explosives and blades to fight their enemies in the most ancient human way. In the eyes of these wordless sisters, there was only an incomparable and indescribable will to destroy.

The Tech-Priest and their Secutarii chanted mechanical prayers, relentlessly holding the line. Their unique creations, in a series of battles far exceeding human capabilities, demonstrated the beauty of machinery and exemplified what it means to be a follower of the Omnissiah.

They did this to an exceptional degree; even a Combat Servitor could shine with their own unique Radiance in a fleeting moment.

At least for this moment, they were the wrath of the Omnissiah, not just individual 0s and 1s; they were a swarm, a swarm that fought only for slaughter. And their comrades were the same; at this moment, the Adeptus Custodes and their Servitor were indistinguishable.

They killed, they died, they followed one after another, without complaint.

Malcador's thoughts continued to delve deeper until they reached a certain limit—not his limit, but the limit that the Webway could allow to peer into. Then, he finally saw it.

Although it was only a brief glimpse, a trivial moment, he still saw it. Right behind the Veil, they were gazing upon this place.

"A burning galaxy?"

Amidst the blood-soaked feathers, a malevolent eye looked at him.

"Do you really think we care about this? No, that's not the point. Even if ten thousand worlds burned at the same time, we wouldn't care. Conquest isn't the point; the point is here."

He chuckled softly.

"This is the key point, Malcador," He said gently. "Our purpose has always been the same, and now you know it. How do you feel about that?"

Through that thin the Veil, the Sigillites stared directly into that eye. He said nothing; the only response he could give was a slow, contemptuous smile that curled at the corner of his mouth.

A piercing laugh, a deep roar, a calm sigh, and an androgynous, intrigued hum echoed from the darkness.

They were watching him, the gods were gazing at him, while the human Malcador scoffed at it.

God?

There is no God in this world.

The Sigillites used psychic power to stir the thin the Veil, forcing it to remember its duty. The gaze of the gods was forced away, but Malcador remained.

This was a small victory, just like every Daemon slain before it, a small victory for humanity. Malcador did not waste it; he seized the opportunity, his psionic energy shattering the thick fog like lightning.

This time, they didn't immediately merge. The lightning bolt carried his thoughts deep into the Webway, towards the single sun.

"His Majesty!"

Malcador's voice rang in the ears of the Master of Mankind; it was not a psionic communication, but the genuine voice of the aged Sigillites himself.

Decades of painstaking effort, meticulous planning, ambition, schemes, the past, tens of thousands of meetings and deductions aimed at the final moment, and countless unfinished games of chess.

In that instant, for just that instant, they flashed past the Sigillites.

Finally, a scene appeared.

The Emperor —his Majesty—was pierced through the chest and emerged from the back by a spear.

His golden armor seemed utterly useless; molten metal dripped around the wounds, as if the armor itself was bleeding.

The person who committed such a vice had a face as dark as the Master of Mankind, with a tangled beard that almost covered the lower half of his face, but this did not prevent him from displaying a terrifying and morbid smile.

His body was adorned with ornaments made from various bones, and his eyes gleamed, reflecting the Emperor's face, contorted with pain.

But Malcador knew he wasn't human. This thing that looked like a primitive tribal savage wasn't human; it was a Daemon, and also a scream.

It was tempered in the Chaos, eternal storm of the Warp —a storm in which time has no meaning, in fact, in that storm of pain and malice, nothing has any meaning.

Remove its own meaning, remove its own name.

Drach'nyen.

You don't need to know what the name means or how to interpret it; that's something for later scholars to worry about.

You don't need to care what it looks like, because even if it looks exactly like the barbarian who murdered his brother, that's not its true appearance.

All you need to know is that Drach'nyen is the enemy of mankind, the enemy of the Emperor, and the end and destruction of the Imperium.

The Master of Mankind is capable of almost anything; he can unify Terra, lead humanity back to the galaxy, and become the sole ruler of the world—but he cannot withstand Drach'nyen.

How absurd, how laughable, but neither he nor Malcador panicked.

The Emperor was even smiling.

"Now is the time, my friend," he said to Malcador, his eyes shining with unparalleled Radiance. "Call him back."

The Sigillites carried out the orders of his Majesty, his Lord. Loyal, swift, and as always. Psionic energy surged from him across Terra, and at that moment, countless people who had been prepared uttered a prayer with their shared resolve.

It's not a language, and it's even difficult to determine how to pronounce it. Some roar it out, others whisper it; some smile, some cry, some break down, and some remain steadfast.

The wind and snow stopped, thunder roared, and black flames surged within the Webway. Karyl Lohars emerged from the dark, furious flames and grabbed the spear.

One more chapter, 10,000 words today.