137 Terra (XIV)

The Emperor slowly opened his eyes. (Claws)

He should have been on the Webway, but he wasn't there. He was now in a memory, the sky overcast and dark. Sour rain poured down and pounded on the ground.

The stone buildings hissed and sang in unison. Gargoyle crouched atop the buildings, gazing into the distance, oblivious to the cruelty beneath their feet. A damp, cold wind blew past, and people on the streets walked like zombies through the filth, heading toward their predetermined deaths.

The Master of Mankind looked around and saw only tragic scenes.

The gang was training their young recruits on a street corner. Drugs were being distributed one by one, and the children, despite the cold wind, did not feel cold at all; in fact, their faces were rosy. They were poorly clothed, yet they carried weapons.

In another ten minutes or so, they will storm into some people's homes or some slum and brutally murder the people there—the whole process will be very long, extremely long. Only in this way can they infiltrate the gang.

They thought this was the first step towards a better life, a trial, but their very humanity had vanished in that moment. A Ghost might find them someday, or perhaps, it might be medicine.

The drugs will eventually destroy their already unhealthy bodies; they may also die in a shootout, or be murdered by other members of the gang.

Even if they are lucky enough to live for a while, they will die someday due to the failure of their organs.

A worker suffering from lung disease coughed softly in the slum. Acid rain pelted down, wetting the faces of corpses on the street. Their eyes could no longer shed tears; these might be their last tears, their final act of mercy in this cruel world.

The Master of Mankind turned his head, perhaps unable to bear the sight any longer, or perhaps because he heard footsteps.

He saw a man, soaked by the rain, slowly walking down a dark alley, carrying a knife. Several corpses passed by, rats greedily gnawing on them, starting with the fingers and then the soft flesh of the cheeks.

The man tried to shoo them away, but the beasts showed no fear. There were many of them, some of them straightening up, snorting, staring through the raindrops at the pale, Ghost man, wondering what he would do.

The man met their gaze, and a few seconds later, two streaks of blue light suddenly appeared in his pitch-black eyes.

The psionic flames flashed and vanished in an instant, turning to ashes that covered the ground and were soaked by the rain. The mangled corpses lay on the ground, their eyeballs gone, a scene of utter devastation.

The man stared at the corpses, silent. After a few seconds, he bent down and carried them away one by one. He walked to a deserted streetlamp.

The tattered boots were soaked in blood; the acid rain and blood mingled together, reflecting the faint light of the streetlamp, creating a dazzling and captivating scene. The man piled the corpses under the streetlamp before turning and leaving.

The pace remained slow, perhaps due to the bloodstains belonging to those who lay peacefully by the roadside, their throats slit. Not long ago, they had been a group of arrogant thugs, boasting about how many people they had killed that night.

The man killed them, ending his hunt for the night. He was going home, like a wild beast that had completed its hunt.

The Master of Mankind stepped forward and followed. He spoke softly, calling out a name from behind him.

"Karyl."

The man stopped and turned around.

For the first few seconds, he appeared confused and wary. After a while, he realized what was happening. Then the calm expression familiar to the Emperor returned to the pale-faced Ghost.

Karyl lowered his head, glanced at his hands, and then tried to grip the blade in his hand. A smile appeared on his face, a terrifying smile that mixed nostalgia with a desire to vent violence.

Nostramo.

He said the sound hissed and crashed through the rain, and the raindrops stopped for his voice—just like the world, which paused for a moment.

The torrential rain stopped abruptly overhead, and the strange howling and the various killings under the cover of night ceased.

"So you've come back here?" Karyl asked tentatively.

"Your anchor of humanity lies here," The Emperor said. "This conversation has been repeated millions of times, Karyl. Your memories are fading faster and faster. I can reconstruct them, but I still need time."

"Ah," Karyl sighed regretfully.

"If you reach a certain point, or if it dissipates faster than I can reshape it—"

"--I will disappear," Karyl said softly. He was still laughing, as if he didn't understand how terrible they were talking about. His voice remained that peculiarly soft whisper, like the breath of the dead under the cover of night.

The Emperor watched him silently. Karyl flicked his wrist, and the blade vanished instantly as if by magic. His smile returned, but this time it was much more serene.

"Since this conversation is destined to repeat itself, why did you tell me about it in the first place?"

The Emperor did not answer the question.

"How is Terra now?" Karyl asked again.

His face was growing paler and paler, and for a moment, a terrifying rage seemed about to burst through his skin.

The Emperor knew the reason; the battle in the Warp was no secret to him. He too was a participant in that fierce war, the Lord of Death, clad in golden flames, fighting alongside his crimson brother.

He should have died, but he wanted to fight, and for that, he was willing to endure pain and torment. He had already endured enough in life, and standing on the other side of death, he mocked their incompetence.

Vengeance —it's everywhere, all over the galaxy; this enormous and tragic spiral is omnipresent. Once it appears, it won't disappear unless everyone lays down their weapons, extinguishes the hatred in their hearts, and lives in peace.

This will never happen.

Therefore, it is an indescribable miracle that Karyl Lohars still exists. The Ghost also realized this, and he touched his face, whereupon flames burst forth from his body and began to spread across his fingertips.

Karyl sighed regretfully and said goodbye.

The world vanished in an instant beneath the Emperor's feet, turning into nothingness, into a pale and crude altar made of Daemon ashes.

He returned to the Webway.

The Master of Mankind silently closed his eyes, a golden light flashed in his hand, and he began to reshape that memory once again.

Nostramo's evil is overwhelming, with pale Ghost wreaking havoc within, their rage never finding a way out. He cannot end it all with killing alone; pain is his constant companion.

The Emperor saw every detail, maintained the flow of power, and began to advance.

The conversation then repeated itself.

In the ever-reconstructing Nostramo, in the extreme suffering one should never have to endure, it repeats itself endlessly. Then it happens again, and again, and again.

The Emperor mercilessly used his power to maintain this cruel memory, watching it again and again, while Karyl Lohars struggled in pain and reincarnation time and time again.

Then, in the acid rain, the Ghost asked a question for the first time.

"How many times has this happened?"

"I don't know," The Emperor said. "Would you like to see the current situation in Terra?"

"Sure," the Ghost replied with a smile.

His face became almost transparent, revealing his veins. The darkness in his eyes writhed as if alive, and the spirits of the dead roared within them.

The Emperor silently raised his hand, showing him another scene.

The burning Terra immediately crashed into them from the dark distance—in a scene both illusory and incredibly real, after this dialogue had been repeated tens of millions of times, the Ghost finally saw Terra's appearance again.

Of course, it wouldn't be what he wanted to see.

A biting wind howled, and black snow drifted in, surrounding the Ghost's feet. He shook his head, but his form began to change. Pale bone claws rose slowly from the shadows beneath his feet, climbed up his body, and eventually formed a suit of armor.

The gods and the Master of Mankind stood side by side, gazing at Terra, at this planet unfamiliar to both of them.

Hive City were covered in snow, and the wilderness had turned into glaciers. For the first time since the last ocean on Terra was stolen, natural water had spread across its surface. Countless corpses lay bloated in the frigid water.

They had already died here before the glacier even appeared. Auxilia, Astartes, the Secutarii —even civilians.

A series of frenzied images began to flash before their eyes, one after another, without any order of importance, and some of them seemed to have no logic whatsoever.

They saw roaring pilgrims, strapping grenades to their bodies, charging towards the demonic tide. They also saw children who should have been living under their parents' wings, wielding light guns and firing them—weapons not designed for their size, yet they still fought very well.

Their parents fought below, while they fired from the city walls. The bloody ash of war swept over them as a group of Imperial Fists fought Khorne's Daemon army.

Behind them was a power station, the last one remaining. It was the one that provided energy to all the defense facilities within a radius of hundreds of kilometers. It was the last hope for this group of people, so the Imperial Fists stood here.

Ceramite or Adamantium, explosives or chainsaws—it doesn't matter, in a war of this magnitude, none of it matters. They kill, they die, and so do the Daemon.

Gunships roared through the sky at overloaded power, launching attacks continuously for fourteen hours straight, and would continue flying as long as they didn't crash. They would bring their bombing raids to some war-torn wasteland where Titan stood.

Amidst the terrifying flames of the explosion, the divine machines charged furiously towards their enemies. Ammunition had long since dried up, and pilots were even on the verge of death from the intense heat or some kind of intense emotional resonance, but this still could not stop the Machine Spirit from bringing carnage to their foes.

Or rather, this could not prevent them from empathizing with the Machine Spirit. They had ascended to the highest realm, and from this day forward, they would be one with the Titans.

The Secutarii launched one charge after another beneath the feet of the divine machine. How could such a battlefield be complete without their presence? The ground had long since become a bloody mud stained with bullet casings and corpses. Regardless of friend or foe, regardless of their status in life, they had all become part of this war.

Then, they were mercilessly crushed—steel boots, bare feet, treads—every minute, every second, countless people died, contributing to the destruction of this place.

They don't care, nobody cares.

It's a fight to the death. This is Terra, humanity's homeworld, our last line of defense. So they will die here—until victory, or perhaps, until everything is destroyed.

The relentless machine churned frantically.

Those who are loyal to their duty die in obscurity, without even the chance to die a glorious death. The brave charge out of the trenches, only to be killed by Daemon magic, falling on the path of their charge. Those who once feared now wield sharp knives and step into the meat grinder.

Death, death, death, death, death. Gods and the Emperor stand side by side, watching them die, watching the battles of those they know and those they don't.

Primarch are fighting, Astartes are fighting, mortals are fighting. Fulgrim and Ferrus Manus fight side by side, together repelling wave after wave of Daemon attacks on the most difficult battlefields.

Blood and tears streamed down the phoenix's face, stained with black flames, as it wept for the deaths of its loyal followers. The spirits of the dead whispered their grievances in its ear; it could not forget, it could not escape, it could only listen.

Ferrus Manus, wielding the Forgebreaker, fought on the front lines. His armor was stained with blood, and his hands were covered in bits of flesh. His cold, hard face showed no emotion. Their offspring followed their father, launching a glorious yet tragic charge against humanity's greatest enemy.

Rogal Dorn, on the other hand, was on another battlefield—the command center, piled high with documents, where he had been fighting for the past seventeen hours.

He mobilized reinforcements, wrote orders, and sent men to their deaths. One set of data after another flashed through his mind, adding deeper wrinkles to his brow. He could not leave this place unless the situation reached its most critical moment.

This is his prison, his torture chamber—but the stubborn rock accepts it all willingly. If the final moment truly arrives, he will make it all worthwhile.

The deity took a deep, deep breath.

"Sacrifice," The Emperor said. "That's all. We've let them down."

The wind and snow swept by, and everything began to melt away, replaced by a broken glacier and a short old man in a black robe. He seemed to sense something, and immediately turned around the moment they appeared.

In the pitch-black snow, they saw each other's faces.

The laurel wreath atop the Emperor's head still shone, and the psionic light in the Hand of the Sigillites's eyes had materialized, replacing his gaze. Karyl Lohars's mask, however, remained unmoved, his eye sockets deep and wreathed in flames.

"It is time," The Emperor said.

"I thought it could continue for a while longer," Malcador sighed.

"That's possible, but we need to get that knife." Karyl laughed. "A gift given away can actually be taken back? How can a father be so terrible?"

As the wind and snow intensified and darkness descended, their figures were obscured.

This chapter is 4kbps; there's one last chapter to go.

A conversation between father and son (entertaining)