164 Terra (32)

Numbers, everything will eventually become numbers. 🌷🍧 🐊♨

Rogal Dorn picked up the grains of sand, counted them, and watched them drift away in the breeze from his palm. The dry red hue vanished, returning to nothingness instead of settling on the ground.

He knew.

He stood up and looked at the sky.

Blinding sunlight was pouring down, falling on his armor and skin, tormenting him relentlessly and eternally. But what was in the sky was not the sun, but a blood-red eye.

Dorn stared at it, silently counted to five, then looked away and began to walk.

He knows what He wants to do, but he won't do it.

He would not do so in the name of the deceased Horus Lupercal.

He trudged through the endless red sand, that thing still chattering in his ear. It had been there from the very beginning.

From the Dorn realized Horus was dead, heard of Angron's severed arm, witnessed Fulgrim's madness, and discovered that he was about to send countless people down a path of certain death, He was there.

Karyl Lohars warned him, Malcador warned him, even the Emperor made time to warn him—and Dorn took every piece of advice to heart.

Karyl Lohars said, "You can ignore him; he's just a parasite."

"He can't beat you," Malcador said, "But you still need to be vigilant because He's capable of anything."

The Emperor said, "My son, simply be yourself."

Their suggestions were all very helpful.

"You can't beat me," Dorn said. "You're just a parasite. You want to devour me and replace me with something else, but you won't succeed."

He spoke, but it wasn't a speech; it was a declaration.

He walked across the dunes and slid down the sloping edge. The thing was still talking, chattering on and on; it never got tired, so it could keep talking forever. Dorn ignored it and walked on until dusk.

It may sound absurd, but there is indeed a day-night cycle here, although the way it happens is not gentle.

He looked up at the sky, where the gentle, blood-red Radiance still lingered on the horizon, and the genuine crimson sunset still stared at him, but night had already fallen. The night, with its countless stars, forcefully pressed it down, casting a crisp, cool shadow.

Night fell, the stars twinkled, Dorn gazed at them until he had to leave before bowing his head.

He walked up to a large red stone, drew his short sword from his waist. It was made of rare Adamantium and Ceramite, sharp and hard. But now it was just a ridiculous hilt with a small piece of metal attached.

He looked up at the red stone.

They stretch from here to the end of this red sand; they are walls, and also his cage. They are what He used to confine him here, but Dorn was adept at using everything.

This is how the Inwit people are; to survive in such a frigid place, they must be resilient, tenacious, and adept at uniting and utilizing all people and tools.

He raised his short sword, aimed it at the stone, and began to write something.

To be precise, it's not a thing, but a name—for a Primarch, remembering a name is easy. But here, remembering it consistently is difficult.

So, in the third or fourth century, Dorn began to write down these names to make sure he wouldn't forget them. At first, he wrote down war plans and books he had read; now, he wrote down names.

He had seen the names on the list. The names he remembered, the names of the dead, and their descriptions.

Horus Lupercal, Primarch of the Luna Wolves, my brother.

Malak Castivolo, commander of the Terra First Infantry Regiment. A proud and strict officer, he has served in the military for thirty-one years.

From the very beginning, Dorn hadn't kept track of the numbers. He knew it was pointless, because the thing outside those stone walls was watching and listening, and He wouldn't let him successfully record how many names he had written.

After all, if this behavior can be quantified over time, then he can set a limit on how many he can write in a day and how many he can write in a year, and use that to measure time.

His purpose was to confuse him, to bewilder him, and ultimately to submit. Dorn knew this and foresaw the methods He might use, so he neither wrote down nor kept records of numbers.

He just kept writing.

He kept carving the names from his memory one by one, faces, some brave, some calm, flashing before his eyes. He didn't know if they were still alive, or even if he himself was still alive; he just wrote.

He was furious.

Dorn smiled at this.

"I know," he said as he wrote. "You don't like me turning the prison walls into a monument, but what can you do?"

A roar came from outside the wall.

Dorn wrote: Erasmond Astus, a soldier of the Imperial Fists 128th Company. I have never met him, but I sent him to the edge of the Sol System. He may die, but one day he may find me.

"I don't know what you are, but to me you are merely a law of the universe that, by some coincidence, has gained self-awareness. But you are still just a law; you can deceive, plead, command, do as you please, but I will eventually leave this place."

The roars outside the wall gradually subsided, replaced by a persuasive voice. He said, "You don't have to be so stubborn. I won't interfere with your will. I only want to give you strength, the strength to end all of this."

Dorn wrote, "Bolin Red, one of the Silent Guards chosen by Malcador. I've known him for twenty-two years. He's now on the front lines. I don't know what he's doing or if he's dead, but I wish him victory."

"End what?" Dorn asked.

"Everything," He answered.

"I don't want any of this, I just want humanity to win."

Dorn said, and then he wrote down the last name, the last name he could remember.

Karyl Lohars, my brother's foster father, a noble man, a hero destined to remain nameless in history, died before the night and dawn. I remember him, and all people.

The crimson flames outside the wall roared.

"You've finished writing!" He laughed loudly. "Seven centuries have passed, and you're at your wit's end!"

Dorn raised his hand and wrote Horus Lupercal's name on the wall.

My brother, Primarch of Luna Wolves, Son of First Return, Son of First Death, we are honored by his rebellion.

The roaring outside the wall stopped.

"I could write it again, for another seven centuries."

Dorn spoke calmly and slowly.

"I will keep writing. If the blade runs out, I'll still have the hilt. If the hilt runs out, I'll replace the serrations of the Chainsword. Its serrations are also made of Adamantium, and each serration will require at least two centuries of wear. Keep counting for me; you have nothing else to do anyway."

"And if I run out of serrations, I still have my fingers. I have ten fingers, and my fingernails are made of Adamantium and Ceramite; I can use them to write for twenty centuries."

"If my fingernails wear down completely, I'll use my teeth to write. If my teeth are all gone, I still have my finger bones; if my finger bones are destroyed, I still have my forehead, my arms, and everything else."

"I will keep writing until you lose this battle. When I leave, I will despise you, and I will erect a monument in the place where you failed, to proclaim to all that you were defeated by Rogal Dorn. I took a victory from you, do you understand?"

An explosion-like sound came from outside the wall.

Dorn smiled; he knew what He was going to do, it was part of the plan. Enrage Him, drive Him to madness, and cause a change within the Red Sands. He had been brewing this plan since the moment he entered, and he had spent seven centuries carrying it out.

And indeed He was enraged; the opponent was predictable and not particularly difficult to deal with.

Then things changed.

A fierce wind howled, deafening battle cries filled the air, and thunderous war drums thundered. Some roared, some slaughtered, and some clutched their wounds as they slowly collapsed. The Daemon laughed maniacally, each laugh sounding utterly depraved, befitting their nature.

The gale gradually subsided, and the thing outside the wall, that blood-red thing, revealed its sharp blade.

You tried to provoke me, and you succeeded, but what will you get, Rogal Dorn?

"Victory," Dorn said, slowly turning his head.

He saw burning trenches and corpses, seemingly countless corpses.

Everywhere you look, one body piled on top of another, each with a different manner of death. Every killing that has ever occurred in human history can be found here as a perfect specimen.

Dorn sheathed his dagger without flinching and began to examine the corpses. After a few seconds, he concluded that they were Astartes, and Astartes he had never seen before.

Each one has an unfamiliar paint job, each one bears an unfamiliar logo. So, what about their faces?

Dorn nodded knowingly.

He saw his own reflection.

"They died for you," Bloodred said. "You made them die, and made their deaths meaningless. Your legions spread across the galaxy, and every twenty-five years, your legions issue a summons to them, calling them back to Terra to die."

They have things to defend, they have homes, and you've made them abandon everything. Keep provoking me, Rogal Dorn. Because the next time you succeed, I'll bring you the souls of those who died because of it, and you can hear their curses.

Dorn remained silent.

A few seconds later, he asked, "So, who gave this order? And how did the person who gave it know?"

Blood Red didn't answer. Suddenly, He realized something and roared like a madman. Something was laughing at Him. Something with Him, feather-like.

Dorn exhaled a breath of stale air.

He walked to the nearest corpse, knelt on one knee, straightened the corpse's head, removed the helmet, and stared at the face. After a while, he began to examine the helmet.

At that moment, a tiny stain inside the eyepiece caught his attention. Dorn hesitated for a moment, unsure whether he should desecrate the dead man's weapon, but he still reached in to feel it and pulled out a small metal object.

He took it out and saw a twisted piece of metal.

Dorn slowly unfolded it, and then he saw names, countless names.

Rogal Dorn smiled.

"I told you you would lose," he told Blood Red. "You were destined to lose."

It's too late, I won't write the last two chapters, going to sleep.