179 Interlude: Van Cleef

I only have one responsibility. 💝✋ ♜🎯

Van Cleef slowly swung his sword, the engine roared, and the serrated edge kissed someone's neck intimately. Blood and flesh splattered, and bone fragments, shredded into tiny pieces by the Chainsword, creating a horrifying rain of blood.

Six explosive shells whistled through the man-made cruelty, hurtling straight toward his head, but none hit. Van Cleef dodged them without even looking, and instinctively caught the still-undismembered corpse, pulling it to his chest.

The Chainsword pierced cruelly through his chest in the next instant, and a wave of violence and torture began to surge. The Cultists, who was not yet dead, suddenly began to mutate; the Eight-pointed Star on his body was shining brightly, but only for a moment, because Van Cleef had already dismembered him completely before that could happen.

At the same time, a Blessed Sons Word Bearers attacked him from behind, a chilling wind blowing as blades whistled down overhead. Van Cleef took a step back without turning his head, casually bumping into the Blessed Sons's arms, thus disrupting his attack.

He spun the Chainsword with one hand and swung it back and forth in a sweeping slash. The enemy began to roar, his voice filled with pain.

Ordinary physical damage wouldn't have caused him such terrible pain, or even made him roar. However, the coincidence is that Van Cleef happens to have a knack for torturing his enemies.

Long ago, he understood how to inflict pain and despair on his enemies in battle. And now, this ability, along with himself, has undergone a similar, indescribable transformation.

"Your fight is pointless. Resist me, or don't resist me—"

Van Cleef slowly turned around, looking into those eyes filled with madness, at the soul entangled with the Daemon, rushing headlong into the abyss of depravity. They saw him too, but that wasn't enough; merely "seeing" wasn't enough.

You need to experience more.

He drew his sword, twisted his wrist, and swung it again—a seemingly casual yet incredibly cruel strike. He ripped the Blessed Sons apart from his left shoulder, like a butcher slaughtering livestock.

The decaying, degenerate body groaned as it was cleaved in two amidst the roar of the Chainsword, its entrails spilling out onto the ground, steaming as they fell into the pile of corpses. Blood gushed out like congealed gelatin, as if stars were falling from the sky.

Their crimson color gave the eyes of the dead, faintly visible among the dark entrails and skeleton, an alluring luster, almost like an invitation.

Would you like to try it?

Van Cleef crushed them with his foot, then followed up with a kick, sending the Blessed Sons, still suffering in agony, flying away.

With a single movement, the dust and smoke from the battle were shattered by the extreme speed. As the thick fog dissipated, a company commander's scarlet goggles were faintly visible through them, and the lightning patterns on his dark blue armor were extremely bright, showing no sign of fading.

And then his voice finally came again.

"--Actually, there's no difference."

Van Cleef began to move forward slowly, darkness spreading from beneath his Ceramite boots, the fog thickening. His posture was peculiar; he stood ramrod straight, holding his sword in one hand, the Chainsword hanging low at his feet. Each step was slow, each step resolute.

At that moment, a shrill shriek came from the sky, and a group of bat-winged Daemon swooped down, their sharp teeth and fangs slowly emerging from their wide-open mouths, being expelled along with their sticky tongues in a vomiting motion. Their human eyes stared blankly at their targets.

Van Cleef glanced up at them, then calmly looked away, paying them no further attention, as if these dangerous Daemon were nothing more than a harmless cloud of dust.

The truth is, these Daemons had recently staged a brutal scene of biting through Ceramite and devouring flesh. At the same time, the Word Bearers priest in the enemy ranks, who was manipulating them with evil magic, suddenly screamed and his body began to tremble violently.

A fraction of a second later, jet-black, muddy flesh gushed out from the gaps in his already mutated armor, splattering all over the ground. The intense heat scorched the armor, which was covered in signs of corruption, and steam rose, making the victim's face appear and disappear within it.

Van Cleef stopped, removed his helmet, and attached it to his belt. He blinked, and his narrow eyes, perched high on his cheekbones, suddenly changed color, two flames of anger igniting rapidly within them, instantly setting his eyes ablaze.

Above his head, the swarm of bat-winged Daemon began to tremble, turning into ashes in an instant.

"First of all, this is not based on personal grudges." Van Cleef slowly raised his sword. "Secondly, I hope you all understand one thing."

He smiled.

"In the name of the Lord of Blades, death is only the beginning."

He kept his word; the killing lasted for fifteen minutes, purely intentional on his part. The ancient ritual had become an instinct ingrained in his bones, and even if he didn't want to, his instincts would preemptively make this choice.

If he were far from Terra, he might be able to be controlled. But he is now in Terra, and his god is here.

Van Cleef raised his hand to put on his helmet and left the killing field. Like a shadow that could vanish at any moment, he swept across the devastated, dark ruins.

He was alone and had no communication, but that suited him perfectly.

However, under normal circumstances, Van Cleef never advocates any form of isolated operation, lone action, or individual heroism.

Moreover, even without using the old Terra explanation, the beastly habits from Nostramo have permeated every aspect of Night Lords's being. Even a new recruit who has just joined the army will spontaneously learn how to integrate into the group in such an environment.

They weren't a pack of wolves, but another dangerous herd of predators, equally eager to hunt. Therefore, he shouldn't have been acting alone like this; he should have stayed with his First Company.

However, I only have one responsibility now. Van Cleef smiled regretfully.

The world shattered beneath his feet, then healed itself. The power of Chaos instinctively responded to his movements; each seemingly simple step actually distorted space, crumpling the already unstable structure into a crumpled sheet of paper.

Van Cleef was the only ink stain on this blank sheet of paper; his movements seemed completely random, yet they followed the creases left by the person who crumpled the paper. He knew this perfectly well, but he still felt uncomfortable.

In the past, in the Realspace he knew, it would have been impossible to do such a thing, even in front of a god, one would have to pay a certain price.

Their Realspace was once so indestructible, science and reason permeated every corner of the Imperium, and even religion was a progressive religion.

But what about now?

The stable structure is already crumbling, and the Veil of reality has been torn apart by the evil god of Chaos. Not to mention Terra at this moment, even the entire Sol System is now in a precarious situation.

With just a gentle push, this ancient star system, the origin of humankind, would be transformed into a nightmare, a blow that would be absolutely unbearable for both humanity and the Imperium.

Van Cleef slowly came to a stop.

Darkness bowed down at his feet, not for him personally, but for the grace bestowed upon him. Realizing this made him even more displeased, but it did not matter, for the person he was meant to see had arrived.

The company commander emerged from the darkness and silently appeared behind the man. The latter initially did not notice his arrival and remained vigilant with his gun drawn, until Van Cleef deliberately made a series of footsteps, at which point he realized the situation.

Then, accompanied by a dangerous buzzing sound, the man turned around, gun in hand, the muzzle already Radiance a dangerous energy.

Van Cleef gently placed his palm against the muzzle, his sharp fingers tapping lightly on the barrel, producing a slightly muffled echo.

"I think it's best not to waste ammunition," Van Cleef kindly advised. "What do you think, Sir Luther?"

The old knight sighed, released the trigger, and then slung the gun over his shoulder. "Actually, this gun doesn't have any ammunition problems. It fires condensed, uh, air?"

"Another private collection of the Sigillites?"

"Perhaps it should be called some kind of technological relic salvaged from a lost era." Luther shrugged. "Anyway, it's not the first time he's thrown these things at me, letting me try them out first. Didn't that scholar named Land complain about it?"

Van Cleef laughed, took off his helmet, and nodded to Luther. He was, after all, a rather old-fashioned man; some things were deeply ingrained in him, and even now, they wouldn't easily disappear.

"Anyway, let's check the time first," Luther said.

He raised his hand and took out a pocket watch from under his cloak. It had a pale gold case and silver hands, but the places where numbers should have been engraved were completely blank.

Van Cleef reached out and took the clock, while Luther magically produced another one from under his cloak. They exchanged a glance and simultaneously pressed a hidden button on the right side of the pocket watch.

With a soft click, the hour, minute, and second hands begin to move, but the numbers still do not appear. The clock face remains a pure blank, but upon closer inspection, one will find that it is not blank, but rather nothingness.

"Thirteen hours," Luther said, staring intently at his pocket watch. "We only have thirteen hours to get everything done, Van Cleef. Perhaps I should have told Lion I had other things to do sooner."

"Didn't Lion Leon say anything about your unauthorized departure?" Van Cleef put away his pocket watch and asked with a smile.

"He did seem to want to say something," Luther shook his head thoughtfully. "But Lord Russ probably reminded him of something."

Van Cleef sighed.

"Death is not the end." Luther put away his pocket watch and looked up at him. "You should be the one among us who understands this statement best, Van Cleef."

"That's not the same thing," the company commander replied in a low voice. "Even those who died unjustly can rest in peace once the grudges are settled. But the Primarch are different; even in death, they will never enjoy the slightest peace."

"Yes," the Caliban said in the same low voice. "Like all those who died in this era, Van Cleef."

"Essentially, we are all just running around, driven by forces above us—the only difference is that those Daemon think they are free, while we know we are not."

"But we have gained true freedom because of this." Van Cleef nodded solemnly. "At the same time, we will free even more people from slavery."

Luther silently raised his hands in a salute resembling that of Aquila Salute. Van Cleef returned the salute and then vanished back into the darkness.

The pocket watch on his belt gleamed faintly, radiating an unusual heat. He silently counted its clicks, trying to glean some possible information from its intricate mechanism.

Malcador is good at leaving things unsaid; he occasionally leaves some information in the mission, waiting for you to discover it yourself.

This is a pleasant kind of mysticism, because the Sigillites is neither as difficult to communicate with the Emperor, nor as overly easy to communicate with as Karyl Lohars.

He was a clever middle ground. Van Cleef wasn't sure if this was an external choice deliberately made by the Sigillites, but he absolutely Malcador's efforts and dedication.

But, Malcador, how can our crumbling Imperium continue to exist? Van Cleef couldn't help but ask himself this question.

In the darkness, he rushed to another corner of Terra and, with the click of a stopwatch, arrived at an answer.

Only sacrifice.

You must be resolute and focus all your attention. You must endure every step that comes next, including pain, bloodshed, and death.

The voice of the Sigillites slowly emerged from the stopwatch, his delightful mysticism broken once again, and Van Cleef received his reward. These words brought a smile to his lips, but also pain.

The darkness receded, and he returned to Terra. This time, the crumpled white paper he traversed had undergone a complete transformation.

The ruins were rebuilt, the corpses were dragged away, and the sun, which should have been extinguished but had inexplicably burned for ten thousand years, steadily shone directly on the ground in the sky. The roar of motorcycles came from not far away, Van Cleef turned his head to look and saw the gradually disappearing figures of several golden-armored guards.

Only after they had completely disappeared from sight did the company commander turn his gaze away and look at the man standing in front of him.

"Cassidorius Ciunas?" he asked.

The man took a deep breath, nodded, and raised the gun in his hand again.

"What do you need me to do, sir?"

"First of all, there's no need for honorifics," Van Cleef told him. "Also, let me see it."

Cassidorius did as he was told. He lowered his gun and pulled a gem from his chest. Its surface was crystal clear, reflecting the eyes of the two men, one dark brown, the other burning scarlet, both black and shimmering.

"Very good." Van Cleef nodded. "Do you know what we're going to do?"

"I know." The last descendant of the del Kunas Family smiled and raised his gun again. "We're going to go back ten thousand years. The Sigillites told me that."

Van Cleef smiled slightly, "You and your ancestors are both very courageous."

"My ancestors?"

"Yes, your ancestor Navarro Ciunas, a brave Rogue Trader."

Van Cleef explained softly, but his face began to slowly crumble as he spoke patiently, cracking like shattered porcelain, with pale ash escaping from the cracks and drifting into the sky.

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