Interlude: A Call

Malcador--

Someone is calling. ♠♟ 🍩😂

The Sigillites opened his eyes, his thoughts flashing like lightning as he began searching the chaotic Terra for the location of the one who had called him.

This wouldn't have been difficult in the past, but things are different now. Terra today can hardly be called a single world; it exists in many forms.

She is still that ancient water planet, but she is also a completely arid world, the Throne World of humankind, where the Imperial Palace shines alongside other Hive City, ruling them just as its master holds a position of power.

But neither of these perspectives comes from the "present," at least not from the present that Malcador wants. He throws the "past" aside, forcefully using his psychic powers to clear away the layers of fog before him, with only one thought in his mind—he must find the present.

He must find that present moment when someone is calling him.

So he passed through Terra when the Vengeful Spirit had just fallen, Terra before the Astronomican was lit, and Terra after the war, before the sun was rekindled.

Everything flashed before his eyes, all rushing into his thoughts in an indescribable amount of time. Malcador shook his head in a daze, and thick blood gushed from the corner of his eye, flowing down his cheek.

The Master of Mankind has already borne enough of the cost for him, and even He cannot fully bear this burden—He is a shield, but He will eventually wear down, and those like Malcador who hide behind the shield are destined to be hurt.

The Sigillites swallowed a mouthful of blood tinged with death, reached out and grasped the scepter beside him, forcefully channeling his power once more to continue forward.

The chaotic Terra, existing in endless time and shattered space, roared in one after another.

Some were sixty-five desolate fragments, yet to be rebuilt; others, however, had been carefully tended, and people, adhering to a twenty-five-hour cycle, had rebuilt upon them the crucial instruments that could sustain Radiance Astronomican and ensure humanity's survival.

The information revealed by these futures was enough to make anyone stop in their tracks, but Malcador was an exception. He knew very well that the future could be changed, that the future was not predetermined; otherwise, how could they have reversed the past and achieved victory?

He couldn't afford to linger on these places, and besides, who could guarantee that these flashbacks filled with "hope" and "future" weren't actually His arms?

The Sigillites gripped the scepter tightly, and in this unknown underground room, his eyes shone with a brilliant Radiance as bright as a star.

The mist was torn apart, the image burned, the sound of feathers scraping was fleeting, and golden flames followed closely, seizing it without surprise and burning it to ashes. The Sigillites angrily rebuked it, and thus truly arrived at the "now".

Their present situation.

His thoughts were suspended over the entire Terra, Malcador let out a long, drowsy sigh.

The actual passage of time was immeasurable; his body told him that only ten seconds had passed. But his mind had spent countless fragmented millennia, even tens of thousands of years, in those recurring cycles of Terra.

Exhaustion weighed heavily on his back like a mountain, forcing him to let out an unbearable sigh. But this was only the beginning; the call had not yet faded from his ears, and he still had a chance to find that person.

So he started looking for him.

In the darkness, he gripped his staff tightly, and his soul began its long journey as if he were still alive.

He passed through a burning trench and saw the Imperial Fists and the Iron Warriors fighting side by side—a rare sight, but this was one of the futures the Emperor had envisioned for them. Now it had been achieved in such a clever way; it was hard not to feel ironic.

He looked at the Lord of Iron, a piece of steel that had lost too much and had been brutally hammered by fate into its current form with blood, full of cracks, yet it could no longer be destroyed.

He looked again at the stubborn rock, silently bearing it all; all the hardships were utterly insignificant.

Then came the Dorn from ten thousand years in the future, who could no longer leave Terra. Perhaps there would be seats to leave, but those seats no longer belonged to them—only those who had already left could take up those seats.

Fate. The Sigillites scornfully cursed it, feeling a deep sorrow for these warriors.

He turned and left, drifting coldly through the black snow, the edges of his robes already ablaze with golden flames. His lord was protecting him; in a sense, he was with him.

It was not Him, but merely the Emperor, merely his friend.

The Sigillites the seal rushed into a boundless sea of blood, a place where a murderer had long since left, but whose remains remained. He quickly recognized them as the remains of the Astronomican Hall.

Its existence in the material world has been fixed by the Emperor. Its essence burns fiercely within the Ethereal Sea. Its mere existence signifies hope, and pure hope at that, a hope that cannot be interfered with by the false god in the Chaos —this is something that belongs only to humankind, and He has no right to touch it.

He was wounded by the blade, persecuted, he bled for it, and he had to pay the price for that blood.

Distracted, Malcador quickly spotted some dead leaves from a forest that didn't exist on Terra. His soul grasped the leaves, and in a flash, he vanished into a forest.

The fallen leaves were crushed by the wheels of vehicles, and the grass and trees were blackened by the smoke of gunpowder. A large army was taking a short rest here, and all kinds of supplies and replacement parts were piled up in every corner of the forest. Even the remains were cautiously huddled up, not daring to show their faces again.

The Sigillites steadied himself and began to assess the state of the army—if possible, he would later bring the good news to his lord. But he was discovered; Leman Russ Russ's weary yet defiant soul found him.

Thus, guided by the Dionysian Spear, the Lion El'Jonson, the Angel, the Khan, the Phoenix, and the Iron Hands also became aware of his arrival. They still could not see him, but they could briefly sense his presence through their innate supernatural perception.

So the Lion El'Jonson asked a question.

"What's your mission, Sigillites?" he asked crisply. "Are you here to take those five away? They're still receiving treatment; I'm afraid you'll need to wait a bit longer."

Malcador wanted to answer, but he could no longer linger here—this was not Terra after all, but merely a cross-section of the Lion El'Jonson's terrifying talent.

His father placed this stolen power into the body of Lion Aljonson, but the Lion El'Jonson was ultimately not perceptive enough in this regard; he did not yet fully understand his own talent.

Malcador was forced to leave, unable to utter a single word. He plunged into a vortex filled with the hateful faces of the unjustly killed. The vortex spiraled upwards, creating relentless storms in the sky.

These storms should have damaged the support fleet's ships, with the Nightfall and the Macragge's Honour being the first to suffer damage. Fortunately, the Master of Mankind had a contingency plan in place, and the chaos of Terra was perfect for him to use some underhanded methods that would normally be considered unacceptable.

Using this clever method, he placed them one by one in the peaceful and tranquil past, undisturbed.

They no longer need to remain within Terra; reinforcements have arrived. However, several other wars are ongoing in the vicinity of Terra, and the Phalanx and the Emperor's Dream will need their support.

Malcador saw it clearly: in a little while, Ra Endymion of the Ten Thousand would ascend the Macragge's Honour and deliver the Master of Mankind's command to all the crew members aboard.

"We've calculated everything," the Sigillites thought grimly, his face filled with rage. "Now taste the bitter fruit you've sown for watching the show."

This brought him a brief moment of relief, but the problem remained: who was calling him? He had searched most of Terra, but still couldn't find the owner of that voice.

He had no choice but to continue his search, a cacophony of sounds echoing in his ears, countless battles raging amidst the burning wreckage.

Angron was leading his War Hounds in the lower Hive City of the Imperial Palace, where they clashed with the demonic tide, while Roboute Guilliman and his army of Ultramarines were facing off against the most elite forces of the Word Bearers in what was originally the outer walls of the Imperial Palace.

That bastard in the guise of Lorgar Aurelian has returned, manipulated by darkness, standing proudly before the Lord of the Thirteenth Legion.

Kolaus Corax and his silent Raven Guard were scattered across the battlefield, employing similar tactics to Midnight Blade: point-to-point, one-on-one group hunts, fleeing immediately if a strike missed—a terrible price even Daemon could not afford.

But they are ultimately endless, Terra is strengthening them. There is war, change, decay, and pleasure—everything is here, and so they are becoming incomprehensibly powerful and incomprehensibly numerous.

It was utterly despicable. The Sigillites felt a terrible rage rising within him—how many years had it been since he had experienced such a rich emotional response?

But this wasn't the end. His true rage came when he saw the Salamanders fighting alongside the Death Guard. It was battling Vulkan, using Mortarion's form.

The Sigillites the seal gritted his teeth, forcing himself to put aside the idea of using psychic energy to support the battlefield; he had to find the one who had called him.

Then, he found it, or rather, he was found.

The soul of the Sigillites stopped in its tracks and saw an echo that was repeating itself endlessly in the darkness.

"Malcador," the owner of the voice called weakly. "How is the situation now?"

The Sigillites silently walked over, used his scepter to prop up one corner of the Rock, and told him, "We are winning."

Sisyphus, his face covered in blood, turned around and smiled, "Is that so? That's good. How much longer do I need to hold on?"

"Longer," Malcador said, closing his eyes. "A little longer."

"I will do my best," Sisyphus replied with a smile.

Update complete, 10,000 words total. Unsure if I can update tomorrow; I will notify you in advance if not.

Also, I'd like to recommend a background music track for this chapter: Sisyphus by Andrew Bird.