4. Those Destined to Die by the Blade

Tujia has been in love with the night since many years ago.🐊👑 υ ♣♡This is not to say that he likes darkness, he just likes the various feelings that the night brings.

Yes, that's how I feel.

For example, staying in a budget hotel room reading the local newspaper, carefully scanning every word that smells of ink, and ideally having a handful of cheap organic candy nearby.

As the peculiar taste of candy slowly explodes on the tongue, the words in the newspaper often combine to form some less pleasant phrases.

Strife, vendettas, and horrific corruption. Who was hanged in the East District for theft? Who was executed for treason? Which factories went bankrupt and workers had nowhere to go? This was the norm in the Imperium, and it was considered a better norm.

Wherever Tujea goes, as long as the world maintains a certain level of order, this kind of thing will happen all the time.

However, words in the newspaper sometimes become other words. For example, certain news, certain messages sent back from the dark front of the stars.

The newspapers would say that the Imperium had achieved another victory, and another world lost in the Dark Ages had returned to the Radiance of the Astronomican. Tujea knew that, usually, these things were true, only a little late.

Or many points.

There's no way around it; these messages are all issued by Terra's Administratum and go through numerous layers of censorship before reaching the local government, where they undergo even more scrutiny. By the time the news finally makes it into the newspapers, the planet may have already been returned to the Imperium for decades.

Moreover, newspapers tend to conceal details. Important details.

How many people died for this? What sacrifices did the Imperium's loyalists make to bring this world back to normal?

Where is it? Is it in the Sol System, the Misty Sector, or perhaps the more distant dark stars? Or is it the lost Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar, which has been missing for thousands of years?

Of course, there's also the most crucial point.

How did the Radiance of the Astronomican shine upon the world once more?

Many times, Tujea wanted to cross a certain line and use his limited authority and resources to figure out the matter, but he ultimately did not do so, even though the matter was very important to him.

He cannot break the law, nor his only principle.

Furthermore, the night offers him a variety of experiences, and not every night can he peacefully stay in a cheap hotel to investigate local customs and traditions. On some nights, he will inevitably be stained with blood.

Just like this very moment.

Tujea lowered his head and glanced at the corpse closest to him.

Although he was covered in blood, he had only one wound, located on his throat, and the wound area was not large. The skin and flesh at the wound site were not turned inside out, but it was very deep. This means that the murderer cut open his throat, rather than slashed it open.

The corpse was a strong Hive City when he was alive; he possessed a large-caliber Autogun, and his right index finger was even resting on the trigger.

Tujea looked at another corpse.

Compared to the first one, this one was far more gruesome. Its left hand was cleanly severed in two starting from the elbow, the cut as smooth as if it had been processed with a single-molecule mining tool. There was a straight cut on its abdomen, from which its internal organs had slipped out, steaming in the night.

The killer turned him into it with just two stabs.

Tujea withdrew his gaze and roughly surveyed his surroundings. The church was completely surrounded by corpses. They probably had this thought in life, but failed to carry it out, and achieved it in death.

Sadly, they didn't even get to splatter their blood on the church doors.

"I do not understand."

"What don't you understand?"

"You—" Gore, the Hive City, took a deep breath. "—Who exactly are you, priest?"

"I am a friend of your father," the pastor, his hands covered in blood, replied.

He stood ramrod straight, tapping his waist with his bloodied hand. His expression was perfectly calm, Tujea glanced at him, instantly recognizing that the priest did this very often.

That kind of calm is called getting used to it and not taking it seriously.

"My father was just an alcoholic bastard who worked in the Moran Family's factory until he died. How could he possibly know someone like you?" Gore asked, finding it hard to believe.

It was a miracle she was still rational, Tujea thought. Even as a minor leader, she probably hadn't witnessed a massacre of this magnitude. No, she'd likely never seen one at all. While the Hive City was full of serial killers, none were quite like this.

He glanced at the priest again.

"What kind of person am I?" the pastor asked. Behind him was a well-maintained chapel, but his hands were stained with blood from the mutilated corpses that surrounded the entire chapel. They stared at the three survivors with gaping eyes and contorted expressions.

"How should I know?" Gore retorted.

She was trembling, clutching her bald head, her fingers comically stroking her high ponytail. Her expression made her look like a mentally challenged child deformed by chemicals, or a poor worker whose brain had been damaged in an accident.

This isn't her fault, Tujea thought.

Then he realized that he had probably been thinking too much tonight. But he said nothing and remained silent. He continued to listen to the conversation between the bloodthirsty massacre perpetrator and Gore.

The other person clearly knew what he was doing, but didn't care.

"You don't need to know," the pastor told Gore. "Mr. Graham made a wrong decision, and therefore he must pay the price."

Gore turned her head and glanced at the gruesome pile of corpses. She asked dryly, "Has he paid the price?"

"Not yet," the pastor replied calmly and patiently. "Some blood debts cannot be repaid even by death."

"Oh, the Emperor," Gore sighed deeply.

"He's not here, at least not now," the pastor smiled. "You should go home, Gore. Remember to come to worship next Thursday."

He raised his right hand and pointed in a direction. Gore nodded absentmindedly and subconsciously turned around to walk in that direction, but Tujea called out to her at that moment.

"My gun."

The man from Hive City turned around blankly, glanced at him, and then threw his gun back without further hesitation or refusal. Tujea caught it with one hand and casually put it into the right pocket of his coat.

Gore slowly walked away, stepping over the corpses. Her boots pounded on the flesh of the dead, the sound like being beaten with a stick against completely frozen flesh.

Watching her walk further and further away, Tujea never took his right hand out of his coat. He didn't even move, remaining standing in the same spot, about ten meters away from the pastor.

The pastor's eyes gleamed in the darkness, a faint light almost like the cold moonlit night wind. Tujea met his gaze and swallowed a mouthful of bloody saliva.

Finally, he slowly withdrew his hand.

The pastor nodded kindly and approvingly before turning away.

"Come with me," he said, and then walked toward the open side door of the church.

Through the slightly ajar crack, Tujea could see the candlelight. But ten minutes earlier, before he and Gore ran out of the church in terror, all the candles had gone out.

He stood still, not following, and instead asked a question, "Where are the dead people?"

"Someone will take care of them," the pastor said, opening the side door.

The flickering candlelight seeped out from within, casting a dim, yellowish glow. His Shadow stretched long, forming a sinister, elongated shadow on the white tiles in front of the church entrance.

Tujea looked down at his Shadow, then looked up at the pastor himself. He put his hand in his trouser pocket, pinching a crumpled piece of paper between his index and middle fingers. He curled his fingers, holding the paper in his palm, before pulling his hand out and walking toward the church with a clenched fist.

The pastor stepped aside to let him pass. After he entered, he gently closed the side door. He seemed to do everything silently, even his breathing was so soft that it was almost imperceptible.

It was only then that Tujea realized that his back was completely soaked with cold sweat.

The pastor walked past him, his steps so light they made no sound. He walked all the way to the front of the pulpit, then slowly sat down on the small steps. He leaned against the pulpit, his hands still covered in blood.

Tujea stared at the bloodstained hands, remaining completely silent. He still didn't understand where the two not-so-short straight swords had gone.

The pastor looked up and smiled at him.

"You probably have many questions for me, Mr. Investigator. And tonight is still long, and my week is completely over. Therefore, I have plenty of time to answer your questions. What do you think?"

"I suggest we start by exchanging names," Tujea said stiffly.

"You're right, sir," the pastor replied with a smile. "My name is Horst, but people prefer to call me pastor. And you?"

"Tujea."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tujea. I hope the Second District of Litatera didn't leave you with too bad an impression; it's a small place, but a very nice one."

"It was quiet; nothing like what happened today has ever occurred in my memory. In fact, Mr. Graham, who is still paying the price, has almost never been to the Second District in the past."

"There's nothing to squeeze out of someone like him here, and his superiors, or rather, his master, wouldn't even look at our meager earnings."

The man who called himself Horst clasped his hands together, making a crisp sound.

"So they came for you." His eyes were fixed on Tujea. "Do you know why?"

If only I had known.

Tujea licked his lips before answering his question in a hoarse voice.

"No, I don't know the reason, and I don't understand why a nobleman would publicly target an investigator. Regardless of who gave the order, this already constitutes treason."

"I know," Horst said.

Tujea's cheek twitched.

"I know why," Horst repeated, supporting himself on his knees as he slowly stood up.

Seeing him like this, Tujea had absolutely no idea how he had managed to kill all those people. Even if that number of people were converted into mindless undead, with just two swords, it would take at least two Terra to kill them.

Horst stretched his back and walked over to a small booklet that had been tossed on the floor. He bent down to pick it up and walked toward Tujea.

Just like last time, he stuffed the booklet into Tujea's hands. Strangely, the blood on his hands, which had not yet completely congealed, did not leave any trace on the booklet.

"Turn to the second page," the priest said, taking two steps back.

Tujea did as instructed. He turned to the second page and immediately saw a line of small, blood-red text.

All who believe in Him and cherish Him will perish by His blade.

Tujea raised his head and asked, "What does this mean?"

"That means someone like me is destined to die by another blade," Horst replied with a smile. "That's the first question I've answered for you tonight, Mr. Tujea."

But I didn't ask any questions.

"You've written it all over your face, I can see it. You want to know how I killed those people, and now you know. At least you have part of the answer."

Tujea took a deep breath, once again using this action to alleviate his oxygen addiction symptoms, but Horst spoke before he could.

"Then, the second question," the pastor said, his smile fading. "You want to know the truth about this church, and about my identity, don't you?"

Tujea didn't speak, but remained silent. He clenched his right fist tightly, then released it. The crumpled paper fell to the ground and was quickly blown away by the breeze, drifting to who-knows-where. Immediately afterwards, he reached into his coat pocket and grasped his gun.

The bullets had been replaced; he suspected Gore had done it. He would thank her for it, but he wasn't sure if the bullets would be of any use to the thing in front of him. So, that thank you would probably have to go to his grave.

"Mr. Tujea?" Horst looked at him inquisitively, his eyes unblinking. "What are you going to do?"

Tujea suddenly realized that he hadn't blinked, not even once.

He tensed all his muscles and said slowly, "What I do depends on your next answer, Pastor."

What kind of --

"--I'm the one asking the question!" Tujea shouted, drawing his gun.

Horst smiled, a smile full of approval. He raised his hands, took another step back, and gestured his agreement.

"Okay, go ahead and ask," he said.

Are you loyal?

"Yes," Horst replied immediately. "I am completely loyal to the Emperor, the Imperium, and humanity."

Who are you?

"Horst Endroe, a low-ranking priest of the Ecclesiarchy," the priest readily replied.

"What right does a priest have to kill them all?"

"I have already answered that question, Mr. Tujea. I am His believer, therefore I will surely die by the sword."

"Who is He?" Tujea asked.

This time, the pastor did not answer immediately.

His face gradually calmed down, his smile and anger carried away by the passing cold wind. The muscles that made up his expressions slowly lost their activity, turning his ordinary face into a stiff, lifeless mask.

The flickering candlelight cast a deep, dark glow on his eyes. A candlestick burned behind him, yet his Shadow appeared as tiny as a pinhead at his feet.

Tujea's heartbeat quickened little by little—no, perhaps that's not quite right. It wasn't that it quickened, but rather that it gradually approached its limit.

He felt dizzy, his ears filled with the sound of his heartbeat, and an immense pressure, seemingly from nowhere, surged through his brain, straining his vision and causing his eyes to blur.

Pain returned to his abdomen and right shoulder; the stitches had probably come undone. He didn't know how good Horst's stitching skills were, but judging from his superb butchering skills, his medical skills were probably not far off either.

But it was no use; blood quickly stained the bandages and his clothes, then began to slide down the rough fabric of his coat and shatter on the ground.

Tujea gripped his gun tightly, struggling to place his thumb on the hammer. He tried several times before he finally managed to lower the hammer.

He didn't ask any questions; he no longer had the energy to speak. But he didn't need to; everything was contained in his eyes.

Those hungry green eyes were fixed intently on Horst's lifeless face, trying to find an answer.

He received an answer that would allow him to find peace.

Horst opened his mouth and uttered a string of hissing, strange words.

At that moment, a deafening roar of thunder suddenly resounded in Tujea's ears.

He collapsed to the ground, unable to hear anything more. His gun flew from his hand, sliding a long distance across the paving stones. Intense pain overwhelmed him like a tidal wave, but Tujea could only think of his gun.

This will definitely leave scratches, he thought regretfully.

--

"He's brave. But it's really funny," Horst said.

"What's so interesting?" another person asked, their voice icy.

Horst crossed his arms dismissively, leaned against the wall of the church bell tower, and shrugged. The night breeze carried away the stench of blood.

"What else could it be? Just marveling at this series of coincidences."

"What coincidence?" the man asked again.

"Really? Are you really going to keep asking questions you already know the answer to?" Horst asked.

With a chilling laugh, a giant emerged from the darkness.

He wore a set of exquisite Power Armour, predominantly black, with deliberately left-out silver lightning bolts that seemed to pulsate with life, making them extremely conspicuous. A bright yellow, ferocious bat wing reflected the night on his left shoulder armor, while a black, blood-stained blade was engraved on his right shoulder armor.

"There are never true coincidences, Horst," the giant said. "This fragment had lived peacefully under your watch for eleven years, yet it came to life the very moment this investigator set foot on Litatera."

"And then there are those who relentlessly pursue him, who know his every move," Horst said, narrowing his eyes.

He seemed to have something left unsaid, but the giant shook his head, fully aware of what he was hiding.

"We came as soon as you sent the signal. And now, we remain in the shadows."

As he spoke, he retreated back into the darkness.

"Keep watching, Horst. Let that investigator find out for himself; he deserves to know the truth. Besides, I don't want to alert him."

"Suit yourself, sir," Horst said.

No answer came from the darkness.

Horst didn't seem to care; he simply gazed into the distance and raised his right hand, waiting.

As the first light appeared on the horizon of Litatera, he waved his hand and rang the great bell. The heavy chime drifted away with the rising dawn, spreading through the low-lying buildings and announcing the dawn of the next day.

Outside the church, there were no more bodies left.

Horst lowered his head, released his right hand, and a gray piece of paper that had once been used to wrap candy trembled slightly in his hand. In the morning light, he could clearly see the line of crudely printed words.

The Radiance of dawn is a gift from the Emperor; without Him, humanity would be forever shrouded in darkness. Remember this, citizens!