20. Statues Shattered, the Dead Revived (V, 11,000...
Jago Sevatarion slowly rose from his chair and braced himself against the desk with his hands.
It perfectly withstood his weight and the pressure applied, and the lightning patterns that were originally flickering on its surface suddenly bloomed under that pressure.
He wore a finely crafted Power Armour, with traces of Nostraman Adamantium Mines dancing on it. They should have just been another pattern, but now they had suddenly changed color.
A crimson red, like fresh blood, began to spread from the inside of the armor, completely altering the patterns and making them resemble exposed veins or cruel marks left by swords and axes.
"What did you say?" he asked.
The person standing opposite him silently took off his helmet.
He had a disfigured face; the scars left by extensive burns had completely destroyed any handsome features his face could have possessed. His left eye had been replaced with a prosthetic eye, and half a metal plate was embedded in his forehead, gleaming silver beneath his disheveled hair, making him look utterly ferocious.
"Say it again," Jago Sevatarion said.
His hands had left the desk, and the lines on the desk abruptly disappeared. The room was plunged into darkness once more, but Sevatarion's dark eyes gleamed with a light that was a kind of savagery being desperately restrained by reason.
If one hadn't witnessed it with their own eyes, it would be hard to believe that a human being could possess such a terrifying bloodlust.
The messenger, forced to bring bad news, clearly captured the scene, and so he stood as straight as he could.
"The Blood Crusader have reported that they have encountered a materialized Warp Storm."
Sevatar closed his eyes, then slowly opened them again, and said, "Get me a head."
The messenger nodded and left the office almost at breakneck speed. Ten minutes later, accompanied by a Librarian, he returned with a skull presented in a dark wooden box.
Judging by appearance alone, this head must have once belonged to an Astartes, and a traitor at that. While he was alive, his brain would have been beating within the skull, and his eyes would have remained properly in their dark sockets.
But now, there is no flesh or blood left on this skull.
Not only that, but someone also used what can be described as an art form to carve a scarlet claw gripping a broken skull on its forehead. The carving looks no different from a painting, and the claw part is even frequently touched up with paint.
Sevatar left his desk and, amidst the Librarian's hesitant expression, grabbed the severed head in his hand. He looked like he wanted to roar at it, but the words caught in his throat.
He looked at the Librarian and expressionlessly handed over the skull.
"Contact them," he said, enunciating each word clearly. "I don't care what method you use, Sahir, but I need to get in touch with them within five minutes."
The Librarian named Sahir nodded, took the skull, and said, "With the protection of the Holy Number, this shouldn't be difficult, Chapter Master."
Sevatar looked at him sullenly, said nothing, and simply crossed his arms.
The Librarian was well aware of his terrifying gaze, so he coughed lightly and placed his free hand on the skull.
A faint Radiance of psychic energy began to bloom in his eyes, and in response, two points of pitch-black flames lit up in the empty eye sockets of his skull. Not only that, they even trembled, as if they had suddenly come to life.
Time began to pass, bit by bit, relentlessly. Sahir's expression grew increasingly grave, never relaxing for a moment.
He kept trying, even though five minutes had long passed. If Sevatar hadn't put his hand on his shoulder, he probably would have kept trying.
"Chapter Master, it's me..."
"No need to say more, Sahir, I understand," Sevatar said calmly.
The tyranny in his eyes had completely vanished—or perhaps it was merely concealed, waiting for a moment to erupt.
His composure, to some extent, dispelled Sahir's unease, allowing this young Librarian, widely regarded as extremely talented, to also calm down.
Sahir paused for a moment, carefully considering his words, before cautiously expressing his opinion.
"I've successfully established a connection with the skull, and it responded, but they haven't. There must be something else hidden within that Warp Storm, which is why it's hindering their actions."
"I know," Sevatar said.
He waved for them to leave. The messenger immediately started walking towards the gate, but Sahir stubbornly licked his lips.
He seemed to have something else to say, or perhaps he just wanted to try again, but Sevatar had already turned around and walked to the porthole in the room. Outside the porthole, the dark galaxy opened its arms to him, revealing a cold and malicious embrace.
He remained silent; he was absolutely aware of any movement Sahir made, however subtle it might be.
This is already a blatant rejection.
The young Librarian turned away in frustration, intending to leave, but at that moment, Sevatar spoke, his voice still carrying only calmness.
"Tell Orlak Kataks to prepare all the skulls. And, open Van Cleef's burial site."
Sahir paused for a moment, then quickly grasped the meaning behind those two sentences. Shocked, the young Librarian hurriedly turned and left.
The sound of his and the messenger's footsteps reached Sevatar's ears clearly, even though they had long since left the corridor. The sound persisted and began to gradually distort.
It became monotonous, dull, and empty, as if an old clock were clockwise performing its work precisely on time.
Sevatar clenched his fists and exhaled a breath of frigid air. It was so cold it didn't seem like the air coming from the lungs of three living superhumans, but rather from the deepest abyss of extreme cold, from the place where all nightmares ended.
He turned around, and the expression on his face finally changed. The tyranny and calm had vanished without a trace, leaving only pure and primal pain.
This wasn't an emotion he— Jago Sevatarion —would normally express, but it was true; he was indeed in immense pain.
This feeling originated from his very bones; it was incurable, unstoppable, and the pain could not be alleviated even slightly. It was a truly deep-seated, intractable disease.
As long as Sevatar remains alive and the spell Fell Fer left on him is not lifted, this torment will continue forever.
The bells continued to toll, but Sevatar waited patiently.
This was certainly not his first time dealing with it; he had long since learned to despise pain, and nothing could push him off the path he had chosen. Even this terrifying feeling of every bone and muscle fiber being gnawed and hacked could not stop him.
His determination somewhat affected the duration of the pain; after fifteen minutes, Sevatar slowly straightened up.
A massive amount of hot steam, formed from sweat, rose slowly from the gaps in his armor, obscuring his face, leaving only a pair of cold eyes that cruelly gleamed.
Ten thousand years have passed just like that. Regardless of the stagnant Imperium and the legions that were renamed Chapter and split up to better defend the Imperium's territory, even he himself has undergone tremendous changes.
He became more patient, more peaceful, and calmer, and even began to unconsciously use the tone of an elder or superior when speaking to others.
However, these are all just appearances; the real Jago Sevatarion exists eternally beneath this surface. Only at certain times will he surface and easily replace the current peaceful and wise ruler.
Sevatar exhaled a breath of stale air, twisted his neck, returned to his desk, and began to organize some parchment scrolls of records that he had been reading.
These are all valuable documents stored inside Night Lords. If they were put together, these stacks of paper, which would reach about 1.5 meters in height, could be summarized into an encyclopedia specifically for Erebus.
The personality analysis alone amounted to hundreds of thousands of words, and it's worth mentioning that it was mostly written by Sevatar.
The extent of his murderous intent towards Erebus can perhaps be glimpsed from this incident.
A few minutes later, Sevatar left the office that had been used by three people. The world outside the heavy door was no longer as it had been, with at least a sliver of light, but rather a completely silent darkness.
The howling wind came from the end of the corridor. Sevatar, expressionless, punched the gust of wind away, as if to greet the Nightfall.
He walked to the Librarian's location, the Night Lords Third Company's base, a journey that didn't take long. As he had said, the Librarian were already there, ready to go.
The Chief Librarian Orlak Kataks, stood with his hands folded in front of him, seemingly having been waiting for some time. Behind him stood the clerk, Namral, and four other Librarian.
Apart from the young Sahir, the other three Librarian were all veterans who had served for over three centuries. Sevatar nodded and greeted them one by one, subtly assessing them in their salutes.
Within Night Lords, the Librarian are not like most veterans who can serve indefinitely as long as they don't "die."
Strangely enough, they do have a peculiar "expiration date"—once that period is over, they will never return.
However, the world is always cruel. Despite this misfortune, it still prepared another blow for them—they themselves had no way of knowing when this deadline would actually arrive.
Even if we use the service time of Librarian throughout history for statistical planning, it is still extremely difficult to quantify. It can have huge errors ranging from decades to hundreds of years across different Librarian.
For millennia, only Jago Sevatarion could be the bell-ringer who tolled their death knell with unerring precision.
However, it is worth mentioning that, due to certain traditions, Night Lords's Third Company did not serve as a combat Chapter like other chapters that adhere to the Codex Astartes.
Within Night Lords, every company commander of the Third Company also serves as the head of the Chief Librarian Librarian, which is located within the Third Company. Due to this proximity, many new recruits within the Third Company have had their psionic talents discovered and have become Librarian, or potential think Librarian.
Then, you can add Librarian; there can be many.
As long as the seals on them haven't been broken, that's fine.
"The skulls are all ready, Chapter Master," Orlak said with a slight bow.
Behind him was a pentagonal table resembling an altar, with torches bound by iron chains flickering on it. Four skulls were arranged in a row on the table, with only one corner empty.
These skulls originated from the Crimson Claws sub-cluster and are thousands of years old. They were invented by a Librarian to help Night Lords and its sub-clusters maintain communication and interact across the dark galaxy, regardless of distance.
However, these skulls were far more dangerous than the methods of communication used by those Vindicators, and for this reason, they were carefully preserved within the Night Haunter's offspring and never circulated.
"Very good." Sevatar gave a cold approval. "You're always so reliable, Orlak. I think your apprentice has already informed you why I'm here and what happened in my office, so I won't repeat myself. You can start contacting them now."
"All of them, Chapter Master?"
"All of them," Sevatar said. "Crimson Claws, Blade of Judgement, Shadow Knights, Soul Hunters— I'll interrogate it. You can keep trying until I'm done."
"I understand," Orlak said.
His face, illuminated by the torchlight, appeared almost transparently pale, with bluish veins visible beneath, like buried treasure.
Due to his long-term use of psychic powers, his eyes had changed from the characteristic jet black of the Nostramo to a rare, tempered blue, reflecting the firelight and giving their owner boundless composure.
Sevatar smiled slightly at him, then stepped into a dark iron gate and entered the depths of the Third Company's base.
In the dim light, many people immediately noticed his presence. Despite repeated warnings about the unnecessary formalities, they still bowed or saluted, much to Sevatar's dismay that they would have followed his lead and simply offered a nod in greeting.
He responded to them one by one with a sense of helplessness, and finally, under the company flag of the Third Company, he walked toward two fully armed Terminator veterans.
They stood at the entrance to a deep cave corridor, their shoulder armor trimmed with gold, the Night Lords emblem engraved on their left shoulder, and the company insignia on their right shoulder—a jet-black, seemingly roaring Raptor head, its dark red Radiance quietly blooming in its eyes.
"He will return," Sevatar said.
"He did too." The two veterans answered in unison, raised their hands, gripped their chainsaws, and performed an Aquila Salute before stepping aside.
Sevatar stepped into the cave, and strangely enough, the moment he stepped inside, all the sounds disappeared, leaving only the sound of his own footsteps, as if he had entered another world.
The ground here is not made of steel, but of a clear and transparent material like glass. Although it appears dark and black from the outside, once you enter, it naturally emits a hazy blue light.
Sevatar continued deeper into the area, expressionless, completely oblivious to the wondrous colors refracted by the light. This prompted the other inhabitant of the place to express its displeasure.
"What happened to my previous jailers, dear Jago? What did you do to them?" it asked.
Its voice was soft and kind, like that of a wise old man who had seen the world. Sevatar, however, gave a cold laugh and scoffed at its words.
"They went where they were supposed to go, to slaughter your own kind, and to undermine your master's power, Kairos."
The creature named Kairos ignored his taunts and simply began to laugh loudly and raucously.
"You're still treating your brother like a expendable coin, Jago!"
"You're a heartless madman! I thought five jailers would be enough to satisfy you, but who knew you would go so far as to turn all those talented people into patients like yourself, suffering in agony?"
"Is this some kind of internal tradition? If Fer Zalost knew this in the afterlife, he would surely be pleased!"
Sevatar finally stopped, his eyes blazing with fury, but he didn't fully reveal it. Instead, he drew a short knife from his waist and threw it.
It sliced through the air, penetrated deeply into a body, and finally pinned it to the wall. But instead of bleeding from the wounded body, it expelled a pale, sand-like substance.
Kairos screamed.
Yes! You want to kill me! So hurry up and do it!
Sevatar stared coldly at it, slowly approached, raised his hands, and placed them on its wound. His sharp fingers pierced deep into its feathers, digging inwards to pull out more grit.
Kairos struggled madly, his blue feathers flying everywhere, and the avian eyes covering his body blinked in unison. However, upon closer inspection, it would be discovered that most of them were completely decayed.
Not only that, it even lost its head.
No, never.
Sevatar whispered softly in its ear.
"Don't even think about it, Kairos. You won't die unless he comes back and kills you himself. Until then, you won't die, you'll just suffer."
The Greater Daemon Tzeentch known as the Weaver of Fates howled and raised its head, but the chains binding it suddenly burst into black flames. Sevatar looked up and saw a heart located in the ceiling, sealed inside a crystal dome and suspended by iron hooks, beating slowly.
That heart came from former First Company Van Cleef.
He briefly appeared in the material world 2,700 years ago, shattering a demonic army's offensive to annihilate Night Lords and capturing the Weaver of Fate on the spot. Since then, this Daemon has been locked inside the Nightfall, enduring endless torment.
Its flesh and blood had turned into that kind of sand. Whenever it was about to reach the state of "death," which belongs only to the living in the material world, that sand would return into its body, allowing it to regain its full glory and face a new round of torment.
Not only that, Van Cleef even permanently destroyed one of its heads. Now, the Weaver of Fate can only speak the truth and can only see the future.
As for that heart
Sevatar squinted, directing his gaze back to Kairos.
This Greater Daemon, much larger than him, had lost all its former glory. It relied on scheming and magic to survive, but these things had no effect on the Night Lords —once, someone had sworn a vow of Vengeance against it.
He vowed to begin hunting it at a certain moment and continue until the end of time, until it died.
This oath has not yet been fulfilled, nor has it been broken. The Night Lords have been blessed with another power, enabling them to ignore all of Kairos's disguises and deceptions. Even the simplest psychological manipulations have no effect on them.
Moreover, the person standing here at this moment is Jago Sevatarion.
Kairos lowered his remaining head in despair and asked, "What do you want to know this time?"
Sevatar laughed, and with a mocking gesture, reached out and took the dagger from inside its wing. She then wiped the sand off its body before sheathing it.
"You've always known that trying to provoke me will have no consequences; your death can only be brought upon you by him. So why do you do it every time? What? Have you switched allegiance to another master and started enjoying the so-called pleasure that pain brings?"
"Ask me a question!" Kairos screamed again. "You cursed bastard, scum, pathetic wretch! Ask me a question and get out!"
Sevatar couldn't help but laugh out loud, a truly unrestrained laugh, but one that was also genuinely happy. Don't get me wrong, he was certainly not a sadist, at least not most of the time.
But why wouldn't he be happy to witness a Daemon going berserk? However, he didn't neglect his business; after laughing, he immediately began asking questions.
Tell me about Erebus.
He posed the question simply and directly, and received another scream.
"I told you long ago, I cannot see any future related to him! The gods have veiled him; I cannot see even a Shadow of him!"
Sevatar shook his head with disdain, and amidst Kairos's angry panting, he asked again, "Then tell me about the Crimson Claws."
Kairos trembled reluctantly, but after a few seconds, he answered Sevatar's question quite fluently.
"They are facing an attack orchestrated by the Black Legion and the Word Bearers. Using eighteen burning worlds, they summoned a Warp Storm in the path of the Crimson Claws and then boarded them."
"The number of people who boarded was not large, and most of them were just new recruits. However, their armor had been pre-planted with bombs, which would detonate as soon as they boarded and engaged the enemy."
"Your brothers are engaged in a fierce battle; they are trying to break out, hoping to escape the attack and arrive as soon as possible to answer your call."
Kairos suddenly burst into laughter.
"But they can't do it anymore!" it roared contentedly. "Just like you! Jago Sevatarion, the longest-living wretched worm! You're destined to watch these people die helplessly!"
Sevatar took a step back, staring at it coldly without saying a word or showing even the slightest emotional fluctuation.
A few seconds later, he asked again, "Does 'can't do it' mean you can't get here sooner, or that you can't break through successfully?"
Kairos's laughter abruptly ceased, and it struggled painfully, the inability to Deceit causing its Daemon instincts to backfire and consume its soul. Ultimately, it answered Sevatar's question.
"It means they couldn't arrive as soon as possible."
It spat out a mouthful of sand, then angrily raised its foot and began to stomp on them, before roaring again, "I've said everything! Now you can get lost!"
"Don't rush, we're not finished yet."
Sevatar sneered as she stepped on its bird claws, slowly applying pressure and then grinding it back and forth. The Daemon immediately screamed in agony, as if enduring unbearable pain.
This was all thanks to Orlak, who was performing a ritual outside; his talent was indeed exceptional. With his help, the pain was amplified in Kairos, allowing Sevatar to begin an interrogation using only the simplest methods.
Kairos was completely powerless to do anything about it; it could neither resist, nor die, nor even lie. For it, this was probably only slightly more terrifying than learning that Karyl Lohars was about to return.
"What else do you want to know?" Kairos pleaded. "Just tell me, and then get out of here."
"Tell me, what's happening on Litatera right now?" Sevatar asked.
Kairos's body trembled again, and this time it lasted longer than any time in Sevatar's memory.
He had interrogated Kairos many times, and each time he had learned some information that was crucial to the Imperium. For example, the arrival of the insects, the assassination of the current Imperial Regent Sanguinius, or the Orks wave not far from Caliban.
All this information was given to him by Kairos. Therefore, Sevatar could say that if it weren't for Kairos, the Imperium might be in a much worse state now.
Subsequently, after the matter was reported to the Sigillites, Malcador, the perception of this Daemon within the Imperium quietly shifted.
The initial resolve shifted from wanting it to kill it to ensuring its survival and imprisonment on the Nightfall.
It's ironic, but also incredibly humorous; at least, Sevatar can't help but laugh out loud every time he thinks about it.
He really wanted to tell this joke to some people he used to know. He knew they would laugh hysterically, then pat him on the shoulder and tell him they'd beat him to a pulp if he said that again.
Sevatar suppressed his weakness, burying that fleeting glimpse of humanity deep within his heart, and looked at Kairos.
As he expected, the Weaver of Fate screamed and burst into flames after a violent tremor, its body ablaze with the blue flames unique to the Tzeentch.
Sevatar stepped back again, coldly observing its suffering, and smiled as she crossed her arms. Nine minutes later, the torture finally ended, but the Weaver of Fate appeared increasingly desperate.
That burst of flames was Tzeentch's punishment, and if even Tzeentch couldn't make it escape from this situation...
It lowered its head without saying a word, remained silent for a long time, and then spoke, "I can't see anything about Litatera."
"I see." Sevatar grinned and nodded gently at it. "Thank you for your help, Kairos. See you next time."
He turned and left the cave, his heart skipping a beat as flames flashed above his head. Ten minutes later, he returned to the Librarian's location, where Orlak Kataks was working with a furrowed brow.
However, upon seeing Sevatar return, he immediately stopped calling out.
Sevatar glanced at the skulls and asked, "How are they?"
Orlak shook his head wearily and said, "Crimson Claws and Shadow Knights didn't answer, Blade of Judgement is close, and Soul Hunters says they need a little more time."
"Very good," said Sevatar.
Aside from that, he said nothing more, simply turned and left, leaving the Librarian with a cold yet highly convincing back view.
--
For a long time, Shen Du has followed a principle he set for himself. He has followed it and lived through these long years. There are always some people who have to choose to be the foundation and bear everything.
Shen had seen many such people before. He knew he didn't have that ability, but he was still willing to try. With this unconscious courage, he endured everything and persevered to this day.
Will today be the end?
Shen raised his head from his cell and looked at the ceiling, which was covered with ashes. Over the years, it had been completely changed, becoming a grayish-white expanse made of his own ashes.
Logically, he shouldn't be able to see anything else in the outside world through them. However, the Soul of Night is no longer the Retribution-class Battleship it once was, or rather, it's more than just a warship.
It now possesses another talent: the ability to respond to Shen's requests.
In fact, it's any requirement.
For example, at this moment, Shen wanted to see the outside world, so the Soul of Night responded to his request amidst violent turbulence and vibration, allowing him to see the outside world, a burning planet, and an Abyss-class warship that was disintegrating.
Shen recognized it at first glance. Before he entered this place, he had seen this ship twice. Each time was unforgettable. The Abyss-class's powerful firepower was something that ordinary ships could not withstand, not even the Retribution-class Battleship.
Unless a great creation like the Emperor's Dream or the Phalanx comes in person, the Abyss-class is practically synonymous with invincibility in the physical universe.
But those two warships hadn't left the Sol System for ten thousand years; they had to remain stationed there, constantly on guard against attacks from the demon army and traitors. Yet, at this very moment, these powerful ships were disintegrating on their own.
Its figurehead was burning, its deck was shattering, and its crew screamed silently in space, dying from lack of oxygen and extreme cold.
Shen turned his gaze to the blasphemous Eight-Pointed Star figurehead, then suddenly opened his mouth and uttered a Nostraman.
Its meaning is explosion.
One of the Eight-Pointed Star immediately responded to his request; in the firelight, the figurehead exploded, tearing a sizable gash in the warship.
The main bridge was even exposed to a vacuum, and countless Chaos Cultist began to desperately call for air in the vacuum, but Shen felt no pleasure whatsoever.
He didn't see what he wanted to see, such as Astartes in scarlet armor, or Erebus.
They didn't seem to be on this ship. That is to say, the culprit that caused the Soul of Night's violent rocking and damage to its hull was not it. Shen turned his gaze to the other end of the Soul of Night and indeed saw another Abyss-class, named Chaos Wave, on the dark side of the Litatera.
"That's quite a grand gesture," Shen Qingyan murmured. "They've deployed an Abyss-class warship as bait, and then set up another one. Two out of the three are here; will the last one be absent?"
He couldn't help but laugh, surprisingly calmly. A few minutes later, the door to his cell was opened again, and Kaul Sahora walked in with a serious expression.
"We're being sniped from a distance. The Void Shield has already been hit twice. According to Captain Saraf's calculations, a third hit will definitely damage the ship itself. What should we do, Shen?"
"Wait."
"Wait for what?"
"Wait for me," Shen replied.
Then, his feet slowly touched the ground. Kaul stared wide-eyed in astonishment, but before he could say anything, Shen waved his hand, signaling him to be quiet for the moment.
He spoke to Kaul with a face full of apology.
"Something has come aboard, Kaul. It's coming for me, and ten thousand years have passed, yet this hasn't changed at all."
"Is it it?" the current Chapter Master of the Shadow Knights asked quickly.
"Yes," Shen nodded gently. "But I demand that you not participate in this battle. I can sense its presence and what it brings. Its target is clear; it's already heading towards the ceremony site. If I don't appear, it will kill our sergeant."
"I'll set up defenses immediately," Kaul replied quickly. "We know how to deal with it, hurry—"
He anxiously extended his hand, even momentarily using the formal "you" in his address. This was certainly not meant as sarcasm, but simply because he was so anxious that he forgot how to face Shen, or perhaps, this was his true attitude towards Shen.
Looking at him, Shen shook his head with a sigh.
Ultimately, they are just my juniors, brothers, but more than anything, they are still just my juniors. How long will it take for them to understand that I will eventually leave, given their attitude towards me?
"--No need." Shen grasped his outstretched hand. "The time has come."
"But," Kaul took a deep breath, trying to argue, "We've driven it away many times, and this time is no exception! You really don't need to do this."
"Why would I leave my prison if it weren't necessary?" Shen calmly retorted. "I've been here for nearly ten thousand years, waiting for their return. Now, I'm just one step away from achieving one of my goals. Why should I extinguish my hope at this moment?"
He sighed softly, releasing Kaul's hand with a composure that Shen from ten thousand years ago would never have possessed, and then raised his arms.
"I'm heartbroken," Shen said softly. "Can't you tell, Kaul?"
Black flames ignited.
At the same time, a violent, excited roar, barely concealed by any attempt to suppress it, swept across the entire Soul of Night, carried by the power of Chaos.
"Shen!" Samus roared with maniacal laughter. "I've come to grant you the death of a hero!"
--
005. M40, Shattered Terra, Iron Fortress.
Two people were talking in the darkness. One voice was young, but it was filled with an overwhelming sense of age and melancholy, as if an extremely old soul resided within it.
The other person's voice sounded rather strange, as if he were talking to someone through something; his voice was not only muffled but also very weak. The two people conversing here were named Malcador and Perturabo.
They gazed at each other from afar, separated by a thick pane of glass.
"Are you sure he can come back?" Perturabo asked.
The once mighty Lord of Iron now floats in a pool of golden nutrient solution, his hands and right leg vanished below the elbows.
He has a deep scar on his right cheek that almost spreads to his left cheek, and countless other scars on his body. The most obvious one is probably on his chest, where there is a large area of burns.
Strangely enough, the burn marks, when viewed from a certain angle, could perfectly form two tattered eagle wings.
"I hope he can," Malcador said.
His current appearance is completely different from before. He is no longer the gaunt old man in black robes, but a tall and strong young man with silver hair. He is wearing a linen robe, but still holds his signature Aquila staff in his right hand.
A gleaming gold medal was pinned to his chest, signifying the supreme power he was granted, second only to the emperor. Even the Lord Regent Sanguinius could not truly issue any orders to the Sigillites.
However, in the eyes of the public, he was just a young man who wielded enormous power, yet another descendant of the Sigillites who used the name "Malcador".
Yes, to avoid public panic and the unwanted prying eyes of some foolish insects seeking immortality, Malcador fabricated a lie.
It wasn't particularly brilliant, but it was enough to convince the general public and leave officials, nobles, and lords speechless.
Of course, there's nothing more to say; sometimes, there are always people who want to do something.
"What do you want?" Perturabo looked at him coldly from inside the nutrient solution, repeating the word aloud.
He seemed quite disdainful, his hair, which had been growing for some time, dangling and floating, making his gaze appear much more intimidating.
If anyone else were here, they would likely be terrified. But for Malcador, this level of "Perturabo- style" gaze was far less ferocious than the Lord of Iron's previous attacks.
"Yes, I hope so," Malcador said. "Hope is the most beautiful thing in the world, especially when that evil god can no longer control humanity's future. We can cherish hope, look to the future, and look forward to tomorrow."
"If you're just here to spout these clichéd platitudes, then you can go back," Perturabo said with a sneer. "Go back to dealing with your endless political affairs; Rogal Dorn will feel guilty about it."
"You seem to be able to say his name without any hesitation now."
"I fought alongside him for ten thousand years, old man." The Lord of Iron raised his chin arrogantly. "What makes you think I still look down on him?"
Malcador didn't answer that question, perhaps because he didn't know how to respond, or perhaps simply because the soul within that young body was no longer capable of coping with such a strange sight.
The Sigillites remained silent for a few seconds, then suddenly shook his head and said, "I'm not here to discuss this with you. Where is Garviel Loken?"
"He's been buried for a long time," Perturabo said. "Are you so old that you don't even remember that?"
"Of course I remember. He was pierced through the body in the battle with the Daemon Samus. Shen brought his remains back, and you buried them deep within the Iron Fortress in the name of the first chapter Chapter Master of the Iron Monument the Iron Fortress Iron Warriors. But he didn't actually die."
Perturabo frowned sharply.
"Are you crazy, or am I hallucinating?" he asked coldly.
"No, I'm just stating a fact. If you look closely at his coffin, you'll find a mourning poem inscribed in Nostraman. He feigned death, and now, his time to rise again has come; Shen needs his help."
Perturabo looked at him silently for a moment before slowly nodding. "I hope your crazy remark is enough to make me terminate the treatment early."
Inside the enormous glass tank, the nutrient solution suddenly began to drop. Then, the steel floor slowly opened, and several robotic arms rose up.
The prosthetic limb, designed and manufactured by Ferrus Manus and Vulkan, was brought along with them, and the black nerve cables were connected to the pre-drilled holes at the amputation site.
Perturabo lowered his head and clenched his fist. With a satisfied breath, the ground cracked open again, and the glass dome fell into it, disappearing without a trace. The mechanical arms, however, handed him a traditional Olympia garment.
The Lord of Iron calmly dressed him, but suddenly asked, "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Malcador shook his head and said, "I just don't understand why you're unwilling to accept limb regeneration."
"My scars are my honor," Perturabo replied calmly.
He turned and disappeared into the deep darkness. The Sigillites did not immediately follow, but remained where he was, struggling to twitch the corners of his mouth. It was not until several minutes later that he managed a strained smile with his brows furrowed.
He hadn't laughed in so long, not even a polite smile, yet his body shouldn't be resisting so much.
The real reason, perhaps, lies in the endless work, responsibilities, and the ever-present hope of the future.
Together they shaped him into what he is today, diminished his humanity, and caused him pain and torment.
"Malcador," Perturabo called out in the darkness.
The Sigillites gripped his scepter, grunted in acknowledgment, and stepped forward to follow.
He didn't tell anyone about these things.
But only for ten thousand years.