The Shattering of the Twenty-Five Idols, the Resurrection of the Dead (10)

Perturabo walked calmly into a cemetery, or rather, a steel jungle.

Malcador followed closely behind, his scepter shining like a torch, illuminating the surrounding darkness. One after another, iron coffins cast from steel surrounded them. As far as the eye could see, there was no end in sight, and no one knew how many people were buried here.

Perhaps the Lord of Iron knew, but he never revealed this number to anyone, not even Rogal Dorn, and he never got the answer to this question from him.

They walked in silence, their robes trailing on the ground. One man walked barefoot on the cold steel, his footsteps echoing dully. The other, though wearing boots, made no sound, as if he didn't exist at all.

Finally, they stopped before a coffin that had been welded shut. Judging from its size, it was clearly intended for the Astartes. Malcador unnecessarily lowered his scepter slightly, letting the firelight illuminate the coffin.

A crude Imperial Aquila appeared, along with the chapter insignia of the Iron Monument Chapter, which resembled a tombstone. Below them was a name.

Malcador read it aloud.

"Sebarus."

"It's Garviel Loken," Perturabo replied, arms crossed. "It's just a crude alias; I have no intention of hiding his true identity from anyone."

"But you made him the first chapter Chapter Master of an Iron Warriors sub-corps."

"Isn't he?" Perturabo retorted with a sneer. "Garviel Loken was dutiful, and so was Sebarus."

"He led his brothers in relentless battles across the galaxy, participating in 679 wars, large and small, during his service, protecting 226 precious Imperial World. Countless lives were saved because of him. In every respect, he deserves the title of Chapter Master."

Malcador noncommittally released his scepter, which, though unsupported, strangely maintained its balance and stood upright on the ground.

Immediately afterwards, the burning flame detached from the top of the staff, floated up, and landed in Malcador's outstretched right palm.

Perturabo frowned, his expression suddenly turning somewhat displeased—by his standards, this level of displeasure was enough to frighten a large number of people.

"The same old psionic trick again?" the Lord of Iron asked.

"No."

Malcador responded in an ancient language, and a slight daze appeared on his overly young face. Then, he placed his right hand on the coffin, and the burning flames disappeared into it, never to be seen again.

As Perturabo watched this scene, the wrinkles between his brows deepened, and he looked as if he might explode in anger at any moment.

"You'd better explain to me what you're doing, Malcador."

With a warning tone, the Lord of Iron lowered his hands and instead put them behind his back. He raised his chin seemingly arrogantly, but what his eyes revealed Malcador.

If he could still perfectly express this emotion, he would probably be laughing out loud right now, but alas, he has lost that ability.

So he simply shook his head.

"The psychic tricks you speak of can resurrect the dead, but throughout history, only one person has ever been able to do so. And that person is not me; I am far from possessing that skill and extraordinary willpower. Besides, he can no longer do such a thing."

In response to his answer, Perturabo remained completely silent, his hands clenched tightly behind his back. After a long while, he finally spoke slowly, his voice becoming very low.

"How has he been lately?"

"Half-dead," Malcador said with unusual calm.

"Please elaborate."

"He couldn't afford to be distracted, or even respond to the endless stream of people coming to their deaths. He had to be completely focused to maintain control of the deity's body. Its power had been steadily increasing over the past ten thousand years."

Perturabo nodded slightly and said nothing more. His face was completely hidden in darkness, and his left hand, crafted by Ferrus Manus, and his right hand, crafted by Vulkan, were locked, limiting their power output.

Otherwise, his emotions might affect the stability of the two prosthetic limbs, forcing them into combat mode.

From this perspective, his brothers were indeed highly skilled; humans naturally exert themselves unconsciously when emotionally aroused, and their work perfectly replicated this.

In silence, Perturabo unconsciously thought of his brothers.

Aside from Rogal Dorn, they hadn't been in contact with each other for many years. Even in Sanguinius, which was also in the Sol System, Perturabo hadn't seen him for a full century and a half.

As the Imperium's sole Lord Regent, he had long been burdened by political affairs, and due to the special nature of his position, Sanguinius rarely left the Sol System. Even with Malcador's help, he still had to face a vast and complex sea of tasks.

For ten thousand years, every recorded war required his personal oversight. The administrative work that slipped through his and Malcador's fingers alone would have been enough to exhaust hundreds of High Lords to death.

During that meeting, Baal didn't seem to have aged much, and his golden hair was still dazzling. But this was just an illusion. The Lord of Iron knew perfectly well that his brother was only pretending to be him in this past appearance so as not to worry him.

As for the others, news of them would occasionally come back, but most of the time it was just gossip from Rogue Trader.

For example, Ferrus Manus and his warriors destroyed an Orks horde that attempted to invade the Imperium's borders, Lion Eljonsson's angels fought alongside the Space Wolves.

Vulkan and Jaghatai Khan personally led their armies to the edge of Chemos to aid the Emperor's Children in their fight against the forces of the Nurgle Plague. Fulgrim and the Sons of Sanguinius thwarted a bloody massacre perpetrated by the Khorne's army on Baal.

Except for those truly too remote places, Rogue Trader have traversed almost every corner of the Imperium. The Imperium now seems to have returned to an ancient era, relying on traveling merchants to pass messages between each other.

This was incredibly backward, Perturabo had long been dissatisfied with it, yet there was nothing he could do about it.

The Radiance of the Astronomican was still not very bright; most of its Radiance failed to illuminate the darkness within the galaxy today. Instead, it traveled back in time, piercing through millennia, to a war that had long since ended.

Malcador raised his right hand and gently tapped the steel, the dull echo interrupting Perturabo's thoughts and drawing his attention back to the real world. The Sigillites's eyes were incredibly deep, piercing straight to the heart.

He looked at Perturabo as if he fully understood what Peturabo was thinking.

The Lord of Iron looked at him expressionlessly, then crossed his arms and asked, "So, your psychic trick that wasn't a psychic trick actually worked? I told you, Garviel Loken is already dead. Don't tell me you can really bring the dead back to life."

"It wasn't me," Malcador repeated.

He moved his right hand away, and suddenly a rapid breathing sound came from inside the completely sealed coffin. Golden light shone from within, briefly making the steel transparent. A decaying corpse slowly sat up in the golden light, undisturbed by the coffin.

Malcador reached out his right hand again and pulled the corpse out of the coffin. No one knew where he got such strength, that he could pull a corpse much larger than himself.

But that's not the point. The point is that the corpse is rapidly reviving under the golden light.

Perturabo let out a rare sigh. Witnessing such a miracle, his eyes held no joy, only a profound sorrow. Though fleeting, it was genuine. However, he quickly composed himself, stepped forward, and spoke in a deep voice, "Garviel Loken."

The person addressed in that way turned around in confusion, his eyes as clear as a newborn child's. He opened his mouth and uttered indistinct words, as if he had been under deep anesthesia and was not yet fully awake.

Perturabo frowned again, expressing his doubts and dissatisfaction to Malcador with minimal facial expression and body language. But this time, the Sigillites did not offer any explanation; instead, he reached out and grasped his scepter.

He raised it high, and a terrifying, unbearable sound suddenly filled the previously quiet room. A golden light emanated from the top of the scepter once more, landing in Garviel Loken's hand and transforming into a sword that seemed to be burning.

Immediately following was another dazzling Radiance, thousands or even tens of thousands of times more intense. Even the Primarch couldn't help but squint, trying to block out this terrifying brilliance.

He wanted to keep his eyes fixed on the sun, but the harsh sun told him that he should not look directly at the gods.

Gods

The Lord of Iron gritted his teeth.

Thirteen seconds later, the light faded, and everything subsided, except for Garviel Loken, who had vanished.

The Sigillites held the seal, kneeling weakly, blood gushing from his seven orifices, clutched his scepter. Perturabo stepped forward and helped him up, asking coldly, "Where did he go?"

Malcador answered him with a strange, unfamiliar, and menacing smile. He said nothing, yet it was as if he had said everything.

--

Samus reluctantly returned to the ship that hadn't welcomed him, using the power of Chaos. When he laboriously threw himself out of the portal that Erebus had temporarily opened, the Soul of Night gave him a second welcome.

Compared to the first time, this time it seemed even more violent. The broken pipes flew up all at once, transforming into countless real sharp knives in the thick fog, rushing towards it.

At the same time, the ground beneath its feet also deformed. The once solid steel deck suddenly turned into a muddy swamp, completely swallowing up half of Samus's body.

Faced with such a terrifying offensive, the Daemon seemed somewhat listless. It raised its now-recovered right claw and blocked all the sharp blades. They made it bleed a little, and that was the only thing they could do.

Apart from that, Samus was completely unharmed.

It braced itself with its hands and forcibly pulled its body out of the swamp of steel. Its entire body was badly burned, and flesh was falling off one after another, but it seemed oblivious to the damage and just kept walking forward, stumbling along.

Its sense of smell has always been very keen; as early as ten thousand years ago, it had already smelled what was happening today and witnessed the battle between Shen and Erebus.

Samus had gone to great lengths to get himself involved, but now he was forced to leave that place, all for a single drop of foolish blood.

It could smell the blood, and that's why it was so angry.

Just for a drop of blood? Just for that? Erebus, you stupid scum.

The Daemon grinned angrily, biting off a large chunk of the steel blocking its path, and began to chew it. Its teeth easily pulverized the alloy, eventually swallowing it whole without a trace of discomfort.

The cold winds blowing across the dark deck grew even stronger, Soul of Night roared silently as its plasma engines began to operate at an even more frenzied power, striving to reach Litatera's near-Earth orbit as quickly as possible.

Samus didn't know what the Soul of Night was up to, but he could vaguely sense its anger. The Daemon pondered for a few seconds, then suddenly let out a cold laugh.

"How about we make a deal?" it asked the darkness.

The wind still blows.

"I'll give you... uh, coordinates? Yes, coordinates. I'll give you the coordinates; the enemy you're dealing with is there. Precise coordinates, understand?"

"With it, you can launch your ridiculous airborne pods at pinpoints to precisely strike the enemy who's fighting Shen. What do you say?"

Darkness surged, and countless shadowy Shadow appeared within the layers of mist. Samus saw this, and a hint of caution appeared on the beast's head. It subtly took a half step back, its iron-whip-like tail sweeping across the ground.

"I have only one request," the Daemon said slowly but very seriously. "I want you to send me down with you. I must be present for that battle."

The Shadow did not answer it, but the mist continued to spread. Samus remained unperturbed, even letting out a low chuckle, "Believe me, I have absolutely no interest in that so-called ritual and bloodshed. My goal has always been very clear."

In the silence of the Shadow, the mist surged again, and a few seconds later, it enveloped Samus. The Daemon did not resist, and with a strong tearing sensation, it appeared inside a drop pod, filling it to the brim.

Samus turned its beastly eyes, looked around for a moment, and then grinned again.

It immediately emitted a coordinate, and then, amidst extremely intense tremors, a drop pod bearing the insignia of the Shadow Knights Chapter preempted all the preparing Shadow Knights and entered Litatera's near-Earth orbit and atmosphere.

No one knew that inside was a genuine Daemon, laughing maniacally. It laughed at its own simple and crude plan; without a doubt, it was a perfect betrayal.

Isn't it more fun when things are done on a whim?

Its chaotic nature found immense satisfaction in the friction of the drop pod, and Samus was already eagerly anticipating seeing Erebus's expression when he saw it again.

What it didn't know was that behind the drop pod, a golden light was closely following it, like a persistent, lingering ailment.

--

Tujea reached out and grasped the Radiance fragment, then took it out of his pocket, bewildered and confused.

This seemingly insignificant action awakened a hidden power within the fragments, and darkness swept in. The world before Tujea's eyes began to crumble, the shimmering crimson cracks like grotesque wounds tearing Horst's cabin to shreds.

Instead, there was a desolate, pale wasteland.

The sky was dark and the clouds churned, as if the end of the world had come. The pale white on the ground was made of ashes, which drifted in the howling wind and formed one fleeting spiral after another.

Tujea stared at the world with taut tension, instinctively reaching up with his right hand to reach into his pocket and grasp his gun. However, a cold hand silently reached out from behind and grabbed his wrist.

Tujea shuddered violently and immediately turned around, but saw no Shadow. When he came to his senses, the fragment in his hand had completely disappeared, and there was no one around.

Seeing this, Tujea felt little fear, but rather a surge of cold anger.

He gritted his teeth, pulled out his gun, and fired a shot into the sky. As if in response, a sudden gust of wind arose, almost blinding him. The hem of his coat fluttered wildly in the wind, and his hat had long since flown away.

Tujea was too lazy to look anymore; he just covered his eyes with his hand and shouted into the wind.

Give it back!

A voice suddenly appeared and asked, "Why?"

The gale suddenly stopped.

Tujea stood stiffly with his back to the direction the voice came from, slowly lowering the hammer to the floor. His back was inexplicably drenched in cold sweat, and his willpower was teetering on the brink of collapse. That voice...

He had never heard such a voice before; no human could ever speak like that. Every word sounded like the howl of the dead, yet incredibly gentle. His sanity was being tested, but Tujea managed to calm himself down.

He had to thank those cheap organic candies for this. The tart taste of the last candy he ate still lingered on his taste buds, reminding him what he should be doing now.

Tujea slowly turned around, gripping his gun tightly, and spoke without blinking, "Because—"

Suddenly, he couldn't say anything.

A giant wearing a crown as bright as moonlight calmly looked at him, his hands behind his back, fragments floating in front of him. A shadowy cloak moved behind him without wind, shimmering like black silk or a river.

Tujea stared at him blankly, all his thoughts completely stripped away.

The giant sighed, then turned his head to complain to his cloak, "Look, this is one of the prices I've paid. I can't even talk to people properly anymore. Why don't you try communicating with him, Laerhe?"

The cloak frantically transmitted a thought, which was actually a refusal.

"Why?" the giant asked in surprise, and then he received an answer that made him both laugh and cry— the Daemon named Laerhe actually thought that the man's dirty clothes were not worthy of it.

Sighing, Konrad Curze Curze ignored its protests, reached out and ripped it off, then threw it at Tujea. The poor investigator, bewildered, had the cloak covering his face, and fell backward to the ground, motionless, as if already dead.

Curze couldn't help but burst into laughter; in just a short while, he already had three or four jokes to tell.

Over these ten thousand years, he has accumulated quite a few jokes.

The Night Haunter raised his right hand, gently grasped the fragment floating before him, and softly responded to its call.

"I'm right here," he said. "Father."

Meanwhile, in a distant and silent darkness, a person opened their eyes.