33 Stone Mask

Zel reads frequently, but don't misunderstand, he reads only to find answers to certain questions. It's just that these questions usually can't be explained in detail by other people, so he turns to books.

If someone could solve all the problems he raised in just a few words, Zel would probably only read the highly specialized works of Bellros von Sharp in his entire life.

Unfortunately, such a person did not exist, so Zel gradually read through all the books on the Soul of Night. However, after that, his problems only increased.

The knowledge in the book has indeed solved many problems, that's true. Unfortunately, problems often breed more problems.

Just like now, looking at the person walking in front of him, Zel's thoughts drifted to some distant place that even he himself could not predict.

The archives of the Nightfall many memoirs, some written by the Remembrancers themselves, such as the complete twenty-five volumes of Bellros von Sharp's works, which Jago Sevatarion deemed forbidden. Others were written by the authors themselves.

These memoirs often only record the details of one or two battles, and are more like lengthy, detailed battle reports than books. They vary greatly in style and offer drastically different reading experiences due to the personalities of their authors.

Some are frivolous, some detailed, some devoid of emotion and any description or metaphor, while others are extremely ornate, as if a poem were being composed. If there is anything in common among them, it is probably only two names.

First, Konrad Curze Curze; second, Karyl Lohars.

The former has many titles: Night Haunter, Master of Blades, King of Assassins, Poet, or, more ironically, Gargoyle Collector.

The latter is different; those authors who have long since passed away would only refer to him with one word.

Instructor.

But why? What exactly did he do, and what did he teach, to earn such respect from the Invictarii of the Great Crusade?

Zel temporarily cut off his thoughts, tossing these complex ideas into some corner of his mind, and instead began to focus all his attention on what was truly important at the moment.

It was nearly evening, Litatera had not yet recovered from the grief of the war; weeping could be heard everywhere in the city. In the flames, the bodies of the dead, not yet collected, were piled up and burned.

They will not be given a peaceful burial. Death treats everyone equally, whether you were a wicked thug or a wealthy man who loved pleasure in life. At this moment, there is no difference, and you will all become a handful of ashes in the fire.

There are many reasons why people are not allowed to collect the ashes of their relatives, and they know none of them. They are simply told, "It is the Emperor's decree." Of course, the Emperor has not issued any decree in this regard. This is just a common choice made by people with a basic understanding of Chaos.

In order to avoid a greater disaster, they can only add more suffering to innocent people.

Zel's keen senses captured these things for him, like a vast network composed of several different organs, encompassing everything around him.

He followed silently behind Karyl Lohars, gradually entering the deepest part of the ruins. They continued walking until it was completely dark before stopping.

At this moment, all around was utterly silent. The ruins of the Shantytown and the charred troop carriers lay together, and the corpses here had not yet been cleared away. The tortured bodies of soldiers and civilians still waited on the walls or the ground, enjoying the desolate moonlight.

At that moment, Zel keenly noticed something amiss—there were no vengeful spirits.

In his experience, such a massacre scene would surely be filled with countless wronged souls lingering and waiting, wanting to tell him their grievances. However, there was nothing here; the only sound in the ruins was the howling wind, like the city's lament.

"This is it," Karyl said.

His voice seemed even hoarser than before. Zel looked at him, wanting more explanation, but only saw a pair of eyes darker than darkness itself.

"Would you mind doing me a favor, Zel?" Karyl asked, turning his gaze away. He gestured to where he was standing, which looked like a mound of earth.

Zel sniffed the air, but found nothing unusual. He didn't believe things were really that simple, and even considered putting on his helmet and using its analytical capabilities.

But he didn't do that in the end. Instead, he walked straight over, drew his short sword from his waist, and began to dig at the mound.

Doing this reminded him of several solo infiltration missions. To be honest, killing someone with a combat dagger and digging in the ground with it felt exactly the same; there was no difference. It was all just stabbing, twisting the wrist, and drawing blood and flesh.

"Clang--!"

A metallic clang suddenly rang out and quickly spread throughout the surrounding ruins, creating a faint, almost surreal noise.

Zel frowned, pulled his dagger from the deep pit he had dug, but saw no damage on the blade. So he reached his left hand into the pit, grabbed something with his fingers, and yanked it out.

Amidst the swirling dust, a skeletal face, reflecting the moonlight, appeared before them.

Zel remained silent for a long while before handing over the mask, his movements becoming somewhat cautious for some reason. Compared to him, the person who took the mask was not so gentle, even appearing a bit rough.

He frowned, took it in his hand, and rubbed his fingers against the thin, blade-like edge of the mask. Blood immediately flowed down, running tightly along the patterns on the mask, and soon covered the entire mask, turning the pale white into a deep crimson.

Zel looked at him, puzzled, but only received a calm look in return.

"Leave the rest to me," Karyl said.

Zel stood up, made way, and watched as he knelt in front of the mound, bent down, and reached his left hand into the pit. A burst of golden light suddenly erupted, dazzling and blinding. To Zel, it was like a mortal looking directly at the sun at midday.

The paladin couldn't help but squint due to the defects caused by the Gene-seed. He even experienced a brief double vision, accompanied by tears and intense stinging.

He covered his eyes and began blinking rapidly to counteract the pain, his mind reeling—even if he were looking directly at the sun, he couldn't possibly be stimulated to this extent.

What exactly was that light?

He had no way of knowing the answer.

Karyl slowly stood up and grasped the stone in his bloodied palm. Strangely enough, his blood left no trace on it; without exception, it all fell to the ground, like a light drizzle falling on a spring day in the wilderness.

He looked down at the stone, or more precisely, at the bright red bloodstain in its center.

It is the last mark left in this world by countless Aurelian's Sons, who all swore to reclaim the name of the Gene-Father, and they succeeded, but could no longer see it themselves.

"Very well, Lorgar Aurelian, I hope you deserve it," Karyl thought.

--

Malcador gripped his scepter tightly, and psychic light emanated from his body, making it almost transparent. Bones, nerves, and internal organs were clearly visible in the blue light, as if undergoing a medical X-ray examination.

The reality, of course, is far from this.

Perturabo withdrew his gaze, crossed his arms, and looked at a porthole.

Through it, he was able to gaze at the outside world.

The sun's dim light danced on my retina, as a series of dark, floating fortresses surrounded it and the shattered Terra, steadfastly guarding it in the cold vacuum.

Invisible and ancient chains connect these fortresses, forming interconnected "warning lines" within the Warp. Any Daemon that attempts to leap over them to reach the Sol System will taste the wrath of humanity.

Perturabo was its designer, without exception.

But he wasn't proud of it, never.

In fact, he hadn't felt proud of anything he had done in a long time; in his opinion, he was never good enough.

This is a pathological mentality stemming from his disgust with his own incompetence and stupidity. If we dig deeper, it is likely also mixed with some self-punishing, self-destructive psychology.

He knew all of this perfectly well.

Ten thousand years is enough time for a person to completely dismantle and rebuild themselves several times over, even if it's only in a half-dream, half-awake state. Moreover, the Lord of Iron has never "dreamed"; he has always stayed in this cruel yet clear-headed reality, facing everything.

He accepted the challenge, the test, the hardship and the torment that followed, trudging forward, holding his ground, watching generation after generation of outstanding steel melt in the flames.

He still stands here, never retreating, never falling.

"It's over," Malcador suddenly said, his voice muffled, as if he were sleepwalking.

Perturabo turned around and, surprisingly, read an extremely obvious weariness in that overly young face, which was understandable.

The soul of the Sigillites the seal had long since decayed; he had spent far too long in the agonizing cycle of reincarnation, the immense workload having become a form of punishment, weighing down on his resilient mind. In this respect, it was nothing short of a miracle that he was still able to maintain his sense of self.

"He's back?" Perturabo asked.

He remained calm and cautious, asking the question without any expectation of reciprocation.

Malcador coughed and lowered his head, expressing his affirmation in a hoarse voice. Blood trickled from his nose, fell to the ground, and shattered.

"Yes, he has escaped, and our plan has succeeded."

Perturabo frowned, showing no emotion, remaining calm as ever. He strode over to Malcador, helped him up from the chair, and the wrinkles between his brows were as deep as if carved by a knife.

"You've never appeared so weak before," he said, a hint of accusation in his voice. "Tell me, Malcador, what has caused you to act so frail?"

"I'm just getting old, and I refuse to accept the word 'frail'."

"You are a Perpetual."

"Don't the Perpetual age?" Malcador looked up and asked. "Besides, immortality is just an illusion; we can still be killed by something. In this world we live in, nothing is immortal, not even you."

"I never said I sought immortality," Perturabo said calmly. "I have never been so vulgar."

The Sigillites shook his head and fell silent for a moment. Similar conversations had taken place between them at least tens of thousands of times.

In the first few centuries, when the Sigillites still possessed humanity, he would engage in philosophical debates with Perturabo and Rogal Dorn, or, when idle, play a game of Regicide with them.

However, as time went on, the number of times the Sigillites visited them began to decrease. The word "reclusive" was no longer even a suitable description of him; Malcador had transcended the meaning that word could express and moved towards a higher realm.

He was preoccupied with countless matters and dealt with countless disasters and wars. Even with the help of Sanguinius, he could not escape this quagmire; instead, the archangel who offered his assistance was also drawn into it along with him.

"So, what's the next step?" Perturabo asked, breaking the silence.

"I don't know how many people are working behind the scenes for your plan, nor do I want to know what form it takes now. I just want to know what we should do next. Chaos certainly won't just stand by and watch us bring it back to the Sol System— "

"--Who said we were going to take him back to the Sol System?" Malcador retorted.

A fleeting blue light flashed in the air, and a star map appeared before them.

Above the Sol System, Medusa and Caliban, connected together, are facing a patch of green light. To the east, Fenris and Baal are engulfed by Warp Storm and are attacked once again.

The situation on Chemos, Chogoris, and Nocturne was calm; however, further east, the entire Ultima Segmentum was shrouded in darkness.

Not to mention the Five Hundred Worlds, Nuceria and Nostramo, even some of the smaller worlds that were on the periphery of them centuries ago are now plunged into darkness.

Looking around, only the Segmentum Tempestus and the Segmentum Pacificus in the entire Imperium are relatively stable. However, since they are adjacent to the Sol System, the lingering effects of the constant anti- Chaos war have made these areas fraught with danger.

As he gazed at the star map, Perturabo's tightly furrowed brows gradually relaxed.

"I understand." He nodded. "We'll deal with whatever comes our way, but what is his current situation? I don't believe he still possesses that power."

"An old Hunter is still Hunter," Malcador said. "Besides, he won't be alone."