38 Night Haunter's Sons (Complete)

Jago Sevatarion found himself trembling uncontrollably. ☢🐠 🎉🏆

His face was covered in burn marks, as were his armor. Thick black smoke still billowed from the gaps between the steel plates, irritating his keen sense of smell and causing his eyes to ache, making it almost impossible for him to see.

But Sevatar didn't care about any of that. He had only recently regained consciousness, and now, the first and most pressing question he had to address was—Where am I?

Yes, where is he?

He lowered his head and surveyed his surroundings. The pale sky was shining with an unusual Radiance, and he was standing atop a cliff, his feet treading on a terrible muddy mess forged from blood.

Sevatar was slightly dazed, and only then did he realize that he was holding two weapons tightly in his hands.

In his right hand was a chainsaw, but not the one he was currently using. In his left hand was a combat dagger, which belonged to Mollez, the adjutant of the First Company.

Or rather, from Mollez, the former adjutant of the First Company.

He looked at the combat dagger, staring silently at the dark, furious flames burning on its black blade. But then he heard a voice, panting heavily, barely breathing, yet filled with a strong laugh.

That voice belonged to Erebus.

"Now, it's just you and me left, dear Jago. A century and a half has passed Terra were shattered, yet you still haven't learned a thing. Look at what you've done, relentlessly pursuing me. A hundred of your brothers have died for it, and their deaths are all your fault."

Sevatar looked up at him but didn't speak. His reason was rapidly returning, allowing him to fully understand his current situation—none of this was real, but rather the brutal war he had already experienced, an echo of memories or some kind of recurrence.

In short, it can't be true.

In other words, the Erebus standing before him was nothing more than a phantom of the past.

From this perspective, Sevatar believes he has no reason to fight.

The next second, he pounced and dismembered the Shadow in the most brutal way.

He doesn't care about the reason.

The world began to spin, completely swirling the sky, cliffs, corpses, and the severed limbs of Erebus into a chaotic vortex of indistinguishable color. Sevatar stood in the center of this vortex, expressionless.

He even opened his blood-stained hands, letting the vortex completely engulf him.

What more is there to say? Similar things have probably been repeated dozens of times. He has killed Erebus time and time again, from the farthest reaches of the galaxy to some forest in Caliban, from near Nostramo's moons to the front lines of the Lord of the Deliverance's fleet.

In the real world, these killings never happened; he never killed Erebus. He could only watch helplessly as this bastard escaped time and time again.

But here, in this tormenting, decadent illusion, Erebus is killed by him time and time again.

What's this all about?

Standing in the midst of the chaotic vortex, Sevatar couldn't help but burst into wild laughter.

He couldn't suppress the urge to laugh. If it was a joke, it possessed the elements of satire, absurdity, and madness, but most importantly, it wasn't funny.

The vortex dissipated, leaving behind bloodstains. Erebus, with a severed hand and half his face torn apart by power claw, stood before him.

"You failed," he mumbled.

A fierce wind swept in from behind him, almost completely swallowing his voice. At his feet lay many corpses, some Daemon, some Night Lords, but most innocent civilians who had died.

Sevatar stared coldly at it all, the blurry edges of the world beginning to sharpen as his memories returned. The once iron-gray ground had become rough concrete, and the walls had transformed from a pale gray into trenches with peepholes.

The cannons roared, asserting their presence. The sky was ablaze with flames, the clouds vanished, and bombers roared overhead, turning the ground into a burning inferno.

Jago Sevatarion, deep in hell, stares at Erebus.

"I won! Again!"

Erebus coughed and raised his arms, and a portal slowly formed behind him. An ugly, bizarre smile was slowly emerging on his mutilated face, a process that Sevatar could clearly see.

He even knew what would happen next—in half a second, he would launch an attack, he would try to destroy the portal that Erebus had summoned.

But that was no longer possible, so he changed his strategy and decided to enter the portal with Erebus.

Yes, at that time, Sevatar had gone mad, or rather, he had never truly been sane in those ten thousand years. This insane idea was, in his mind, a perfectly feasible and legitimate plan; however, this plan, too, failed.

The reason was simply a psychic Radiance that flashed from behind Sevatar, and a child whose neck was being choked by that psychic energy.

Erebus stood at the edge of the portal; two seconds had passed. Sevatar remained motionless.

"Come on," he said softly. "Come on."

Sevatar remained motionless.

Neither the past him nor the present him has changed.

And so Erebus smiled.

"You, all of you. You're always like this. You do the cruelest things, you possess the most ruthless skills, yet each of you has a laughably weak humanity. Especially you, Jago."

"If it were your cousins standing here today, I would probably be dead by now. They wouldn't care whether that child lives or dies. Empyrean above, do you remember what I've done?"

Erebus pointed to himself earnestly.

"Don't you remember? Who orchestrated all of this? Who plunged countless worlds into flames? And who made your Gene-Father relinquish his human form? You are giving up your chance to Vengeance them, and this may be your only chance, Jago."

"What would Karyl Lohars and Konrad Curze Curze think if they knew? You'd give up all of this for a child?"

He burst into laughter, turned and stepped into the portal, throwing the child to the ground. Sevatar turned and rushed over, gently picking him up as fragments of his internal organs spilled from his throat.

Three years later, this child will become a member of Night Lords.

He will, like his brothers, harbor an unparalleled hatred for Erebus and relentlessly hunt him down. But at this moment, he is merely a bewildered child who has lost his home, his family, and everything else.

Sevatar gazed at the child through the eyes that had once been his own, without uttering a word.

He is dead, at least in his world; in the future, the child is dead—but not now.

So, what if I don't recruit him into Night Lords? What if I disregard his life, rush forward, and tear Erebus's chest open completely?

Sevatar sighed deeply.

There are no ifs, there are no ifs in this world. The vortex reappeared, swallowing him up and taking him to Epsilon III, Salidrax, the Nalar's Moon, a battle fortress on Carphen.

He hunted Erebus in countless places, and many times he came close to victory. His claws had truly gripped Erebus's two hearts, yet, each time, he failed to complete his Vengeance.

Sevatar blamed all these failures on himself, but that wasn't the truth. The truth was that Erebus had received endless divine favors over those ten thousand years. Whatever he wanted to do, this accumulated divine favor would help him without reservation.

If he wants to plunge a world into darkness, then its sun will go out. A comical series of ship engine failures and collisions, endless Daemon appearing on the sun's surface, and a mysterious virus capable of corrupting the sun.

Even a group of singers from the far reaches of the Milky Way, indulging in debauchery, would perform dark rituals on their ships. They would seize a sun and send it into the six rings of debauchery, making it another small sacrifice for the Slaanesh's self-indulgence.

Similar things have happened far too many times, enough to numb and despair anyone who knows the whole story. But not Jago Sevatarion; those two emotions had completely vanished the moment he witnessed Konrad Curze Curze's departure.

He understood exactly what he was fighting—he wasn't fighting Erebus, but rather a hand extending from the ancient Four from the Warp within the Materium.

This hand takes their place in the material world, distorting right and wrong, manipulating people's hearts, igniting the world, and shattering hope.

In other words, Jago Sevatarion understood that he was fighting against God, and he had to find a way to win this time.

But he can't win, he just can't. What could he possibly accomplish that even Karyl Lohars couldn't achieve?

However, he couldn't just stand by and watch everything unfold; the cries of the dead kept him awake at night. So, even though he knew it was a war he couldn't win, he still participated.

Sevatar stared wide-eyed as the vortex rose and then dissipated.

The vortex continued to rise and dissipate in his eyes.

In that madness, nine hundred million people were bound to stone pillars, doused with grease, and set on fire. Eight hundred million people were beheaded and stripped of their spines. Fathers, sons, mothers, and daughters—all perished.

Seven hundred million people are infected with disease, their skin rotting, their internal organs spilling out of their throats, and their blood vessels filled with pustules. Six hundred million people are killing each other in extreme agony, enjoying each other's flesh, licking each other's blood on the ground, and doing all three things at the same time.

These are but a drop in the ocean.

Standing in the vortex, Sevatar gazed at everything before him, witnessing this eternal torment, his heart now devoid of any joy or sorrow.

He still didn't understand why Konrad Curze Curze had thrown him here, but he would accept it all. These failures stemmed from his incompetence, and he was responsible for and would pay the price for everyone who had died because of Erebus over the past ten thousand years.

If it weren't for him, they wouldn't have died. If he were ruthless enough, they could still be alive.

Once again, the vortex slowly dissipated in his trembling thoughts. The ashes of time and the wails of the dead rushed in, turning everything into a choking sandstorm that blinded Sevatar's eyes.

He covered his face and took a slow, unnecessary deep breath in the darkness and the coldness of the gauntlets.

He was still trembling, but the sandstorm had stopped, and everything was quiet. Sevatar lowered his hand and saw a young boy suspended by chains.

The boy didn't notice him, nor the countless Shadow crouching in the darkness around him. Sevatar glanced at him and then walked out of the darkness, but the boy ignored him and looked in another direction instead.

There, another Jago Sevatarion was slowly emerging from the darkness, his chest and abdomen pierced by five sharp claws, dripping with blood, a gruesome sight.

Sevatar stared at them without saying a word.

The child hanging there represents his childhood, but who is that scarred soldier?

He couldn't remember; he couldn't even remember how long he had been in this vortex. His mind was splitting apart, and everything he owned had long since shattered into pieces in the endless tearing apart.

Too many contradictory events roared and battled within the depths of his memory. Had he killed Erebus? Or not? Had he ever triumphed over him? Even just once?

Did he really save anyone?

"You have it, Sai," Konrad Curze Curze said. "You've saved a lot of people, you just don't realize it yet."

Sevatar turned his head and, unsurprisingly, told his father, "I can't see."

"That's because you're afraid to see," Curze replied gently. "You've walked in the darkness for too long, so long that you can't even bear any light. Even moonlight feels like it will burn your fragile conscience."

He laughed, revealing sharp teeth and deep, dark eyes, like black holes that annihilate everything. Just as he had said, the Moonlight Crown began to radiate light from the top of his head.

It was a light so faint it could hardly be called a light source, yet it caused Sevatar a burning pain. His skin began to dissolve beneath his armor, and so did his very existence.

Despite the excruciating pain, Sevatar made no sound; he simply looked at his Gene-Father, seeking an answer.

"The answer is—" Curze stepped forward, extended a finger, and gently poked his forehead. "—No dead person blames you; you are innocent, completely blameless. Jago Sevatarion."

Behind him, inside the burning hall, Jago Sevatarion trembled as he grabbed Jago Sevatarion. Five sharp claws pierced his chest and abdomen, and he coughed up blood, but his eyes shone as brightly as two daytime stars.

His voice began to blend in with Konrad Curze Curze's.

"This is the moment," he, or rather they, spoke softly. "You will remember everything in this moment."

A deafening roar of thunder followed, and the Bone Temple vanished. The vortex enveloped him one last time, but Konrad Curze Curze's voice continued to echo in his ears.

The Night Haunter's voice pierced the darkness, breaking through all barriers, like the sharp knife he once held in his hand, stabbing precisely into Sevatar's brain, echoing deafeningly within his skull.

"Kill him."

Who? Who did they kill?

The answer is obvious.

The darkness receded, but the scorching moonlight remained. All around was ruins, and countless spirits filled every corner. They had different identities and names in life, but now no one cared anymore.

Sevatar tried to discern, but his vision was blurred, with only one Shadow remaining clear, or rather, a bloodied man.

The man's skin was covered in twisted scripture, his mouth was agape, and his eyelid-less eyes stared at the dark night sky. His once pristine priest's robes were now completely soaked in blood; perhaps more than that, the robes had become his skin.

His skin had been peeled off, yet it clung tightly to his body, preventing it from actually falling off.

And he was still breathing.

The undead let out a boiling roar.

Sevatar understood, and then he smiled.

I couldn't ask for more, I really couldn't ask for more.

He walked toward him, each step more resolute and heavier than the last. He approached Erebus lying on the ground, then raised his right fist. He raised it vertically, muscles taut, every joint locked tight.

Sevatar looked at him, then swung his arm down. Inertia, force, and locked joints transformed his arm into a real dagger, slicing deep into Erebus's body.

The purely evil being that called itself the Hand of Fate spat out a mouthful of blood, and its turbid eyes suddenly became clear.

He looked at Sevatar, a mocking smile creeping across his face as he habitually smirked, "You've finally come, dear Jago."

Sevatar remained silent, waving his arm, but this time slightly loosening the lock on his joints.

His arm, like a whip, was deeply embedded in Erebus's body; the blow was so painful, cruel, and bloody that even Erebus screamed in agony.

He gasped for breath, the amplified pain completely destroying his ability to think, turning him into a limp mess on the ground. Sevatar looked down at him coldly, feeling no pleasure whatsoever.

That's not enough. For something like Erebus, such punishment is insufficient.

He looked up at the dead. They filled every corner of the ruins, and they seemed to have no specific form, only a vague concept.

They were once civilians, soldiers, Astartes, men, women, children, fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters. They are a neglected part of the Imperium war reports, cold and uncared-for numbers.

And now, they are standing right in front of Sevatar.

He blinked, and their images gradually became clearer.

"How long have you been waiting for me?" Sevatar asked.

"A long time," one of the undead replied. "But the wait was worthwhile, the death of Erebus."

Sevatar smiled slightly.

Like a tidal wave, the souls of the dead surged forth, passing unimpeded through the ruins and through Sevatar's body, reaching Erebus and surrounding him. Then, they reached out their hands.

Some hands were thin and withered, pale as if they had degenerated. Other hands were clad in iron armor, incredibly strong, capable of crushing bones with a single grip. Carrying boundless hatred, these arms, one after another, draped over Erebus's body and began to tear at it.

First came the skin, then the flesh and bones. His nose and eyes were held in his hands, while his teeth and tongue were trampled under his feet. He couldn't possibly possess such immense mass that he could give a share to every soul here, but that was the reality.

Every one of the people Erebus once harmed now clutches his heart and spits at his face. They lift the illustrious Dark Apostle high, trample this venerable and terrifying hand of fate underfoot, and then begin to roar.

Roaring against Warp in the sacred name of humanity and Vengeance.

It was just a simple roar, without any words, yet the resentment and pleasure within it instantly spread to every corner of the Chaos waves.

The wrathful one in the crimson carnage, the giant bird in the magnificent crystal, the fat old man stirring the soup pot, the androgynous god contemplating a gem, and every Daemon under their command, all heard this roar.

Then came Erebus's screams and pleas for mercy.

"Please let me go!"

He screamed without any semblance of decorum, his voice shattering to the very end of the numbers. He was unable to maintain any composure, or even feel shame for his current situation; his ability to think had been stripped away, leaving only the primal instinct to survive.

He is a purely evil being, incapable of creation, only knowing how to destroy and corrupt beautiful things. He should have rotted in the mud, but because of this twisted desire, he has gradually come to where he is today, becoming what he is now.

He screamed in agony at the gods.

"Save me!" he cried, weeping bitterly. "Help, gods, save your lowly believer! Liberate him from this misery!"

The angry man snorted coldly, rebuking his cowardice, and then strode away without looking back.

The giant bird chuckled as it withdrew its power, turning its fragments from flesh and blood into a pulpy mess. Its wings flapped, and it was overjoyed.

The obese old man didn't even glance at him, continuing to stir the soup pot with focused concentration, as if he had never heard him.

Only the androgynous, exceptionally handsome Slaanesh smiled and shook his head, giving a clear answer.

"You're too ugly," He said with disgust. "I don't want to touch something as ugly as you."

Thus, divine grace shattered, was extracted, and obliterated. In the next second, Erebus's consciousness was completely ripped out by the souls of the dead. His flesh and blood were still tightly gripped in their hands, but his consciousness and his now unprotected soul were bound to an upright stone pillar.

His figure was extremely small and hideous; the way he writhed in his white robe looked no different from a maggot. He looked at the surrounding spirits in terror, wanting to beg for mercy, but he couldn't utter a single word.

These insignificant beings, whom he once disregarded, these mediocre souls whom he didn't even bother to pay much attention to, died because of him, and now, they've come to him.

The one who was once high and mighty is now screaming and begging for mercy in a hushed voice. But will those who once begged for mercy really let him go?

The answer is no. He will suffer eternal torment here, remaining conscious until the last person he has harmed has no more resentment.

Sevatar finally let out a soft, gentle, and comfortable laugh.

--

Karyl stretched out his right hand and pierced a sizzling, oily Grak steak with two fingers. He lowered his head, carefully examining the steak that was still dripping with juices.

Regardless of which Grak this piece of meat once belonged to, it must have been very active in life, otherwise it wouldn't have such firm and tender meat. Then there's this salt and pepper seasoning, which, despite being labeled as Terra, is indeed a cheap product.

They were trapped between the pieces of meat, and the high temperature brought out their aroma, which mixed with the oil to create a wonderfully irresistible smell that whetted the appetite.

Karyl sighed softly, using his shoulder to move his right hand, and moved the piece of meat in front of a person who suddenly sat up from the iron bed.

"Long time no see, Jago," he said. "Would you like a piece of Grak steak?"

The man removed his mask, tossed it aside, opened his stiff jaw, and bit into the meat. He ate like a wild beast, head down, holding the piece of meat in both hands, constantly gnawing, tearing, and swallowing.

Juice splashed, and at that moment, a more crystalline liquid slowly dripped down his cheekbone, turning into tiny, crystal-clear ice droplets in the icy chill of the Nightfall, eventually falling to the ground and shattering into pieces.

"Eat slowly," Karyl said softly. "Fer just doesn't like steak, but he's never said he hates it."

Sevatar stopped chewing, swallowed the last bite of meat, and jumped off the iron bed. He stood up, frost dripping from the gaps in his armor, his eyes fixed intently on Karyl.

"Are you in too, instructor?" he suddenly asked.

"If I said no, you probably wouldn't believe me, since you already know everything."

"Yes." Sevatar nodded expressionlessly, glancing down at the mask that had fallen to the ground.

"I just didn't expect this mask to have the ability to split the wearer's memories. How many people have I met in the wasteland over the past ten thousand years? Why have I forgotten so many of them?"

Karyl shook his head and said, "You're asking the last person who could possibly know the answer, Jago. As for it, I think splitting memories isn't its function, but rather a side effect."

"No matter how powerful it is, it still exists in the material world. To make it work, you must give something. Coincidentally, the strongest emotion in your heart is hatred, but—"

"--I hate myself," Sevatar said, seemingly smiling. "How interesting, Instructor, where does this pervasive self-loathing come from?"

He stared at Karyl and asked this question.

This is a philosophical question.

"Then, could you please answer that?"

"As everyone knows, I'm no philosopher," Karyl said, flicking his finger to summon darkness, and stepping into it.

The mask fluttered up and flew into the hem of his billowing clothes. Sevatar watched his figure being swallowed by darkness little by little, and suddenly smiled.

"Welcome back, Karyl," he said after a pause.

"You're welcome too, Jago," the figure in the darkness replied, his voice as gentle as it had been ten thousand years ago.