Chronicles of the Chapter Era (IV, The Wolves of Fenris

Wolves, 6k)

The poet slowly stood up.

The fire burning in the middle of the woods illuminated his profile, revealing his sunken eyelids. He was tall but thin, dressed in thick cotton clothes and a felt hat, looking like an old man.

But upon closer inspection, one would find that he is not old at all; his face is even considered young. However, the air of old age genuinely emanates from the depths of his bones, making him appear gloomy and aged.

"What are you looking at, blind man?" a warrior by the fire asked.

His deep red hair was unkempt, hanging haphazardly down his back like sideburns. His beard was even worse, almost entirely matted on his chin and face, where "treasures" like food scraps and drinks were hidden.

In contrast to this dignified appearance was his armor, Power Armour, while not exactly gleaming new, had been meticulously maintained. His fur cloak and dental ornaments were hung in just the right places, adding a touch of elegance even to their owner's disheveled state as he lay on the ground.

"You should know you can't see, right?" the soldier grinned, asking in a very flippant tone.

His actions drew a cold stare from another man by the fire. He slowly stood up, his hand already resting on a knife at his waist.

"Oh"

The red-haired warrior raised one eyebrow, winked, and stood up from the ground, but didn't draw his sword. Instead, he swaggered over to his companion and patted him on the shoulder.

"What exactly is the point of all this effort to flatter him, Ragnar Thunderfist?"

Lei Quan didn't answer, so he started rambling on and on.

"Would this gossipy blind man ever do you any good? Everyone knows he does nothing productive all day but endlessly writes books and tells stories, none of which are true. Only Chief Bjorn a brother."

He leaned closer to Ragnar Thunderfist, winked at the latter's icy demeanor, and lowered his voice, "Also, you should know, he's not a wolf, right?"

A flash of cold light, and a sharp knife was pressed against the red-haired warrior's throat. The young Thunder Fist Blood Claws, with a furious face, hissed and barked at the red-haired warrior, his voice growing more frenzied in the cold wind.

"You have insulted Lone Wolf!"

"I don't."

The red-haired warrior, contrary to his previous flippancy, raised his hands quite seriously, his face devoid of any smile.

"I would never do such a thing. I may be a clown, a fool, but I am not ignorant or disrespectful, Thunder Fist."

"Put down the knife, Ragnar," the blind man said.

He was still looking at the sky, flames dancing on his body, but for some reason his expression had become very worried.

The next second, he quickly turned around, picked up a long wooden staff from beside the fire, and limped to the other side of the fire, picked up a huge, heavy backpack from the ground, and put it on his back.

The snow-covered ground sank, and the woodland floor, already frozen into ice blocks, emitted a slight cracking sound. The two young Space Wolves exchanged a glance, picked up their weapons simultaneously, and walked to the blind man's side.

"What's going on, blind man?" Lukas asked softly, uttering an old proverb. "What's haunting the darkness?"

"It's your mother." "Blind Man" retorted rudely. "If you call me blind man again, I'll make you crawl back to your the Nest, Lukas."

"Satellite crash? Or ship shot down?"

Ragnar Thunderfist offered two more guesses, a longsword in his hand, engraved with Fenris exorcising runes, reflecting a chilling light in the night.

The sky, filled with the aurora borealis, was ever-changing, but the two shooting stars stood out conspicuously, like harbingers of doom tearing the heavens apart, falling straight towards the other side of Fenris.

"Neither," the blind man said briefly. "Ragnar, you and I come together; we must get going. Lukas, you run back to the Nest and tell Bjorn and the alpha wolf that we have visitors, distinguished guests."

"Why me?" Lukas asked.

The blind man didn't answer, but simply made a gesture in front of his chest. The red-haired rogue immediately stopped joking, regained his serious demeanor, picked up an axe and a pistol, turned and left, still letting out a howl under the moonlight.

I will admit my mistakes and correct them!

Ragnar watched him walk away and let out a cold snort. He strode after the blind man, who, despite his limp, still walked swiftly, and asked the same question again.

"Why do we have to bring him along, poet? He's a born bastard."

"Lukas does have a cynical streak, but that doesn't mean he's not one of you, Ragnar. He's a Space Wolves too, and a very good one at that."

Ragnar found the blind man's answer somewhat unbelievable, and he spoke in a low voice as he sniffed the scents of the woods.

"But he... he's been with you for fourteen years, poet. He simply doesn't have the talent to be a warrior."

"Who told you that?" the blind poet asked without turning his head.

"I won't tell on you."

"Do as you please, Ragnar. But I must tell you one thing: Lukas is not only a warrior, but a very ruthless one. The fact that he's been with me for so long doesn't mean he's unqualified. Quite the opposite; it's just that I have so much to teach him, which is why he's stayed so long."

Ragnar let out a silent groan, as if someone had punched him in the nose and broken it, appearing to be in extreme pain. His face was twitching, clearly not expecting such a response.

But the poet's words did not end there. He continued, "Don't envy him; you are the same. Your Wolf Lord entrusted you to me because he has high hopes for you. Do not disappoint him, or you will surely face a shameful death."

He finally turned around, his profile gleaming in the moonlight, while the firelight had long since been extinguished in the cold wind.

"Believe me," he said in a low voice. "No one wants to die in shame and grief."

They remained silent for the rest of the journey. As they left the woods and stepped onto the snowfield, dangerous beasts and ferocious apex predators watched them depart with predatory eyes, unusually refraining from attacking, as if they too had been captivated by the two shooting stars that streaked across the sky.

The blizzard intensified, even making the young Space Wolves feel somewhat absurd—he wasn't unfamiliar with blizzards, but never one this severe.

At this moment, the snowflakes had turned into blades, cruelly slashing his cheeks. The blood froze into ice shards, crunching as they fell onto his armor. The wind was so strong that he had to plunge his sword deep into the snow to steady himself as he walked, otherwise he would surely be blown over, or even blown away.

Such terrifying natural forces, yet the poet strolled with ease. His walking stick always sank smoothly into the Stone snow, and his steps were always maintained in a strange balance, as if he were about to fall but remained perfectly steady.

Ragnar stared at his boots, wondering what kind of warrior the blind man must have been before he became disabled. A few minutes later, his musings came to an end when the blind man stopped walking.

Of course, this is the main reason, but there is also a secondary reason: a huge depression that appeared in front of them.

The snow crackled as it burned in the invisible flames. These ice blocks, which had remained unmelted for years and were as hard as Ceramite, and capable of withstanding direct bomb fire, had all turned into ice water.

Two oblivious elk were licking the melting snow beside the crater. Seeing them arrive, they didn't choose to flee, which was utterly illogical.

Ragnar gripped his sword tightly and stood nervously before the blind man.

"Step back," the blind poet snapped. "You can't even see where the enemy is, so what are you doing standing there like an idiot with your sword in front of me?"

Ragnar paused for a moment, his nose twitched twice, then he turned around abruptly, his sword piercing through the wind and snow, striking precisely an outstretched hand.

Two dark red lights suddenly shone in the wind and snow, and a voice thousands of times colder than theirs, as if from Morkai himself, resounded in Ragnar's ears.

"Your wolf still needs polishing, Lord Ahzek Ahriman."

Everyone needs to be polished.

Ahzek Ahriman, also known as the Blind Man or the Blind Poet, the Space Wolves Bard, answered the question calmly.

Then, he extended his long staff and patted the sword that Ragnar was still gripping tightly.

"Could you spare him?" he asked. "You know, wolves are always reckless and untamed. They are very different from you, esteemed Soul Hunters."

As soon as he finished speaking, the immense force that had been emanating from the tip of Ragnar's sword finally vanished. The young Blood Claws immediately suppressed the rage within him, sheathed his sword, and stood behind Ahzek Ahriman.

He stared silently at the giant whose figure was gradually emerging from the snowstorm, his heart filled with shock. He was very perceptive, as were all Space Wolves. Yet, he hadn't noticed this person approaching him at all.

This means that if he were hostile, he would probably have died many times over.

"I can die, but the blind cannot be harmed," Ragnar thought angrily. "Otherwise, I would be betraying the blood of Russ Bjorn."

"Why curse me?" the Hunter replied, his armor, covered in scriptures, flapping in the wind and snow, showing no sign of leaving it.

"I acted on short notice due to unforeseen circumstances. I meant him no harm; in fact, I was protecting him, Your Excellency Ahzek Ahriman. If it weren't for me, he might have been seriously injured."

What does that mean? Ragnar frowned, but suddenly felt a sense of unease.

He looked around and realized where this disharmony came from—the wind and snow around him had inexplicably stopped. And not just stopped, but stood still as if time had stood still.

At this moment, even the wind takes on a shape, and the icicles blown away are the directions they are about to travel.

The young Blood Claws twitched restlessly, smelling an extremely strong stench of blood coming from behind him, but he couldn't turn his head, he couldn't even move his eyes.

→

He stared intently at the icicles about to scatter, and through the reflection of the aurora on them, he saw a pair of dark eyes embedded in the stark white bones. Its owner was dressed in a black robe and was a skeleton that would be considered quite tall among ordinary people.

It was staring at him, unblinking.

Ragnar was at a loss, his mind frozen. At the crucial moment, a force from his right shoulder threw him to the ground.

Blood Claws fell heavily to the ground, just in time to see the blind man withdraw his hand, and was utterly astonished. Before he could say anything, he saw the blind man, who had been telling stories to the Space Wolves for ten thousand years, bow his head deeply.

"Thousand Sons, Ahzek Ahriman, the offspring of Magnus, the Crimson King, salutes you, Great Darkness."

"There's no need for that."

The skeleton known as the Great Darkness took a long time to give his answer, his voice hoarse like Ghost in the night.

Blood Claws gripped his sword tightly, never before so eager for the exorcism talisman to work.

A force came from his shoulder and pulled him up. The Astartes known as the Hunter then gently reached out his right hand to embrace him, and then even patted his cheek.

A chill emanated from his gauntlets, nearly freezing Ragnar to death, but it also brought his mind to a sharper alertness.

He bared his teeth and glared at the man, but the Hunter returned his gaze with a calm stare and nodded slightly.

"You will be honored for this," he said. "Even though you don't yet know whose side you're on."

"Who? You? A cowardly scoundrel hiding in plain sight?" Ragnar laughed in fury, his tone so provocative. "I don't believe you can bring me any glory, even if I tear your throat open."

A low chuckle came from beneath the Hunter's helmet, and he released his grip, escorting Ragnar to Ahzek Ahriman's side.

At the same time, blinding searchlights shone in the sky, and a fighter jet suddenly pierced through the stagnant snow and appeared before them.

Lukas's red face was partially visible behind the wide-open cabin door, but Ragnar paid no attention to him. His attention was completely drawn to a strong figure standing at the front of the cabin.

The man was draped in a heavy cloak, which completely concealed his Power Armour. He had a full head of white hair, and a beast tooth pendant jingled from his tied-up beard. His eyes contained a strong emotion that Ragnar could not understand.

He jumped out of the fighter jet, falling vertically from a height of more than ten meters, startling a pool of deep snow, which then rushed towards this spot.

--

"Chapter Master!" Orlak Katakx roared. "You must return to continue the ritual!"

"To hell with your ceremony!" Sevatar cursed. "The old relic of the house has all run away, what ceremony are you still holding! Notify the entire ship to prepare, and have all Chapter Master assemble here! I'm only giving them five minutes, no exceptions!"

He ran wildly, his body, covered only in a white sheet and stained with blood, psychic energy emanating from beneath his skin, illuminating the darkness of the corridor.

The Night Lords stared in astonishment as their Chapter Master raced past. They were about to give chase when the Chief Librarian's cold command pinned them firmly to their spots.

"The Chapter Master is delirious right now, don't listen to him!"

"You're the one who's fucking out of their mind!" Sevatar turned around and yelled at the Chief Librarian he so highly regarded. "I think you've lost your mind, Orlak! Out of your mind? I've never been this clear-headed in my entire life!"

Seconds later, they burst into an office. Sevatar waved his hand without even breaking a sweat, and a massive amount of psionic energy poured out from his fingertips, putting all the surrounding documents back in their places, even stacking the Dataslate back into a corner of the room.

Orlak stood behind him, his bloodied hands still trembling slightly, stubbornly making spell gestures, unwilling to interrupt the ritual.

"This ceremony is extremely important, Chapter Master!" he shouted anxiously. "If we give up halfway, it will have a huge impact on you! This is what the Mourning Bird said itself!"

"For Fer Zalost's sake, you'll have them come over here and do it for me!" Sevatar roared. "I'll give you five minutes!"

Without a word, Orlak immediately focused on communicating with the Nightfall. Darkness surged, and the other four Librarian emerged from it, carrying psionic light. They surrounded Sevatar and began smearing characters on his body with their blood.

As the Night Lords's Chapter Master endured the burning pain from those words, he turned and roared again into the corridor outside.

"Four minutes left!"

His voice sent tremors through the Nightfall, and all the readings rose again. It was foreseeable that tonight would be a nightmare for the sailors aboard the Nightfall.

Two minutes later, Kaul Sahora, Skaradrik, and Sheher Cold Soul all arrived, fully armed.

Especially the Crimson Claws Lord, whose face was full of murderous intent, holding two giant axes in his hands, looking as if he wanted to tear someone or something to shreds in the next second.

"The instructor ran away," Sevatar said succinctly. "And the Hunter was among them. Clearly, that damned mystic bastard has done something behind our backs again. I don't blame him, but I blame myself!"

He took a deep breath and spoke again.

"There's nothing more to say now. I know the instructor's character; he only goes alone when he decides to do something dangerous."

"Pass the word down. I want every Night Lords to prepare for all-out war. I don't know what the instructor is planning, but we will follow him, understand? What we failed to do ten thousand years ago, we absolutely cannot do again ten thousand years later! In the name of Konrad Curze Curze, we will fight to the death!"

No one answered; only three faces, each with a different expression, were extremely serious.

Sevatar's orders began to be relayed through the ship's broadcasts, and a chilling atmosphere immediately filled this fleet, which was considered of medium size even by 30K standards. Although most of the ships were brought by the Blade of Judgement, they were also Night Lords.

The somber Gothic architecture and the presence of the cathedral made the warship look like Nostramo floating in space; the anger of the dark-eyed people was about to engulf the entire galaxy.

Until a voice came from the doorway of the room. It was the voice of an ordinary person, and it even sounded a little weak.

"Uh..." The Vindicators Tujea, took a deep breath and pulled his cloak over his shoulder. "This one, Laerhe, says it has something to say to you, Chapter Master Sevatar."

Sevatar stared at him for two seconds, then strode over amidst the Librarian members, reaching out to grab Laerhe's silky smooth surface.

It immediately began to dance, but did not leave Tujea, nor did it even draw blood from Sevatar. A few seconds later, Jago Sevatarion's expression gradually became strange.

He closed his eyes, exhaled, then took a deep breath, and released his grip, but then suddenly grabbed Tujea's shoulder. He controlled his strength perfectly, pulling Tujea along without him feeling any pain.

"Tell that bastard why it didn't tell me sooner?" Sevatar asked gruffly.

Tujea immediately did as instructed, relaying the words. The cloak then began to flutter in the air, indicating extreme excitement.

"What did it say?" Sevatar asked.

Tujea paused for a few seconds, then replied, "It says you're an idiot, Chapter Master."

"Tell it, and I'll shove it into the Fenrisian's stinking sewer!"

The Vindicators coughed twice and did as instructed again. This time, the cloak rose up in a rage, completely enveloping him from behind, forming a ferocious suit of armor that looked remarkably similar to the one someone had worn ten thousand years ago.

Sevatar sneered and shoved Tujea into the corridor.

"You're unlucky to have run into him, Vindicators!" he shouted. "You'll see just how awful this guy really is! Goodbye!"

Darkness surged up, completely enveloping the shocked and bewildered Tujea and Laerhe, and carrying them to the other end of the Nightfall. At this moment, Jago Sevatarion couldn't help but burst into laughter.

"Chapter Master, have you really lost your mind?" the Chief Librarian asked worriedly.

"No," Sevatar said. "I just remembered some very interesting things, which are generally good."

He turned to the three Chapter Masters and said, "Lift the alert. Then, gather your elite troops, put on their Terminator Armour, grab their company flags, and assemble on the boarding deck of the Nightfall. We need to meet the Space Wolves."

The three looked at each other in bewilderment.

Sevatar sighed, covered his face, and collapsed into the chair he had sat in for ten thousand years.

"A farce," he commented in Nostraman.

Five seconds later, someone chuckled softly in the darkness.

"Sai, this is no farce. Although I understand how exhausted you are, from this point on, those who truly know him will know that Karyl Lohars is back. Isn't that a momentous occasion?"

Sevatar jerked his head up and found that the office, the Chapter Master, and his Librarian had all vanished completely, leaving only pure darkness and the Night Haunter standing before him.

"No, I don't see any commemorative significance in it."

Konrad Curze Curze smiled slightly and answered softly.

"Yes, I can't see it either, but he's at least moving in the right direction, and that's enough. You haven't seen Karyl Lohars out of control, but believe me, there's no one in the world more ruthless than him then. Vengeance never makes any sense."

"Is he not out of control now?" Sevatar asked earnestly. "Are you serious, Father?"

"No," said the Night Haunter. "He's actually quite rational."

As the darkness dissipated, Sevatar, who had been silently narrowing his eyes, suddenly said to the Chief Librarian, "Would you like to hear a joke?"

He received a worried sigh.