Interlude 55: The Sigillite and the Regent

Malcador slowly opened his eyes. ♔🎄 ✎☠

He sat up from his wooden bed, and before he could even put on his robe, a Servo-skull gleaming with a metallic sheen flew over with a buzzing sound, bringing with it hundreds of bundled paper documents and a brand-new, improved "Galaxy" quill pen.

This is the 192nd pen that Malcador has replaced this year.

The numbers are staggering. If the designer of the quill pen knew this, he would probably doubt whether his acclaimed work was just junk. But Malcador wouldn't say that. In fact, compared to his workload, no pen could be considered durable.

The young-looking Sigillites the seal reached out his right hand and rescued the bundle of documents from the anti-gravity impeller of the Servo-skull, then casually placed them on the wooden table beside him.

The skull's eye sockets glowed red, watching his every move to determine what action to take next, but Malcador only glanced at it before reaching for the quill pen again and turning the poor, tireless machine around to face an open wooden door.

The highest-ranking local official stepped forward excitedly and saluted him. The Blood Angels emerged from the Thunderhawk and followed behind their Primarch, majestic and imposing, their armor so magnificent that it matched the imagination of every admirer.

For the next four hours, he sat at that wooden table processing documents—the "essence" compiled by his staff and subordinates from thousands of offices throughout the week, reported up the chain of command, and finally submitted to him.

Malcador unconsciously tightened his grip on the scepter.

He wasn't calling upon them; he never was.

People called his name along the edge of the wide red carpet, longing for his attention. They shouted, cried, screamed, and some even collapsed in convulsions, only to be carried away on stretchers by the medical team, who were already used to such sights.

This routine activity did not end until a full six hours later.

Sanguinius, my pride. How have you been?

Every day I hear your name in people's prayers; they wish you good health and pray to me, hoping to see you fly overhead. They love you, my son, but I can hear the sorrow in your heart.

+For the past ten thousand years, I've witnessed your efforts. I've considered advising you to leave, but I know your pride and sense of responsibility won't allow you to accept my suggestion. However, now the time has come.+

Karyl Lohars is back. He's a man again, yet still the same person who faces everything in the simplest way. He remains the same, which makes me happy, but also worries me.

You and I both know that Chaos won't ignore this, especially since he's in a place beyond Radiance reach of the Astronomican. Your brother Roboute is on his way, but that's not enough.

I can't see what they're facing, but I can smell the dampness of the approaching storm. They're facing an unprecedented disaster, and I know it all too well. And now, I need you, my son.

+For ten thousand years you have marched forward with your head held high, becoming a steadfast shield for the Imperium. You sheltered the people from wind and rain, enduring hardship, and for this they were truly grateful to you. However, they did not know that you were originally a sharp sword, and always have been.+

Your sharpness hasn't been worn down over these millennia; you've merely concealed it. I need you to transform into a blade once more, to cut through the darkness that threatens to fall upon your brothers, to advance fearlessly and achieve victory.

At this moment, only you can shoulder this heavy responsibility.

Most importantly, I want you to be yourself, Sanguinius.

I wish you great success in your military campaign and a triumphant return.

Sanguinius returned to his seat trembling, his wings folding, and bursts of golden light descended from within.

The person standing here now, though possessing wings on his back and being incomparably handsome, is utterly devoid of life. His azure eyes are filled with the bitterness he has swallowed over the past ten thousand years; numbness and sighs have even reached the back of his throat.

He is the warrior whose edges have been smoothed out, just as he described in his own words.

He opened his eyes and saw a dark stone chamber.

The Sigillites stiffly moved his facial muscles, giving the most vivid response he could to the archangel's smile.

His words seemed to hold a deeper meaning, even causing Sanguinius to glance at him in surprise. He hadn't expected Malcador to respond with such a dryly humorous remark; it was somewhat unlike his usual self.

The archangel frowned, and quickly, through the tacit understanding formed over thousands of years of cooperation, he noticed something different about what Malcador had hidden, and came to a conclusion.

Moreover, he could make appropriate judgments at an extremely fast pace, surpassing even the most advanced Cogitator in this regard. Machines are, after all, just machines, following rigid and inflexible programmed settings.

Who could truly entrust a Cogitator with a matter of life and death that concerns countless lives?

After finishing the last document, he pressed the call bell on the wooden table.

Sanguinius stared at him silently, as if he didn't understand what the words meant, until Malcador looked up and met his gaze.

"It's just a coincidence," the Sigillites replied calmly. "I happened to be here to inspect whether the reforms to the local weapons production line were compliant, and I received a message from my spies saying that you happened to be nearby as well. That's why I invited you here for a chat."

The man had already stopped breathing. His head was hanging down, and his emaciated body was connected to many dark cables.

Malcador looked at him and tried to smile again. With stiff muscles, he gently tapped the table, and the aroma of food wafted out, along with the rich, mellow blood wine of Baal.

He was staring intently at the glass in front of him, the exquisite, possibly priceless glass vaguely reflecting his eyes. The deep blue of the glass spread out on the surface, mixed with golden light, forming a hazy cloud that rose and fell with the movement of the light.

He was sitting in a magnificent banquet hall, the table lit with holy candles, yet there was no aroma of food. He removed his cloak and longsword, changed into a loose robe, and sat at the head of the long table.

The Sigillites raised his head, his cold silver eyes now seeming to burn brightly. This was not a false illusion, but genuine rage.

He raised his hands, gently touching his cheeks, using his psychic powers to erase the pain from his body. The robe draped over the wooden chair billowed without wind, rising and falling over him. By the time he lowered his hands, Malcador had forced himself into a working state.

He was going to see someone, and that person wouldn't like to see him like this.

Malcador didn't answer, but simply closed his eyes gently, conveying a father's apology to his son.

A golden light drifted over, instantly banishing the gazes of the four gods. This light was a storm on the sea, a lightning bolt lurking in the dark clouds, containing a will that was both broken and whole, with countless different faces flashing through it.

Everyone speaks in his Shadow, recounting their loyalty, yearning for rest or to fight again. Their desires drift from the depths of their souls, pressing down on the back of this being, such a heavy weight that it could not bend him even an inch.

"Your Majesty," he called softly, "It's time to wake up."

"We must take action." The Sigillites bowed his head and spoke in a deep voice. "Karyl Lohars has been reborn as a human. His flawed body will continue to be filled in the process of recovering the fragments. Sooner or later, he will be restored to a whole person."

"Why are we meeting here, Malcador?" Sanguinius asked without looking up.

He took the final step, the scepter striking the bricks with a heavy thud.

The eyes of the Sigillites the seal shone with a brilliant golden light, yet they were neither cold nor aloof, like those of a deity. That gaze was gentle yet powerful, like a blind man's cane or a soldier's beloved gun, offering boundless support and courage.

Sanguinius couldn't contain himself and stood up.

"Let's leave this topic aside," he said. "We're both stubborn, and we don't have much time left."

On the one hand, he felt as if he were walking on the surface of the sun, enduring its relentless scorching heat and high temperature.

"Your Majesty, a storm is approaching."

Sanguinius looked at him with a slightly strange expression.

But this--

"I am proud of you, but I want you to be proud of yourselves even more, so I must abolish this tradition. All the Blood Angels should leave me and do what they are meant to do."

Malcador looked at them coldly, his gaze devoid of even disdain or contempt, only filled with a despicable emptiness.

Malcador stared at him for a long while before exhaling a breath of stale air.

--

A shuttle slowly descended, its fuselage elegantly streamlined, the emblem of the Blood Angels gleaming on its right side. Congealed, icy water droplets spread across its surface, refracting countless dazzling rays of light.

Sanguinius looked up, his eyes glistening, and saw Malcador raising his glass.

His Majesty sighed, but did not force him to do anything. But his thoughts continued to boil and heat up in the non-existent, illusory stone chamber, eventually manifesting as a complex sound.

"You should achieve great deeds and lead your brothers to defeat humanity's enemies throughout the galaxy. The last thing I want to see is a warrior rendered unknown because of my distrust."

Therefore, even if it's just an act, Malcador should try his best to appear as if nothing is wrong.

The Sigillites seal frowned in disbelief.

On the other hand, he felt as if he were drowning in the cold seabed, surrounded by darkness, with formless monsters constantly roaming around him, gently biting his arm with their teeth.

Malcador a deep breath, raised the scepter high, and forcefully broke free from this illusion that was enough to make one succumb.

The man sighed again in despair.

Malcador gripped his scepter, taking each step with precision. He always managed to step on the right tile, thus avoiding the traps he himself had set.

"I have strived for this victory for ten thousand years, I have given everything, so what's wrong with another ten thousand years?"

"Look—" he cried. "—that is the Emperor's ninth son, the Lord Regent of the Imperium, the great Sanguinius!"

He was not wearing armor, but rather a high-ranking Archon's uniform, with the crimson mark of the Blood Angels visible on his chest, and his cloak billowing behind him. The magnificent golden scabbard of his ceremonial longsword reflected the sunlight fabricated by the ecological dome at the edge of the cloak.

"Your arrogance remains unchanged." He clenched his fists angrily. "You are not the only one in this Imperium who has the right to speak of 'everything,' Your Majesty! I know my limits; I still have things to weigh!"

Then he began reciting endless hymns.

He ignored everything else and focused his gaze on a huge, rough, and cold Throne.

However, he has rarely done so in recent centuries. Today is an exception, solely because of one person's call.

The archangel will conduct a second review; before these documents are actually issued, he has the right to intercept or return any of them.

Malcador slowly stood up, unconsciously hunching over, like a true old man.

"Cancel the rest of my meetings today, just say I'm not feeling well. Thank you, Dante," Sanguinius said softly.

He was alone, so he no longer needed to wear any mask.

Compared to his antique living room, the view outside was hardly appealing. The corridors were disorganized, the stone bricks were scattered, the murals were blurred, and every place was shrouded in an unrealistic atmosphere.

"There's no need for that," Malcador said.

"This toast is to you, Sanguinius," said Malcador.

"And we must act before they begin."

"That's impossible, my friend." The man shook his head. "The Warp is a reflection of the material world, and there is no concept of time within it. Everything we do in the material world leaves a ripple in the tide of Chaos."

The next second, golden light engulfed him. A familiar feeling of weightlessness and tearing enveloped him, making him feel, in a daze, as if he were simultaneously in two completely different places.

Dante was speechless, could only bow, and then quickly left.

"I know," the man sighed. "They've always been like this, haven't they? Primitive creatures driven by the greed for survival, thinking themselves pure and supreme, but in reality, they're nothing more than vessels of Chaos desires and base logic."

His choral voice became deep and wise, also simple and peaceful. The people who had stood in his Shadow, supporting him, quietly left, as if wanting to give the two of them this precious time alone.

This is an unavoidable ailment; his body is too young, yet his soul is old enough to drown the ocean with wrinkles. They should be irreconcilable enemies, yet they are forced together by one man's will.

He knew from the start that he would receive this reward, and he had made thorough preparations.

Malcador still didn't want to understand the deeper meaning behind this matter. He simply gathered his thoughts, threw away the sorrow belonging to flesh and blood from his heart, and forced himself to continue speaking.

The mummified corpse did not answer, but something was awakening in the surrounding darkness. It was not truly awake, but merely, in the endless descent of half-dreaming and half-awake, it heard a familiar voice and thus opened its eyes a crack.

Did you go see him?

"--No 'but,' 'however,' or 'I beg' or anything like that, my son."

Malcador breathed a slight sigh of relief, slowly raised his head, and finally saw his friend as he had hoped.

"Do you think I wanted to come here and make a scene?" Sanguinius finally looked up from his glass at him. Although his words sounded like an interrogation, there was no indignation in his voice. Instead, there was a genuine, rare smile.

"It's not everything," the man whispered sadly. "Everything is a grand and cold quantifier; it's enough to destroy the very foundation upon which a person stands in this world. I don't want to see anyone give everything. Nothing is worth such a sacrifice, Malcador."

He lowered his head again, took a step back, and avoided those warm hands.

"So that you'll leave."

The reason for this might be attributed to the two gems.

"You wouldn't have fallen to this level," Malcador replied expressionlessly.

The young yet aged Sigillites calmly turned around and walked out of his room.

He quickly realized that his current posture was somewhat inappropriate, so he extended his right hand. Psionic light flickered and danced, bringing a scepter into his hand.

The sound, carrying an immeasurable weight, was far beyond what any human could bear, yet the Sigillites straightened his back without bowing or scraping before this deity.

A sudden sound of footsteps came from behind him, and a person walked slowly in, pulled out a chair, and took his seat.

The Astartes, whom he called Dante, stood beside him, clad in golden armor, his face solemn. Upon hearing this, he nodded slightly and immediately turned to leave to convey the Primarch's words, but Sanguinius called him back just as he was about to depart.

The cries and prayers that erupted from the crowd grew louder and louder, Ecclesiarchy priest began to loudly praise his name, shouting with thunderous force in his modified voice.

Designed by Malcador himself and perfected over ten thousand years, each trap contains the ultimate malice he imitated. Seemingly harmless floor tiles can transform into a raging inferno, a blade sharp enough to cut through Adamantium, or a terrifying curse that can decay even time itself.

These things sound so terrifying, but for the Sigillites, this corridor is merely a stimulant—he needs a bit of external stimulation to break free from the rigid state of dealing with documents.

Dante stopped in his tracks, his lips trembling noticeably for a moment, before he asked, "Then, who will succeed me, Primarch?"

They had two hours to do this, and then the documents would be transferred to the Cogitator, who would then hand them over to Lord Regent Sanguinius in the form of data.

He gritted his teeth and stood there, waiting. The golden light continued to spread until it completely illuminated the stone chamber, and only then did the terrifying cold dissipate.

"Of course, your arrival has also greatly helped my spies in their investigation and evidence gathering. It would be even better if none of them abandoned their posts to come and see you."

He stands at the only boundary between darkness and light, like a city wall or fortress. The shadow he casts is darkness, but he himself is light.

They stood in his Shadow, gazing at Malcador.

"They are stirring," Malcador said coldly.

Many beings noticed him: the Lantern Reaper, the Crimson Fool, or perhaps the evil Ancient Four, whose gaze was the most merciless and the most greedy.

Sanguinius lowered his head, returned to his seat, and silently began to wait.

However, compared to the Throne itself, the mummified corpse sitting on it was unbelievably insignificant. No matter how primitive the stone Throne was, judging from its size, it should have been prepared for a giant.

He had to accept his current mediocrity, just as he accepted the suffocatingly heavy responsibility of Lord Regent.

They haunted his heart like predatory Ghost, swarming him whenever he tried to be happy, tearing away any positive emotions, and then roaring at him to remind him of his many responsibilities.

The cabin doors began to descend seconds later, and the prepared honor guard played sacred music with all their might, while a choir of innocent children sang in unison along the edge of the red carpet.

Petals began to fall from the sky, and the machinery hidden among the tall buildings and clouds completed this man-made miracle, causing the crowds from all directions to cry out in waves.

Each of these documents is enough to determine the fate of many people, and the fate of their descendants. Ordinary people would feel dizzy just looking at them, let alone making a decision.

Sanguinius watched him leave until the two doors, which had been forced open by Dante's departure, closed again. Only then did he slowly stand up and begin to pace around the banquet hall.

A thick layer of dust covered the ground, its origin unknown. A strange and distant sound pierced through the stone, faintly echoing in Malcador's ears.

Sanguinius walked past him with an impeccable smile, without even glancing at the priest.

Of course, this smile didn't last long; Sanguinius had too many things weighing on his mind that could destroy any happiness.

"No one will replace you, and I intend to abolish this tradition," Sanguinius said. "I am tired of seeing warriors' edges worn down, and I do not want to see you, like me, suffer a lifetime of political misery."

No, are they really illusions?

Never before had his humanity so easily broken through the barriers he had erected for himself.

Sanguinius let out a soft, emotionless chuckle.

He inevitably frowned, for no other reason than a sharp pain in his head.

"They will not stop. Seeing that millennia of stagnation is about to usher in a new change, none of them will be absent from this grand event that is about to begin. But I must say, Malcador, this is only the beginning."

"Our plan will succeed, but we still need to face other issues. Internal problems are not a major concern, but external threats have become so great that we must confront them squarely."

They came from nowhere, leaving no trace, yet they pierced into the man's already decaying flesh, greedily sucking up the last remaining dust from his veins.

His hands, which were resting on the table, clenched involuntarily, causing the tablecloth to twist, groan, and tear. It had traveled through countless hands to reach this place, enduring so much hardship, only to be utterly destroyed in the hands of someone who needed to serve it, turning back into fibers.

And what right did this mummified corpse have to sit on a Throne that was so cold and perfectly natural?

Does he deserve it?

Malcador released the scepter, leaving it standing. He straightened his collar before taking a step forward, stopping several dozen paces below the Throne. He looked up at the empty eye sockets of the desiccated corpse, softening his voice.

Before long, servants would come in with a cart and take away the documents. They would be sent back to the staff so they could study Malcador's thinking and discuss whether there were any inconsistencies.

The Sigillites habitually frowned, gripped the scepter tightly, and supported his entire weight on it before slowly straightening his body.

His mental exhaustion had, in turn, taken its toll on his body, causing cancer that even the healthiest flesh and blood could hardly resist. As long as he remained in power, there was absolutely no possibility of recovery.

To ordinary people, a corridor is just a corridor. To Servitor or Servo-skull, they wouldn't even notice anything strange about it. But to Daemon, Psyker, or those corrupted by the Warp, it is a deadly labyrinth.

He stood there with his head held high, his face blurred, with only his eyes still recognizable as he once was, and those eyes held only worry for his friend.

The sheer number of figures and countless names of institutions would bewilder anyone trying to decipher their meaning. Throughout the entire Imperium, perhaps only Malcador could read these documents with an expressionless face.

He wanted to say something, but he acted like a drowning person who had just been rescued, only concerned with gulping in air and completely oblivious to everything else.

He has come here today for a reason. Although he has frequently visited fortresses and strongholds throughout the Sol System over the past ten thousand years, he is willing to be a harmless symbol, bringing people a divine halo so that they may be filled with courage.

As the sound of the Servo-skull gradually receding into the distance faded, Malcador slowly stood up.

In an instant, the world spun, space was folded and distorted, and in this seemingly eternal moment, the unique spiritual energy of Malcador emanated from the Aquila at the top of the scepter, hanging upside down on the ceiling like an inverted Milky Way.

Malcador slowly raised his right hand, briefly transforming himself into a burning torch that surged endlessly within the Warp.

Such a tiny movement caused the Chaos tide to surge violently, shimmering with golden light, cold and merciless. A sound reached Malcador's ears, making him dizzy.

"What... what do you mean?" After a long silence, the archangel finally managed to utter the question.

A pair of hands landed on his shoulders, interrupting his narration. Malcador looked up and saw a face blurred by light. Then came a chorus of sacred sounds.

"So—" Sanguinius composed himself and spoke slowly, "What did you summon me for?"

The archangel looked at him, but did not immediately raise the glass beside him. He simply gazed quietly at the Sigillites, at his elders, friends, and like-minded companions. His gaze was filled with profound sorrow.

The description of its splendor as "golden and magnificent" is merely a flat depiction of its opulent appearance, failing to capture even a fraction of its magnificence. Despite this, however, no joy was visible in the archangel's eyes.

"They don't even need to observe; they can easily see our every move. Don't bother with it again, Malcador; it won't do you any good."

"You're exhausted, my friend," the being said. "Let's set aside the plans for now and talk about yourself, shall we?"

The man addressed as His Majesty did not answer him. His form bore no resemblance to the desiccated corpse with its head bowed on the Throne. He wore a long linen robe, and his hands were covered in calluses—the only two personal features he retained.

He was tall, yet short; strong, yet weak. He was a peasant, a warlord, an ambitious man and an executioner, as well as a philosopher and the most compassionate scholar of all time.

"Yes." The Sigillites the seal nodded. "And he was quite angry."

Nurgle admired his stiffness and stagnation, Khorne appreciated his courage and Dreadnought, Tzeentch talked incessantly about his wisdom and wit, Slaanesh tempted him to throw himself into his arms, even wanting to sacrifice himself to make him cross a certain line, thus turning thousands of years of hard work into nothingness.

At the edge of their blurred vision, a god stepped out of the cabin.

Or rather, it's about throwing oneself onto the Throne.

Instead, a gentle, warm ripple spread through the air, almost unreal.

The surroundings were dark and gloomy; the torches hanging on the wall looked like they hadn't been lit for at least several thousand years, and even the smell of grease had dissipated.

Sanguinius finally turned around, a smile on his face, "I only have one blessing to offer. May you have good fortune in battle and return victorious."

"Set off next month," the archangel said without turning his head. "A warrior's greatest fear is to die in obscurity. Your name has been forgotten for almost four centuries. I can no longer selfishly keep you by my side, my son."

"I can joke too," Malcador said. He maintained his signature expressionless face as he spoke, and even Sanguinius couldn't help but smile slightly at the sight.

Standing in his Shadow are countless people whose faces are indistinct: guards holding golden spears, civilians carrying hoes, dancers, scientists, soldiers, and every soul from ancient times to the present that has returned to his seat.

"You'd better stop laughing," Sanguinius sighed. "Every time I see you laugh, I feel like I'm seeing my not-so-distant future."

He is not worthy of happiness until these things are completely accomplished.

Then he asked, "What are you going to do?"

"I have my own way," Malcador said calmly. "Don't worry about me. Put aside these useless thoughts, angel, and go save them."