82nd Black Crusade (XII, NIGHT LORDS)

Vanion Tasciard had to admit that he felt dizzy. This dizziness stemmed from unstoppable blood loss, caused by a long, wavy knife stuck in his chest and abdomen.

The knife was poisoning him; he could even vaguely sense the serrations on its blade wriggling, like tiny teeth gnawing at his flesh and pouring blasphemous and dark things into his soul.

Vanion had to constantly recite the Emperor's Prayer to gain some peace, but at this moment even this natural thing seemed much more difficult, so he turned to physical help.

He tried to grasp the hilt of the knife with his only remaining right hand, attempting to pull it out, but the moment his fingers touched the hilt, a bone-chilling cold assaulted him.

The hilt trembled violently between his fingers, causing even greater pain, but Vanion discovered something else amidst the agony—the knife was alive.

Moreover, it is resisting him.

This conclusion can be proven by the simplest piece of evidence: a yellow eye that has appeared at some unknown time on the end of the knife handle.

An eye shouldn't exist on a metal and bone handle, but that's the reality; moreover, the eye is even bleeding.

Vanion stared at it, panting heavily. His fingers, stiffened by the icy cold, danced in the air for a few seconds before suddenly resting on the hilt of the knife again.

This time, he was prepared. No matter how much the longsword struggled, he couldn't break free. Amidst intense pain and even more severe dizziness, he slowly pulled the sword out, completing his struggle with it and achieving a small victory.

However, the price for this victory was staggering, because the blade was covered in his own flesh and blood; his senses were not wrong, the serrations were indeed like teeth.

Just a few seconds ago, they were deep inside his flesh, gnawing at his surroundings and devouring his internal organs.

Vanion looked down at his wound and keenly glimpsed a rotten, dark color amidst the blood and gore.

He immediately realized he had been poisoned and was likely dying. The moment this thought crossed his mind, the adjutant of the First Company of the Emperor's Scythes gritted his teeth and stood up from the burning ruins.

He was surrounded by the corpses of Astartes, some dressed like him in black and yellow armor, others in a mix of jet black and forest blue, their armor adorned with human skin, skulls, and other ornaments, their helmets transformed into something ominous and defying description by blood-red bat wings and iron fangs.

Vanion was not deterred by these things; instead, he quickened his pace and walked to a banner. A knight in Power Armour in the colors of the Emperor's Scythes held aloft a giant scythe, riding a white horse through the raging flames.

The horse was named Konabos, the warhorse of a deity in Ancient Terra mythology.

Vanion reached out and pulled the flag from a corpse; the sharp end of the alloy flagpole was stained with blood. He glanced down at the body, its neck pierced, then suddenly kicked its helmet away.

It streaked through the burning air, landed heavily, and tumbled into the darkness. Vanion's expression gradually grew serious.

He knelt down with difficulty on one knee, rested the flagpole against his chest, and used his right hand to pry open the corpse's eyelids, revealing complete darkness beneath.

God-Emperor above, Roboute Guilliman above.

He took a deep breath, then stood up and stomped his foot on the face.

Half a minute later, he found a Torchbearer Modified Short Boltgun with bullets still inside, along with his own Power Sword and helmet.

The name Opadei was engraved on the hilt of that gun. Their first Chapter Master, the former commander of the Shield Guard, the truly glorious Sons of Guilliman— compared to him, what am I?

Vanion gave a bitter smile, placed the flag behind him, and used the magnetic attachment on his belt to firmly attach it. He then moved the scabbard to his right leg, sheathed the sword, and left the burning ruins with his gun in hand.

The air grew frigid, and Vanion knew why—the sudden boarding raid had destroyed everything of the Power of Honor and completely shattered the four companies of the Emperor's Scythes.

At this point, Vanion couldn't even figure out if there were any other friendly forces on the ship besides himself, because the ship's communications had been completely paralyzed, and he didn't even bother to use his helmet to make a call.

He was furious about this, but didn't know who to vent his anger on. Ultimately, it was they who had let the enemy board the ship and allowed the enemy vessels to approach.

Vanion stopped, raised his gun, and without hesitation, pulled the trigger.

A figure suddenly appeared in the darkness before him, rushing towards him in the firelight, hands raised high, gleaming coldly. Vanion, dragging his mangled body, barely dodged the attack, then immediately turned his gun and pulled the trigger all the way down.

The short barrel and large magazine of the assault rifle finally hit the attacker with a volley of fire. The explosive rounds did not actually kill him, but the impact made him pause, which gave Vanion a chance to turn the tide.

He threw down his gun, drew his Power Sword, and charged at the attacker.

The furious blue light of the disintegrating force field illuminated his appearance, and two crimson points of Radiance flickered on the helmet, which was covered by human skin. It was sinister and terrifying, but it did not make Vanion feel any fear. At this moment, only anger remained in his heart.

Sparks flew as the attacker blocked the attack with his sword, only to fall right into Vanion's trap. He braced himself against the sword, his knees slightly lowered, and then suddenly pulled back, letting the attacker's sword penetrate deep into the shoulder armor of his left shoulder.

At the same time, his left hand, now only half its original length, slammed into the enemy's helmet. This ferocious attack, disregarding the injury, made Vanion's wound even more bloody and mangled, but it also caused his enemy to stagger backward for a moment.

That one moment cost him his life.

A flash of cold light, and the buzzing of the disintegrating force field vanished within the flesh and blood.

The attacker grunted in a low voice, his upper and lower body slowly separating. The buzzing sound resumed, and in the blue light, Vanion fell to the ground again, panting heavily, but quickly got up again.

He had to get to the bridge to check the equipment. He didn't believe all the communication equipment had been destroyed in the attack; there must be one or two Cogitator still usable.

Before he dies, he must relay the true nature of the enemy back to Sotha, which would give them a huge tactical advantage. And even if he doesn't, it will at least increase the chances of some people surviving.

He retrieved his weapon and embarked once again on this destined-to-be-difficult journey, but this time, good fortune did not favor him.

A brutal attack struck him once again. A group of thugs who were dragging crew members spotted him, knocked him to the ground, but instead of killing him, they seized his company flag and stood aside nonchalantly, mocking him.

One of them waved the flag gently, then kicked Vanion in the face, plunged the flagpole deep into the wound in his chest and abdomen, and twisted his wrist.

He spoke in a strange tone, "This flag is quite amusing, cousin. A knight on a white horse, what, do you think you're some kind of high and mighty savior? Too bad, you can't save anyone."

Vanion gritted his teeth and didn't answer, so the man twisted his wrist again, as if deliberately forcing him to scream.

Vanion had no choice but to immediately join this unusual struggle.

He rolled around in the abyss forged by pain, hatred, and shame, with mocking laughter constantly ringing in his ears.

"These idiots actually let us on the ship."

"Yes, brother, I've never seen such a foolish lackey of the False Emperor."

"Perhaps this has something to do with them being Roboute Guilliman's sons? You know, that civil servant who only knows how to modify documents loves doing this kind of thing. He turns cowards into heroes in name only, not realizing that a coward will always just be a coward."

Amidst the laughter, the enemy responsible for torturing him lowered his head, leaned against the flagpole, and shrugged. "Hey, seriously, cousin, don't you find this ironic?"

He raised his finger and pointed behind him, where an attacker was crouching on the ground, skinning people with a small knife. Each strike of the blade was accompanied by screams, cries, and pleas.

"Didn't you swear an oath to protect them?" his tormentor asked, forcing a laugh. "Now look what they've gotten? Honestly, if you hadn't interfered in these people's lives, they might have had an easier time."

Vanion finally couldn't hold back any longer and roared, "Despicable traitor!"

"Really? This is the best retaliation you can give after all this? Well, cousin, I've had my fun. You're really boring. But maybe this news will make you show a more interesting expression."

He released the flagpole, leaned down, and whispered in Vanion's ear, "Do you know? Our ship has entered your space station. Do you know what that means? I guess you do."

He looked with great satisfaction at Vanion's wide eyes, struggling limbs, and the continuous flow of blood, and finally burst into laughter behind his helmet.

But that wasn't all. He turned around, took a crew member with severed limbs and a Mark of Chaos etched on his forehead from his chuckling companion, threw him next to Vanion, and began to await his final reaction.

The emotions that Emperor's Scythes had been suppressing finally broke through the barriers of his reason at this moment. His steely will was shattered by the crew member's cries and screams. Two tears slowly slid down his bruised cheeks and fell into the dust.

"Well."

His tormentor looked at him helplessly, then drew a short sword from his waist, held it to his neck, and shook his head.

"Honestly, cousin, this is making me a little disgusted."

He received a soft response.

"Indeed," someone said behind him. "I never expected to see something like this."

Gunfire erupted suddenly, and a pale hand pierced his back, grasping his heart, and slowly lifted him up.

The bombs flew past, but none hit their targets. The tormentor, whose heart was being gripped, screamed in agony, struggling violently, before being slammed heavily to the ground.

Gunfire continued, and the bullets, meaninglessly fired from the barrels, spun in the air at an extremely slow speed. Their targets calmly bent over, grabbed a piece of armor plate from the torturer's chest with their fingers, and casually tore it off.

Then another piece, and the next one.

He carried out his work methodically, ignoring the giant who was far taller than him struggling violently. His resistance seemed pointless to him, and indeed it was; whether he threw punches or brandished a short knife, his attacks had no effect on him.

A dozen seconds later, he plunged his fingers deep into the tormentor's chest, ripped it open, casually snapped off the rib plates, and tossed them aside, killing two giants who were firing at him.

Blood splattered, and amidst the incomprehensible screams of his companions, the torturer watched as his internal organs were exposed to the cold air.

"Where did you come from?" the man asked, then reached out and crushed one of his hearts.

The attacker froze for a second, then two seconds—and then he screamed.

"I'm asking a question. Aren't you going to answer it?" the man said.

He moved his fingers, pinched his spine, and began to pluck the nerves wrapped around it, like plucking the strings of a musical instrument. Then he began to break the remaining bone fragments from the rib plates.

He played the piano and drum quietly, bringing immense pain to the tormentor, yet in the depths of his agony, he also faintly heard a sinister song—long, melodious, and overflowing with icy fury.

To the strains of the song, the torturer screamed incessantly, while his companions swiftly turned and fled, disappearing into the darkness. The bombs fell with a dull thud.

"Answer," the man said calmly amidst the hail of bullets. "And then I—"

He paused abruptly, reached out and grabbed the attacker's helmet. His seemingly powerless, slender fingers turned the Ceramite into soft paper, and with a casual rip, he turned the visor into crumpled steel.

The distorted face exposed below was drenched in sweat, pale as Ghost, and its eyes were completely black.

This scene changed his mind. He reached out his left hand, grabbed the torturer's chin, and began to slowly apply pressure with two fingers.

Amidst the muffled screams, a perfectly good chin was transformed into a complex and indescribable mixture with a mouthful of teeth, tongue, and half a face full of flesh and blood.

"My name is Karyl Lohars," he said, then shoved the mixture down the tormentor's throat. "Remember, I killed you."

He raised his right hand, clenched it into a fist, and then slowly slammed it down, precisely controlling his strength. He drove that mass of flesh deep into the attacker's throat, then into the shattered digestive tract, stomach, and intestines. He held on until his intestines were completely torn apart before he finally died.

Having done all this, Karyl stood up as if nothing had happened. He walked to Vanion's side, knelt down, and carefully helped the dying officer to his feet.

He was too weak to speak, and could only plead with his eyes for Karyl to save the motionless crew member lying next to him.

Karyl turned to look at the poor man's body and said, "I'm sorry, but he's at peace. But you're different, Lieutenant Vanion Tasiad, you can still be saved."

A psychic Radiance shone from his eyes.