The 87th Black Crusade (XVII: Questioning the Gods)

Karyl reached out and grabbed Jando Skraivok from the ground.

With a flash of blue light, the twelve metal rods trembled and spontaneously withdrew from his body, their surfaces still perfectly smooth, without any blood or tissue fluid present.

They clattered to the ground, the blue light continued to flash, and accompanied by a tooth-grinding sound of flesh being torn apart, Jando Skraivok's body returned to normal, only to be immediately met with a heavy blow.

He was forced to fly backward and crash into the wall. His entire body, from the neck down, was in a strange state of paralysis, making him completely unable to move.

Then, Karyl reached out again and cradled his head. From any angle, it was a face that belonged only to Nostramo.

Excessive pallor, and excessive cruelty. The black lines from the tattoo completely stained his eye sockets and extended significantly towards his cheeks and forehead, naturally forming sharp lines.

Karyl didn't care about that; he knew what it was, but he didn't care.

He stared intently at Jando Skraivok's face, carefully comparing it to the wailing face in his memory, and the conclusion he reached made him frown deeply.

He released his grip, tossing aside the so-called Count Tattoo, and stomped on his throat. Psychic energy surged violently from the surrounding air, pinning him to the ground and temporarily rendering him unconscious.

Karyl did not intend to torture him.

At least, the torture was over once he uttered the name Konrad Curze Curze in Nostraman.

Language has power, and although Karyl hated to say it, Nostramo did indeed undergo a tremendous change because of him.

This change is multifaceted; even language itself has become something magical. It is no longer suitable for everyday communication, but rather for shining in the realms of summoning and mysticism.

Using it, those who are prepared or have faith can easily and readily summon the slumbering dead, and even other beings, from the wasteland of bones.

Therefore, it was sealed away and abandoned, and anyone qualified to learn it was placed under strict supervision.

Just now, Jando Skraivok uttered that name in Nostraman, but it summoned nothing.

There was nothing there, as if his hissing syllables and perfect accent were nothing but a false dream.

"Is this also part of your conspiracy?" Karyl asked.

The next second, in his Shadow, some shimmering silver powder began to boil.

"No, no, of course not."

A voice emerged from the powder, answering his question in a thoughtful tone. This time, He sounded calm, in fact, unusually calm.

"I accept the flashes of brilliance from fools and the rare blunders of wise men; I even tolerate a child's little prank. But this is different, old friend. This has exceeded my limits of tolerance. Do you remember Horus Lupercal?"

"I remember."

"So you must also remember the confusing behavior he displayed during your fight?"

"I have never fought him," Karyl said coldly. "Horus Lupercal has never been my enemy; he is my son's brother."

"Say what you will. We both have different opinions on this issue, and I have no intention of debating with you at this time. So let's go with your opinion."

"That imposter, that monster, that embodiment of darkness, could see countless pasts and futures, and their individual branches, under the influence of my power. It was precisely because of this that it fell. Therefore, it was not my original intention to let it see these things."

"But by then, it had already seized that part of my authority, and I had no right to persuade it. It did indeed grow into a monster capable of destroying you, just as I had hoped, but it also exceeded my own control."

Fortunately, I always learn from my mistakes, and I won't repeat them. Since then, I've stopped paying attention to the countless branches of the "Milky Way" tree that extend along the timeline; it's pointless.

"Whether I think the same way on the other branches is their own business, but I have already made my decision: among so many branches, I will be the only one."

Karyl listened in silence, without uttering a word. He hadn't used his divine power; summoning Tzeentch at this moment was merely a clever trick. The mediums He had left behind still existed in his Shadow, so it wasn't difficult to do this.

Moreover, he paid no price; Tzeentch took all the blame himself.

"Furthermore, I have many ways to win this long game, why resort to such a foolish method? To graft other branches onto my unique branch and then watch the two worlds fight each other?"

"So many changes, don't you want them?"

The Tzeentch sighed.

"No," He said. "Even though it is my nature, I still say no. I refuse to lose my uniqueness in this way, I refuse to merge with another me, and I refuse to let anything else taint this world that bears my mark."

How many are true stories, and how many are false ones? And if this is the truth, then...

Karyl narrowed his eyes, avoiding the trap of overthinking, and instead forgot about those words, using his intuition to guess Tzeentch's true motives for such a long speech.

His sharp instincts cut through the darkness like a blade, splitting all the mysteries in two and drawing a long straight line in the realm beyond reason.

At the end of this straight line lies a conclusion that seems completely unrelated to Tzeentch's motives.

"You've become weaker. You can't see as many things anymore, and you can't grasp as many matters," Karyl said. "That's why you don't know who the real culprit is."

Tzeentch burst into laughter.

"Indeed," He admitted. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have needed to go on and on with you for so long. So go find them, old friend, and kill them all. I'll help you if necessary. After all, this is my business now too."

The light faded, the powder dimmed, and the Shadow returned to stillness, but Karyl frowned deeply.

He had become so accustomed to attributing horrific conspiracies to Tzeentch that it now seemed like a bad thing, as it had trapped him in a fixed mindset, almost putting him in a vicious cycle.

He silently kept this matter in mind, ready to constantly remind himself not to fall into the trap of his own thinking. Then, he began to think about something else.

Tzeentch said this wasn't His doing; the real culprit was someone else. But what other being could possibly do such a thing?

Trazyn sensed from a slight breeze that the door to the room behind him had been opened. He turned around, activated his hearing sensor, and began to greet him, "How is the interrogation going, Your Excellency?"

I did not interrogate him.

"Ah, that does surprise me. Such magnanimity seems inappropriate for such scum. He comes from a violent gang that takes pleasure in torture and murder. Sir, are you perhaps planning to pardon him?"

Karyl glanced at him, once again surprised by the qualities this Necrons was displaying.

Trazyn's voice synthesizer was so advanced that it allowed him to express a wide range of emotions through programming. His last words were filled with indignation and utter contempt for Jando Skraivok.

It was as if he really had feelings.

"No, but I don't intend to put him on Judgment either, at least not now. You can bring that analysis device with you, Mr. The Infinite. Also, I noticed you possess some kind of teleportation method."

"It cannot be used to transport living beings," Trazyn readily replied. "But I can have one of my ships bring them over if you agree, Your Excellency."

"I have no objection," Karyl said. "Then I'll leave it to you to continue your work; I need to go to the surface of Sotha."

Trazyn bowed slightly, watching him depart. The remaining Emperor's Scythes still watched him warily, ignoring the person he addressed with respect, as if he had no close relationship with a Xenos.

Trazyn could understand them; after all, if his guess was correct, Karyl Lohars must have come with orders from Roboute Guilliman.

Even without written orders, they at least possess something like a personal crest that proves their identity. For the Astartes, however, the orders of their respective Primarch are absolutely supreme.

Those capable of resisting are few, and those who can maintain their integrity in the face of the Primarch are even fewer.

Lost in thought about these things, he couldn't help but have the idea of getting a few more outstanding Ultramarines to make new exhibits.

Then he quickly extinguished it.

Let's forget about it.

He let out two monotonous laughs at the Emperor's Scythes, then stepped into the room.

The door closed, Jando Skraivok lay on the ground, seemingly unconscious, looking like a corpse.

Trazyn ignored him for the time being, instead sending back the obsidian platform he had teleported there, and then sending over the complete analysis device.

If his hideout's signal relay station possessed simple thought processes, like the deep consciousness of the Tomb World, it would probably already be pleading with him not to waste computing power.

Trazyn shook his head with delight, marveling at his brilliant design, walked to the end of the room, and kicked Jando Skraivok into the analysis device.

Please forgive me, but he really doesn't want to use his hands.

Having done this, he began using the transmission protocol. In the blink of an eye, his consciousness traversed hundreds of transit points, arriving at the Horus Heresy exhibit in the Solemnace Underground Museum, where he was revived from a functional body.

This body had probably not been used for a whole thousand years, and it gave him a strange, sticky feeling. He patted its back like a living person would, and then stepped inside.

Compared to the other exhibition halls, this one is unbelievably large. Trazyn used a pocket-dimensional technology to reshape the space so that he could fit all those warships inside.

Yes, warships.

Numerous wrecked warships lay on the ceiling, none of them repaired; the frozen time ensured they did not disintegrate further.

Their engines were still lit, and the gun decks were still smoking, where the crew and soldiers were fighting to the death against the enemy or monsters—of course, they had also stopped, stopped at the moment between life and death, stopped in this eternal second.

Trazyn gazed at them admiringly, then looked away and continued walking. Like the other exhibition halls, he had set up a timeline here and categorized several important battles for focused presentation.

The regrettable thing is that ten millennia have passed, and he still hasn't completed this masterpiece.

Most of the marked areas only had blood-stained ground or some mangled corpses remaining. Only the small districts of "Caliban Uprising" and "Battle of Macragge" had a few squads of Word Bearers, as well as Dark Angels, Iron Warriors, Salamanders, Death Guard, and Ultramarines.

Trazyn sighed, forcing himself not to look at them, still filled with deep regret.

Unlike ordinary wars, the most important war in the entire Horus Heresy, the Battle of Terra, was one that he was unable to conduct on-site investigations of. He could not set foot on that planet, nor could he even get close to it. Yet, most of the important battles took place on it.

Trazyn has begun to feel that this will become his eternal regret.

This thought persisted until he moved on to the next exhibition hall, at which point his attention immediately returned to his hard-earned masterpiece.

The first thing that catches the eye is a small squad of Iron Warriors from the Defense of Olympia. They are all wounded, their armor charred black, and they protect hundreds of civilians behind them, each holding their own weapon.

A woman with a resolute face and a slender figure stood at the forefront of the group, a steel flower tucked behind her left ear, firing bullets filled with rage at the Daemon opposite her.

Trazyn gazed at his masterpiece with fascination, and he could even recall how long it had taken him to recreate this fleeting glimpse that had captivated him for centuries.

It was truly unforgettable. The Infinite sighed inwardly, then immediately awoke with a start—what was I doing here?

He hurried on until he reached the very back of the exhibition hall. There, too, was a group of frozen warriors, the leader holding two swords, his dark face filled with rage.

"La Endymion."

The Infinite shook his head with reverence, sighed, then laughed, praising himself. After a long while, he carefully reached out and carried him out of the exhibition hall.

Unbeknownst to him, a golden light flashed in the soldier's eyes.