Interlude 90: False or True

The orphanage's walls are a pure white, with tiled blocks concealing the gray of the concrete, making it feel comfortable and serene.

Inside the hall stands a statue of Roboute Guilliman, but not the most common image of him holding a sword; rather, he is depicted as a scholar holding a book and wearing a long robe, presumably to convey a wishful thought.

From Karyl's perspective, he could see the serene eyes in the portrait of the Emperor. The painter's skill was fully displayed in those eyes; no matter the angle from which he looked, they always carried a faint sense of compassion.

Karyl met their gazes, his right hand gently opening, and the blade that Fell Fer had been gripping tightly began to tremble.

No matter how tightly he gripped his right hand, or even used his psionic energy to block it, it was all in vain. Amidst a deafening metallic scraping sound, the metal glove was completely destroyed by the blade's handle, turning into a curled piece of scrap metal, stuck in the mushy flesh.

Karyl reached out and gripped the knife again; it was spotless, without a single drop of blood.

"Are you from Nostramo?" Fer hissed, his face growing even paler.

"Yes."

"Then why don't you speak Nostraman?"

"That's none of your business," Karyl replied slowly, taking a step forward with his knife in hand.

His actions caused all the other giants in the hall, except for this so-called Fer, to raise their guns. Fourteen Boltgun warily aimed at his vitals, but they knew it would be futile.

Over the past two Terra periods, they had overheard the continuous screams and brief descriptions of the enemy over the communication channel. These elements combined to create a monster far more terrifying than themselves.

"Why?"

"Because you should speak Gothic," Karyl said. "You are of Terra descent, like those behind you. You are not Nostramo, so there is no need for you to speak that language."

"You—" Fer swallowed a mouthful of bloody saliva. "How did you know?"

Karyl did not answer—or rather, he did not answer verbally.

A psychic Radiance also shone in his eyes, but the light was not dazzling; in fact, it could even be described as somber, and it did not last long, only a brief moment.

But in that brief moment, the world before Fer Zalost's eyes suddenly changed.

The orphanage and his brothers and sisters had all vanished, leaving only primal and pure darkness. Before Fer could even think, a word rushed into his mind: homeland.

The word came so suddenly, almost like an instinctive reaction. Fer looked around and quickly proved how sharp his instincts were with what he saw before him—he was right, this was indeed his hometown.

This is Terra's underground prison, a place to exile the most heinous criminals and their descendants. Here there is no light, no law, and no freedom.

The so-called freedom here is nothing more than the choice of whether to kill or not; it does not possess the broad power of choice that people generally perceive. Fer knew this place all too well; before joining the Legion, this was his home.

He didn't like this place, but it was always home.

"What do you want with me here?" he asked weakly.

A Shadow emerged from the darkness.

"Just to prove something," Karyl said, maintaining an inexplicable calm.

He walked up to the so-called Night Lords and carefully examined the Mk II Power Armour the latter was wearing, as well as the midnight color, the lightning bolt paint applied later, and the eagle wing insignia on his chest.

A few seconds later, the silence began to shift, transforming into a complex emotion that Fer Zalost could not yet comprehend.

He thought hard for a while, but could only come up with one: pity.

Are you pitying me?

"Yes," Karyl nodded in acknowledgment. "You... should not exist."

The Night Lords misinterpreted his words: "You're going to kill me?"

"Not for now," Karyl said.

The blue light deep within his eyes shone once more, and the world spun, engulfing everything like a vortex, leaving Fer utterly powerless to resist. As a Psyker and the Chief Librarian the Eighth Legion's think tank, he had never imagined such a day would come.

But the facts are the facts, and cannot be changed. He could not overcome this person's power, just as he could not defy the Primarch's commands.

Fer began to scream as he felt an idea penetrate his mind, something sharp and unkind. It was no ordinary weapon; it far surpassed them.

This illusory blade sliced through everything, and memories began to surge forth, scattering like soldiers receiving orders, dividing into two distinct ends.

Before joining the Legion, and after joining, they had a strong desire to unite as one, yet were powerless to do so. That blade was so sharp; it made Fer feel as if he had been almost sliced in two—could that be the truth?

In his agony and impending madness, he wondered: Had I already gone insane? Was all of this just a hallucination? Or perhaps, was I already dead?

"Not yet," a voice said.

The blade continued to cut, to penetrate deeper, the feeling of splitting intensifying. In his daze, Fer even saw his own face, only a younger version. A degenerated mutant from the underground caves, a descendant of criminals, pale, photophobic, with dark eyes, and naturally sharp teeth used to tear at the throats of his enemies.

Then comes another face, weary and bored, tortured in war, having committed bloody crimes, wielding a long staff, using dreams to interrogate the enemy.

The two people stood in front of him, their backs to him, each holding one of his hands.

The child on the left asked in an innocent yet cruel tone, "What are we eating tonight?"

The madman on the right answered in a dreamlike voice, "We must stop the Primarch's madness."

The word "Primarch, Primarch, Primarch" began to echo in his mind.

The child started chanting it, the madman started chanting it, and Fer, his head throbbing, roared in an attempt to stop them, but as the words reached his lips, he found himself chanting the word himself, and not only that, he wanted to go even deeper.

He was calling for Konrad Curze Curze.

A fierce wind swept in, blowing against his face, cutting his flesh, and drinking his blood—cruel yet real.

"We can't go on like this, Primarch!" he cried. "This must stop! The killing of the innocent is not the Judgment and justice we seek. Return and continue to lead us!"

The blade sliced deep, piercing him, utterly destroying his deepest desires: his yearning for justice, the lessons he had learned in the Legion, the rare joy he felt upon the Primarch's return, and the indescribable, profound disappointment that followed.

All of this was destroyed. The knife was like a greedy beast that was never satisfied. It had devoured everything deep within Fer Zalost's heart, yet it still craved more.

Fer was powerless to stop it and could only plead in a tearful voice to stop. He received no answer, only more intense pain.

He screamed and howled in agony in the darkness, as frenzied as the mindless monsters in Terra's underground prisons who had completely degenerated, but the knife was right, and its reason for not stopping was right.

After a certain moment, after the blade had reached its limit in cutting through flesh and blood, it cut into a void.

Then, some hidden things began to surface.

The first thing to appear was a scarred and ugly face, with white hair scattered haphazardly like weeds. The person wore a rusty, faded Power Armour, but an eagle wing still stood proudly on the right shoulder.

He stood before another man, slightly taller than him, with a weary and pained expression, his back to Fer.

They were probably talking, but all the sounds sounded distorted and muffled, as if they were coming from the surface of the water.

Despite his best efforts, Fer couldn't make out what they were saying. He could only observe, and remember that scarred, ugly face.

But this was not the end, because another speaker turned around. He had a face that was hard to describe, so ordinary that it had no distinguishing features whatsoever.

The man walked up to Fer and looked him over carefully. This time, Fer heard what he said clearly.

"Keep cloning, Bile, our collaboration has only just begun."

The blankness vanished abruptly, the blade was withdrawn, the wound healed, and Fer Zalost collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath. Everything he had just experienced was surfacing from the depths of his mind, memories swollen and pale like corpses.

He couldn't help but vomit, and thick, dark blood splattered all over the ground. His brothers gathered around him; some were worried, some were furious, and some remained wary.

But all of this paled in comparison to another voice, peaceful and low, far from loud, its tone so gentle it was almost a whisper—the very tone the Night Lords most often used when conversing with each other.

"You do not exist."

Fer looked up in a daze at the person who had spoken. For some reason, he couldn't see the person's face clearly at all. Even with his best efforts, he couldn't make out their features.

He stood up silently, memories still surfacing in his mind. The pure white place gradually changed; the walls and surroundings turned into a somber, iron-gray, and then his perspective shifted, as if he were gazing outwards from underwater.

He suddenly understood something, but instead of being sad, he stumbled forward several steps as if he had grasped a lifeline, until he grabbed the man's shoulder.

"You said—" he gasped. "You mean—"

He coughed up more blood, but his eyes grew even brighter.

"So we don't exist?" he asked, a hint of expectation in his voice. "So all this struggle, all this so-called betrayal, these demands, and the madness of us Primarch, is all a lie?"

Karyl looked at him and the group of "Night Lords" behind him who had no idea what was going on, and after several seconds of silence, he nodded.

A dream quietly unfolded in his eyes. In this dream, there were no increasingly degenerate recruits, a flagship full of corpses, brothers willing to sink into depravity, and the insane Primarch.

The Eighth Legion were not bloodthirsty butchers or sadists who took pleasure in torture; they remained exactly as the Emperor had shaped them—the blade of Judgment, the final act of mercy.

The dream spread rapidly, encompassing the pitiful souls of these fifteen who considered themselves "Terra." They fell to the ground, their breathing becoming steady.

Their hands were unstained with blood; the stolen memories may be false, but the character they gave them was real.

Karyl gripped the blade and walked toward them, but a child, trembling, stopped him.

"Are you going to kill them, sir?" he asked fearfully. "Can't you not do it? The Emperor taught us to be kind, and they protected us. Many people wanted to come in, but they didn't allow it."

Karyl watched him silently, and after a few seconds, he nodded. Fifteen people floated up and followed him out of the orphanage gate. It remained unstained by blood; the war seemed to have nothing to do with this place.

He kept walking and walking, until he had gone very far, until the Great Crusade in his dream ended at its most glorious moment, before he finally swung down the sharp blade in his hand.