Dark Crusade (22: Landing, the False King)

"Keep moving forward," Jago Sevatarion said.

The bridge was empty; no one else was there except him. The Radiance of the dark stars flickered eerily on the almost illusory observation windows, looking almost like countless eyes.

Sevatar sometimes imagined these eyes as bridges used by a mad god to observe the outside world, and he knew that in the Warp, they truly were.

Nothing normal exists there; even the cemetery, which should offer peace, is filled with a horde of mad spirits.

They wouldn't hesitate to destroy the world.

The first chapter Chapter Master of the Midnight Blade sat down expressionlessly. The Soul of Night had two command seats: one was human-sized, bearing the roars of captains throughout the ages, while the other had been empty for nearly ten thousand years, until today.

Sevatar sat down unharmed, the chainsaw leaning against the right armrest, its replaced monomolecular saw blade resting quietly in the groove.

They gleamed, but his armor was different; this ancient Power Armour from the Legion era was a nightmare for Servitor and Chapter servants. No matter how much they polished it, it could never achieve the same shine as the other armors.

The servants secretly believed it to be alive and to feed on light.

Sevatar knew about it, but he didn't want to bother with it. Traveling with Night Lords required courage, and it was merely the most basic requirement. Most people's courage was no different from a castle made of sand in the face of grinning Daemon.

They had already given so much; he didn't ask for any more qualifications.

"A mistake?" Sevatar suddenly asked. "What mistake did I make?"

A cold wind, seemingly from nowhere, swept across their faces, its sound growing louder, like the wailing of a wronged soul. Sevatar impatiently leaned his head back on the command seat, ignoring the gust of wind.

But it seemed unwilling to give up so easily. It swept through the abandoned, ancient machines, its thick, rusty scent slamming into Sevatar's face.

It's like being doused with a bucket of cold blood.

Sevatar let out a heavy sigh of frustration, and then finally spoke up to retort, "Not letting you stay in the material world is a mistake? Where am I supposed to find another dying sun for you?"

The wind still blows.

"No, don't even think about it. Those star systems are inhabited, and their suns are perfectly healthy. What right do you and I have to deprive them of what they depend on for survival? Or is this what Shen taught you?"

As he spoke, Sevatar propped his face up with his right hand, while his left hand shot out like lightning, his sharp fingers clenching tightly in the air, catching a wisp of breeze. It didn't resist, but simply slipped away quietly through his fingers.

Silence returned to the bridge, and there was no more sound. He smiled with satisfaction, turned his head to look out the porthole, and began to estimate how long the voyage would last.

The Night's Soul no longer belongs to the material world. Every second it stays here requires "fuel." In other words, when the last rays of the sun in Calth burn out, the Night's Soul will have to return to the wasteland and rest beneath the ashes of the dead.

Perhaps she will be awakened again in the future, but this journey is destined to end soon.

"Power up the engine," Sevatar ordered with frustration. "Let's see if you can get to Andermung before you run out of fuel."

In response, a gentle breeze swept by. Sevatar, carrying his chainsaw, slowly rose and left the bridge without a word.

Andermung is the capital of the southern division of the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar. Ten thousand years ago, it was a remote world that was not valued much, but now it has become a well-developed star system.

The garrison is powerful, equipped with a Forge World that can stably produce warships and various weapons and armor every year. Although it is located in a remote area, it is by no means barren and can be completely self-sufficient.

Sevatar, however, knew more— Roboute Guilliman had placed one of his anti-psy forces somewhere here.

No, perhaps it should no longer be called a unit, but Chapter.

Sevatar sank into the darkness, lost in thought.

Without any hindrance, he easily arrived at a conference room, which was already packed with people. The officers among the surviving Calth's Sons were debating amongst themselves, while the Night Lords remained silent to the side, showing no intention of joining in.

This made Sevatar frown—he couldn't remember how many times he had brought it up, but it seemed that both within Night Lords and in the other four sub-groups, people preferred to remain silent in such situations.

They are simply incorrigible.

He walked out of the darkness, slightly annoyed, causing the discussion to pause briefly, but it soon resumed. The Calth's Sons had learned to ignore such things, but Sevatar was not happy about it.

He walked expressionlessly toward Hectorus Kargio, the Chapter Master of the Calth's Sons, who was frowning at a Dataslate.

Why do you look so troubled, Kargio?

The Chapter Master silently shook his head and handed the Dataslate to Sevatar. The numbers on it were anything but pleasant, and Sevatar couldn't help but frown.

Night's Soul's fuel could run out at any moment, and even though he had started powering it himself, he couldn't slow down the trend.

He must control his power.

If he were to abandon his physical body, he could indeed make the Soul of Night sail for several more years or even a decade or so without any difficulty, but if he did that, the Andermung system would be destroyed.

The spiral of Vengeance will drag every planet there into it.

But they had run out of supplies.

People need food. The Astartes might be able to survive for a long time without food or water, but at this moment, the Night's Soul is not only home to the Astartes; the civilians and Auxilia of Calth are also among them.

They had been sailing for a full week, and every bit of military supplies had already been distributed to the civilians. The soldiers could hold out for a few more days thanks to their discipline, but the civilians were a different story.

Sevatar knew what hunger felt like, and he also knew what hunger could turn a person into.

In other words, they must find a world that can provide basic supplies as soon as possible—don't think this is easy; even today, not every star system in the Ultima Segmentum is suitable for human habitation.

There are always some planets that don't welcome humans, and unfortunately, their flight path is mostly through such worlds if the Soul of Night can't get them to Andermung before running out of fuel.

"I understand," Sevatar said. "Then let's change direction a bit. I remember Andermung was conducting an investigation not long ago; their report indicated that several inhabited star systems near the southern capital have not yet been fully developed."

"Most of these star systems were colonized during the Great Crusade. Although we lost contact with them afterward due to the Radiance of their Astronomican, they should still be alive. Let's resupply first and then make other plans."

Kargio nodded seriously.

He didn't ask Sevatar why he knew more about the Ultima Segmentum than he—a Sons of Guilliman.

The meeting ended quickly, Calth barely survived two more days in the supernatural cold brought by the Soul of Night. They had always harbored some unspeakable romantic fantasies about the starry sky.

Now, that illusion is completely dead. Void travel is anything but romantic; quite the opposite, it's extremely dangerous, making even the difficulties encountered in daily life seem insignificant in comparison.

But they persevered, and on the ninth day of their voyage, they discovered a small world along their route.

The Soul of Night's unmanned instruments rated it as "habitable," while remote sensing mapping showed that it had no orbital defenses.

And so everything proceeded naturally. They entered orbit at dawn, ascended into the atmosphere, and landed on a plain. The dew on the grass was blown away by the gale, and the Soul of Night vanished into thin air along with it, turning into a bubble-like phantom.

The vehicles taken from Calth played a crucial role at this moment, and the situation around the plains was quickly ascertained. Meanwhile, the priests of the Calth Mechanicum demonstrated astonishing efficiency in the process.

In just four hours, a camp with a certain level of defense capabilities, capable of generating its own electricity, and equipped with several medical rooms was established.

As heavy machine gun and artillery positions from Calth began to be deployed, the scouts who had left the camp to investigate returned in vehicles, laden with food and intelligence that gave Sevatar a major headache.

"Orks?" he cursed. "Fuck them."

--

Roboute Guilliman Burning Fire and walked up the city wall. The firelight cast his Shadow so long that he looked completely inhuman.

Namas —the city beneath his feet—was not large, but its first lord was a very visionary man. He rigorously supervised the craftsmen and the people to build thick, wide city walls, and successfully emptied his own coffers, as well as the people's coffers.

He eventually died under the angry pitchforks of the people.

Years later, his tax minister ascended to the throne of lordship by popular vote, and his first order was to continue maintaining the city walls. This time, no one objected, because the Orks had been fighting them for over a year.

To this day, Namas still maintains this tradition.

Roboute Guilliman liked this, but he wouldn't say it aloud. He understood how much influence his words and actions could have on those around him, and he began to be cautious in his speech—or rather, taciturn.

He did more than he said, and those who considered themselves his servants often acted with great fear, thinking that they had done something wrong, which led to his dissatisfaction.

This idea greatly troubled Roboute Guilliman, but there was nothing he could do about it.

He walked to the middle of that section of the wall, where a man was waiting. He was leading his soldiers on duty there that night, and Roboute Guilliman had come for him.

His heavy footsteps drew attention. His target turned around and gestured to the men behind him. The soldiers, clad in thick leather armor, saluted and returned to the tower at the end of the city wall to rest.

Normally, they would have gladly obeyed the order, but now they walked slowly, even reluctantly—each of them would look back at Roboute Guilliman every now and then, hoping to get some encouragement from him.

Roboute Guilliman forced himself to make eye contact with everyone.

At the same time, Domien walked up to him. He was covered in blood.

"My lord," the knight, his armor tattered and face deathly pale, bowed, his hand on his chest. "What is it you need?"

"I have some questions for you," Roboute Guilliman said. "Early this morning, our soldiers on this wall reported that they saw something in the sky."

Domien, whose eyes were swollen so much they seemed about to pop out of their sockets, suddenly realized. He nodded, "Ah, I've heard about that too. But it's probably just their hallucination, or they're mistaken for a harbinger of an approaching storm."

Roboute Guilliman shook his head, interrupting him.

The humidity in the air remained unchanged, and there was no wind. Besides, it wasn't the rainy season, Domien. Either they'd all gone mad, or they'd genuinely seen some kind of flying dragon. Either way, it wasn't good news for us.

"But dragons are merely creatures of myth and legend, sir," the knight said doubtfully. "If they truly existed, we would have seen them countless times over the years."

Before I appeared, didn't you all think I existed only in myths and legends? Broaden your horizons, Domien. What if it wasn't a dragon, but a warship?

"A warship?" The knight was even more puzzled.

Roboute Guilliman stared at him, saying nothing more. The word he had gleaned from his memory had now become irrelevant.

The moonlight was especially intense tonight, perhaps because the clouds had been torn apart by the so-called dragon. It shone directly through Domien, as if he didn't exist.

The torch in Roboute Guilliman's hand and the light from the brazier not far away did not illuminate his face, which remained bloodstained and pale.

"My lord?" the knight called out, seemingly oblivious. "I am dead, my lord."

"Yes, I know," Roboute Guilliman answered silently, closing his eyes.

Knight Domien was indeed dead, dead on that meadow. His cause of death was easy to summarize: severe fright and cardiac arrest due to overexertion. Roboute Guilliman knew the reason—of course he knew, he was the culprit.

He moved too fast, and his expression was too ferocious. He was too anxious at that moment, his mind was blank, and all he wanted was for Domien to stop screaming.

He was even prepared to explain everything to the knight, after all, these secrets were a torment to him.

But Domien died, and his death was both absurd and perfectly logical.

Before you died, you probably thought I was some kind of monster, right, Domien? That's why you were so afraid.

Roboute Guilliman opened his eyes, but Domien was gone, though his guilt remained. Logically, the life and death of a mere mortal shouldn't have concerned him so much.

But he did care. If he hadn't used the name and identity of Roboute Guilliman, perhaps he wouldn't have cared about these things, and he could have been free to do whatever he wanted.

But now he is "Roboute Guilliman," The Emperor's son, the Radiance son of local mythology, a hero destined to save everyone. People trust him, depend on him, and are even willing to die for him.

If that's the case, then he has no choice but to care.

The moonlight remained the same. Roboute Guilliman turned and left, walking down the city wall. He could hear the soldiers whispering in the towers; those words, full of trust and reverence, amplified his pain.

He quickly returned to the lord's manor, where no one else lived except him; Lord Camo had voluntarily vacated it. Of course, it was only voluntary on his part.

For Roboute Guilliman, this was pure coercion; he was certain that if he hadn't agreed, Lord Camo would have died on the spot.

The old man truly regarded him as his savior and therefore followed him wholeheartedly. In his simple worldview, the son of God deserved the best of everything.

Roboute Guilliman walked with a wry smile into the deepest part of the mansion, where Lord Camo had once stored his wine cellar, but now it was filled with a faint stench.

A wooden bed was placed in the center of the empty wine cellar, covered with a white sheet that outlined a human figure. Roboute Guilliman walked over and lifted the sheet, revealing the real Domien.

He gritted his teeth, feeling a deep disgust for what he had done. Then, he bent down and gently twisted open the knight's already severed skull with his right hand.

"I'm so sorry," Roboute Guilliman said painfully, "But I have to do it."

The image of the fire from not long ago flashed before his eyes—the wine stored by Lord Camo was reduced to ashes, and the Orks corpses crackled in the flames. But no matter how many times they were burned, their flesh could not be completely removed.

Roboute Guilliman then realized that his plan to eliminate the threat permanently with fire was impossible, at least not with such a flame. A word came to mind: Phosphex, an element he had no chance of synthesizing now.

He had no choice but to take a risky approach; he had to. Therefore, he devised a plan that could only be described as insane. But it didn't matter; insane it was, he had sworn to protect them.

He looked at the knight's opened head, where the brain should have been, and there was a pale red mass of flesh pulsating, seemingly alive.

Roboute Guilliman put the skull back on with trembling hands.

The piece of flesh came from his heart, and he could feel it. Even after it left his body, he could still feel its beating and its current condition.

It is altering Domien's body.

Roboute Guilliman sat limply to one side, waiting for dawn. Unbeknownst to him, inside the courtyard of the lord's mansion, a black bird tilted its head, gazing at the ground. Its gaze seemed to reach straight to the basement, seeing everything there.

From the depths of the darkness, a soft chuckle rang out.

"Behold! Behold the Miserable King, beneath his magnificent armor lies no flesh and blood. He swore to be a shield, but he is nothing but a fraud!"

Unpleasant bird calls began to echo over the city.

"Behold his people—" He laughed. "When will they discover his true nature!"