102: Dark Crusade (26): Audience with "Father"

Thunderhawk streaked across the sky, shaking the deck violently. Sevatar squeezed himself into a seat with his legs together.

His current size is not yet close to that of the Primarch, but he is already much taller than a normal Astartes, in addition to his finely crafted Power Armour and the somewhat cumbersome cloak.

To put it bluntly, his current posture was rather ridiculous. Although no one said it outright, Sheher Cold Soul was staring at him intently.

Sevatar fastened his four seatbelts, giving him a cold look in return. The Supreme Commander chuckled and pointed to the front cabin.

The Dreadnought could be transported there; the empty armor racks reflected a dim light. Sevatar glanced at them and squinted.

The meaning of "Cold Soul" was self-evident, but Sevatar didn't say anything, only making a gesture with slight displeasure.

The cabin began to shake continuously. The strong airflow encountered after takeoff is an unavoidable predicament for any vehicle. Perhaps those shuttles that were specially modified for use by nobles could withstand it, but this concept was not in the design language of the Thunderhawk.

Sevatar closed his eyes, slowing his breathing as if he were asleep. In the void beyond the sight of ordinary people, a spiritual substance leaped out from his armor and body, beginning to drift around the Thunderhawk.

It was past noon, but the sunlight showed no signs of abating. Many white clouds floated in the seemingly normal pale blue sky, but the Thunderhawk flew over them mercilessly, tearing them to shreds.

Sevatar watched all of this with a cold eye, when suddenly a network of perception bloomed around him, encompassing everything in the surrounding area.

Normally, he wouldn't need to go to such lengths, but this time is different. The situation on this planet has become far too complicated.

Orks, Chaos, and that Roboute Guilliman who appeared out of nowhere—if it were the real Roboute Guilliman descending upon this place, Sevatar was certain he wouldn't be completely oblivious.

The Lord of Macragge has been an eternally burning furnace for many years.

He used his own suffering as fuel, transforming the raging flames into shields to protect the innocent.

The Radiance of the flames was so dazzling that Sevatar could see it clearly even before he was forced to "advance," let alone now.

He opened his eyes, and his spiritual essence returned to his body in an instant. The Thunderhawk began its descent, the Heavy Bolter mounted under its wings preheating.

Sevatar could hear their chilling sounds; he'd heard them far too many times, but he'd probably never get used to them.

This sound can only prove one thing: the Calth's Sons have made some kind of preparation.

The cabin doors slowly opened, and amidst the hum of machinery, Sevatar led the way out of the cabin.

As the wind picked up, their gunboats did not shut down their engines; all three engines maintained low power, ready to take off at any moment.

The gunners had already maneuvered the turbo laser destroyers and Heavy Bolter, aiming them at the city-state not far from them. Any movement would trigger an immediate barrage.

Five Night Lords followed closely behind, emerging from the other side of the cabin and assuming a guarded stance in the sunlight. Sevatar turned his head and glanced at Hector Kargio standing behind him.

His gaze was like a sharp blade, piercing straight through Kargio's helmet and into his mind.

With a sharp pain, the Calth's Sons looked back silently. He saw a pale face with a half-smile.

"From a medieval perspective, this city could easily be called a fortress," Sevatar said meaningfully.

"Well, do you think normal knights and their serfs could build a city like this? Look closely at the walls; they're made of metal."

Kargio took a deep breath.

"Your jokes are as awful as ever, Lord Sevatar," said Sheher Cold Soul mercilessly from the side.

He pointed this out clearly, even in a serious tone.

The innate keenness Legacy from Konrad Curze Curze's blood and a certain intuition as the Blade of Judgement were gradually merging into one in the burning heat of the wind. If he were willing to remove his helmet, everyone present would be able to see his trembling eyes.

But he won't take off his helmet, neither will he, nor will Sevatar.

The reason can be found in a group of dumbfounded civilians not far away.

Kargio walked toward them, trying to slow his pace.

He didn't want to trigger "superhuman phobia" or make them misunderstand that he was about to launch an attack, even though Sevatar's veiled remarks and the cityscape he saw from the sky had already stirred up some unpleasant emotions, but he was a stubborn man.

From any perspective, Kargio believed he had to act rationally.

"Hello--" he greeted, trying to keep his voice from getting too low, while taking off his helmet.

While some Calth are naturally pale, they are not as deathly pale as the Night Lords, who appear almost inhuman or even dead.

To put it more clearly: he was one of the few in this small coalition that looked human.

Kargio stopped ten paces away from the civilians. He stared at them, his gaze neither particularly friendly nor malicious.

"Is this Naros?" Kargio asked.

No one answered. The civilians, holding hoes or shovels, looked at each other in unease, fear, and unbearable tension amidst the stench of burning Orks corpses and the thick fog created by chemicals.

Kargio could even faintly hear the gurgling sounds stuck in their throats.

He remained calm, listening to the sound of hooves coming from the east, and stood still. Two minutes later, a panting knight dismounted and stood before the commoners.

The others followed closely behind, galloping on horseback, but none of them had the courage of the first knight to dismount.

They merely remained hesitantly on their horses, pulling on the reins and turning back and forth. The warhorses, blindfolded, could not see Kargio's presence, but seemed to sense something and became extremely uneasy.

The Calth's Sons took it all in stride, remaining unmoved, simply holding his helmet and waiting quietly.

As the common people continued their stories, another four minutes passed, and the only knight who dismounted finally left the crowd.

He walked pale-faced toward Kargio, his left hand resting on the longsword at his waist. He only spoke when he reached the maximum distance he could bear.

Who are you?

"Is this Naros?" Kargio asked again.

The knight took a deep breath, his white beard perfectly concealing his fear. On that war-aged face, Kargio saw a pair of faces filled with fear yet also with determination.

"Yes—but who are you? And those men standing behind you, where did you come from? Which lord's private soldiers are you?"

"The Emperor," and Roboute Guilliman Kargio thought.

"That's none of your business," Kargio said calmly. "Now, to answer the second question: Have you ever heard of Roboute Guilliman?"

A whooshing sound suddenly rang out after the question was asked, so fast that Kargio didn't have time to dodge, but he didn't need to.

He turned around and saw Jago Sevatarion, and a greatsword he was holding in his hand.

That sword was not meant for mortals, not even for the Astartes. It was too large, too heavy, and stained with blood.

"Who are you?" a voice asked.

Kargio gritted his teeth, turned around and looked back, seeing a young face. That face had no wrinkles from pain and exhaustion, its eyes were as bright as lakes, its blond hair flowed freely, and it was full of vitality.

This face was different from the one Kargio was familiar with, but he could still recognize it at a glance, and that was precisely why...

He was consumed by an unspeakable rage.

Sevatar reached out and stopped him.

"And who are you?" Night Lords spoke slowly. "Or should I say, who do you think you are?"

His words made the young giant frown, and more soldiers were rushing over and gathering behind him.

The cavalrymen who had previously hesitated to dismount finally mustered their courage. They drew their weapons and stood behind the man, keeping a close eye on Sevatar and his group.

From a further point on the city wall, the sound of archers drawing their bows carried on the wind to Sevatar's ears.

How similar. He thought coldly. Leader, idol, protector.

He turned his head to look at Hector Kargio, who was grinding his teeth.

Seeing firsthand the profound impact a younger version of the Gene-Father had on him was truly remarkable.

His rationality and willpower in the face of the demonic tide have vanished without a trace. Perhaps he could calm down and pick up those precious things again, but that's not something he can do right now.

From this perspective, Sevatar sympathized with him.

This is true of all Astartes; no matter how excellent they are, they are all influenced by their bloodline. Very few can defy their father or reject this influence, and most are not even aware that their Primarch is not always right.

Even I felt the same way. Sevatar chuckled to himself inwardly: What right do you have to pity him?

He gripped the greatsword tightly, then casually hoisted it onto his shoulder.

"Do you want to start a war? It won't end well for you," he kindly reminded the other man. "I don't want things to get to that point."

"Watch who you're talking to!" someone roared. "You're speaking to the son of the God-Emperor!"

Sevatar glanced at the man and nodded with a forced smile behind his helmet. His cold skull mask added a tremendous amount of menacing to what should have been a frivolous gesture, as if he were about to launch an attack at any moment.

"Son of the God-Emperor. Indeed, Roboute Guilliman is the Emperor's son, but—"

Sevatar was pleased to see the giant raise his right hand and begin to control his army. However, what happened next was somewhat beyond his expectations.

He saw the giant turn around and earnestly request that the knights, commoners, and soldiers return to the city. His words were rational, serious, yet gentle, and he even listed the reasons why he should do so.

Thanks to his efforts, the tense atmosphere disappeared, and people reluctantly returned to the city.

Roboute Guilliman was left alone and unarmed to meet what they saw as hostile guests from other territories.

Sevatar was uninterested in their angry glares; he simply stared intently at the young face. He was certain once again that this false Primarch was not haunted by any vengeful spirits.

Moreover, he just sounded exactly like Roboute Guilliman. Maybe he was, but Sevatar couldn't tell the difference.

He even felt that only someone as familiar with Roboute Guilliman's past as Marius Gage or Ionid Hill could hear the difference.

He threw down his sword, took off his helmet, and walked straight toward the giant who was a little taller than him.

The latter showed a brief moment of surprise; clearly, he hadn't expected the face behind the helmet to be so ghostly.

Sevatar walked right up to him before stopping, then uttered a cold, definitive statement.

"You're not Roboute Guilliman, and I'm sure you know that yourself, right?"

The young giant took a deep breath and then slowly nodded.

"Of course I know I'm not him," he replied in a low voice. "But they insist on calling me that; they feel that because I am, I must be."

"The city is facing a severe test under the Orks's offensive; for them, having a walking demigod means having hope and victory."

"But I know I'm not him, so if you've come here because I've impersonated him, I hope you'll at least let them go. Those people are innocent; they just want to live."

He took another deep breath, and his expression subtly became somewhat expectant.

Sevatar could tell what he was thinking at a glance. He habitually gave a slightly sarcastic smile, then shook his head.

"No, we're not here to check who's impersonating his staff. We're a group of killing machines created by human genetic engineering; we are Astartes."

He saw that young face and was momentarily dazed.

"Very good," Sevatar thought.

There was something he noticed the moment he first saw the fake. Strictly speaking, it couldn't be called a "thing," but rather a "smell."

The scent of some brightly colored birds, the stench of some supernatural creature that does not exist in the real world.

It was extremely faint and barely perceptible, yet he could still detect it.

Sevatar slowly raised his right fist, then clenched it.

Kargio and the young giant both stared at him in bewilderment until, a few seconds later, a loud bang echoed from within the city.

The giant turned around in astonishment and saw billowing smoke. When he looked at Sevatar again, the expression on his face had changed to a kind of rage that Sevatar was quite familiar with.

How dare you—!

He lunged at him.

Sevatar sighed and dodged.

"Hurry up and catch that damn thing, Sheher," he thought, squinting. "Otherwise, this beating I got will be your fault."