105 Dark Crusade (29)

War, oh war

Holding his chainsaw, Sevatar suddenly recalled a theory. Even though he was surrounded by a terrifying sea of crows, the memory of this theory remained vivid.

It naturally and rapidly rose from the depths of Sevatar's frantic and chaotic sea of thoughts, and finally appeared before his eyes.

He saw a familiar face, the face of an old friend.

"Oh, you old fool." He chuckled wryly.

Bellros von Sharp ignored his smile and simply said, "Sometimes, I think war is absolutely terrible."

The old Remembrancers shook his head, his hands covered in blood. The smell of gunpowder, mixed with the scent of blood, blew past, making the bits of flesh stuck in his still-thick black hair sway.

He himself was completely unaware of this, and simply tossed aside the Boltgun in his hand. This high-quality weapon, born from a Mars factory, fell into the pool of blood with a thud and slowly sank into it.

The Remembrancers sat down wearily, letting the river of blood rise past his waist. He simply closed his eyes and breathed calmly. Inhale, exhale, inhale, in a continuous cycle.

Sevatar waited for him quietly.

"But war is a necessity," Bellros said with his eyes closed. "Essentially, it is a collection of struggles, and humans are born to struggle."

"If we want to make the world a better place, then we must get our hands stained with blood, Sevatar. It's something no one can escape."

"I don't believe in fate, and I despise those fools who believe in destiny, but I want to tell you that there really are some interconnected things in this world."

"We kill, we stain our hands with the blood of our own kind, we become madmen and wretches, shivering in the darkness of the trenches, starving into monsters, we bear it all, so that those unarmed, those who cannot protect themselves..."

He finally opened his eyes, revealing a wrinkled smile.

"They wouldn't have to endure this suffering."

Yes.

Sevatar swung down his chainsaw, a calm returning to his cold and mad mind.

Yes, that's right. I'm in pain, so they don't have to.

Sevatar swung his weapon again, each swing of his chainsaw killing dozens of cawing crows, but they continued to advance, blocking his path.

This event subtly changed his gaze, and a certain flame suddenly surged forth. The crows began to scream in unison the next moment, suffering the agony of the slaughter caused by the sudden and unrestrained brutality displayed by the Firstborn of the Night.

They were nothing more than mindless puppets, spies, informants, and expendable resources, yet in that instant, they still instinctively felt fear.

Their formation subtly shifted, from encircling to cleverly blocking. Sevatar grinned with satisfaction—it didn't matter, he craved more.

He even provocatively began to use psychic powers to invoke an evil god in the Empyrean.

Bless me!

The bloodthirsty deity raised his head from the midst of a long battle, a low chuckle emanating from behind his brass helmet, followed by an actual blessing.

He was completely unconcerned about being pierced through the chest by a giant sword burning with flames, and even had the leisure to lower his head to look at the body holding the sword and the golden skeleton attached to his back.

"Take it back!" the skeleton roared.

The Khorne did not answer, but only laughed wildly.

He was so pleased that He didn't care how Jago Sevatarion wielded this power of slaughter—all warriors would eventually perish in war, that is the nature of war.

So what if he gave it to them? The Khorne laughed and punched the divine body, then picked up his giant axe and threw himself back into the seemingly endless battle.

Unlike their struggle, Sevatar's battle was nearing its end.

He indifferently felt the sudden increase in power, then raised his arm and threw the chainsaw halberd straight out like a javelin.

It roared and tore through the dark clouds, shattering the intricate magic that sustained the flock of crows. The violence that slaughter represents and the power they represent are rarely connected; most of the time, they are irreconcilable.

With a single strike, most of the sky was cleared, and then a destructive surge of psionic energy silently altered the weapon's nature.

Alloy and saw blade, motor and circuitry—these things once made up a chainsaw halberd, a weapon that could be considered the pinnacle of weaponry in the mortal world.

But now, the alloy that forms the foundation of its existence has unknowingly become tainted with a heavy demonic nature. The monomolecular saw blade is cruelly squeezed open by rough and hard bone, as if baby teeth were being replaced, which is utterly bizarre.

A mournful wail, heart-wrenching and filled with endless hatred, emanated from inside the motor. The circuitry broke free from its restraints, dancing wildly and gradually changing color, resembling scarlet blood vessels.

They danced, each finding its own place, and then immediately and eagerly closed in, wrapping around it like lovers embracing, instantly turning the chainsaw into the monster's claws.

They throbbed with joy, as if truly connected to the heart, carrying impure blood.

Sevatar charged straight into the flock of birds, reaching out with utter disgust to grasp the weapon that only appeared in nightmares.

It knew nothing of this, yet it still cheered and rejoiced, the newborn soul overjoyed that it could carry out Judgment and justice.

Its owner merely sneered, his pale face filled with mockery, devoid of any smug satisfaction at the impending execution of justice.

He swung his sword, and a dim flame flashed and disappeared above the dark sea of clouds, completely silencing the flock of birds that were screeching within a radius of hundreds of meters. There were no mangled bodies or organs flying everywhere, only drifting ashes.

Sevatar summoned them with his hand and, in a rather brutal manner, transformed the Daemon's ashes into a pair of pale wings, which he then placed behind him.

How handsome! He laughed inwardly. His friends at the mines would surely be delighted to see him like this; they would welcome him, Jago Sevatarion.

They'll welcome you with screams, then call you a monster.

"I am a monster."

Sevatar answered himself in a deep, otherworldly voice—at that moment, he truly didn't sound like he was speaking with his own body.

But all of that is irrelevant now, because the flock of crows deep in the sea of clouds won't last much longer.

Their numbers were nothing but a pathetic joke to Sevatar; the colossal Silver Tower that blotted out the sky in the distance was his true target. Sevatar didn't even need to look closely to smell the stench unique to the Tzeentch Daemon.

And the evil spells that were engraved all over every corner of the Silver Tower.

Wise men who have gone astray, scholars whose souls have been deceived, philosophers who have fallen into madness—every once wise soul is now screaming upon it, no longer possessing its former glory, only the instinct to beg for liberation remains.

If this situation is tragic enough, then the strange equality possessed by the Silver Tower makes it both absurd and ironic, because it treats everyone equally.

It doesn't care about race, knowledge level, or whether the research direction is to save the world or help people. It simply calmly instills knowledge into them, without stopping, pouring terrifying knowledge that they simply cannot bear into these once intelligent brains.

Their suffering is the source of energy for those spells; no, to put it another way, they are the spells themselves.

They must be killed before you can get inside.

Sevatar reached this conclusion without much effort, but the question was, how should he proceed?

Every soul that comes into view is pure white and immaculate. By the standards of the wasteland, they should even be allowed to rest in peace in the cemetery.

Very few people live a life without a clear conscience, and even fewer have never committed evil. Moreover, these are the utterly ridiculous "kind and wise" individuals.

Generally speaking, the more knowledge a person possesses, the more easily arrogance will arise, and arrogance is the beginning of all depravity and corruption.

Sevatar didn't want to portray human nature as so dark, but he knew in his heart that this was just how people were, and those ten thousand years were the best proof.

He had seen countless people turn from good to evil, but only a handful of a few hundred truly realized their mistakes before they died.

This was truly unpleasant. Sevatar slowly narrowed his eyes. Something was targeting him, and it had probably been preparing for this for a long time.

At this moment, those faces screaming in pain were the most impenetrable walls and shields in the world to Sevatar; no matter how strong he was, he could not break through their defenses.

Even if I take off this human skin, it won't work.

He must abide by certain rules; he does not kill the innocent. This is not only the underlying logic behind his power but also a principle he adheres to throughout his life. However, he must enter that tower; otherwise, an even crueler fate will befall all mortals in this world.

Why would he say that?

The answer is simple—because of that imposter, that "Roboute Guilliman" who possessed some of Roboute Guilliman's qualities.

He was not the Primarch; Sevatar could see through his very nature at a glance: he was merely a body constructed using Warp magic, into which people's secular and religious impressions of Roboute Guilliman were thrown in one by one.

It requires no technical skill, nor does it need one; if it's fabricated too meticulously, the chaos and disorder will vanish.

Rather than someone who is born truly believing that he is a fake of Roboute Guilliman, a being who is ignorant of the present situation and can only gradually come to understand the world over time is more in line with the Tzeentch's fondness for change.

This creature, being Warp being, is driven by an innate instinct to relentlessly pursue the flesh and blood of the living; ultimately, he is still an unborn being.

However, the Roboute Guilliman in people's minds would not do such a thing; that unwavering will born from the collective impression of humanity would torment him.

Through this back-and-forth, isn't the dramatic conflict that the Tzeentch loves most born?

Moreover, the Slaanesh might also be involved. He has been silent for too long, which is not in his nature.

Sevatar didn't know if the two troublesome evil gods had joined forces, but he did know one other thing: what kind of path the imposter was embarking on.

Imagine if he looked like Roboute Guilliman, acted like Roboute Guilliman, and even his mannerisms were identical to those of the Lord of Macragge.

So, after he truly fulfilled the certain expectations people held for him, would some indescribable change occur in the Empyrean?

And how many lives will it take to drive and bring about this change?

After a moment's thought, the Firstborn of the Night simply dispelled the ash wings on his back and began to fall towards the ground.

According to the planned strategy, the forces remaining at the camp should have already begun their operations. Therefore, a cautious approach is the better option.

This wasn't the first time Sevatar had gone against the Night Lords's nature, yet he hadn't received the welcome he'd expected.

"Oh, look who this is!" Sheher Cold Soul shouted sharply.

"The great Jago Sevatarion is back! What were his achievements? How many more Greater Daemon did he slay while leaving us behind and venturing alone into enemy territory? What feats did he accomplish? Congratulations, elder brother! You have another legend to be sung!"

"."

Sevatar looked at him helplessly and casually threw the already corrupted weapon in his hand into the pile of corpses not far away.

He found it an eyesore, and he believed that Kargio, who kept staring at it, probably found it an eyesore as well.

Besides, he has always been a democratic person.

Moreover, it didn't matter at all; it would come back as soon as he waved. However, he didn't expect that his actions would only make the Supreme Commander even more annoyed.

Sheher turned to look at where the weapon had landed, and suddenly let out a monotonous laugh without any humor. He then took a step forward, and his voice rose again.

"And this weapon! Look at it, how majestic, how terrifying! The Inquisition would probably have to create its own file for it! By the Emperor, by the Night Haunter, elder brother, you truly are a hero worthy of such a magnificent weapon."

He said with a forced smile, the almost broken armor actually adding to the persuasiveness of his appearance.

At least, Sevatar is genuinely speechless right now—but it wouldn't be his style not to retaliate.

The elder brother remained silent for a long while before saying, "If you continue to speak like this, I will have to exercise my right to make you return the sword that belongs to the Mourning Bird."

"Sure, as long as you go and bring it up with him in person."

"Cold Soul," Sevatar hissed as if in pain. "That's enough, I'm back now, aren't I?"

"What if you don't come back?"

"."

Sevatar turned his head away, silently picked up the helmet hanging from his belt, and began contacting the camp.

Kargio, standing to the side, seemed oblivious to their bizarre and terrifying interaction, simply holding his gun, wary of the giant who had not yet stood up, ready to fire at any moment.

He has entered a state of war.