107. Dark Crusade (31, 13,000)
Gazing at the Silver Tower far away on the horizon, Sevatar took a calm, deep breath.
The air trembled, and the power of the Silver Tower poured forth without reservation from its layered structure. They ran excitedly, like children finally freed from their reins, venturing away from the playground built by their parents for the first time.
They were filled with immense enthusiasm for this new place. Before that enthusiasm faded, they would do everything in their power to explore every corner.
Of course, this statement is not so accurate for Chaos.
The truth is that the power emanating from the Silver Tower will completely transform the world until they deem it "suitable," at which point this brutal change will temporarily end.
A few seconds later, Sevatar stopped thinking and withdrew his gaze.
He always had a gloomy expression, like an ever-present mist hanging over his face. It permeated his features, making his already unfriendly appearance even more chilling.
Now, the fog has changed, turning into a cold wind that has transformed his face into a hard ice floe sinking into the depths of a frigid ocean.
Sheher Cold Soul was no stranger to this expression; in the past, he often had to deal with his eldest son for some "work" reasons.
In a secular family, if the elders pass away, the eldest brother or sister takes over. This also applies to the Night Lords; after the Primarch's departure, Jago Sevatarion becomes the head of the household.
It was difficult for Sheher to avoid meeting him, as many matters within the Inquisition needed to be handed over to Sevatar through him. Therefore, he fully understood what Sevatar wanted to do next.
He did not express any objection, or at least not explicitly.
"If you intend to act alone, I won't stop you," Sheher told him seriously. "But I must say, it might not be the best option. We could go to that city via Thunderhawk first; the civilians there need to be dealt with."
He had intended to use a word that better suited his taste, such as classify, cleanse, or purify, but considering that there was a worldly master beside them who considered himself Roboute Guilliman, he changed his wording slightly.
Of course, Sheher knew that the word "disposal" was still quite ruthless, like some scum in Hive City dividing the common people into different classes, but that was the reality. The people of Naros had to be examined and classified, and only those who passed could continue to enjoy the right to live.
His words earned him a glance from Sevatar.
Amidst the shimmering silver Radiance and the surging storm, the Firstborn of the Night spoke slowly. His figure appeared insignificant amidst these terrifying and psychedelic scenes, yet his voice still reached Sheher's ears clearly.
This time, however, he sounded completely different from before; his tone was very gentle.
"Long ago, Cold Soul, before I became Chapter Master, we had a special right."
Sheher listened intently to his words, while Sevatar gave his usual sarcastic smile.
"We are the Emperor's Legion, the offspring of the Primarch, sailing in powerful warships capable of traversing the stars to human settlements, where we conquer according to the terrain—in other words, our exclusive right is to kill indiscriminately and, legitimately, burn palaces and destroy worlds."
He blinked, took a dramatic step back, and bowed deeply. When he straightened up, his expression was normal again.
"Some planets welcome us, others do not, and to the latter, we will be quite ruthless. In today's world, such a thing would be very painful for those of us with high moral character, such as the sons of Sanguinius, those Lamenters."
"I think they would absolutely never accept such a thing. I don't blame them, because it's only human nature. Besides, that old approach is outdated."
"Conquest and territorial expansion are no longer our primary duties. In fact, to this day, most Astartes even consider themselves protectors, the Angel of Death of the God-Emperor. We have passively assimilated into religion, accepted its influence, and become one of the many gods to be worshipped."
Sheher nodded slightly in agreement with a serious expression.
"Many of our cousins don't see anything wrong with it. That's the power of religion; it can even influence superhumans who have undergone surgery and rigorous training."
"However, this is not without its good aspects."
"During the Great Crusade, we hated religion, and Imperial Truth pointed out its dangers in detail. I must tell you, Cold Soul, although Imperial Truth is a well-intentioned lie, when you burst it, you'll find that there's still something to believe in that bubble."
"My experience during the Great Crusade taught me that the Imperial Truth is right: religion only hinders human progress, turning enlightened people into closed-minded madmen who parade around with torches, shouting that they want to burn all dissidents, even their mothers."
"And now, we are forced to revive religion, turning it into a sturdy shield etched with ignorance. This will lead to the persecution of many, making them victims of religion."
"But it also benefits many more people, allowing children to sleep peacefully at night without fear of the evil spirits lurking in the darkness. They believe that the God-Emperor will drive away monsters for them in the darkness."
"From this perspective, the harm caused by the Ecclesiarchy is negligible compared to what it can bring to the Imperium. But what about those who die because of it? Are we just going to turn our backs, cover our ears, close our eyes, and pretend their cries and bloodied arms don't exist?"
He grinned, his sharp teeth gleaming. Sheher still didn't understand what he was trying to say, but he listened intently; it was rare for Jago Sevatarion to launch into such long speeches.
Unfortunately, he couldn't maintain his focus. With Sevatar suddenly getting closer, Sheher's expression turned somewhat awkward.
Sevatar moved closer to him, seemingly casually hooking her arm around his shoulder, and whispered in his ear, while still gazing thoughtfully at the sky.
"Unfortunately, many of us do think this way. Some choose not to see it, while others choose to see it and forget it, turning a blind eye. Which one do you want to be, Sheher?"
His question startled and alarmed the Supreme Commander.
"I--"
"--I know you're not," Sevatar sighed, stopping his rebuttal. "But..."
He said nothing more, only gave Sheher a meaningful look, then patted him on the shoulder and disappeared without a trace.
Seconds later, a terrifying weapon tore through the pile of Orks corpses, flying through the air amidst splattered blood as it soared into the sky. Sheher looked up, watching the direction it had gone, and took a deep, deep breath.
--
After that conversation, Sevatar found himself becoming increasingly accustomed to reminiscing about the past. He enjoyed reminiscing, but he didn't particularly like the act itself.
Habits are a terrible thing. Like Sheher Cold Soul, as the Chapter Master of the Blade of Judgement and the main bridge between the Inquisition and the Night Lords, he inevitably got used to categorizing people.
Distinctions such as gender, age, and youth had completely vanished in his eyes, leaving only the simple question of whether something was contaminated or not. At first glance, it might seem like there was no problem, just enforcing the law impartially. However, the collapse of a fortress often begins with the loosening of a single brick.
Sevatar gripped his chainsaw tightly and charged at the Silver Tower once more. Yes, he had changed his mind, and although it might sound fickle, he had to go.
The howling wind whistled in his ears, almost bewildering, but Sevatar flew on, oblivious to the illusions he had seen along the way, hidden in the clouds.
The power of the Silver Tower remained steadfast, as if it possessed its own will. And indeed it was so, a voice quietly entered his ears.
"You're the first person to recognize me, Jago Sevatarion."
Sevatar curled his lips in disgust, revealing a half-smile. The Silver Tower stretched out before him and beneath his feet, a mountain peak stretching for tens of thousands of miles, and still rising higher.
The planet's landscape is changing; things resembling glass or pale crystal are constantly emerging from beneath the soil and rocks, like ancient monsters that have waited a long time and are finally reviving, with no sign of stopping.
Just how enormous is this Silver Tower?
A bad feeling slowly formed in Sevatar's mind, and at the same time, that voice that seemed to recognize him came again.
It is water without roots, existing outside the world of reason, and requiring no foundation. It simply exists, yet it can easily make Sevatar hear its own voice.
"You want to enter my prison?"
Prison
Sevatar squinted, still not answering, but simply streaking across the horizon. The storm continued, but it did not stop him; instead, it propelled him forward. Sevatar landed swiftly and nimbly on one of the millions of shimmering bridges on the surface of the Silver Tower.
To be honest, stepping on it didn't feel good, because he didn't feel any feedback at all, as if he was still suspended in mid-air.
Is it just a phantom castle in the air?
Sevatar began to run, his weapon roaring excitedly in his right hand, the rough bone spinning wildly in the spaces reserved for the veins, and a terrible smell of blood naturally wafted out.
Sevatar tried to avoid sensing its emotions, while raising her left hand and gently pressing it against the center of a gleaming silver door.
The bound, kind souls attacked him amidst screams, Sevatar silently endured it, choosing to accept the price that had to be paid.
Seconds later, a sharp, shattering sound, like glass breaking, rang out, followed by a terrifying echo, and the door shattered. Sevatar ignored it and strode inside.
In a sudden, intense feeling of weightlessness, the world before his eyes went completely black. Only when the feeling of weightlessness dissipated did tiny specks of starlight suddenly appear in the darkness, revealing the luxurious scene created by gold, silver, and crystal.
Eighty-one shimmering chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their crystals constantly refracting light and creating an even stronger sense of disorientation.
Long tables made of gold filled the long, narrow room, one after another, while silver chairs and tableware were placed just right, complementing the elegant poses of the faceless portraits on the walls, dressed in gorgeous clothes.
Sevatar sighed in annoyance, clenched his left fist, and a flash of blue light appeared. A power surged continuously from the void, beginning to manipulate gravity.
The long tables flew up and collided, twisting and crumpling the chairs along with them, turning into unspeakable wreckage with a creaking sound. Eighty-one long tables and seven hundred and twenty-nine chairs vanished completely, thrown into the Empyrean by Sevatar.
At this very moment, inside the empty banquet hall, the eighty-one crystal chandeliers still flickered. The candles nailed to the edges burned weakly, resisting a gentle breeze that seemed to come from nowhere.
Sevatar rolled across the red carpet without expression, leaving the faceless portraits behind. With each portrait he passed, a bloodshot eye would suddenly appear on the previously featureless face, trembling rapidly and following the direction he left.
He knew perfectly well what was going on, but he really couldn't be bothered to care. No one could say for sure what would happen inside Tzeentch's Silver Tower, not even the wizards who worshipped him.
Those fools just throw out their usual riddles and hope to stumble upon a few commonalities.
In this respect, they are no different from street swindlers; they simply use probability theory to deceive and cheat.
Sevatar chuckled as he walked toward the end of the red carpet, where a wide red chair stood with its back to him. The gold trim on the armrests exuded elegance, and the lines of its back were as graceful as a lady in a long dress, making it quite alluring.
Sevatar swung his right hand and dismembered it with his halberd.
Splinters of wood flew everywhere, a sharp whistling sound came from inside the chair, the chandeliers suddenly began to sway violently, and the candles abruptly went out.
One by one, the people in the portraits, dressed in luxurious clothes, began to run, leaving the frames they had been carrying, bleeding profusely as they broke free of the paper and appeared in the empty banquet hall.
They screamed as they charged toward Sevatar, a horrifying maw splitting open on his pale face, filled with countless, swirling, sharp teeth.
At the same time, a melodious tune suddenly rang out, and under the faint light cast by the few remaining lit chandeliers, Sevatar smiled.
"Unfortunately, I'm not very good at dancing," he said with a shrug, then immediately turned and smashed through the wall, bursting into a brand new space.
He looked back, but saw no trace of the banquet hall; the walls were perfectly intact, as if they had never been damaged.
He was now in a quiet little tavern with wooden floors, a wooden bar, and all the windows and doors tightly shut. Tables and chairs were piled up in the corner, and the floor was wet, clearly having just been cleaned.
A dark-skinned man stood behind the bar, intently cleaning the glasses, seemingly oblivious to Sevatar's arrival, continuing to wipe the thick wooden glasses with a small white cloth.
Sevatar casually tossed down his halberd, driving it deep into the ground. Then, he stomped his feet, each step leaving a dent, and walked to the bar. He extended his right hand and tapped the bar with his fist, speaking softly amidst the flying sawdust.
Do you have anything to drink?
The bartender, without even looking up, said, "No."
Isn't this a tavern?
"Yes."
"Then give me something to drink," Sevatar said with a forced smile. "A glass of water, how about that?"
The bartender shook his head again. "It's not opening time yet, and besides, we don't welcome people like you coming to drink and have fun."
"Why?"
"Because this store does not--"
Sevatar smiled genuinely, a smile he hadn't shown in a long time, and grabbed the bartender by the collar from behind the bar. The bartender fell to the ground in a disheveled state, his once-neat light blue uniform now stained, but he quickly got up without changing his expression.
"This shop does not welcome people like you," he repeated. "We hope you leave immediately and do not cause trouble."
"Okay." Sevatar nodded readily, then grabbed his neck and began to pour her psionic energy into him.
He said with a smile, "If you answer a few questions for me, I'll leave right away, how about it?"
The bartender remained silent for a few seconds, a dangerous white Radiance surging beneath his skin. He had no choice but to nod with difficulty. Sevatar affectionately set him down and patted him on the shoulder. "Thanks for your cooperation. Now, the first question is, how do I get to the top of the tower?"
"First, you need to figure out where you are," the bartender coughed as he answered, his face showing no fear, only a sudden, inexplicable annoyance. "If you don't know where you are, you can't possibly reach the top of the tower."
"Why?"
"Because this Silver Tower is constantly changing, don't you know that? How did you get in? Anyone who seeks the Silver Tower— "
The bartender suddenly stopped talking, finally looked up at Sevatar, and then his expression changed rapidly.
"--What's wrong?" Sevatar asked softly, her eyes fixed on him.
"You can ask a few more questions," the bartender said hesitantly. "Actually, as many as you like."
"I don't think it's necessary," Sevatar said.
He reached out and summoned the chainsaw halberd, and the bartender's form suddenly began to change.
The transformation begins with the human body, eyes are squeezed out of their sockets, skin turns into some kind of ugly gelatinous substance, the chin splits open, and a dozen pairs of eyes connected by nerves peek out from it, a pitch-black tongue rests between the teeth, one after another, like dominoes.
He completed this astonishing transformation, yet without hesitation he turned and ran, and Sevatar, unsurprisingly, swung his arm and completely dismembered him.
Steaming chunks of meat and bone fragments lay on the ground, still intimately intertwined—such affection was truly heartbreaking.
Sevatar's lips twitched slightly before his expression returned to blank. He stepped over the mass of flesh and blood, then kicked the bar counter to pieces.
He was starting to get a little annoyed; this kind of thing always happened when dealing with Tzeentch. But he had to take the risk; the eye at the top of the spire had robbed him of the option to choose another path.
This incident is certainly painful, but Sevatar is long past the age of feeling angry about a loss of dignity.
Moreover, anger is of little use in situations like this.
Sevatar walked behind the bar, smashed the wall with his fist, and then walked back in. A force suddenly struck Sevatar's armored neck guard, almost cutting that spot in two.
It still existed, but it could no longer advance; it was stuck in Sevatar's left hand. The Firstborn of the Night coldly examined the gleaming whip, then suddenly pulled it away with a forceful tug.
An arm holding a whip rolled to the ground, blood gushing out, creating a chilling effect in the flickering candlelight.
A hoarse scream rang out from there. Sevatar glanced at the fool who had brought this upon himself, only to discover that it was actually an Eldar.
It's interesting, but that's all it is.
Sevatar walked past it, and after he passed, its body began to disintegrate inch by inch until it turned into a pile of minced meat.
In the next fifteen minutes—if time still exists— Sevatar fought his way through hundreds of rooms, and nothing could stop him, not even for a moment.
He crushed the enormous chessboard puzzle, hacked the old woman who was trying to buy water from him and ask for directions into thirteen pieces with his halberd, and then burned the swarm of insects that spewed from her corpse.
He set an ordinary village ablaze, scorching the sky with flames, killing the children along with their parents, and then chasing them into their cellar, where he crushed the village chief and Tzeentch's idol with his feet.
Sometimes he was in a forest or a plain, or even a city; other times he was in a complete void, with only himself and something that kept talking and denouncing his sins.
Sevatar still remembered what that thing said, "Jago Sevatarion! Just how many people you could have saved have you abandoned?!"
"None of your business?" Sevatar said.
He used his psionic powers to capture the sound, but instead of killing it, he molded it into a grotesque, screaming mass and stuffed it into his belt.
Now, wherever he goes, he can hear screams and sobbing condemnations.
"You should have saved them, but you didn't. Your arrogance ruined everything," the Daemon in the armored belt cried.
Sevatar smiled with satisfaction—now, this condemnation sounded more reasonable.
Yes, he was unstoppable, but one thing remained before him, and like him, it was also preceded by the word "unstoppable."
He couldn't find the way to the top of the tower. The bartender was probably right; if he didn't know where he was, he couldn't possibly get to the top.
This could very likely delay what he needs to do.
"Not just possible, it's certain." In a misty room, a gentle voice reminded him.
Everything here shimmered with silver light, except for one place: the deepest part of the fog, where two eyes gleamed, golden and bright, like two Lantern.
Sevatar stared at the creature with a somber expression, his gaze sweeping over every detail hidden in the steam like a butcher's knife—its massive body, its bulging muscles, its enormous claws and teeth.
However, just as he was observing it, the thing rapidly shrank, eventually even taking on a human shape, with a pale face, short hair, and a full beard.
"You can't get to the top of the tower, Sevatar," the thing said with a laugh. "Unless you give up everything, but if you do that, I'll be free too."
Sevatar stared coldly at it, slowly shaking his head. "The moment you break free, Cassidorius Ciunas will kill you."
"Can he?" the monster asked in surprise. "You really think he can? He's just a messenger, an ordinary person chosen by luck, who then endured endless suffering."
"He has long since fallen into a deep sleep. Are you going to wake him from his death and make him relive this pain? How cruel."
He was more than just a messenger. Sevatar wanted to say that, but he didn't. He simply walked straight toward the monster with the face of Cassidorius Ciunas and waved away its form.
Like mist, it vanished from the spot, leaving only a soft laugh and a sentence brimming with malice.
"We'll meet again, Sevatar. Maybe in a few hundred years, maybe in a few thousand years, maybe in ten thousand years, it doesn't matter."
"During this time, you may try as much as you like. The Silver Tower itself will not be destroyed because of your atrocities. There is a reason why I voluntarily imprisoned here at the cost of my freedom: the Tzeentch has granted me the most impregnable fortress in the world."
"And what can you do? Your brothers will mark you as missing in just one hundred years, and in another two hundred years, no one will ever mention your name again. You will be forgotten in the deepest recesses of time, just like me."
Sevatar continued forward unmoved, screams, cries, and condemnations emanating from within his belt.
"Liar! Liar!" the thing cried out. "Why didn't you save us?!"
--
Kaul pulled his sword from a mutant's jaw—well, to be more precise, not pulled out, but savagely pried the blade open, splitting the skull from bottom to top, freeing the sword itself.
Then, he flicked his cloak and vanished like Ghost, causing his enemies to scream.
Their communication was so ridiculous that the distinction between monosyllabic and polysyllabic words didn't exist in their language system; there were only alternating consonants and various unintelligible shouts.
Kaul had no interest in exploring the mutant language at this time; he was not a scholar to begin with, and it was completely impossible for him to do so. He stood in the darkness, quietly waiting for the opportunity to launch a surprise attack.
He was not alone; thirteen Shadow Knights dressed as Terminator were waiting with him. No one spoke, only nodded to each other, their eyepieces reflecting each other, and made some subtle gestures.
Kaul liked it this way; for him, waiting for the hunt in the dark with his brothers was a great comfort.
Seconds later, he led the charge out of the darkness, and he and his brothers descended from the sky, utterly killing the group of mutants who were trying to get close to the flank of the artillery position.
Before he could even catch his breath, a roar came through the communication channel, "Get ready!"
It was Skaradrik; he immediately recognized the High Lord's voice, but who was he speaking to?
Kaul didn't have an answer, but he was certainly prepared; it had become one of his instincts.
Two seconds later, he saw a group of rumbling, living the Rock suddenly burst out from a corner of the battlefield, cross the enemy ranks, rush to the front of the position, and begin to crush the trenches back and forth, while hurling blue flames.
The Crimson Claws are fighting them, but the results are not good.
These things must be killed quickly with concentrated fire, but attacks with Power Sword are hardly effective against their enormous size. Only Skaradrik and his two giant axes are fast enough to do it.
At that moment, a fleeting sense of humor, emanating from deep within Kaul's genes, suddenly made him blurt out a word.
"Miner."
There was a few seconds of silence on the communication channel, then Skaradrik roared again, his voice terrifyingly loud. The Shadow Knights' Chapter Master couldn't help but chuckle, but he didn't forget what he was supposed to do.
He vanished into the darkness once more, traversed the battlefield, and found his two Destroyer squads. They swiftly maneuvered and returned to the front lines.
A dangerous buzzing sound began to gather behind the battlefield; it was the alarming sound of an improved plasma cannon warming up.
Five seconds later, twelve enormous, deep blue orbs of light hurtled toward the group of the Rock, instantly vaporizing and dissolving their massive forms.
The Crimson Claws swarmed forward immediately, using various methods to completely destroy the exposed core areas. Kaul could swear to Konrad Curze Curze that he had even seen one of them doing the work with a headbutt.
His brothers' fervor didn't affect him too much, but Kaul wouldn't criticize them. In the past two Terra campaigns, without the Crimson Claws' bloody battles, the war would probably have ended long ago.
Without complaint, they held the line at the very front with extreme fervor. What seemed irrational allowed many to survive, and in turn, gave their brothers in the mother unit a chance.
Kaul gripped his sword and stepped onto a hill covered in corpses, cautiously gazing into the distance. Sure enough, he spotted the Midnight Blade's signature sinister blue behind the enemy ranks, along with the two giant birds they were chasing.
Kaul recognized the creature— the Lord of Change. What other Tzeentch Daemon could make his eyes sting with just a glance?
However, on the other hand, Kaul didn't believe they were without the ability to fight back. Admittedly, a hundred battle-hardened veterans from Night Lords were a terrifying fighting force, especially since they had just launched a surprise attack, but the Lord of Change was not an easy Daemon to deal with.
They may lack direct combat power, but the numerous spells these Daemon possess are enough to turn the tide.
"Be very careful, "the Shadow Knights thought silently.
He didn't relay this warning to the Night Lords; he knew his brothers didn't need it. They always knew their limits when Jago Sevatarion wasn't leading the group.
Kaul turned around, leaped down from the mountain of corpses, and found the Blade of Judgement who had just returned from the western flank.
The leading lieutenant had no name; he introduced himself as the Sinner. Kaul was interested in their internal matters of atonement and such, but now was not the time to inquire, so he went straight to the point and began asking questions.
What is the Hunter doing?
"Summon," the white-haired Sinner replied somberly.
He wasn't old; his full head of white hair was reportedly a side effect of a purification ritual. The dry, white color made it hard not to suspect that he had lost a portion of his lifespan—for Chaos rituals, any sacrifice was possible.
Kaul's expression changed drastically at his answer.
"Summon whom—no, summon what?"
The Sinner gave a slightly sorrowful smile at his keen insight, knowing exactly what experience had given him that insight.
They all had similar experiences.
The Sinner shook his head and uttered a name in Nostraman: "Van Cleef."
In that instant, Kaul nearly crushed the hilt of his sword. His anger was so sudden, so intense, partly because of the Hunter, and partly because of the Sinner's actions.
He used Nostraman during a summoning ritual, reciting the name of the summoned person, which essentially added to the ritual.
The Shadow Knights removed his helmet and looked at the Sinner with a grim expression.
"Do you approve of him?" Kaul asked briefly.
"Yes, Chapter Master," the Sinner said. "You should know what's so special about the Hunter's eyes, so when he told me what that Silver Tower really was, I had to agree to his approach."
His words silenced Kaul, who had initially intended to accuse him, for a few seconds.
He certainly knew what was so special about the Hunter's eyes—those eyes belonged to Talos Vaul, the first Soul Hunters, the last "prophet," an old soldier from ten thousand years ago.
Unlike now, during the Legion era, the Night Lords scoffed at prophecy. This was inextricably linked to the Primarch's own actions; Talos was a rare exception, which was undoubtedly related to his extraordinary prophetic abilities.
Konrad Curze Curze even admitted that Talos was somewhat like him. Because of this statement, and his own obsession with prophecy, the Legion's predecessors gave him the somewhat sarcastic title of prophet.
Of course, this has nothing to do with his time as Soul Hunters.
After his death, those eyes were passed down through Legacy, and to this day, no one knows how many people have been tormented by prophetic illusions. However, one thing is certain: they are no longer the same eyes they once were.
Besides prophecy, it also has other functions.
Kaul took a deep breath and hissed out a name. The Sinner smiled gratefully, feeling genuinely happy that Keul was on his side.
Kaul noticed this unusual emotion in him. The Shadow Knights's innate analytical instincts kicked in, and almost instantly, he knew that the Sinner probably craved the approval of others.
Perhaps we are all like that, Kaul thought sadly.
"So tell me now, brother, where are they?"
The Sinner nodded almost meekly, pointing him in a direction. Kaul nodded back, his cloak billowing, and he vanished once more.
In less than half a minute, he smoothly passed through the darkness and arrived at the ritual site, but could not make any progress. Pale white ashes hung in the air, and a dark, distorted light surrounded an open space, making everything within it blurry.
Kaul tried to enter, but the light wouldn't allow it; it kept pushing him away.
He understood that if he were not Night Lords, this power would certainly not be so gentle.
But he had to go in; he had something to discuss with the Hunter in person.
Amidst the continuous chanting of scriptures, Kaul slashed open his left cheek with his Power Sword. Blood flowed down his face, and he caught a little with his right hand, bringing his index and middle fingers together to smear the blood on the center of his forehead. He then made a light stroke, returned to the center, and continued the flow down his face.
"I will Vengeance the innocent here," Kaul said solemnly, his voice hissing.
The light flickered and suddenly embraced him, followed by a strong feeling of weightlessness that forced Kaul to clench his fists. The world before him turned into a simple black and white, the only thing with a third color being his brothers from the Soul Hunters Chapter.
The scarlet scriptures on their armor were so glaring.
Kaul did not disturb their chanting, but walked straight to the center of the ritual site and found the Hunter. The latter did not seem surprised by his arrival, but his expression was somewhat sullen.
Kaul was somewhat surprised—he hadn't expected to see that expression on the Hunter's face.
"The oath you swore..." the Hunter sighed, his voice trembling. "Brother..."
What's wrong with it?
The Hunter looked at him sadly and whispered, "It will lead you to a place of death."
"Our ultimate fate is death," Kaul replied calmly. "I was prepared, but since you've foreseen my future, I'd like to hear the whole story."
The Hunter nodded silently, reached out his hands, and grasped Kaul's bloodstained right hand.
"I saw you lying alone in the darkness, a winding path of blood behind you, all your blood. You were covered in wounds, your armor shattered, and the sword in your hand was broken."
"The monsters of darkness lurk in your flesh and blood, waiting for you to die so they can swarm you, devour your essence, and steal your soul. You will not have the chance to return to the wasteland, for you yourself chose to enter the darkness."
"You will leave us, leave everyone, Kaul."
His words sounded almost like a curse, the Shadow Knights thought. Perhaps all prophecies are ultimately meaningless.
He smiled, nodded, withdrew his right hand and patted the Hunter on the shoulder, then composed himself, as if he hadn't heard the prophecy at all.
"So, how far along is the ceremony?"
"Just one final step away," the Hunter replied slowly. "Van Cleef never refuses any call; he always answers. But those worlds worthy to bear him, to become his altar, are few and far between. This place is one of them."
Kaul found a brief moment of calm in his words; his anxiety subsided. This was perhaps human nature; when the thing one had been worrying about actually came true, the worry naturally faded away.
However, the Hunter's words still caught his attention.
"What's so special about this place?" he asked, stamping his foot.
The Hunter crouched down and grabbed a handful of dirt in front of him. What was revealed underneath was not a stone or more dirt, but a piece of metal that gleamed with silver light.
The intricate reliefs are clearly visible on this small piece of metal, and there are also several paintings and mathematical formulas left on it for some unknown reason.
If only one of them were kept, the metal would be quite aesthetically pleasing; keeping both would be a sophisticated and enjoyable experience. However, if both were left, the metal would appear somewhat crowded.
Staring at them, Kaul suddenly felt a headache coming on, and blood gushed from his nose, soaking the neck guard of his armor. He was startled and immediately understood that this was the intention of whoever created it.
"Everywhere you look—" The Hunter stood up, letting dirt trickle through his fingers—"buried a part of that Silver Tower; in other words, it is this world. We've fallen into a trap, Kaul."
He thoughtfully touched his eye socket with his other hand, and a very obvious anger flashed in his cloudy eyes.
Kaul saw it clearly; it was the first time he had ever seen such obvious negative emotion in Hunter. Then he realized that the anger stemmed from the Hunter's self-blame.
"A blind prophet, a terrible guide." Talos's descendant chuckled deeply, his expression returning to silence. "In short, my brother, that's how it is."
Kaul nodded slowly, began to put everything together and sort it out again, and quickly grasped one of the blind spots.
He bluntly pointed it out. "Why Van Cleef?"
He stared intently at the Hunter and asked this question.
"If it's just about dealing with this tower, we have better options. The war machines slumbering beneath the wasteland will gladly rise again; don't tell me you can't hear the furious roars of those Titan Machine Spirit in their sleep. I admit, Van Cleef is strong, but is it the wrong choice to send him to fight such a world-class behemoth?"
The Hunter nodded approvingly. "You're still very perceptive, Knight Commander. But I'm not sure if you can find out the truth. Some things are secrets even to us—however, now that things have come to this, I don't need to hide it any longer."
"Have you ever heard of the Ciunas, the family of Rogue Trader?" he asked softly.
Kaul began searching his memory, once, twice, three times. Then he shook his head. The Hunter smiled without surprise, raising his right hand and making a gesture. The scriptures on his shoulder armor writhed as if alive, the characters beginning to merge together, Kaul struggled to avoid looking at them.
"The last descendant of this family is named Cassidorius," the Hunter said slowly. "An explorer capable of ascending Terra, a brave man. However, he is still two years away from being born."
"The Sigillites and his many spies are secretly pushing this forward to ensure the safe birth of Cassidorius Ciunas."
"I imagine you're wondering who he is that warrants such elaborate arrangements, even just to ensure his birth. But I cannot reveal that, Commander. This matter is of utmost importance, and there is only one thing I can tell you."
Do you remember the eye at the very top of that spire?
The Hunter asked the question, paused for a moment, and watched as Kaul's expression gradually became serious.
"That eye comes from a Daemon," the Hunter said succinctly. "In the future, or in the past—this Daemon will be born from the death of Cassidorius and the opposite of what he embodied."
"It sought out that descendant countless times, trying to drive him mad and despair him. It failed because Van Cleef always stayed by Cassidorius's side."
The Hunter paused again, but this time, his purpose was not to give Kaul time to process the information.
He turned around, looked at his brothers, raised his right hand, and clenched his fist tightly.
Fifty of the ninety-nine men immediately collapsed to the ground without warning, engulfed by raging flames. Their armor and flesh melted together, turning into boiling blood that smeared and painted over the grooves that had been dug out earlier.
Kaul took a deep breath, suppressing the many emotions in his heart, and turned his face away, unwilling to look anymore. Unlike him, the Hunter kept staring at the slowly advancing boiling blood until it filled every furrow before he looked away.
He seemed to be trembling, but his voice remained calm. The hissing Nostraman, like a wild beast breaking through a barrier, ripped through the air. The blood-filled magic circle immediately lit up, and a blinding beam of light shot into the sky, shattering the silence of the ritual site.
The black and white world returned to normal, but at that moment, Kaul discovered that the Silver Tower had changed size again, its main tower section even stretching from one end of the sky to the other.
The golden, Lantern -like beast eyes became extremely close to them. They were so close that Kaul could see, through the reflection on their surface, a massive figure slowly emerging from the pillar of light.
He turned his head and looked at the pillar of light. Burning flames and hanging ashes swarmed in, rushing into it amidst the increasingly intense chanting, and coalescing into flesh, armor, and pale mane.
Kaul almost lost the ability to think, staring intently at the beam of light and the Shadow within it.
Five seconds later, two crimson dots flashed and disappeared within it. A monstrous greatsword crackling with black lightning swept across, shattering the pillar of light completely, and a Daemon, towering at least ten meters tall, appeared before them.
It has a pair of huge, spiraling horns on its head, and its full head of white mane makes it look extremely majestic. It wears tattered armor, with several trembling, charred chains wrapped around it, binding a suit of armor that looks like it is about to break apart. Each line emits a dark red light, and high-temperature steam spews out from it, turning the ground into boiling magma.
Its eyes were two dim red dots, reminding Kaul of a blood-red setting sun, or the last drop of a warrior's blood.
He was then forced to look it in the eye.
The Shadow Knights suddenly lost the ability to speak, for he discovered that the Daemon was nodding at him. Then, its fine fangs slowly opened, and a voice as low as possible entered his ears.
"Shen Tuo sends his greetings, junior."
Kaul nodded hesitantly, his eyes trembling incessantly in their sockets, almost on the verge of tears. The Daemon, meanwhile, calmly stretched his body and slowly raised his greatsword.
It had seen too many similar things before, but this time, it feared it might become one of them. It turned its head to look at the Silver Tower on the horizon; the setting sun suddenly began to burn, the intense blood-red light in its eyes almost tangible, and its fangs slowly closed.
"My elder brother has been waiting for you for a long time," the Hunter said at its feet. "Although he is unaware of your arrival yet."
The Daemon glanced down at him, his face still expressionless, and slowly nodded. "Yes, he has waited ten thousand years."
"I hope you can give him more time to process this; it concerns whether I will break a bone later."
The Daemon let out a rare soft laugh.