108 Dark Crusade (Thirty-Two, Jago Sevatari

(A corner of Ang's memory)

Sevatar had lost count of how many walls he had smashed, but thankfully he couldn't be bothered to count. He didn't care, just as he didn't care how many things he had killed.

For a person—or creature—like him, killing has long been an instinct etched into his veins.

There's no need to think about how to swing a weapon, or whether to dodge attacks. Just surrender your body to your violent instincts and let them unleash their unspeakable cruelty. That's all.

"You've unleashed a beast," Cassidorius's death whispered in his ear. "I wonder, do you still hold its reins?"

Sevatar answered calmly.

Reins? I'm sorry, they never existed in the first place.

The bony fangs spun wildly, propelled by superhuman strength towards slaughter. A winged monster was ripped open, its chest ripped open. It tried to resist, but how could Sevatar give it that chance?

He withdrew his weapon, grabbed its spine with his claws, and then pulled it out violently, tearing out the spine and internal organs with the blow.

Dark blood and parasites from the Warp fell to the ground along with them, and an indescribable stench immediately spread. The perpetrator, however, raised his butcher's knife once again.

The halberd fell, its demonic weapon's fangs once again brutally piercing the monster's body, excitedly unleashing pure violence to force it to bleed even more.

The veins that entwined around the edge of the halberd also got a share; they quietly dispersed and then pierced deep into the monster's flesh, beginning to greedily suck its essence.

In less than half a second, accompanied by a chilling swallowing sound, the Daemon withered into a perfect specimen, its face filled with terror.

Sevatar thought the feeling of killing should be good. After all, he was killing a Daemon, an enemy of humanity, which often meant honor.

Those Astartes single-handedly slay Daemon of this caliber will be considered the future of their company upon their return and will receive special training. They will inherit the Legacy of their predecessors, whether it be weapons or armor, and will then shoulder greater responsibilities until their death.

Within the Imperial Guard, if a brave soldier miraculously accomplished such a feat using cheap weapons like a combat knife or a light gun, the entire Departmento Munitorum would erupt in celebration.

The propaganda department would use every last drop of ink to print one article a week, then place the soldier in the most prominent spot and use the largest, boldest font.

Within a few months, his or her deeds will spread to every Imperial World still within the Radiance of the Astronomican, and all soldiers will know about it and passively emulate this person.

In the end, the soldier's original unit might even name a new company after him.

Years later, he or she will become one of the countless heroes who lifted up the Imperium —a truly immense honor.

Sevatar felt nothing at all, even though he had killed a dozen of these Daemons in that short time.

He walks here, killing, destroying—but he gains no honor, nor does he want any.

"You abandoned us!" the Daemon in the armored belt cried out in a hoarse voice. "You promised to save every innocent person!"

"I broke my promise," Sevatar responded in a murmured tone. "Hate me."

He laughed as he walked deeper into the darkness, the voice of Roboute Guilliman echoing in his ears.

If he wasn't so insane as to have a faulty memory, then it was a beautiful, sunny afternoon. The Lord of Macragge standing five steps away from him was not a coincidence, but the result of careful calculation.

A huge shadow hung in the azure sky. The Macragge's Honour, having just finished a chase, was docked on its tracks undergoing repairs. Gunships and shuttles filled the sky, but this did not detract from its beauty.

Ultramarines and Midnight Blade moved back and forth behind them, the tires and tracks of troop carriers and the engines of some anti-gravity vehicles mingling together, creating a rather noisy but strangely orderly sound.

With blood-stained armor and graying temples, Roboute Guilliman said wearily, "If this continues, you'll get yourself killed sooner or later, Jago."

"Excuse my frankness, sir, but my mind remains resilient."

Roboute Guilliman frowned at his slightly flippant tone, and thus showed no mercy, speaking again sharply and bluntly.

"Normally, it's common practice for officers to lead from the front in battle; it boosts morale and gives them the advantage of anticipating the enemy's moves. But you're different, Jago. The only reason you always stand in front of your brothers is because you want to die."

"Don't rush to refute me with a bad joke or self-deprecation; you know in your heart that I'm right."

"Van Cleef patiently trained you, and I don't believe you're incapable of shouldering the responsibilities of a commander. You're fully capable of analyzing the complexities of a battle, but you rarely use it."

More often than not, you simply hand over command to your adjutant and then charge into enemy lines, letting the enemy overwhelm you.

Sevatar still remembers his reaction—he turned and walked away, leaving Roboute Guilliman far behind.

Two days later, the Lord of Macragge, having finished his rest, found him again, earnestly hoping that he could change and stop wallowing in his pain, which was an act of utter cowardice.

Sevatar didn't respond, but he felt his expression must have been terrifying. Otherwise, the Ultramarines standing behind the Primarch wouldn't have quietly, stiffly, placed their hands on their weapons.

He didn't blame them, and besides, his own adjutant had done something similar. Sevatar knew that if he had shown even the slightest sign of crossing the line, his adjutant would not have hesitated to bring men and pin him to the ground.

Escape.

The eldest son of the night pondered the word, then suddenly smiled. Humans and animals are not really that different; the instinct to seek advantage and avoid harm is one of them. Therefore, there are many ways to escape in this world.

Some choose solitude, living in seclusion; others choose to withdraw from the world, burying themselves in apathy. But Jago Sevatarion...

He chose to fight.

All he needed to do was fight, all he needed to do was wield his weapon, all he needed to do was hover endlessly on the edge of death, and the pain in his heart could be temporarily forgotten. Only in this way could he forget his own powerlessness.

Sevatar continued forward, digging deeper into his memories. Since there was nothing else to do here, he couldn't be bothered to look at the monsters' ugly faces. He had more beautiful faces to see in his memories.

For example, Sanguinius.

"You must pull yourself together," the Lord Regent of the Imperium, the Radiance Archangel, advised him with concern at a banquet table. The table was laden with food, its aroma enticing, and although Sevatar had little appetite, he still found it quite fitting for Sanguinius.

Fireworks were rising slowly outside the floor-to-ceiling windows on the right side of the banquet hall, their light dazzling in the night. The Imperium populace was below, celebrating Sanguinius' arrival with hymns and joyous celebrations.

A crimson liquid swirled in the tall, golden goblet in the archangel's hand, exuding a delicate fragrance and a faint sweetness reminiscent of pure blood. He wore a pale gold robe, its edges adorned with extremely fine lines of black onyx.

Sevatar remembered these trivial matters with perfect clarity, but deliberately forgot Sanguinius' expression at the time. Therefore, in his current memory, the archangel's beautiful face was actually a complete blur.

There was nothing he could do; Sanguinius's natural expression of pity and pure sorrow was so noble that it was hard for him to accept. For the next hundred years, his eyes would ache whenever he thought of it.

But not everyone would advise him in this way; there are some people who understand him.

"On the way here, I prepared my speech. I was going to say that Konrad Curze would be proud of you, but I ultimately decided not to bring it up. Of course he would be proud of you, and I don't need to say anything unnecessary."

A one-armed, blood-stained giant stood atop the scorching sand dune, speaking calmly. The sun was setting, and the Orks corpses lay scattered around them, their blood staining the yellow sand, the stench lingering long after.

The giant's steel braids trembled slightly in the scorching wind, causing a shiver to run down his cheeks, as pain gnawed at him relentlessly.

Sevatar knew the reason, but he was helpless. Those souls could not return; they had their own resting place. Unless the master of that wasteland took action himself, there was no way they could return to the Children of the Mountains.

Ironically, the people of the Imperium today regard his disability and scars as a symbol of honor. The image of the one-armed warrior, centered around Nuceria, has led countless people to regard him as the ultimate role model for warriors.

Many fanatical soldiers even wanted to emulate his act of losing an arm, Angron, after learning the full reason for the incident, unusually lost his temper. Only then did this terrible trend gradually subside.

But the trend had already taken hold, and the warlike Nuceria forever followed this giant they admired, naively believing that he was indestructible and that what beat in his chest was not a heart, but an iron wall that would never feel pain or hesitate.

That's not the case. The truth is, Angron is very humane. If you were to deliberately provoke the War Hounds, Sevatar would say he's very gentle.

What a terrible joke. Sevatar thought to himself, and couldn't help but let out a numb smile.

"Pain is proof that we are still alive," said the giant on the dunes. "For people like you and me, it is almost the only way we can still perceive the reality of being 'alive.'"

"Therefore, although Sanguinius has been asking me to do so, but--"

He suddenly lowered his head and exhaled a breath of hot air tinged with the smell of blood. Then, Angron expressed his opinion slowly and earnestly, word by word.

"--I don't want to do this. I'm not going to do what he says. Listen, Jago Sevatarion, those things are yours, for better or for worse, they are yours. Whatever you do, I understand."

I won't share your pain, nor will I take away your numbness. I have no right to do such a thing, after all, we are both drowning in suffering. Just remember one thing: don't let it consume you.

"I have none, son of the mountains," Sevatar whispered, gripping his halberd.

And you? What have you been living in seclusion for centuries? What has happened on Nuceria? Your brothers are very worried about you.

Sevatar stopped his thoughts, a self-deprecating feeling rising within him: he'd already sunk to the point of having to pass the time by reminiscing about the past, yet he dared to worry about other people's situations?

He gripped the halberd tightly.

The bloodthirsty, demonic weapon seemed to sense his thoughts; its bony fangs, which were tearing at a piece of blue crystal, suddenly stopped turning.

The pulsating veins swayed from the front, gently yet firmly gripping his wrist, returning the power gained from the killing to him without reservation.

It couldn't understand what Sevatar was thinking, but it trusted him, so it gave him everything it could.

Sevatar lowered his head without making a sound, looked at the halberd, and smiled slightly.

"I'm going to call you 'Judgment'," he said. "Not a good name, even a bit too common. What do you think?"

The saw teeth spun rapidly, emitting a loud howl.

Sevatar burst into laughter and smashed through the fence once again.

He had no idea what else existed in the darkness. The Silver Tower blurred his senses, making it impossible for him to discern directions within the tower and even cutting him off from the outside world.

However, this was not the work of only the prisoners Silver Tower; in the darkness, it began to whisper to a wall that did not exist.

"I don't understand why you did this, and it has come, but this is not what I wanted. I was born to kill Cassidorius Ciunas, not that fool named Van Cleef."

"Please don't forget why I came here to seek your help. If it hadn't branded me with an oath, why would I willingly be your prisoner?"

Its eyes gleamed, like two bright yellow Lantern. It blinked, waiting for the wall's reply.

It sounded absurd, but the wall did answer it, with a sound as soft as the rustling of a feather. It listened intently, and then, surprisingly, smiled.

"I see." It nodded. "Then I will wait, and please tell Slaanesh that our Lord's invitation is still valid."

The walls crumbled, but darkness remained. The beast, its previous composure gone, stretched out its wet tongue and began licking its hands with a ferocious expression.

Its shape was neither human nor inhuman, with a hunched back and a pitch-black stone hanging from its chest. After a while, when the trembling subsided, it stretched out its hands, wet with saliva, and reverently picked up the stone.

"Yes, my lord," it whispered. "I will soon be freed, and your father's shame will soon be washed away."