109: Dark Crusade (33)

The ground was shaking.

The Daemon named Van Cleef could easily detect this, and moreover, it could detect every single molecule in the air that became discordant because of its presence.

This violates all scientific laws. How can the mere existence of a living organism destabilize the material world?

Any scientist would find this a headache, but only a small percentage of them would be able to face the challenge head-on and confront it; the rest would likely fall into a trap of self-doubt and madness.

Of course, this is based on the premise that another thing is entirely true: that Imperial Truth still prevails within the Imperium.

Only then will there be so many people who believe in science, progress, and truth. Only then will there be so many researchers, clinging to simple ideas, unwittingly waiting for something to shatter their faith.

But Van Cleef knew that a different ideology was now in control of the Imperium, an ideology that had even made room for something like it.

It, and them.

The Imperium simply and directly referred to them all as Daemon: abominations from the Empyrean, the essence of Chaos, monsters yearning to devour human souls.

Every single one of these points is true; every single one is a distillation of the blood and sweat that the Imperium and humanity have paid. Van Cleef admires this distillation, and if possible, it would even like to supplement it, but it has lost the right to do so.

And qualifications.

The one who exists in the world now is the Daemon Van Cleef, not the company commander of the Eighth Legion. The human who had that identity has long since vanished without a trace.

Van Cleef knew exactly what he was now, but he wasn't saddened by it.

It strides calmly across the changing landscape. Plate tectonics that would take years to complete is now being done in minutes or even tens of minutes, mountains collapsing passively, streams being squeezed, water flowing out, leaving only dry riverbeds.

The animals stood bewildered among the fallen, broken trees, sniffing the increasingly tense air. Each of them seemed oblivious to Van Cleef's presence, as if he didn't exist.

However, the part of the Silver Tower that glittered among the mud and stones reflected its current appearance, but only a portion of it.

A ten-meter-tall behemoth could not possibly be captured so easily; heavy vehicles like armored cars or tanks would be nothing more than toys that could be easily tossed aside. It was a three-story building on the move, and its mere movement was enough to make people scream.

Van Cleef accepted them; it accepted all the side effects. If the price of salvation was becoming Daemon, it accepted it.

It passed by the wild animals in the forest.

Many deer stared at it with their brown or black eyes. They could see its presence, but they couldn't understand it, so they felt no fear and no urge to run away.

These animals probably just figured that the creature in front of them wasn't Lion, a cheetah, or any other predator, so they didn't need to run away. This thinking is both foolish and clever.

Seconds later, almost gray raindrops fell from the sky like bullets. There were no clouds in the sky, so their appearance was quite intriguing and worth pondering.

They veiled Van Cleef's world in a hazy gray, but if one ignored the gradually changing landscape, the scene could still be described as beautiful and rare.

Many worlds within the Imperium are unable to receive natural rainfall. Long-term mining and construction have damaged nature, leaving people to endure the terrible environment. Air purifiers have become a necessity for everyone.

Van Cleef continued walking at a leisurely pace, hissing as raindrops evaporated in the intense heat. The constantly generated white steam made his form incredibly clear in the rain, but fortunately, in this desolate wilderness, no one could see him.

Now, the beasts are gone too. It seems that only two things remain here: it and the Silver Tower that dominates the sky.

Silver lightning crackled incessantly across its surface, spreading into the sky like billions of writhing serpents. This scene was unsettling enough, but the addition of the yellow beastly eye hovering atop the spire transformed unease into terror.

Van Cleef was very familiar with this beast's eyes.

At times, the mere sight of it can drive humans utterly insane. What it represents is beyond their capacity to bear, no matter how strong their will.

It is a kind of indiscriminate destruction, a kind of...

Van Cleef began searching for the right words.

What's truly insane isn't how terrifying this thing is, or whether it eats people, but what it represents.

The shattering of hope.

Van Cleef summarized its essence in a concise sentence, but unfortunately, this word still cannot fully describe its essence to others so that they can understand it.

They had to see it with their own eyes to understand what the sentence truly meant, but by then, they would no longer need to try to understand it.

The thing that this word represents will leave them in that instant, leaving behind only what remains in that empty shell. It will cause more people to lose faith.

Van Cleef gripped his sword, his only weapon, and used it to slash at the eye that hung high above the world.

The sword in its hand shouldn't have touched that eye, but that was only in theory. Van Cleef didn't want to act according to theory at this moment, so the sword slashed solidly into the golden beast's eye.

A viscous liquid of unknown origin cascaded down, mixed with foul-smelling blood, splashing onto Van Cleef. He sheathed his sword, calmly igniting flames to prevent these substances from landing on him.

At this moment, if anyone were to look up at the sky again, they would see a tiny slit in the center of the beast's eye. Blood was seeping from it, making it look almost like a distorted, cancerous sun oozing vicious pus.

Van Cleef heard a burst of laughter—or screams—but it didn't matter, it made no difference.

"You arrogant fool!" the thing roared at him. "You're like a dog chasing a bone! Never-ending!"

"I may indeed be a hunting dog, but you're hardly a bone," Van Cleef replied calmly.

His voice was deep, yet it shook the raindrops, causing them to shatter into pieces before they even hit the ground. The blade rose again, its scarlet edge stained with a ring of white ashes.

The rain stopped abruptly, and before the next moment arrived, Van Cleef had driven it deep into the ground.

There was no sound, only the soil that suddenly parted for some unknown reason and rocks flying up from the tremors. The greatsword had transformed into a butcher's knife, firmly gripped by a dark, ferocious claw, pulling it to cut through the earth.

The gleaming silver-white metal was faintly visible beneath the sword's edge, emitting a silent wail. Suddenly, the ground trembled, as if an earthquake was occurring, and a massive shockwave raged wildly underground, spreading visibly to the surface.

Van Cleef twisted his wrist, tilted his head back, looked at the eye, and was pleased to find it trembling.

"Did you think you could escape punishment by throwing yourself into prison?" the Daemon asked quietly.

Hellfire and smoke seeped out from between its still-closed fangs, obscuring its face, though the two crimson dots in its eyes remained bright.

They pierced through the smoke with unwavering determination—or stubbornness—imprinting the scene firmly into the depths of the beast's eyes. The monster in the darkness couldn't help but let out a scream, involuntarily recalling the countless times it had been slaughtered.

From the Stone Age to the Middle Ages, from disease-ridden rural villages to bustling cities filled with skyscrapers, from unnamed, narrow corners to a brilliant era where heroes streaked across the sky like shooting stars.

Time and again, its deaths have occurred almost throughout human history. The giant sword tirelessly ripped open its chest, tearing out everything inside, then bloodthirstyly awaited the next slaughter.

Pain welled up inside, causing it to tremble incessantly, though it quickly realized it had made a mistake, but it was too late.

"Fear is ever-present." Something whispered behind it. "You have nowhere to run."

It roared and turned to flee the darkness. The glittering stars rushed into its eyes, and the emergency plan woven by the Tzeentch began to work, carrying it away into the illusory stars.

There was no need for a fight; this creature had already proven, through countless hours and countless deaths, that it was no match for Van Cleef.

From the very beginning of human history, it has been hunted by Daemon named Van Cleef, an oath from which it can never escape. Van Cleef can always find it and then strike without hesitation.

If it weren't for one of the four evil gods lending a helping hand, it would probably still be trapped in those long-gone times, unable to extricate itself.

The past events resurfaced in its mind, causing it to let out an angry roar, completely disregarding how ridiculous the scene looked to Van Cleef.

"This prison will have a new prisoner!" it roared, its fury echoing across the stars. "You will be imprisoned here in my place for countless years, until even the very essence of your being is extinguished!"

"And I will gladly rip out the heart of Cassidorius Ciunas! I will bring that foolish mortal here so you can see for yourself his body after I've hollowed it out!"

The Daemon watched it indifferently, then shook its head with a seemingly pitying gesture. The blade then rose, completely erasing the darkness. Its sworn prey had vanished without a trace, leaving only a shimmering silver light; the top of the Silver Tower lay empty, as if gnawed by a swarm of insects.

Van Cleef looked down and saw countless cubicles separated by metal partitions. One after another, unspeakable and terrifying dreams were brewing and fermenting in these cubicles.

Scientists, yearning for recognition, clutch their life's work, only to be trampled upon by a crowd cheering for no apparent reason, until they die.

A young man who wanted to write a masterpiece bit his finger in the dead of night, laughing as he smeared his blood on the thick notebook.

An artist dedicated to sculpting lost both hands in an accident and will never be able to wield a stone hammer again.

One shattered dream after another, one broken soul after another, unknowingly feeding another realm of demons and monsters.

Van Cleef turned to the other side and saw a cluster of flickering blue lights.

Cultists, Tzaangor, Daemon, monsters—countless greedy creatures dwell within, savoring the wisdom, pain, and every nightmare of those souls, then weaving them into their own abode, drawing in more inquisitive souls each night.

These places of refuge might be small towns nestled in the countryside, seemingly peaceful, yet harboring terrible secrets. Or they might be bustling Hive City, where people live a lifeless existence, shuttling between factories and homes.

Countless identities, countless stories—the monsters who worship Tzeentch gather here to collect seeds of power that will allow them to advance further, completely unaware that the observer hanging above them has changed, still lost in their own world.

Van Cleef used his claws to climb onto the hilt of the sword, stroking it carefully. A terrible scraping sound slowly echoed from the town to the Hive City, from the wilderness to the glacier. The sound was not very noticeable at first, but at this moment it resounded throughout the entire blue dot of light, like a death knell.

They looked up and saw a bony face in the sky or ceiling of their world, covered with fangs, with two points of pure red light shining in its ferocious eye sockets, and black smoke rising from all around.

They screamed.

The next second, a giant sword slashed horizontally, completely shattering those points of light.

One monster after another emerged from the crowd in a disheveled state. Some had already prepared their escape spells before even landing, while others, still confused, fell to the ground without any regard for their appearance.

However, without exception, they all screamed the moment they saw Van Cleef.

The Daemon ignored all this and simply swung his sword again. Thick smoke billowed, and a scarlet meteor streaked across the silver curtain, shattering everything in its path.

The Cultists's spine and crystalline eyeballs danced through the air, swept up by supernatural force, crashing into the wing of a giant bird, sinking deep inside, turning into a bloody pulp. Then, driven once more by this force, they transformed into a rapidly shooting dagger, striking the center of a silver, living sphere, causing it to shatter with a sound like glass breaking.

A series of hissing noises rang out, as chaotic as the end of the world, with countless demons wailing and their forms indistinguishable.

Countless corrupt souls were taken from their original destiny at this moment, transformed from noble believers of the Tzeentch into countless sacrifices to the Vengeance Daemon's blade, used to appease the dead.

A pitch-black door rose from the ground, violently shattering the existing labyrinthine compartments and dragging all the tormented souls back to the wasteland. Then, raging flames erupted from it.

The massacre begins immediately, or it can be burned at the stake, whatever you call it, this is merely a Judgment.

Only after they were all dead did Van Cleef turn to observe a person who had already appeared beside him.

"It's been a long time, Sevatarion," the Daemon said, his tone natural, his accent archaic, as if from ancient times.

The person he greeted simply looked up at him, expressionless, gripping the chainsaw tightly in his hand. An awkward silence lingered for several minutes before breaking, and Jago Sevatarion's first words were not a greeting.

"Who summoned you?" he asked sternly.

The Daemon nodded approvingly. "Hunter."

"Reason?"

"You don't need to know." The Daemon lowered his greatsword, bowed his head, and calmly looked at his junior. "This matter involves many people and is of great importance. Unless absolutely necessary, there's no need to add anyone else who knows."

Sevatar suppressed his anger and slowly nodded. "Even I am the same?"

"That's exactly right."

"Go to hell!" the First Reserve officer growled. "If you really wanted to be this bureaucratic, you shouldn't have ignored me for those damned ten thousand years!"

Van Cleef shook his head, remaining composed. "Let's just stick to the facts, Sevatarion. Separating public and private matters is one of my few virtues, and I believe you've inherited that."

He paused, as if unsure whether to say what he was about to say, but he did not remain silent.

"I believe you've inherited some of the best qualities from each of us," Van Cleef said. "Even if you don't realize it yourself, it's true."

Sevatar closed his eyes, almost trembling, and slowly exhaled.

"Stop," he said firmly. "Don't fucking try that, old man. Now tell me how I'm supposed to get you back?"

Van Cleef wasn't offended by his vulgar language. He knew Sevatar; he knew that only half of those vulgarities were sincere, the other half merely a roundabout tactic.

He wanted to use this to create an opportunity, or rather, a proposal. He longed to use these words to bring the First Company back briefly, and then have him give orders in his stiff tone.

First Reserve Jago Sevatarion, your arrogant words and vulgar behavior warrant punishment. In the name of the company commander, I hereby sentence you to run forty laps at full speed on the training grounds of the Nest as a warning to others. Any objections?

Van Cleef regretfully declined the offer.

"It's very simple," he said calmly, releasing his grip on the greatsword and pointing to the halberd in Sevatar's hand.

The terrifying weapon flinched for a fleeting moment at his actions, and even the innocent soul within it seemed to wither.

"What do you mean?" Sevatar asked, staring at him.

Van Cleef withdrew his arm, pointed to his chest, and forcefully tore a piece of armor from its chain bindings. Beneath it was exposed a huge void, devoid of flesh and blood, devoid of a heart, only pure nothingness and emptiness.

He clenched his fist, crushed the black armor plate, and pointed it at the empty hole.

"Aim here, Sevatarion. One shot, or one raid, will end this summoning. I deliberately withheld my power upon appearance and arrived at this spire before it affected reality. No spiral was seeded, so you don't need to worry about the aftermath. Just send me back to the Warp, and that will be the end of it."

Once again, Sevatar took a deep breath and spat out a vulgar Ancient Terra slang term.

If his previous curses had some other elements involved, this time it was completely sincere. Van Cleef sensed the subtle difference but didn't point it out, instead quietly changing the subject.

"However, before that, I have a few things to remind you of. First, there's that fake object; you must be careful of it. Our hands cannot be stained with the blood of innocent people, and I fear something might use that to stir up a conspiracy."

"What? You want me to take him to see the real Roboute Guilliman?" Sevatar asked with a sneer.

"Not at all," Van Cleef replied calmly. "I believe the Lord of Macragge is capable of making the best judgment on this matter. However, within his territory, there are more than one such counterfeit."

Sevatar remained silent for a long while, then his eye twitched involuntarily.

"Furthermore, not every one is like this one, so remarkably similar to him," Van Cleef added. "In addition, the surrounding world has detected unusual psionic signals here; you will soon be able to leave this place."

"Stop talking," Sevatar said in a low voice. "If anyone else were saying this to me at this time, I would have told them to get lost."

"However, this is not some exaggerated or alarmist statement, Sevatarion-- "

Sevatar interrupted him impatiently, "--Yes, yes, I know. You old fogey never joke."

He casually raised the halberd in his hand, silently swung it once, as if searching for a feel for it.

Van Cleef knelt on one knee, leaning on his sword and resting his head against it. His white mane slowly cascaded down, the burning flames of his fury being extinguished or subsided one by one, and the chains tightened, making his armor creak.

"Come on," said the Daemon.

Sevatar gritted his teeth, his psionic energy gathering beneath him, forming an upward staircase that lifted him little by little upward.

Five seconds later, accompanied by a seemingly indistinct roar of a chainsaw engine, a flash of light disappeared.

"Cut-off." Van Cleef nodded slightly. "Remember, Jago, you've done very well."

Black flames surged forth, instantly engulfing its massive body. The Silver Tower trembled and began to collapse.

--

Although there were no warning signs, Karyl did have a slight feeling when Van Cleef "died".

He belatedly turned his head to look out the porthole, gazing at a spot among the twinkling stars, his gaze so distant it seemed to pierce through the darkness.

Behind him, a dozen or so Ultramarines were interrogating a tall, skeletal Xenos with a scribe. The alien's Living Metal face was already scrunched up in distress.

Not far from him, a team of Iron Warriors clad in twisted armor were undergoing maintenance by Tech-Priest and Techmarine. And if one looked further afield, one would find that the hangar located on the flank of the Macragge's Honour was already packed with people.

From Ultramarines and Death Guard to Iron Warriors and Salamanders, they encompass almost everything, and they basically have only one thing in common: they are all filled with murderous intent and wear ancient armor.

"Mr. Karyl?" A female voice came from behind Karyl, interrupting his thoughts.

"Ms. Calliphone."

Karyl called her name without turning his head, then slowly turned to see a thin face with a determined gaze.

The tyrant from Olympia asked curiously, "What are you looking at? I've noticed you've been standing here lost in thought for quite some time."

"Nothing. Just thinking about something," Karyl said. "Also, could you please refrain from using honorifics? I would be very grateful for that."

"I insist," the tyrant said. "Besides, this may be a bit abrupt, but I'd like to know if Abo's strange aversion to honorifics originated from you?"

Karyl chuckled, then composed himself and shook his head quite seriously. "Absolutely not, ma'am."

"Hmm," Calliphone nodded thoughtfully, then bowed and left. Judging from the route she chose, she was probably going to communicate with the Iron Warriors.

That's good; it means she's accepted her current situation. Quite a few people—including even Ultramarines —found Roboute Guilliman's use of the term "ten thousand years" incredible.

Karyl understood them; after all, it had taken him a while to come to terms with it himself.

But.

Karyl frowned and walked toward one of the Adeptus Custodes. The latter was also standing by a porthole, one hand on the sword at his waist, silent.

"I want to know, La Endymion—" he began bluntly, "What did he see that led him to assign us such a military force?"

The water thief's son turned around, a complex emotion brewing on his dark face. After a long while, he finally spoke.