111 Interlude: Old Things (I)

"It wasn't until the Battle of Macragge officially began that I realized we weren't at war," Kefa Morag said.

As he spoke, a constant, steady hum of engine noise echoed below deck. Distance and well-designed soundproofing couldn't diminish it much, but the soldiers in the hangar paid it no mind.

Their long military service had long since made them accustomed to this noise; the sound they personally experienced while sitting in the Storm Eagle was far louder than the reactor engine of the Macragge's Honour —at least they weren't in the engine room, and that was enough for them.

Long cables hung from the ceiling, passing the control panel on the second floor. Power maintenance tools were neatly arranged on the wall next to the control panel, all exuding the smell of lubricating oil, indicating that they had been well maintained.

The hangar was empty of shuttles and gunboats, and even the vehicles meant for technicians and workers were nowhere to be seen. Instead, there were a thousand Astartes dressed in different colored armor.

It's worth noting that none of the people's armor appeared to be intact.

"Take war, which we are familiar with, as an example. We have rules and discipline. We wear the most advanced Power Armour, carry deadly weapons, and go in droves to places we've never been before to wreak havoc. Therefore, we must act with honor."

"Aside from the mandate of the Emperor and the Primarch, it's practically the only thing that can bind us. Some people still have a conscience—I wouldn't say I possess that quality, but I certainly still have a sense of honor. But those things... those bastards who were once Word Bearers, they don't."

"In Macragge, I saw them slaughtering civilians in burning streets, gutting them, then nailing them to their own doors or walls, even mocking them. I also saw them unleash dogs—"

The Death Guard paused, as if recalling something, the wrinkles on his rough face deepening with the fluctuations of his emotions.

"--A canine Daemon, they made them eat people. Everywhere there were disemboweled corpses, everywhere there were screams of people. In this respect, they not only violated our rules, but they also abandoned the most basic principles of being human."

"Morality?" someone guessed.

"No," Kefa Morag denied with disgust. "Morality is the constraint humans place on themselves; they don't have that, they no longer deserve to be called human."

I agree.

A Salamanders picked up where he left off. This man was sitting cross-legged on the ground, holding a power hammer that he had somehow gotten his hands on, and was tapping on the edge of his left shoulder armor.

His hands were incredibly steady, each tap precise and swift, a pleasure to watch. His words were the same: simple, direct, and to the point.

"They would smear Eight-Pointed Star on the walls and streets with people's blood. These things would flash, light up, and then twist. If there were corpses piled up nearby, they would suck them in, like black holes."

"Then, monsters we'd never seen before would leap out from the center of this black hole. I knew then that they were performing a sacrifice. They were using the blood of their own kind as bait to lure out the monsters from their nightmares and use them for their own purposes."

He paused for a few seconds, shook his head, and ended his speech, thus completing his work. He stood up, walked behind an Iron Warriors, took the repair tools handed to him by his brothers, and began to check the operation of his Power Armour.

The soldiers made way for him, silently and swiftly. Their actions and reactions suggested they were still on the battlefield, not in the hangar of the Macragge's Honour.

Moreover, the war is not over on this battlefield; it is merely a brief respite before another battle begins. They must seize this precious time and use everything they have to help each other.

"Generally speaking," Narik Dregul, the Warsmith, continued the Salamanders's words, glancing at an unremarkable mortal in the crowd.

"That's all we know about Chaos. We know it's a pure evil that feeds on or consumes human flesh and blood. But beyond that, we know very little."

"I understand," the mortal said. "After all, for you all, the war has never ended. As for the passage of ten thousand years, being within the Stasis Field, it's probably difficult to perceive anything of real time."

"Then—" the Warsmith spoke again, "What exactly happened in these ten thousand years? Could you please enlighten us?"

Karyl began searching for the right words.

Perhaps because a thousand people were watching him, things became somewhat difficult. Numerous opening lines flew through his throat, only to be rejected and plunged into the abyss, never to be heard again.

His silence was deafening to these people, and they couldn't help but feel that it was actually a form of rejection.

This makes sense; it's an open secret that the Eighth Legion has an instructor. However, aside from that, there's very little other information. They don't know much about him, so making this assumption is understandable.

Some say he's as tall as the Primarch, while others say he's just a lucky ordinary person who only became this so-called instructor because of luck, and might even have enjoyed a life-extending surgery.

In the mouths of these people, this instructor is the most direct proof that Konrad Curze Curze, as a judge, abused his power and violated the law.

Narik disagreed with this claim, and he couldn't understand where these people got the audacity to play this kind of factionalism on a Primarch. As for the former claim, that Karyl Lohars was as tall as the Primarch...

The Warsmith would say that this is not the case; the instructors of the Eighth Legion are actually of higher rank than most Primarch.

Narik Dregul recalled the scene and his left hand instinctively clenched for a moment.

He looked at the man deep in thought, genuinely puzzled by the latter's current appearance. If his memory served him correctly, then Karyl Lohars was a giant standing at four and a half meters tall.

He didn't know whether that appearance was due to modification or natural, but in any case, he was a giant, completely different from the ordinary-sized mortal he was now. However, Narik's intuition told him that they were indeed the same person.

From her eyebrows and eyes to her expression, and that kind of charisma that no one can imitate.

The Warsmith unconsciously rubbed his palms together with his fingers; the slight scraping sound of steel eased his anxiety a little.

Several minutes later, the person he had asked finally answered the question in a slow, deliberate voice.

"This is a difficult thing to explain, but the Xenos named Trazyn has probably already told you all about the specifics on the way here, hasn't it?"

"Yes," said one of the Salamanders fighting brothers.

His MK4 precision-engineered Power Armour and the complete Ash Cloak proclaimed his identity—he was a member of the Pyre Drakes specially established by Vulkan, and an absolutely distinguished one, the dragon head relief on the side of his helmet being the best evidence.

This is also a prominent feature of the Legion era: all the ancient Power Armour that Legacy down has a certain degree of honorary decoration, some flamboyant, some understated, and various styles are present.

Their original wearers unanimously chose to use armor to represent their achievements and character, a style rarely seen during the Chapter era.

The death rate among new recruits was too high; most didn't live long enough to acquire this right. A select few who were qualified would be rewarded with a set of finely crafted Power Armour from their seniors.

Very few people would refuse such an honor, and coupled with problems such as the difficult supply chain, this tradition inevitably withered and declined.

Karyl looked at him, who immediately understood. "Tubak, sir. Sergeant, and the assault team."

He patted the power hammer leaning against his feet and the "Pyre Drake-pattern Flamer" flamethrower made by the Primarch, and a dry smile appeared on his dark face.

He clearly didn't do this often, so the expression looked almost threatening. Unfortunately, he himself was completely unaware of this and continued talking.

"That Xenos said the Imperium is in dire straits, the Astronomican is declining, and darkness is enveloping everything. I don't believe its nonsense. I hope you can tell us the truth."

His brothers watched this scene with concern. Some of them had already begun to try to explain, but Karyl helplessly raised his hand to stop their good intentions and took over the conversation himself.

"I'm sorry, Sergeant Tubak, but that Xenos was right. This is the state of the Imperium today. Only the very edge of the Five Hundred Worlds we inhabit can still barely see the Radiance of the Astronomican, and even then, we cannot benefit from its grace."

"Roboute Guilliman and the Ultramarines held this position for ten thousand years, keeping out an extremely dangerous and numerous Xenos— "

"--A large number?" someone couldn't help but interject. "More than the Orks, sir?"

Karyl looked at the Iron Warriors, and Narik Dregul, standing behind him, also looked over, his expression becoming somewhat subtle, but the man's face remained unchanged.

"It's hard to say," Karyl told him. "If I had to give an answer, I'd say the Xenos — the Tyranids —are superior."

"Why?" the man persisted.

"Because once they appear, they pose an immeasurable and enormous threat, without exception. The Orks may need time to increase their numbers, but the Tyranids do not; their biofactories can produce an incalculable number of Zerg in a single day."

"However, given equal numbers, unless it's a void naval battle, I don't think the Orks will lose. Their physiological characteristics will give them the upper hand in a protracted war with the Tyranids."

"Furthermore, the Tyranids's own Gestalt consciousness will passively help the Orks achieve victory. They wage war only to plunder biomass, and if that consciousness determines that the biomass gained from continuing the war cannot compare to what they have gained, then they will retreat without hesitation."

The Iron Warriors pondered for a moment, then nodded. "Manek Carl, Instructor, from the 103rd Iron Warriors Unit."

"It's my pleasure to answer your question, Brother Manek." Karyl smiled at him, a smile that surprisingly contained gratitude.

In his conversation with this fellow fighter, he discovered a new communication pattern that allows him to avoid having to carefully craft his words.

"Does anyone else have a question?" Karyl asked, looking around.

The official standing beside him, his hand on his sword, shook his head almost imperceptibly, a hint of helplessness in his expression. This wasn't quite the scene he had envisioned, but in retrospect, he had achieved his goal.

"I have one," said a Death Guard, seemingly imitating the Primarch. He also wore a respirator, and several metal canisters, their surfaces worn and weathered, hung loosely from his belt. Through the side observation window, one could see some long-dried herbs inside.

His voice was very hoarse, not because of the respirator, but probably because his vocal cords had been injured before. The soldiers tacitly made way for him so that he could walk up to Karyl and explain his questions.

"My lord, I want to know the current state of our legion." He asked, head bowed, his gray eyes fixed on Karyl. His posture seemed to be interrogation, but Karyl knew it was a request, even a plea.

He suppressed the urge to sigh and slowly said, "I regret to inform you that I cannot give you a definitive answer, because the legion has been dismantled."

"Split?" he pressed, his tone seemingly calm. A murmur of discussion arose in the crowd; many seemed unaware of anything concerning the Codex Astartes.

This is something worth pondering, as it means that many of those taken away by Trazyn were already in the museums of the Codex Astartes were implemented throughout the Imperium.

Karyl noted this down, silently preparing to settle scores later, and then continued answering questions.

"Yes, the division. After the rebellion ended, the Codex Astartes was promulgated through the joint efforts of the Primarch and the Sigillites. The Legions were divided into Chapter to maintain the Imperium's borders."

"The Radiance of the Astronomican is waning year by year, the threat of Chaos is growing daily, the Legion's massive size can no longer be maintained, and it is also detrimental to its future operation."

"So, we Death Guard no longer exist?" the man asked again.

This time, his voice trembled noticeably.

The surrounding discussion fell silent abruptly.

"It exists," Karyl said. "The Death Guard certainly exists, regarding that question—"

He paused for a few seconds, looked around, and then suddenly smiled slightly.

"--Well." He shrugged. "You all seem very interested in things related to the Chapter, and it's clearly something I can't explain all by myself."

"Fortunately, Roboute Guilliman, who has always been prescient, has set up an archive on the Macragge's Honour. I think the Lord of Macragge shouldn't have any objections if it's just for consulting documents."

"Please take us there," Kefa Morag said with unwavering determination.