113. Interlude: Old Things (Final, Three-in-One)
Ultramarines like to standardize everything—to be more precise, they like to assign a value, a precise number, to everything.
As long as you follow this number and don't exceed or fall short by too much, the final result will definitely be very good.
This innate talent, born from rational instinct, makes everything they build look exactly the same, anywhere. Blue and gold, orderly, square, covered with seals, emblems, and logos.
Narik Dregul, contemplating these matters from an architect's perspective, slowly walked to the deepest part of the archives. The stone floor bore his weight perfectly, without making a sound. Clean, tidy, and spotless.
Roboute Guilliman chose to let him go to his destination on his own, while he himself stayed at the entrance to the archives and did not go with him.
As he walked, Narik noticed an elderly woman with white hair, wearing round-framed glasses, sitting behind the neatly arranged brown bookshelves, cautiously observing him.
The Warsmith didn't reveal that he had noticed her; he simply continued walking. Thirteen seconds later, he reached his destination.
He walked between the two bookshelves.
They were enormous, even for Astartes, so Narik could hardly imagine what the woman who maintained them looked like. Two walls of bookshelves, ten shelves in total, each row filled with gleaming silver books.
That's right, they're books, not Dataslate. These books are even specially designed, with steel and alloy forming the covers and spines; you could even use them as weapons.
As early as 10,000 years ago, the Ultramarines enjoyed writing books, and they usually used real pens. Narik even witnessed them holding special sharing sessions, bringing their own completed books to share with each other.
With such a style of work, it's no wonder that others called them Roboute Guilliman's clerks.
But these books are different.
The Warsmith didn't know if the Ultramarines still enjoyed writing books, nor was he interested in whether they upheld the traditions of their predecessors. But these books were different; their authors were definitely not Astartes.
Their author is Roboute Guilliman.
In other words, the two bookshelves here, with their twenty shelves and two hundred iron books, were all written by the Lord of Macragge himself.
Every book in this archive was written by him personally.
Was it a tribute? Or a sense of responsibility he felt he had to shoulder? Narik couldn't figure it out, so he went to the back and, following the reading order marked on the bookshelf, took down the first book.
The heavy weight made him almost want to remove his hand armor and feel it with his fingers. He turned to the first page, where a title and two lines of small print caught his eye, and were then shared with all the waiting Iron Warriors outside through the eyepiece.
"Details of the Fourth Legion's division, and introductions to each sub-army."
"A note before reading: Because we are in places where the Radiance of the Astronomican cannot reach, the messages we receive are severely outdated."
"I have done my best to fill in the gaps, but it will still differ from the reality in most aspects. If one day you can work side by side, please remember, never treat the contents of the book as gospel."
Narik hesitated for a moment, but still turned to the second page. As a result, in just those few seconds, hundreds of communication messages appeared in a torrent on the upper right of his eyepiece.
"A bunch of impatient bastards," the Warsmith muttered to himself.
"Galaxy Iron Guard."
"Mother Team: Iron Warriors."
"The Galaxy Iron Guard were the first sub-unit to be split off from within the Iron Warriors —or rather, the First Galaxy Iron Guard were the first sub-unit to be split off from within the Iron Warriors Legion."
"They took over the post of the parent company and were stationed in Olympia, and the surrounding world was also brought under their jurisdiction. This responsibility should have been delegated to the Iron Warriors, but they must undertake a new task."
"The responsibility of protecting Terra and the entire Sol System falls on their shoulders and the Imperial Fists."
"This task was personally issued by my father after he ascended the Throne, undertaken jointly by Perturabo and Rogal Dorn, and guarded by the Iron Warriors and the Imperial Fists. Who would have thought such a thing would happen? But they seem to have done a pretty good job."
"It's said that every planet in the Sol System has been completely fortified, forming a steel Great Wall floating in the void. I'm sure that scene must be spectacular."
"Getting back to the main point, compared to other subgroups, the Galaxy Iron Guard are clearly quite special. They all use the same name, but with a number added before it to distinguish them."
"From this perspective, the Galaxy Iron Guard is essentially a loosely organized legion. My brother is clearly exploiting loopholes in the Codex Astartes, and doing it very well."
"He gave each Galaxy Iron Guard a separate homeworld, fortress monastery, and garrison area. From this, I suspect he must have connected these garrisons, linking them together to form another steel wall on the star map."
"Unfortunately, I don't have the relevant star charts to prove this. After all, he's different from me; he's a more successful and ruthless tactician. If I have the chance, I hope to learn a thing or two from him again."
"Of course, this isn't the only regrettable thing. Due to the Radiance of the Astronomican and the ravages of the Warp Storm, very few Terra officials have been able to successfully contact us. Whatever intelligence they may be carrying, this is all we have."
Narik Dregul slowly exhaled a cold breath.
The indoor air purifier gave his breath an unusual, slightly bitter taste, which actually reflected his current mood: complex, indescribable, and tinged with bitterness.
His brothers were probably in the same boat; the scrolling speed of text messages on the communication channel had slowed down significantly. Fewer people were asking questions, and even fewer were making requests. Silence became the choice for most; they didn't know what to think.
"I'll go first then," thought the Warsmith.
He quickly and accurately input a line of text into the communication channel via neural connections. When it was sent, it was highlighted with the commander's special identifier.
We should go back.
Soon someone asked a question.
Where to go?
+ Terra.+Narik entered the information again.
+Legion—no, Chapter. The burdens Chapter now bear far exceed any mission we've ever undertaken before: the Fortress Wall, the defense of Terra. Even from a purely honor-driven perspective, I cannot allow myself to be absent from this cause.+
A sergeant responded, "I agree with you, sir. However, according to the instructors of the Eighth Legion, and the information revealed by Lord Roboute Guilliman in his book, returning to Terra will likely be a very difficult task."
Leaving aside the question of how to conduct Warp travel after Radiance Astronomican has faded, just dealing Xenos Chaos, traitors, and those Tyranids known as the Zerg is enough to give us a headache. I don't believe our few hundred-strong force can possibly contend with Xenos that have been fighting the Ultramarines for ten thousand years.
"No matter how difficult it is, we must do it," a veteran sent a voice message that stood out from the rest of the group, his tone somber.
"To defend Terra is an immense honor, but it also carries immense danger. I don't believe the Legion and the Primarch will be in dire straits, but they certainly need our help. The Emperor is watching us; we will return to Terra."
An argument quickly ensued.
Narik watched this scene helplessly, offering no intervention. His men were a mixed bag; some he'd heard of before, notorious troublemakers, while others were the epitome of Iron Warriors, exemplary beyond compare.
Moreover, they all came from different camps, which made the overall coordination work quite difficult.
Narik himself knew that he had only been temporarily appointed as the commander because of his military rank. If he really wanted to gain full command, he would need to put in some time and effort, and at least gain the respect of the troops.
But he had to take action.
He activated real-time communication permissions, using his still-unstable commander status to mute everyone else in the channel, before slowly speaking himself.
"I have no intention of insulting anyone. I know you are not afraid of death, and even disregard it. We have always been like this, clad in iron armor, Iron Within, Iron Without. This is our way of survival, a difficult path."
"But I must point out that choosing to return to Terra under such circumstances would be tantamount to suicide. Even if the Ultramarines were to generously lend us a battleship, let alone whether they would be willing to lend us one, what good would it do?"
"The inability to travel through Warp means we can only move slowly within the material world. In that situation, we are very likely to encounter various enemies. How can we, with only 322 people, possibly fight them?"
"Are we supposed to borrow manpower from the Ultramarines? Or ask other people like us if they want to return to Terra together? You all know in your hearts that whichever we choose, we're just dragging them down with us to their deaths."
"Therefore, I must reject anyone's suggestion to return to Terra immediately. Remember the teachings of the Emperor and the Primarch, brothers: haste makes waste."
He turned off the mute and turned the page of the book.
"Iron Monument."
"Mother Group: Iron Warriors (Questionable)"
"Special note: Theoretically possible: I have no intention of questioning my brother, but based on the available information, the Iron Monument is a Chapter shrouded in mystery."
"First, I must mention their first chapter Chapter Master, Sebarus. He was reportedly the commander of the 10th Company of the Iron Warriors, however, the company was not part of the Fourth Legion's formation during the Great Crusade."
"Furthermore, according to this Chapter record from the Departmento Munitorum that I have in my hand, the Iron Monument does not have a detailed record of its early history like other Chapter."
"The Departmento Munitorum did not provide any early information about this Chapter, and even went so far as to explain in the introduction that they were all marked as top secret."
"Since this book was written specifically for me by the Departmento Munitorum, I believe this matter is clearly a veiled reminder from those who know the truth."
"Furthermore, considering the time it took for this book to reach me, I believe there are only three people who know the truth and are capable of warning me. First, the Sigillites, Malcador; second, my brother, Perturabo himself; and third, my father."
"The most likely candidate is my brother. If we follow this line of reasoning, then any secrets existing within the Iron Monument Chapter are probably tacitly approved by him."
"After all, the location of the Iron Monument is quite in the Eye of Terror area, which is a very challenging task. I don't think Perturabo would entrust such a task to someone he doesn't trust."
Narik frowned, wanting to say something, but suppressed the urge. The others on the communication channel probably shared the same thought; no one spoke, no one used text to express their opinions.
They waited silently.
Narik looked at the next line of text.
"Theory Two: I already know the truth. I must pay my respects to my brother, the Iron Monument, and Sebarus. Furthermore, any company commander or high-ranking officer who reads this book must report back to me after completing this theory."
The Warsmith took a deep breath and spoke slowly.
Let's forget about this for now.
He turned to the next page.
--
Adro Branuur watched as the distraught Warsmith walked out of the archives with Roboute Guilliman.
Narik Dregul hadn't removed his helmet yet, so Adro couldn't actually see his face clearly, but the Salamanders noticed the subtle change in his walking posture, just like how Death Guard's Kefa Morag had acted.
Thinking of this, Adro couldn't help but feel a little worried.
He looked back at the Iron Warriors behind him and found that they all looked extremely... indescribable, as if they had been shocked by something. Adro kept this in mind, then stepped forward to greet the Lord of Macragge.
The latter was whispering something to the Warsmith, who kept nodding. Both things changed quietly with his arrival. Roboute Guilliman stopped speaking, and Adro looked at him with a hint of regret, giving him a humble smile.
"My lord," he bowed, then looked at the Warsmith. "This is..."
"I'm fine," Narik said curtly before Narik could even ask a specific question.
Roboute Guilliman looked at him, then at Adro, and finally could only give a helpless smile.
He patted the Warsmith on the shoulder and said, "Take your brothers to rest, twentieth deck, Narik. We'll talk about those matters another day."
"I understand, sir. Thank you for your generosity."
The Warsmith saluted solemnly, then with a single gesture, summoned his brothers to march in formation. A column of Iron Warriors began their march atop the Ultramarines' flagship, led by a Victrix Guard.
Adroe suppressed the urge to marvel at the situation and looked at Roboute Guilliman, who, coincidentally, was also staring at him. Beneath his short white hair, Guilliman's intense eyes remained unblinking, radiating an indescribable power.
The Son of Nocturne felt a chill run down his spine, a genuine tremor in his heart at this power. This had nothing to do with his feelings for Lord Macragge himself; it stemmed solely from his instincts as a living being.
Adro tried to look away, but found he couldn't. He was forced to stare into those eyes, captivated by the flames within them that seemed to emanate from a furnace.
He was not freed from this influence until Roboute Guilliman spoke up.
The Primarch shook his hand as if everything were normal, then, with a friendly smile, led him into the archives. Amidst the tapestries, flags, and books, Roboute Guilliman's soft voice reached his ears.
"There's something I need to tell you before you put on your helmet, Adro. After what happened, I now place great importance on a soldier's mental well-being. While you may see psychological limitations as a symbol of honor, if things get to the point where it's serious, like what happened to you..."
He looked down at Adro Branuur, whose expression was constantly changing, then stared at him until the latter's expression, posture, and even his entire demeanor changed, before ending his gaze.
"What's your name?" he asked seriously. "Adro Branuur," as if he didn't recognize the Salamanders.
"Kathos Mekken," the Salamanders replied. "I am his brother, his company commander."
Whose is it?
"Adro Branuur."
The man who identified himself as Kaiser Mecken answered meekly. His lips trembled, and the voice he used was completely different from that of Adro himself. Then he bowed deeply.
"I apologize, sir, but I am actually already dead. I am merely a personality constructed by Adro's brain based on his memories of Company Commander Kethos Mecken."
"He was so traumatized by witnessing our deaths that he went insane, and I was actually a protective measure."
Roboute Guilliman nodded expressionlessly.
"I know," he said. "I understand."
Kaiser Mecken straightened up.
"And I'm the last one," he said softly. "We're all—no, we're all gone. Long before that Xenos pulled him into the Stasis Field. It's cruel; he had to endure the annihilation of two companies."
Roboute Guilliman looked up, silently patted him on the shoulder, then led him to the bookshelves before turning and leaving in silence.
Kaisos took a deep breath, put on his helmet, activated the communication channel, and turned on eyepiece sharing.
He took the first book from the shelf and began to read. After reading Roboute Guilliman's kind reminder, a Chapter called Ashen Hammers came into view for him and his brothers.
"The Ashen Hammers"
"Mother Group: Salamanders."
"I must point out one thing: besides its unusual height (1.98 meters), the book the Departmento Munitorum gave me has another striking feature."
"I don't know if it's due to some kind of confidentiality agreement, but all the Chapter mentioned in this book provide vastly different information. Some are very detailed, some are extremely vague, and some even have a 'questionable' mark next to their names."
"I'm being driven crazy by the people who edit the book and the cumbersome operating mechanism of the Departmento Munitorum. How did they manage to turn office work into such a torture that can torment everyone?"
"Damn those stone tablets! How dare they be so confident as to refuse my reform proposals?"
"Back to the main point, Ashen Hammers was the first sub-corps of the Salamanders. (If the information in that damned book is correct, I hope they haven't made a mistake.)"
"The Salamanders suffered greatly during the Horus Heresy. First, there was the betrayal, then their encounter in the Warp, and finally, their heroic protection of the people of Macragge."
"I need not elaborate on the brutality of that war. Every Ultramarines should read books and materials about it to understand the heavy blood your cousins shed for our duty. We must remember it and never forget it for a moment."
"In short, due to the severity of the damage, the Salamanders was not initially divided into Chapter after becoming Chapter. It was not until five hundred years after the end of the Horus Heresy that their size finally returned to standard."
"By this point, they've probably far surpassed the standards in the Codex Astartes, and I hope no one will cause them trouble because of it. If I could contact the Departmento Munitorum directly, I would definitely update that book every year."
"I hope others are doing this; after all, they are also among the authors of the Codex Astartes."
"As the first attempt at the Salamanders in the Chapter era, I believe Vulkan probably put a lot of effort into the Ashen Hammers. Please see the following evidence."
"The Ashen Hammers not only enjoys the same right to recruit on Nocturne as the Mother Order, but they are also very well-equipped. Please note that 'well-equipped' here is relative to the Sons of Vulkan, so if you've read the books, you should know what that really means."
"At the same time, thanks to the good cooperative relationship between Vulkan and the Mechanicum, they gained the friendship of the Forge World. They possess three battleships: one Emperor-class Battleship, one Retribution-class, and one Apocalypse-class."
"This is very powerful firepower, and having battleships means they also have a large escort fleet. Therefore, their relationship with the Imperial Navy is quite good."
"After all, the sons of Vulkan have always been reassuring comrades on the battlefield, and most soldiers would probably want to fight alongside them if given the chance. Knowing that the sons of Vulkan are watching over your back makes you feel completely at ease."
"However, that's not enough. Due to the sheer size of their fleet, they had to recruit a large number of Auxilia to maintain normal operations. This force was equally distinguished and had a long history; it was called the Embers."
"In most cases, the offspring of the Embers will also become the source of soldiers for the Ashen Hammers, after all, Nocturne can only provide so many children of school age each year. In addition to these characteristics, the Ashen Hammers also has a very significant feature, namely its powerful melee combat ability."
"Generally speaking, I don't particularly advocate close combat. If you can solve a problem with bombs, plasma, and flamethrowers, why bother with hand-to-hand combat?"
"The Ashen Hammers clearly thought the same way, hence their large squads of Destroyers. However, their melee capabilities are truly formidable, so much so that they deserve to be discussed individually."
"Unfortunately, the damned book provided by the Departmento Munitorum didn't include a single case study to prove this, so we can only imagine their bravery on the battlefield with regret."
"Their first Chapter Master was Barek Zythos, a member of the Vulkan Private Guard, renowned for his distinguished service and formidable fighting prowess. I personally witnessed him take on eight opponents single-handedly on Terra. In addition, the Ashen Hammers possesses a special ability known as Dragonfire."
"When they are near death, a part of their body will spontaneously combust, whether it is the face, a limb, or the torso, and the combustion will quickly spread to the whole body."
"These flames don't seem to be natural fire; they burn away the flesh Ashen Hammers, turning their armor into twisted metal, but leaving the bones unharmed. Before they truly die, the Ashen Hammers become indestructible as a result."
"The extreme heat from the flames allows them to melt any alloy (including Ceramite) with a simple touch. Furthermore, if their weapons are sophisticated enough, the flames can be infused into them without destroying them, giving their weapons the same temperature."
"Therefore, from the moment they become recruits, they begin to learn forging techniques with all their might, hoping to forge a weapon powerful enough to withstand Dragonfire before they die."
"When an Ashen Hammers dies from Dragonfire, they leave behind a resilient skeleton covered in charred fragments of armor, said to be extremely strong. The Chapter retrieves their remains and, according to tradition, places them in one of the three furnaces located on their three battleships."
"Though the Dragonfire have died down, their warmth still lingers; though the man is gone, his will lives on."
"I cannot judge such actions, but I admire their will and determination. Their weapons are periodically brought back to the treasury on Nocturne, where they are forged by Vulkan himself. It is said that a very complex ritual is required to open it."
"Regardless of which Chapter they come from, even if they are mere mortals, as long as they can prove their courage in this ceremony, the doors to the treasure vault will open, allowing those who pass through to enter and choose their weapons."
"To this day, the relics of the Ashen Hammers are widely circulated throughout the Imperium, and all warriors consider it an honor to possess one. The Chapter seem to have no objection to this; they believe it is the best tribute to the fallen and the greatest encouragement to them."
"Because they don't have to worry about what happens after they die; their remains will be thrown into the furnace to help future generations. Their weapons will be inherited by brave people to protect more innocent people."
With trembling hands, Kethos Mecken slowly closed the book; he was unwilling to read any further for the time being.
Knowing that the Legion, no, the Chapter, was thriving was already excellent. Not to mention such a glorious subsidiary—though he still felt a strange unease about it, there was no doubt that the Ashen Hammers, like them, had the blood of Vulkan flowing through their veins.
That is enough.
He smiled and sighed, temporarily disabling the helmet's communication permissions via neural connection, then whispered to himself.
"Adro, our descendants are just as brave as we are, can you see that?"
His fingers suddenly twitched, and the twitching subsided slowly after a dozen seconds. Adro Branuur looked at the book in his hands, silently unlocked the permissions, and turned to the next page with tears in his eyes.
He was unable to contain his excitement.
--
Kefa Morag stood before a sliding door, peering inside. It was a very simple living room, designed specifically for soldiers like him.
A bed fixed to the ground, unused and not appearing soft. Not far away is a training dummy, used for simple exercises without armor.
Then there was a table, a chair, and a private storage compartment on the wall, which was also open.
Next to it, a pale blue display screen was flashing, prompting the Death Guard in High Gothic to set a password known only to him.
Kefa Morag watched all this silently until several minutes later when he finally stepped closer.
He had changed out of his armor, which was being repaired in a small foundry on the Macragge's Honour, along with the armor of the other 316 Death Guard.
The Ultramarines were as generous as ever; the company commander who led the way even arranged a separate camp for them.
This was completely beyond Kefa's expectations.
Moreover, this act of kindness made it hard for him to breathe.
The door slammed shut behind him with a heavy thud. Temporarily freed from everything outside, the Mortarion guard, now alone, suddenly collapsed to the ground, as if all his strength had been drained.
He gritted his teeth and used his hands to prop himself up, becoming drenched in sweat from the unbearable impact.
Just now, he inevitably recalled the past.
He remembered the death of the Primarch.
He remembered that tormented man, his face distorted and twisted, his bloodshot eyes glaring as he roared in a low voice.
Unyielding, unyielding, never surrender. The man shouted these broken, incoherent words, then suddenly looked at them, blood flowing from his eyes. Then, a flash of golden light, followed by a deafening roar.
Kefa Morag closed his eyes, lowered his head, propped himself up on his elbows, and began to breathe slowly and deeply.
One beat after another, one beat after another, until the two hearts in his chest began to beat steadily, and only then did he regain the strength to stand up.
The Death Guard despised his own cowardice, clenched his fists, tore off his training shirt, and lay down on the bed. He closed his eyes and began to recall what he had read in the archives, trying to distract himself.
He did a great job, or perhaps Roboute Guilliman wrote it very well; his thoughts were immediately drawn to the unfamiliar term and word "subgroup".
He had no real sense of the terrifying passage of ten thousand years, but since things had come to this, was he supposed to either accept reality or run away from it?
The Cleansers. He murmured the name.
A ship-based Chapter —Kefal didn't actually know what "ship-based" meant, but he could understand it from the literal meaning, since it was a later compound word. In his time, this word, like the Cleansers, didn't exist.
This Chapter's specialty is ruthlessness; true to their name, they excel at clearing away Chaos corruption and carrying out extermination operations.
Their predecessor was a Destroyer unit from the Death Guard era. Kafa had the opportunity to join them, but he preferred to be closer to the Primarch and therefore declined their invitation.
Thinking about this left him feeling somewhat helpless; how could such a coincidence happen?
He sighed and shook his head, worried about what the Cleansers might encounter. After all, they were no unknowns; their expertise meant that the Cleansers would have to face the most brutal and bloody battlefields.
And indeed, that is the case.
Kefa recalled the contents of that book, which clearly stated that the Imperium had even begun to regard calling upon the Cleansers Chapter as a last resort before resorting to the Exterminatus.
Once they receive a signal, they rush to the scene and begin to deal with the situation. This process often involves the devastating reshaping of the natural environment, not to mention the local community. If the situation is so bad that they need to be called upon, then probably only one in ten local civilians will have survived.
However, since they bear such a heavy responsibility, they are bound to encounter misunderstanding or even disgust from others.
However, Kefa Morag knew that these descendants, who had also inherited the blood of the Primarch, would not care about this matter, after all, they had another thing to do.
They wanted to kill Karas Typhon, or rather, Typhus, and all those who had betrayed the Primarch with him.
Within the culture of the Death Guard and the Cleansers, they no longer use either of those names to refer to it, but instead use the derogatory term "monstrous creature."
Frankly, Kefa thinks this is very appropriate.
That thing had been a distant observer during Mortarion's tortures; it was then that Kefa saw it. In the darkness, its form was bloated, enormous, and ugly, bearing no resemblance whatsoever to Astartes; its armor even seemed to possess a certain fleshy texture.
Mortarion's guards nearly ground their teeth to dust.
Calas Typhon, Typhus, I wish you a terrible death. I wish your entrails to be gnawed by wild beasts, your eyes to be gouged out by vultures, and that you be burned at the stake and reduced to ashes by Phosphex flames.
He suddenly sat up, clutched his neck, and began to gulp in fresh air. An overwhelming surge of hatred welled up from the depths of his heart, nearly crushing his reason.
Every second he had spent with that monstrous creature in the past had now transformed into a bone-corroding poison, causing him excruciating pain that made him wish he were dead.
Kefa Morag even began to wish he could go back in time, and if he could, he would kill it before things became irreversible. Even if it meant bearing the infamy of murdering his brother, even if it meant being executed by the Primarch himself, he was willing to do it.
His grip on his neck began to tighten slowly, and his breathing not only failed to improve but actually worsened. Kefa immediately realized that he had to distract himself quickly, otherwise the aftereffects of his severe injuries could very well kill him.
By then, he would probably become the first Death Guard to commit suicide.
He quickly recited the name of another sub-unit to himself— the Deathbound Legion.
It was clearly Chapter, yet it bore the name of a legion. A cruel joke, or perhaps a deliberate protective measure. After all, the initial group of those who went to their deaths were just like him—a group of incompetents.
Witnessing the Primarch's deaths firsthand, yet powerless to stop them, all they could do was watch them exile themselves, erase their names, and fight to the death.
Kefa knew that if he hadn't been taken away by that Xenos and placed in the Stasis Field, he probably would have answered the call when the Codex Astartes was issued and become one of those who went to their deaths. For a group of cowards like them, being able to face death in battle was already the best possible outcome.
Kefa Morag slowly opened his eyes.
Without him noticing, his right hand, which had been gripping his neck, had been lowered. His breathing had become steady again, and the suffocating feeling from before had vanished without a trace.
The Deathbound Legion.
Ship-based Chapter can possess a homeworld, but they refuse to. Their initial purpose was to face death, to erase their cowardice, and to seek liberation.
Even after accepting new responsibilities and becoming new protectors and guards, they still craved death. Influenced by this belief, they gradually dwindled over millennia, eventually struggling to maintain full strength.
Kefa frowned, involuntarily recalling his own reaction when he saw these things back in the archives.
That was the first time he felt resentment towards those going to their deaths—how could they do this? Old duties could end with death, but what about new duties? And what about the new people going to their deaths?
Those new protectors born from among the protected are neither guilty of the Primarch nor incompetent cowards, and have no obligation to bear the sins of their predecessors.
A flash of anger suddenly appeared in the guard's sharp gray eyes.
If possible, he must find the current Deathbound Legion. Although he may not be qualified or in a position to offer advice, he must try.
He knew that the Deathbound Legion had now reformed, was no longer so extreme, and had given rise to a new culture, such as a yearning for death.
They regarded the equipment of the fallen as precious relics, carefully collecting it after the war to use in shrines and pass it on as an important Legacy to every new recruit. But that was not enough, far from enough.
To face death was indeed the mission of Astartes, and the wish of the first group of those who went to their deaths, but these later followers did not have to do so.
They are protectors, and one day they too will indeed step through the gates of death, but until then, they must fight with all their might.
Yes, fight with all your might.
Kefa Morag stood up.
No, doing your best isn't enough—you have to go all out, kill with all your might, fight the enemy, protect with all your might. Fight until the last drop of blood in your veins disappears, swing your sword until your hand holding it has no strength left, protect hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, even millions of people.
The Primarch must rest in peace.
The Death Guard slowly closed his eyes, made an Aquila Salute, bowed his head, and began his daily mourning.