The 114th Black Crusade (34): An Angel's Meditation

Meditation.

The air was icy cold, and with each breath, a faint smell of blood could be detected. My nasal cavity, throat, and trachea were being constantly cut and repaired, in an endless cycle.

The frigid temperature turned the air into countless tiny Razor, damaging his body. He had been in this room for 122 hours, completely naked and in a meditative posture, and even his wings were covered in frost.

The machine that generates such terrifyingly low temperatures is still running steadily on the ceiling of the room—a masterpiece of the Mechanicum, a supreme masterpiece.

Without these extraordinary titles, it would not be worthy of making a Primarch feel cold, nor could it possibly make him bleed.

Meditation.

The view outside the porthole was disordered and chaotic. From afar to near, seemingly insignificant tiny stones gradually transformed into mountain-like behemoths, with glittering debris swirling around them like millions of eyes.

Every now and then, bursts of light from explosions erupted around the portholes, bright and blinding enough to temporarily dazzle an ordinary person. It was the bombardment from the escorting warships, who were destroying the reef to prevent the floating, swirling mountains from harming the Red Tear and the ships following behind.

All this noise failed to penetrate the armor plating, so the room remained silent. Slow, drawn-out breathing echoed within, and a pair of huge, stiff wings lay across the darkness, illuminated by the light from the porthole, casting specks of frost.

As the ship moved, the light shifted, illuminating the back from which the wings had sprouted. Muscles bulged, their surfaces covered with a thin layer of ice, strong and white.

However, in this environment, its whiteness inevitably raises some concerns—is it its natural skin color, or is it due to the cold?

Nobody knows the exact answer.

In the darkness, a pair of eyes slowly opened, breathing stopped abruptly, and a tall Shadow slowly rose to its feet.

Its limbs and torso are in perfect proportion, so harmonious that it's hard to believe your eyes. However, the shape of its muscles disrupts this harmony.

Let's start with those long, slender arms that hang naturally at the sides of the body. The muscles in the forearms are relaxed, yet they still possess an incredible curve. As the five fingers slowly clench, they also tense into a shape that is hard to look away from.

Hard, yet graceful. It possesses the strength of a warrior and the suppleness of a dancer. Can normal human muscles achieve such a thing? Absolutely not. This is a masterpiece that exists only in imagination and on paper, a supreme masterpiece born only from human fantasy.

Then, someone made it a reality.

Ten thousand years ago, this creature was born in a laboratory. It started as an embryo, then drifted outside, wandering in a space where it shouldn't exist, and finally landed on a world called Baal.

This creature was later known as Sanguinius.

The creature slowly came to an end its reverie.

He began to walk.

Barefoot did not affect his stability or change his posture. He looked straight ahead, his steps were powerful, as if he were walking on flat ground, as if he were not walking barefoot on frosted steel.

His muscles rippled and bulged, blood began to circulate, and tiny ice crystals fell from his body, sparkling. At that moment, a pure harmony suddenly erupted from him, bringing the simplest yet most powerful sensation.

If someone could see this, they would probably be moved to tears and exclaim: This is the ultimate expression of power and beauty.

But can simply walking really achieve this?

So, what if this body were to dance? Leaping, moving, flapping its wings, spinning its feet, the varying degrees of power exerted by the waist, the dancing of the arms.

Then, add a sword to these actions.

A sword that he had already grasped in his hand.

Baal's angel slowly grasped it, then raised it to examine it closely. Suddenly, a gust of wind swept through the room, followed by a series of cracking sounds. A pair of wings, frozen stiff, began to flap, stirring up ice shards and blowing the angel's golden hair.

His face and a blue eye, like the ocean or the sky, were reflected on the mirror-like blade of his sword, but the emotions within were not so benevolent.

It was the ocean, but a deep blue sea before an impending storm. It was the sky, but it was already obscured by dark clouds, its depths profound.

The blade fell with a sharp sound, bringing a subtle sense of pleasure. The angel carried it in one hand and slowly walked towards another corner of the room.

The machines on the ceiling stopped operating at that moment, the room temperature began to rise rapidly, and two robotic arms emerged from a wall, carrying clothes, and came to him like snakes on an apple tree.

He put on his undergarments, outer robe, and fastened the knot at his waist, and suddenly he transformed into a capable soldier.

Immediately afterwards, a mechanical voice came from inside the wall.

"Shall we begin training?"

"Yes," said Sanguinius. "Intensity ten."

He raised his head, held the sword upside down with two fingers, combed his long hair back, and tied it with a hair tie. During this time, the blade trembled dangerously, almost slicing across his seemingly supple neck.

But it didn't.

The ground cracked open, and the pipes hidden beneath began to rumble, as if some heavy object was crawling within them. And indeed, half a minute later, a Shadow even larger than Sanguinius silently rose from the cracked ground.

A torrent of hot air shot out from its back, and two points of red light, simulated by electronic signals, suddenly lit up inside the steel-cast mechanical skull. A stark white light followed, completely illuminating the spacious room, which resembled a training ground.

At this moment, two opposing forces are at odds.

One is Sanguinius, wielding a sword with one hand; the other is a gigantic, incongruous monster made of steel.

Its appearance is ferocious, with high-strength alloy plates tightly attached to artificial muscle bundles beneath them. No electrical wires are exposed on its entire body, and a pair of menacing horns hover above its head.

Sanguinius calmly watched it, then shifted his stance, gripping the sword with both hands.

In his eyes, this clumsy imitation had changed completely; the steel armor had become blood-red fur, the artificial muscle bundles had become genuine, strong muscles, and the electronic signal light in the eye sockets had transformed into genuine hellfire.

At its feet lay piles of corpses, human corpses, broken and utterly desecrated by senseless violence, fear etched on every face. The place where it stood was no longer a room on the Red Tear, but a living hell, a place shrouded in darkness.

The shell whizzed overhead and flew to the other side of the battlefield. The smell of gunpowder and blood instantly rushed over, taking Sanguinius back a hundred years.

Veins suddenly bulged on his forehead, his hands gripping the sword became unsteady, and an indescribable rage quietly blossomed in his eyes.

The angel's canines protruded from his lips, savage, yet cruel. They shouldn't be on such a handsome face—wait, is he really handsome?

No, it's not like that anymore.

It was twisted by rage, every detail becoming grotesque. Tightly furrowed brows, elongated, thinning lips, and overly long canines—the kind only a wild beast should have—were stuck on its lower lip, smearing away the blood and revealing a sharp, white edge.

And those eyes.

Those eyes, the whites of which had been swallowed by bloodshot veins.

At this moment, Sanguinius was no longer beautiful.

The world saw him as the embodiment of justice, as flawless, compassionate, and kind. This was true, but only in certain moments. He always harbored a hidden anger and a yearning.

That longing hadn't faded, nor had the anger. And as a warrior, he welcomed the arrival of that anger.

After ten thousand years of silence, he personally welcomed it into his body.

The angel roared as it charged toward Ka'Bandha.

There was no sound, no movement, as if he were not holding a sword at all. Yet, at that moment, the enormous steel monster was completely cleaved in two, and brilliant sparks suddenly erupted from the broken edge, creating a terrifying display of color.

The heavy thud sounded again, but this time, it did not stand up. A few seconds later, the ground cracked open again, and the steel structure, now split in two, rumbled away through the pipes once more.

Sanguinius let out a long breath, closed his eyes, and the blade fell to the ground.

Meditation.

Can I still fight as I used to? Are my senses still sharp? Am I worthy of this sword? Four thousand years have passed since Vulkan gave it to me, yet it has never been stained with blood.

In the hands of our finest blacksmith, it endured forging; in the furnace of Nocturne, it was tempered and shaped. It deserved to drink blood until its destruction. It should not have been stained with dust in my armory.

The precious sword is covered in dust.

Sanguinius pondered the word, gave a bitter smile, and then called out, "Dante!"

His voice echoed and swirled in the room until it became a low, distorted echo, and the person he called to responded to him as always.

The door slid open, and a warrior clad in golden armor walked in with a serious expression. He was fully armed and imposing, almost piercing Sanguinius' eyes.

The angel had something to say, but he swallowed it back. He looked at the man with a sigh, as if he were seeing a mirror. He watched until a slight discomfort appeared on the latter's face before he finally spoke.

"Where have we sailed to, my son?" the angel asked gently.

"We're almost at the Five Hundred Worlds," Dante replied softly. "According to the star map provided by the Departmento Munitorum, we should be able to enter it in no more than thirty hours."

Sanguinius nodded knowingly, but then suddenly asked, "You seem to have some doubts, my son. What is it?"

Dante was slightly startled, clearly his thoughts had been exposed. He remained silent for a few seconds before replying, "It's because of the Astronomican, the Primarch."

"So what if it 'Astronomican?"

"We can barely catch its light anymore," said the Chapter Master of the Blood Angels, his voice still low, even somewhat sorrowful.

As his Primarch, Sanguinius tasted more emotions, such as pity, reluctance, and finally, self-reproach.

Almost instantly, the archangel understood what Dante wanted to say.

He sighed.

"I know what you're thinking, Dante. You're thinking, with the Radiance of the Astronomican fading to this point, and the Imperium's territory so vast, how many people live in a world shrouded in darkness?"

"No, not only, Father," the Blood Angels replied with difficulty. "I also feel that we—"

What about us?

"We have let them down," Dante said.

He worried that his words would provoke the Primarch's wrath, but he still pointed it out. He knew just how sharp his words were; the angel's expression alone was enough to tell the story.

His suddenly furrowed brows and downturned lips revealed the heavy feeling he felt after hearing those words.

However, the rebuke Dante had imagined did not come; in fact, Sanguinius did not even bother to refute him.

He nodded heavily, acknowledging the matter, his expression becoming as complex as Dante's, only with greater sorrow and self-reproach.

After a moment, he slowly spoke.

"Since leaving Terra, we've only experienced about twenty battles, large and small, jumping and traversing along the way, only leaving the Warp when necessary to regroup, obtain supplies, and seek reinforcements."

"In the process, you did some things completely different from what you did when facing the demonic tide. For example, suppressing rebellions or driving away Xenos pirates. These were just minor skirmishes, not worth mentioning, but you also saw something else, didn't you, my son?"

"You saw the people groaning and suffering within the constantly running war machines, and suddenly you realized that things you had always taken for granted were not so ordinary after all."

"You discovered that the living conditions of those people are worlds apart from those within the Sol System, and not only that, they suffer severe oppression. The fruits of their labor are embezzled, ending up in the pockets of some official, and then handed over to the local governor for his own enjoyment."

"We, who should have been handling these matters, turned a blind eye, simply taking the manpower and resources handed over by the governor and leaving. Then you think of those worlds where the Astronomican are invisible, and how hard life is for people in places where their Radiance is visible."

"And what about those dark places? We, who should have been protectors, failed to fulfill our responsibilities and do what we were supposed to do—and you feel incredibly guilty about it."

The more he spoke, the calmer his expression became. By the end, it was almost expressionless. Dante dared not look any longer; he lowered his head deeply and mumbled his agreement.

"Keep it," Dante heard his father say. "Whatever you call this feeling, keep it, Dante. Keep it in your heart, and use it someday."

"One day, you will turn it into righteous indignation. Why must humanity suffer this torment? Why must we endure the Old Night, rebellion, and endless war? Why can't those people live simply and peacefully? Keep it in mind, my son, and then grip the sword tightly."

Dante heard Sanguinius' fingers clicking on his sword.

Seconds later, his Primarch left the room and headed toward the bridge. Dante followed closely behind, assuming that was the end of the conversation, but Sanguinius said something else just as they were about to reach the bridge.

"My brother Konrad Curze taught me this." He smiled sadly, then strode into the sliding doorway, stepping into a noisy and tense world of war.

Dante stood there for a few seconds before remembering to keep up.