118 Dark Crusade (39)

Calistarius slowly opened his eyes.

The first thing that came was pain, an immense, indescribable pain that felt like it was tearing his whole body apart.

It was as if every nerve in his body had been plucked out with a blade and then gently but meticulously rubbed with a file. His bones were the same; with each heartbeat, a shocking impact came from the depths of his marrow.

It's as if countless sculptors are working inside with hammers, carving out different patterns according to their own artistic preferences.

The left arm is a flower, the right arm is a burning hell, the two thigh bones are a rushing river, the rib plates on the left and right are the gaping maw of a beast ready to devour its prey, and the skull is different, it is a bomb falling rapidly.

A fraction of a second later, the bomb began to explode.

Calistarius a hoarse scream.

What exactly was the injury? What struck him? Was it a chain reaction caused by the Daemon's defection? Or was it because the ritual was altered, resulting in a backlash he shouldn't have had to endure?

Oh, the Emperor.

Calistarius a deep breath in pain.

His flesh and blood were melting.

When reason returned, perception returned as well, so he can now clearly perceive this matter.

The ceremonial robes had long since been burned to ashes. The tough skin and flesh, acquired through genetic modification, turned into molten blood under the constant scorching heat, flowing all over the ground and dripping stickily from his red and charred bones.

All of this—all that he had endured since his return—was driving him mad; his sanity was crumbling, and he was about to follow in his bloody footsteps.

He could barely think of anything anymore; he had to descend into madness to escape the torment that was driving the Astartes insane. If he could still think, he would surely be silently chanting the name of the Primarch.

But he couldn't.

Then a voice briefly transcended reality and reached his ears.

"Willpower—never forget one thing, Calistarius," the voice whispered softly in his ear. "You have triumphed over death."

In his inexplicable madness, Calistarius felt a sense of absurdity.

He couldn't understand where this emotion came from. Could it be that there was still a part of him within him that hadn't experienced any pain, that retained its sense of self and reason? And that it could react emotionally to the words of others at such a moment?

He instinctively dug deep into his heart, and there he actually found a small corner, a secure safe room, belonging only to the Blood Angels Calistarius.

The young Librarian gritted his teeth and delved deeper, searching through the materials for anything that could help him at this moment.

He succeeded because there was nothing there.

A stable corner? It's nothing but a self- Deceit born of physiological instinct, just a blank space, a tiny refuge hastily constructed in the midst of terror and pain, used to help people escape reality.

There was no escaping it. Calistarius a deep breath, trembling.

You must not run away from them; you must face them head-on. Either try to overcome the pain as you overcome death, or you will be drowned in it here.

Calistarius tried to open his eyes, but a burning pain came from near his eye sockets and quickly spread to his eyeballs, giving him an urge to escape.

He ignored the urge and forced himself to open his eyes. The cruel hell immediately returned, flames soared into the sky, his senses returned, and the acrid air crackled and popped from the flames, sounding to Calistarius almost like gunboats dropping bombs in unison.

Then, he tried to clench his fist, only to find that he could no longer feel his left hand.

The "flower" had withered and was now probably just bones. So he turned to look for support in his right arm.

This time, his index, middle, and little fingers responded to him, quickly and forcefully closing together and clenching. Ceramite, who had somehow escaped unscathed, began to rub them together gently.

Calistarius a weak smile, his eyes rolling within their sockets. Logically, his eyes should have been the first organ to be burned, but they remained intact. Moreover, his vision was unaffected.

In the flames, the Rock suddenly flew up, accompanied by a gale, and crashed headlong into the burning fire. Calistarius's right hand trembled, and his crushed chest began to heave rapidly.

He regained some of his strength—or perhaps, this strength had never left at all. It had been waiting for him to draw upon it.

The most loyal soldiers, gathered in their veins and nerves, have already assembled and are ready to launch an attack with just one command.

The blue light flashed again, and his deflated chest began to recover. The skin protruding from the broken bones and the mangled flesh began to rapidly heal in the blue light.

Using his extensive knowledge of human physiology, Calistarius successfully reconstructed his thoracic system, and the injuries to his organs were completely healed under the influence of psionic energy.

It sounded so wonderful, but some doubts flashed through the young Librarian's mind: Could I have done this so easily in the past?

His knowledge told him: No, it's not possible.

However, now was clearly not the best time to delve into these matters. Calistarius then began to heal himself, and within minutes he rose from the rubble.

Although he was still covered in blood, there were no longer any injuries on his body that could stop him from moving; even the melted flesh had returned.

The young Librarian had a misconception about them; he felt they were all rotten flesh, inferior substitutes that had been glued to his burning bones by psychic energy.

But that was not the case; his body remained strong and capable of leading him out of the ritual hall and accomplishing much more.

Smash through the flames, Calistarius quickly arrived at the Red Tear's interior corridors. If it hadn't been destroyed, it would have been as beautiful as the rest of the ship; now, it was nothing more than a burning hell.

Corpses littered the ground; the mangled bodies of the crew members and their brothers were carelessly tossed about on both sides of the road, some even nailed to the walls. Most were headless, their heads mysteriously missing, as if the perpetrator had a particular need for them.

Calistarius watched this scene with fury, and let out a low growl of impatience.

To be fair, he should have remained calm; making a rash statement was not the best solution. But how could he have remained calm in such a situation?

No, there was no way. At this moment, he had no means to stop the surge of anger and could only let it engulf his entire body.

However, he was not alone. His reckless actions soon had some unpleasant consequences. Several ferocious beasts discovered him among the carcasses and rushed over, their blood-red mouths agape, ready to bite him.

They were incredibly fast, but Calistarius was even faster. He recognized them as Khorne's hounds at a glance, then kicked the fastest one, sending it flying backward.

His intention was to stop it, but without armor, the kick easily twisted the hound's head, sending it flying and crashing into the pile of corpses. Flesh and blood splattered, and blood mist rose. The beast died just like that.

Calistarius was puzzled again, but his fighting instincts acted before he could react. Forgetting all thought, he raised his foot, anticipating precisely when the second hound would strike, and then brought it down heavily.

A dull thud followed, and the hunting dog was trampled to death, its internal organs gushing out from its broken skin, leaving a winding trail on the ground.

Calistarius growled, the release of violence giving him a brief moment of relief. He began to charge, charging in the opposite direction toward the third, fourth, and even more hounds.

He charged into them, beginning his killing spree with his bare hands, each attack faster and more ferocious than the last.

Is this a good thing? He wasn't sure; he just felt as if he were breaking apart. Some foundation upon which he existed as Calistarius, the beliefs he had held firmly in his past life, were crumbling bit by bit.

He should have stopped to consider what this meant, but the increasing number of enemies prevented him. Khorne's Bloodletter realized what was happening and turned their forces around, charging towards him.

Calistarius immediately realized he had to leave, so he pulled himself out of the violence and ran away from the corridor.

--

Roboute Guilliman walks towards an ordinary man.

He lowered his head and carefully examined her.

This person was wrapped in a white robe, and she definitely lived a life of luxury. Her skin was delicate, and there were no signs of labor on her fingers. Her face had also undergone many adjustments, presenting a beauty that was acquired later in life, with subtle traces of surgery in every corner.

He laughed, then reached out his right hand and casually ran his index finger across her neck. Blood gushed out, staining his hand red.

He lowered his body. Soon, her memories flooded his mind.

The governor's daughter, from a prestigious family, a forbidden lover, a wealth of knowledge, an abuse of family power—looking at these things, Roboute Guilliman smiled and looked at the others.

In a tiny corner of the banquet hall, they huddled together for warmth like animals, on the verge of madness. They feared him, afraid they would be the next to be placed on the table or eaten on the spot.

Others, however, were not like him. They were not afraid of him. These unarmed warriors, clad in blue armor, stared at him angrily, each missing a limb.

Roboute Guilliman knew how they lost their limbs—he had ripped them off alive, of course. What else could he do? These were precious ingredients; they couldn't be eaten all at once. Otherwise, where would he find that taste again if he missed it?

Not long ago, he used a conspiracy to destroy most of them; artillery bombardment and the subsequent shipwrecks turned most of their food into inedible charcoal and ash.

His remaining sons must be dealt with properly.

Roboute Guilliman looked at them gently.

"Monster!"

A young combatant growled; he had suffered more damage than the others. Not only had he lost his left hand, but a piece of flesh had been torn from his face, and jagged teeth marks remained on his cheekbone.

Watching this scene, the delicious taste he had felt back then suddenly surged back from the corners of his memory, and Roboute Guilliman's mouth watered. He suppressed his desire and slowly shook his head.

"Say what you will, my son," he replied with a smile. "But you will surely feel the blood connection between us."

He raised his arms, revealing his chest as if asking for a hug. He wasn't exaggerating; every Ultramarines present could feel the connection of blood between them.

It was an indescribable feeling, something that shouldn't exist, yet it did. Realizing this almost drove them mad; some were grinding their teeth, wishing they could rush up and kill him right now—or throw themselves into his arms and embrace the Primarch.

"That's just how it is." Roboute Guilliman slowly followed up with his own words, his smile unchanged.

His blond hair shone brightly in the opulent banquet hall, and despite the bloody atrocities he had just committed, there wasn't a drop of blood on his face. His blue eyes were incredibly bright and clear.

From every angle, he was Roboute Guilliman, the Primarch of the Thirteenth Legion, the Sons of Macragge. Yet, the long table behind him was piled high with corpses.

Every seat, every corner, was piled high with human remains. Hair, teeth, nails, and broken parts of Power Armour were scattered everywhere, emitting an unbelievable stench of blood. The ground was crimson, and the long carpet was completely soaked.

Roboute Guilliman lowered his hand.

"I--"

He nodded to them, accepting their anger, fear, and madness without question.

"--Your Primarch, I am Roboute Guilliman. I stand before you, alive and well, don't I? Can't you see how real my existence is?"

He stepped forward, smiled, and tapped his chest.

"If you don't believe me, come and touch it," he said gently. "See if the feel of this flesh is genuine. How about it? Want to try it, my pride?"

There was no response, only heavy breathing. After a moment, an Ultramarines stepped forward.

"I don't care who you are, I don't care. I don't know what you want to do, but you won't succeed."

"Oh, really? Why?" Roboute Guilliman asked, inwardly marveling at the idealism in him.

He was almost proud of him.

Faced with a formidable enemy and incomprehensible terror, they still stepped forward and delivered morale-boosting speeches. Despite being unarmed and missing their right leg, they stood ramrod straight, a posture worthy of being included in military standards for others to emulate.

If only you were on my side.

Roboute Guilliman looked sadly at his son, and suddenly, an idea slowly formed in his mind.

Because we know what you are, you are nothing more than --

Roboute Guilliman didn't let him finish speaking. He rushed at him, dragged him out of the crowd, and walked to the long table. He slammed him onto the table, dislocated his jaw, and then raised his left hand, slowly drawing a circle on his chest with his index finger.

A steaming piece of meat fell into his palm.

Roboute Guilliman looked at his fellow fighter and, for the first time, saw fear in the latter's eyes.

"No need for that." He gently patted his head. "My son, you will soon find out what I truly am."