122 Dark Crusade (XLIII)

Sanguinius felt as if he had been split into two people, or two different parts. There was no distinction between up and down, left and right, inside and outside; there was only him, and another him.

He was being subjected to the violent torment of Ka'Bandha. Khorne's Daemon loved and were adept at resorting to violence for everything, and there was no escaping violence, especially since his enemy at this moment was Ka'Bandha.

His sword was still in his hand, but he had very few chances to fight back. The Daemon often managed to stop him with a punch before he could put up a decent fight, or simply force him to defend himself with his sword held horizontally by using their fangs.

The battle was already so arduous, but Sanguinius still had to endure another kind of torment.

Yes, he was fighting Ka'Bandha in a bottomless sea of blood, surrounded by the corpses of warriors. But he was also in another place, a place covered in yellow sand, his home, Baal.

The night sky was low, sending in a cold wind that starkly contrasted with the scalding heat of the churning blood. These two things, destined never to fight together, now merged, showering him with torturous needles that pierced his flesh and pierced his soul.

I'm screaming.

Sanguinius clearly sensed this; he could still feel the Red Thirst echoing deep in his throat. The sea of blood seemed both real and unreal, clearly present and pungent, yet not a single drop of blood flowed into his parched mouth.

His sharp teeth left deep white marks on the edge of his taut lips. The Daemon mocked this, uttering some ambiguous words, and once again wrapped the steel whip around his wings, taking away more flesh and bone.

The pain was excruciating, piercing to the bone; no one could endure such agony without reacting. Sanguinius saw himself wielding a sword, from a detached and indifferent perspective.

In a daze, he suddenly found himself standing on a patch of yellow sand, gazing at the night sky.

He carried a weapon in his hand, a crudely made metal spear by today's standards, crafted by the tribe that had taken him in. They had tried their best to make the weapon worthy of him, but to no avail.

In his hands, any weapon is the most deadly weapon; nothing can conceal this fact, not even the most painstaking efforts of the craftsmen who created them.

Blood dripped from the spearhead, the blood coming from a terrifying beast lying not far away— Baal Fire Scorpion. These ferocious beasts are generally about three meters long, and their ferocious nature allows some individuals to grow to about five meters.

Their carapace is thick enough to withstand a volley of explosive shells. They move swiftly, possess immense strength, and their barbed tails can easily pierce most alloys. Their venom is even more terrifying; as the Baal people say, "They would rather die of thirst than perish in flames."

The flames refer to the venom of the fire scorpion. Once poisoned, the venom will rapidly burn the victim from the inside out until death. This special burning will not stop unless the fire scorpion decides to eat him or he is burned to ashes.

Is this a corner of my memory? Sanguinius asked himself.

He racked his brains, but still couldn't remember. This was probably because he had killed too many fire scorpions, so many of his memories were already too numerous and complicated to recall.

As wild animals, their flesh is edible. The Baal people often go to great lengths to hunt them; if they can kill just one, they won't have to worry about food for the rest of the month.

Their meat is delicious, no matter how it's prepared, and it's very easy to preserve. This is why Sanguinius frequently hunts them; his tribe needs food, and Baal is a barren land—without food, people simply cannot survive.

"Sanguinius--!" Ka'Bandha roared, pulling him back from his agony.

The angel responded with a low growl, its face twisted and ferocious, looking more like a beast than Daemon. But Ka'Bandha was still not satisfied; it flapped its fleshy wings and roared as it charged toward him. Just as the angel was about to raise his sword to intercept it, the world before him shifted once more.

It was the same night sky, the same cold desert. The fire scorpion's corpse was steaming hot, and its blood spread across the entire dune.

"Am I crazy?" Sanguinius asked himself again, but his body was already moving involuntarily toward the fire scorpion.

He raised his hand and, instinctively, plunged the spear into the tail of the dangerous beast. His right hand slid up to the handle of the spearhead and began to sever the deadly scorpion tail. Next came the removal of the sharp limbs, six in total, three on each side of the body.

Finally, he scraped off the dense barbs, about half a meter long, from the carapace with his spear, then inserted his limbs into the fire scorpion's body, lifted it up with one hand, and steadily walked down the sand dune.

The entire set of movements was fluid and graceful, as if it had been done a million times.

Where am I?

No one answered. He hoped someone would answer, but no one responded—no, there was someone, but it wasn't the "words" he wanted to hear; it was just a simple echo from the past.

"You are my son, a Primarch, my ninth General, an indispensable component of a great undertaking. You were taken by the enemy, and only today have I found you. But I am not sure if you are still pure."

The world spun around, the night wind howled wildly, then began to transform into a scorching wind, then night, and finally day.

The scorching yellow sand began to radiate the kind of heat that Sanguinius was most familiar with; his boots hissed, and the tough animal hides seemed ready to ignite at any moment under such intense heat.

Not far away stood a solitary figure, without the flying machine he remembered, nor the Adeptus Custodes in golden armor, but only guards loyal to his father.

No, none of that. Only the Emperor himself stood there.

"Have you come to answer my questions, Father?" the angel asked silently.

His father shook his head.

So what are you here for?

His father shook his head.

Answer me, I beg you, Father. I plead for your help, I must...

His father shook his head.

"No," The Emperor said, "No one can help you."

The Emperor's form began to crumble, collapsing like a castle of sand blown away by a gale. Starting with his face, it gradually turned into swirling yellow sand.

Wait, it's not yellow sand, it's blood?

The angel's eyes widened; a long-suppressed desire roused his body before his mind could react, driving him straight toward the pool of blood.

A sweet aroma he had never smelled before wafted into his nostrils, stimulating his mouth and making him yearn to drink deeply right then and there to relieve this terrifying urge.

He grabbed it; his fingers touched a patch of wet blood, but it wasn't the blood he wanted.

It's not the kind he needs.

Which one does he want?

"Sanguinius--!"

Ka'Bandha laughed maniacally, grabbed his hand, and slammed him violently into a group of corpses amidst the sea of blood. His tattered wings were forced to crash into the weapons in the hands of the dead by the immense force, and even more pain instantly struck, but it also brought him back to his senses.

Fear.

What was I thinking? What was I just longing for? Me.

"Focus!" the Daemon snapped, his next words sounding like those of a bloodthirsty philosopher.

"If you can't resist it, accept it! Our instincts are such terrifying things—killing, bloodshed, violence."

"Don't tell me you don't like the feeling of a blade slicing through an enemy's neck, don't tell me you don't like seeing the despair in their dying eyes—relying on violence is in our nature, even the race to which this wretched carcass you've been stuffed into is no exception!"

"Humans, weak and short-lived, are the most violent and bloodthirsty race in history. They started with fists, then clubs, spears, and stones—for tens of thousands of years? They've never stopped fighting! Never!"

"You belong to these things, you belong to the killing brought by violence, you were born to be this way, to bathe in blood, to experience rage, to seize glory. If you cannot resist, then accept it! Accept it quickly, angel!"

Ka'Bandha ended its gentle persuasion and suddenly seized Sanguinius from among the warriors' corpses. Its eyes blazed like erupting volcanoes in hell, and once again, the angel saw his own reflection in them.

He sank into it.

"No," The Emperor said. "There's no one here who can help you."

The angel knelt on the yellow sand, sweat streaming down his forehead. He knew very well what he had just been yearning for—his father's blood; that was all he had been longing for.

His deepest, darkest secrets were thus laid bare before the light, beneath the blazing sun of Baal. But this was only one of his secrets; he had many more desires. So many, too many to count.

His hands suddenly buried themselves deep in the sand, his fingers straining to their limit, beginning to injure himself. Resentment, shame, pain—so many complex and indescribable emotions surged within him, accompanied by his memories.

Ten thousand years ago, in Signus, his captain of the guard Azkaellon, covered his bloodied wound and smiled to indicate that he was alright. The smile was so pure, but his throat suddenly tightened, and a tremor followed.

This scene was unforgettable for him, which is why it was chosen as the starting point in this series of torments. What followed was a flood of images in his mind, more images of war.

Blood, blood everywhere—the enemy's, his children's, his brothers' children's, his brothers'.

A thought he thought he had forgotten resurfaced at this moment.

What would Fulgrim's blood taste like? It must be incredibly sweet, unforgettable, and make you want to indulge in it.

And what about Konrad Curze's? Most of them are rich yet cold, like holding an ice cube in your mouth, almost cutting your throat, but with an endless aftertaste.

Rogal, Perturabo, Vulkan, Roboute —the blood of these men, the blood of his brothers—

"--fighting!"

A roar shattered those illusions, dragging him back into the sea of blood. A Daemon furiously flung him in another direction, its steel whip piercing deep into his golden armor.

Sanguinius should have fought, should have resisted, but the dryness churning in his throat destroyed everything. He did not resist, because the endless sea of blood around him was simply too alluring.

How many dead are there here? Countless. Their blood forms this ocean, the blood of warriors, an unspeakable temptation.

At that moment, Sanguinius smelled at least tens of thousands of distinct and enchanting aromas, each one making him yearn to drink to his heart's content, but he did not.

He kept his mouth tightly shut, letting the sharp teeth pierce his lips, and blood flow out.

His blood is now part of the sea of blood.

Sanguinius closed his eyes, trembling—involuntarily.

He returned to that expanse of yellow sand.

"No one here can help you," The Emperor said. "This is your hell, my son."

"Admittedly, you could describe this unusual desire as a deep-seated genetic defect, but you actually know what it is. It's a kind of chain reaction inherent in your nature, just as water can quench thirst and a sword can wound—it has a direct and close relationship."

The Emperor's words were rational and straightforward, pointing directly to the core of everything, the essence of everything—his nature, his desires.

Red Thirst.

Trembling, Sanguinius raised his head to look at the blazing sun over Baal. The Emperor had vanished into thin air, but his voice still echoed and slowly began to change.

"There's no one here who can help you." He repeated again. "No one but yourself."

Ka'Bandha's roar never ceased, the allure of the sea of blood was constant. He fought, retreated, fought again, retreated again. Covered in wounds, his golden armor shattered, yet his longsword remained firmly in his hand.

The world he saw was both scorching and restless, with the sun blazing overhead, and boiling and burning, littered with corpses. Desire and violence, killing and death, a predicament that could not be escaped and had to be faced head-on.

Amidst the sea of blood, Sanguinius gripped his sword with both hands, while Ka'Bandha laughed maniacally with satisfaction.

On the yellow sand, Sanguinius looked around and saw no one but himself.

He is the only one here.

The Emperor wasn't here either; he had never been. From the beginning, there was only the angel. He imagined his father's image and wanted help, but his father wasn't here.

There he was, with his desires, and with all this pain.

"Only me." Sanguinius stood up, panting. "Only me."

I must overcome it.

He gripped his sword and faced the Daemon.

--

Calistarius could feel a tearing sensation; his consciousness was slipping away.

Astral projection, spiritual departure from the body—whatever you call it, this phenomenon is described in many schools of mysticism, and the young Librarian could easily rattle off a thousand different names for it.

But none of that mattered. He was entering the Warp, unprotected, without help, with only a bloodstained and crude statue of the Emperor, and the unwavering blood connection he held to his Primarch.

"How can I find you, Primarch? "Calistarius asked anxiously. "Please, answer me."

No reply came from the Great Ocean, and his physical body in the material world remained as stable as ever, with no trace of the divine power in the Emperor statue in his hand.

His brothers aimed their guns at his head, flames roared on the bridge, and through the blood-stained portholes, a fleet was slowly approaching across the void. Blue and gold, a large "U" gleamed on the ship's outer armor, clearly meticulously crafted.

Soon, a destroyer spotted the arrival of the Ultramarines. It was called "Wrath of the Expedition," and its captain was Ivoninus, an ambitious young man, a descendant of war heroes, eager to prove his loyalty.

He died twelve minutes later from a beam of light that grazed the Wrath of the Expedition, fired from the Ultramarines' fleet.

Another war—a more terrible war—has begun.