12: Soviet's Past (IV: One of Two Trials)

The door was opened.

Realizing this isn't easy for me right now; I'm a little injured, so my reactions are a bit slow.

But don't get me wrong, that Necrons's ship didn't hit us. Otherwise, I wouldn't just have been dizzy and had three broken ribs; I would have turned into a pile of space debris, cold, stiff, and then spinning and floating in the vacuum.

My injuries were inflicted by my mistress.

She mistakenly thought I pushed her down because I could no longer resist the consequences, the whispers. She thought I had let my guard down, lost my senses, and become one of the millions who had fallen.

In that instant, she was so grief-stricken that she could barely breathe. I could tell because her eyes had never been wary of me, not even in that situation.

Then, she planned to shoot me in the head.

I struggled, resisted, and tried to explain—while also convincing myself that even if her current sorrowful appearance was stunningly beautiful, I had to find time to savor it later; now was not the time to appreciate her rare humanity.

I convinced myself and then subdued her. It took her a while to realize the truth, and the sadness in her eyes vanished instantly.

I have to tell you, at first I only broke one rib.

I looked toward the gate, and there stood a man at the boundary between darkness and light, wearing a crisp officer's uniform, his cap perfectly straight, almost unsettlingly so, and beneath it, a pair of icy blue eyes staring at me.

This gaze felt strangely familiar, and I immediately recognized him. The door slowly closed, and the man began to walk towards us, eventually stopping opposite the iron table.

The lights came on, blindingly bright. He ignored them, put down the documents in his hand, pulled out a chair, and sat down, each step exuding a robotic coldness and ruthlessness.

This is making me a little unhappy—hey, I'm not the kind of person who loses their temper when they're unhappy, please remember that, okay? But I'm hurt right now, and it's hard for humans to stay rational when they're hurt.

So I spoke up before the hostess could.

"Who are you?" I asked in a deliberately nonchalant tone.

The man glanced at me, then unbuttoned the top button of his uniform, pulling a pendant from inside his clothes; the insignia of the Inquisition gleamed. I cursed my own stupidity inwardly, then maintained the proper silence.

The man nodded at me. He didn't smile, but I had a feeling he was mocking me. It might be my imagination, and I hope it is; I don't really like being laughed at.

He spoke slowly, his voice as sinister as his face.

"Shefa." He uttered the name, paused for a few seconds, and then uttered a cold, official statement. "The Judgment is about to begin. Do either of you have any objections?"

I remained silent and shook my head.

My mistress placed her hands on the table. For a fleeting moment, some kind of metal from the wide cuff of her left sleeve struck the table, but Shefa didn't even look at it, remaining focused on her face.

This means he's a focused and difficult person. To be honest, all Inquisitor are like that, but this is the first time I've been bothered by this quality they possess—after all, this time, I'm the one being Judgment.

"No," the hostess said. "Please ask your question, Your Inquisitor."

Shefa nodded and unfolded the documents in his hand in front of us, the heavy papers rustling. I glanced down and noticed that they had a peculiar pale yellow color and a very rough surface.

This means they came from Chatar, a world far away in the Storm Sector, where people make a living by papermaking, and the whole world does the same.

The paper produced in Chatar was very popular in the Imperium, firstly because it was tough, secondly because it was water-resistant, and thirdly because it was relatively inexpensive. As for its thickness and stiffness, which allowed it to be used as a weapon in certain situations, these characteristics were not really a drawback.

Why am I so concerned about such a trivial matter?

The reason is simple: I have to grasp at every straw that might be a lifeline, okay? Otherwise, who the hell would bother to care what type of paper he's using?

Look, after that crazy shroud-class cruiser fired its heated guns at us, it moved away and hit another warship anchored nearby.

The warship, named the Edge of Reason, was an Opalon-class battleship belonging to the Dark Angels Chapter. At the time of the incident, the Dark Angels' Primarch, Lion Eljonsson, was aboard it.

He's fine, Edge of Reason is fine too, but we're in trouble because Lion El'Jonson has stated that he wants to hold us accountable for what happened to Haide. He's going to board the ship to deal with it, and before he returns, he hopes we can tell the truth to the Shefa in front of us.

Now do you understand? The Lion El'Jonson — Lion Aljonsen! This is no small matter.

"First question," Shefa began. "Name."

Is he serious? I thought incredulously.

Okay, he might be serious. I breathed a sigh of relief.

The Inquisition is a large and very loosely organized organization, and the connections between Inquisitor are not as close as most people imagine. In most cases, they simply operate within their respective jurisdictions and then take some time during a quiet period to return to headquarters to report to the Sigillites.

The Milky Way is vast and filled with darkness, but it's not so dangerous that you have to live with your life on the line every day. Cultists also need to eat; they need to earn money to buy ritual implements.

Often, just by keeping an eye on the local black market, you can catch and execute these bastards before they actually achieve anything.

Of course, this is just the norm for my work with my mistress. As for others, like Shefa, he's probably handling internal affairs.

Or, to put it another way, to people.

If my mistress and I are two guns specifically designed to kill Cultists and Daemon, then this person is a butcher's knife with profound knowledge of human physiology.

His posture, appearance, and even every detail of his movements were meticulously designed to display a unique, inhuman quality.

Of course, it's also possible that he was born that way; who can say for sure?

He pointed at me. "Starting with you, Mr. Sable. Lental Sable. Name?"

I smiled and replied very politely, "Lental Black Sable."

And you, ma'am?

"Serano van der Leyef," my hostess replied expressionlessly. "Can we get to the point quickly?"

Shefa lowered his head, glanced at the documents in his hand, and calmly said, "We've been on the main topic for three minutes now, Ms. Dellife."

"The moment I walked in, the four Dark Angels Librarian the room had already begun examining your and your deputy's memories."

"My questioning is merely a smokescreen; its purpose is only to trick you into revealing your names—names are the shortest spell, you two."

Oh shit.

I hoped he was joking, but unfortunately, I knew he wasn't. The very next second after he finished speaking, I started bleeding from my nose—it was very thick and glistening. At the same time, the pain struck instantly.

I can't even describe how much it hurt. It's incredible because I've suffered many injuries in my life that most people couldn't endure, some of them very serious.

For example, during the time in the Runoff Desert, our group of fifteen was hunted down by the local lord for half a month. When we were finally captured, they planned to use me as an example to execute me with an ancient punishment, offering my blood and life to their god.

The punishment is quite simple: nails, you know? They have some enchanted bone nails there, long, sharp, and thin, made from the bones of twin babies.

I don't know exactly how they did it, but I have to tell you, it's definitely not a pleasant feeling to have four nails piercing your brain through your eyes and ears at the same time.

I would say that even four more nails wouldn't compare to the pain I'm feeling right now.

I strained my neck in the chair to look at my mistress. Her eyes were bleeding, just as thick as mine, but unlike mine, her blood was almost boiling as it trickled down her skin, hissing.

I could even see wisps of white smoke rising. I tried calling her name to calm her down, but I couldn't make a sound at all.

Shefa was still speaking.

"Please remain calm. The pain is only temporary and will soon pass. I sincerely apologize for what you two have gone through, but this Judgment is no longer an internal matter of the Inquisition. Do you understand?"

I stiffly rolled my eyes to look at him.

"Mr. Sable."

He even nodded at me, that inhuman bastard with those ice-blue eyes. Damn it, once I get out of here, I'll beat you so badly you can't stand up straight!

"I'm sorry, I don't think you can do that," the inhuman bastard said. "Also, get ready, I'm about to start asking more questions."

Do you have any more questions?

"Yes."

I want to see your mother.

"My mother is buried in Caperio Cemetery, 1-97-A-772. You can find her using this number. If you really do go, please bring me a bouquet of flowers; I haven't visited her in a long time."

Hurry up and ask me your question!

Are you loyal to the Emperor, Mr. Sable?

What kind of question is this? I thought angrily—I wasn't sure if my anger had been passed on to him by those Dark Angels' Librarian, because I still had some things I wanted to say, things that weren't exactly respectable.

But what angers me isn't the torture he inflicted on us, or the contempt he displayed. I understand his actions; if I were in his shoes, I would have done the same.

My anger stems from a very simple reason: this bastard is doubting me; he thinks I'm a traitor.

And I am absolutely loyal to the Emperor. Damn it.

With each day I linger in this galaxy, my loyalty to him grows stronger. The more darkness I see, the more I yearn for his Radiance.

Admittedly, some people who know me well might say that I always scoff at the idea of Ecclesiarchy, and I won't deny that I simply don't believe in their doctrines, such as the idea that the Emperor will one day save us all.

He's already doing that, otherwise how are we alive?

But he is not a god, at least not the omnipotent god described in the Ecclesiarchy, so this is all he can do. He has given us everything he could, and the rest is up to us.

Humanity must save itself; I have always firmly believed this. And I am absolutely loyal to the Emperor; it is all thanks to him that we have survived to this day.

"Your ideas will lead the Ecclesiarchy to condemn you as a heretic, Mr. Sable," I heard Shefa say, and frankly, I could no longer make out his face.

In my eyes, he is now just a blurry patch of color, his face is blue, glacial blue, and he has a golden tinge on his head, which is the place where the Aquila is.

This made his words sound a bit funny, and I felt an inappropriate urge to burst out laughing.

Shefa seemed a little surprised, so he raised his hand—in my eyes, it was just a change in color.

The pain then disappeared, and I couldn't help but burst into laughter, unable to contain my amusement at what I was about to experience. My vision returned lightly, and Shefa was still sitting opposite me, nodding at me.

I ignored him and turned to look at my mistress, only to find that she had also recovered from the pain and was no longer suffering.

Blood meandered down to her chin and spread across the five scars on her face, crisscrossing and making her look as if she were wearing a mask made of blood.

She turned and glanced at me, her eyes full of seriousness.

I understand; she has no intention of leaving.

I held her hand, ready to await Shefa's final verdict. That bastard did a good job; he's an outstanding Inquisitor. In just ten minutes, he's emptied our heads.

Ordinary people wouldn't allow the Astartes' Librarian to dig into the Inquisitor's memories; clearly, he was someone who wouldn't be bound by rules.

I wish him to be able to serve the Emperor even better in the future.

If I am truly to die, I wish the Emperor to judge my soul. Let him do as he pleases, with scales or by touch, whatever he chooses, I trust he will deliver a just verdict.

I am loyal. So is my mistress. I close my eyes and wait.

But the Emperor did not come.

I heard a voice command, "Open your eyes."

I did as he instructed. The authority in his voice made it difficult not to obey any command he gave—or rather, it made it difficult not to treat his words as commands.

I felt as if I had been electrocuted, a shiver running down my spine. Was I afraid? Perhaps, but my strongest emotion was excitement—the excitement of witnessing a Primarch with my own eyes.

He stood right in front of us, alive, not a statue, a painting, or a pale description. He was breathing, wearing armor, holding a spear in his hand, emanating a powerful energy that made my skin taut.

My mind went completely blank; I didn't even know how to start a conversation.

Lion Aljonson, the great Lion El'Jonson.

He stood there watching us.

What was he going to do? Stab us with his spear, or blast us to pieces with his gun? I imagined it with trembling hands, but the Lion El'Jonson did not do that. He simply stepped to the left, stepping aside, and a frail old man with a white beard stood behind him.

In that instant, I understood.

The Judgment continues.