19. Trial (I, Zabriel, 7k)

Shefa looked up from behind his desk and glanced at Lental Black Sable, who understood the meaning behind his gaze but still didn't stop what he was doing.

The documents were rustling noisily in his hands, extremely disruptive. He had been doing this for several minutes, his purpose obvious, but Shefa was not about to let him achieve his goal so easily.

So he lowered his head again and continued working—he was going through many lists, trying to find three thousand suitable people from these criminal lists jointly provided by the Departmento Munitorum and the Adeptus Arbites, and then take them to a new place.

A punitive legion known as the Last Chancers.

Shefa didn't particularly like the name, but it was fitting.

At this moment, in the second drawer on the lower left of his desk, a thick stack of pardons awaited him.

These pardons have legal effect; once Shefa signs and stamps them, those who may receive a pardon will be free of guilt and will be free, regardless of the severity of their past crimes.

This is the last chance.

Shefa was certain that some of the people he was about to select would serve him to the death until they received a pardon.

But others would probably not do so. They know they are already beyond redemption, and unless the Emperor truly intervenes, they will not have any interest in a pardon, even if it bears the Emperor's seal to prove his personal consent.

Shefa's right index finger, which was sliding the Dataslate, suddenly stopped.

The Emperor

He squinted, raised his head again, and looked at Lental Black Sable. The Inquisitor's guard, now free, was holding documents and staring at him, a familiar Shefa spreading across his rugged face.

Everyone who interacts with him seems to unconsciously display the same expression at some point, the reasons for which are truly thought-provoking. Most people might feel uneasy about this, but Shefa doesn't; he's even satisfied.

"Is there something you need, Black Sable?" Shefa asked deliberately.

"Yes," the Black Sable said gruffly. "I've come on behalf of my mistress. She asked me to inquire when we may leave."

"At any time."

"At any time?"

"Yes, you can leave at any time, as long as I agree."

Lental Black Sable took a deep breath, then put down the documents, clenched his fists, and placed them on the table.

Shefa glanced down at them, completely unmoved by the bulging veins on the back of his hand. In fact, he even felt a little like smiling.

He enjoyed being around people like Black Sable; to him, they were simple and easy to understand.

"But this is the Lion El'Jonson's ship," the Black Sable replied in a somewhat subdued tone.

"Yes, this is Lion El'Jonson's ship, but he has entrusted this matter entirely to me. And you are a talented person, Mr. Sable. I have a mission that will greatly benefit from someone like you."

"I am Serano van der Leyef's bodyguard."

"It's common practice for Inquisitor to borrow bodyguards from each other, Mr. Sable, didn't you know that?"

The Black Sable took another deep breath. "How long do I have to work for you?"

"Ten years," Shefa said thoughtfully, adding, "And if we're lucky—of course, your mistress will come along to offer us some small assistance."

"As far as I know, she has good relations with several traveling Rogue Trader who frequent the Storm Sector. I hope to utilize these connections."

The Black Sable sneered, "I don't think they'd like someone like you."

Shefa nodded, acknowledging his statement. At the same time, a low humming sound came from the Dataslate in his hand.

The Black Sable glanced at it quickly, but Shefa nonchalantly placed the Dataslate flat on the table, letting the flashing article belonging to the Lion El'Jonson catch its eye.

He spoke slowly, "Yes, they certainly won't like Inquisitor like me, but they would be more than happy to cultivate a good relationship with a high-ranking colonel from the Departmento Munitorum."

"Moreover, your hostess can even take this opportunity to further her friendship with them, so why not?"

As soon as he finished speaking, he stood up, straightened his military uniform, picked up his military cap and put it on, and strode out of his office.

He walks with his head held high and his eyes fixed ahead, exuding a calming and convincing power. But this is merely a superficial appearance, a deliberate disguise.

A relatively young colonel in the Departmento Munitorum should have this kind of gait; he needs to make people believe it—after all, not many people know his other identity.

The fewer people who know the truth, the better. Although confidentiality provisions are often superfluous, their necessity has been proven by generations of Inquisitor with their lives.

He strode into a gathering hall used by the servants of the Dark Angels Chapter. It was always crowded; there was never a shortage of things to do on a warship, especially since this was a warship belonging to the Astartes.

The daily routines of the mortal servants were highly consistent with those of the people they served. According to Shefa's observations, even the training grounds used by the servants on the Edge of Reason were right next to the Dark Angels' grounds.

The young and strong among them underwent rigorous daily training, and then each performed their duties: maintaining weapons and armor, delivering messages, providing necessary incense to the Order who were meditating, or serving food and drinks at banquets.

They have lived alongside the Dark Angels for generations and take pride in it. If they achieve honor in war, they can even have their names displayed alongside those of the Dark Angels, fluttering together on the flag.

Throughout the entire Imperium, such a relationship is rare. Almost every Chapter needs ordinary servants, but few can reach this level of devotion.

But Shefa knew the reason behind this— the Lion El'Jonson.

Without his approval, the atmosphere within the Dark Angels would not have changed to this extent.

This also piqued his curiosity. Although the Inquisition did not preserve any battle records of the Dark Angels during the Legion's era, judging from some rare cooperative battles, the Lion El'Jonson's style ten thousand years ago was quite ruthless.

What made him become the way he is today?

Questions arose, and Shefa's memories surfaced soon after. The Lion El'Jonson had treated him with great courtesy, and even in its rage, it had maintained its composure.

Shefa did not believe this was due to his status; therefore, his thirst for knowledge only intensified.

With this in mind, he boarded an elevator that led directly to the top floor of the Edge of Reason.

After pressing the button, an intense feeling of weightlessness immediately began to tear at Shefa's body. He had to reach out and grab the handrail provided for mortals to steady himself, while silently holding his breath.

Ten seconds later, accompanied by a gust of cold wind, the elevator doors slid open abruptly, revealing a long corridor before Shefa. Two Dark Angels clad in Terminator Armour stood on either side of the elevator exit, silently staring at him.

Shefa bowed to them, then stepped inside.

He had been aboard the Edge of Reason for over a year, but even including this time, he had only been here three times.

The Lion El'Jonson didn't often summon him here; more often, they met at the door of the interrogation room. Although he wasn't here to serve the Lion El'Jonson, now that he was on the Edge of Reason, doing something was understandable.

Shefa suddenly stopped in his tracks. A badge he had placed on his chest was now trembling coldly. He instinctively reached for his waist with his right hand, then realized that he was not carrying any weapon.

This was an awkward situation, but Shefa forced himself to calm down and keenly realized one thing—he didn't actually know what the badge's trembling meant.

So he turned and gazed.

Sure enough, he saw a familiar person.

Standing in the darkness, Karyl smiled slightly at him.

"Very perceptive, Shefa Sheffield," he praised. "I thought you would notice me later."

"That's the function of the badge, sir."

Karyl stepped out of the darkness, still smiling, and shook his head. Shefa frowned in confusion but didn't ask for an explanation; he simply followed Karyl through the door.

The world behind the door is probably quite different from what most people imagine a Primarch's private room to be. The Lion El'Jonson didn't place many things related to official business here. In fact, there weren't many living necessities either. There was only a bed that fit his size, which was quietly thrown in the corner.

The rest of the space was filled with weapons. Some were hung on the walls, others were placed on weapon racks, and they were all carefully categorized.

Swords huddle together, silently awaiting their day of drawing. Blades cross each other, exuding a chilling aura, silently begging for blood. Various firearms, already maintained, are displayed inside transparent cases, waiting to be retrieved.

They were numerous and varied, each perfectly suited to the Primarch's hand. Shefa was dazzled by the sight and had to silently remind himself to remain calm—although he wasn't exactly a regular soldier, who could remain composed in the face of so many divine weapons?

At least he couldn't, so he silently turned his gaze to the center of the room.

A training area of moderate size had been reserved there, where the Lion El'Jonson was fighting two Combat Servitor with his bare hands.

They were highly modified, with every inch of their bodies covered in hard alloy plates. Of course, this was nothing in the face of a Primarch's power, but the Lion El'Jonson clearly had high expectations of itself.

The Servitor were also equipped with genuine weapons, and their joints had been modified. Most importantly, each of them wielded two Power Swords, and their unique joint structure allowed them to attack in ways that exceeded the limits of human swordsmanship.

Shefa couldn't help but feel worried for the Lion El'Jonson, but the lion showed him with its actions that his worries were completely meaningless, but Shefa couldn't grasp the details at all.

All he knew was that the Lion El'Jonson seemed to have thrown two punches, and then the two Combat Servitor fell to the ground amidst sparks. It wasn't until the force field on their Power Sword dissipated that the heavy echoes of the Primarch's attack reached Shefa's ears.

Then came the sound of Lion El'Jonson.

"Shefa, I have a favor to ask of you."

Shefa naturally had no reason to refuse, however, just half an hour later, he began to regret his hasty decision. But by then, it was too late for him to refuse.

He could only sit on a cold iron chair, staring at an Astartes in front of him named Zabriel.

A Terra- born Dark Angels, a veteran from ten thousand years ago.

--

When that mortal in the black and red uniform sat down in front of me, I admit, I was a little confused. In my mind's eye, I was helping a group of survivors fight off rebels.

At that time, the rebellion that broke out in Underhive had been going on for more than four days, and the local rulers were acting with extreme cold-bloodedness and ruthlessness. He dispatched troops but did not allow those soldiers to enter Underhive to help the civilians who were being slaughtered.

I know what he's trying to do. I've seen that fat, big-eared fool in his portrait. His orders are as easy to understand as his greasy face—he just wants to protect himself, guard the road between the Underhive and Upper Hive, and let the rebels fend for themselves.

I saw it with my own eyes: he dispatched his personal guards to guard every road and every bridge, not allowing any refugees to enter.

These arrogant guards even dared to execute officers who tried to help the refugees, and anyone who dared to resist them was ruthlessly suppressed. It was hard for me not to feel angry, so I chose to use my own power to do something.

But what about now?

The scent of mortal blood had faded away, and the group of people who had fought alongside me had all vanished. The boy I had jokingly called my bodyguard, along with the crudely made flag he carried, was also gone; he should have been behind me.

I saw a rare courage in him, and I confess I liked him. If I were still in the Legion, he would have been my servant. But he is gone, and so are the enemies.

Those crazed rebels should have been shooting at me; their helmets and armor were covered in blasphemous accusations against the Emperor, and their expressions were utterly deranged.

I've even planned out the tactics: I'll cross the burning craters and collapsed building materials to reach their makeshift trenches, tear the machine gunners apart with my tactical dagger, and then snatch the shock grenades from their corpses to create even greater chaos.

I'm all alone, so I have to make chaos my ally.

But

Damn it, what on earth is going on?

"Lord Zabriel?" the mortal called out my name without any respect, adding a false title.

"Please look at me, okay?"

I did as he said, looking him in the eye, ready to lash out. Whether it was true or not, whoever dared to put me in this situation must be punished.

I swore an oath to protect the people there from the war, and although this cannot make up for what I have done or make me feel any better, it at least proves that I am still a knight.

But my vow was broken.

It wasn't of my own volition, but it was indeed destroyed.

"Thank you for your cooperation, sir."

The mortal nodded to me, and only then did I notice the golden Aquila on his hat.

I immediately tensed up. Don't misunderstand, I still follow the Emperor. If he sends me his decree, asking me to sacrifice myself for him, I will not hesitate to give my blood.

But I have been on the run for too long. I have spent nearly four hundred years hiding in the material world, and I can no longer stand tall under the Aquila as I used to.

What I once believed in, what I once fought for, has now become my constraint, even a thorn in my side.

I think this is a tragedy. Because I was truly stung by the Aquila.

The mortal probably noticed this, but he didn't say it outright. I saw a thoughtful look in his annoying blue eyes, followed by another fake smile.

"You may call me Shefa, sir."

"Shefa for what?" I asked deliberately.

He maintained his smile, did not answer my question, and instead looked at the documents in his hand, posing more questions to me.

"You are of Terra descent, are you? Born in Starkholm, the Hive City?"

I was startled, and although I managed to hide my reaction well, shock was still shock—how did he know?

This information should be top secret, and even my brothers shouldn't know about it, but this mortal who calls himself Shefa said it so casually.

Admittedly, this might not seem like a big deal, but if he even knows this, then what about everything else?

Sure enough, I heard him reveal more secrets.

"You served in the 3rd Company, as a knight of the Second Platoon, Third Company, Fifteenth Regiment, a deacon of the Three Keys Conclave, and one of the original members of Deathwing. What an impressive resume."

Listening to this mortal recount things he shouldn't even know in such a dry tone stung me once again, and this time it hurt even more.

Part of it was his tone, but more so it was indignation: Who was it? Who revealed these secrets to someone who shouldn't have known them?

Furthermore, since he was able to learn these things from that document, how many people learned these secrets during the process of that document being circulated?

I was shocked to find myself actually feeling fear.

"In any case, sir—" that detestable Shefa spoke again, "We must get down to business."

"The main topic? What main topic? What do you want to do?" I was about to ask, but the surrounding environment caught my eye. This dimly lit, iron-gray room made me immediately realize what he meant by "the main topic."

Then I became furious, more so than ever before.

You want to interrogate me?!

I roared and lunged at him.

In less than a third of a second, I could crush his neck, but I won't. I want to control him and get things out of him, like where I am now and how they brought me here.

In my imagination, my hands are now gripping the neck of that so-called Shefa. But in the real world, I'm still standing there.

Yes, I controlled myself. It was difficult, but I still managed to do it.

Without sufficient self-control, I couldn't have been on the run for so long. Strangely, just as I realized my self-control had improved again, a face I desperately wanted to avoid appeared before my eyes.

That's my Primarch, Lion Aljonsen's face.

Why would I think of him at a time like this? I have no answer.

"I wouldn't call this matter that, but since you think so, let's treat it as an interrogation—would you be willing?"

His words made my eye twitch.

"Damn it," I muttered, beginning to curse him. Countless angry words stuck in my throat, echoing back and forth. Like an adventurer who had failed in a mountain climb, the words slipped from the shallows of my throat and fell into the abyss.

I had to force myself to calm down again, and this time, I succeeded again.

I looked at him, raised my chin, and calmly said, "Suit yourself."

"Very well, Lord Zabriel. Now, the first question: Are you still loyal to the Imperium?"

"Which Imperium?" I asked coldly.

I wasn't trying to provoke him; I genuinely wanted to know which Imperium he was asking about. Since the Caliban's exile, the changes in the world have been constantly tearing at my heart.

I learned about the "Horus Heresy," and I stood among the impassioned crowds listening to the priests preach and condemn Horus Lupercal, Lorgar Aurelian, and Alpharius —three names heavily and inextricably linked with traitors.

At first, I simply couldn't believe it— Horus Lupercal had launched Horus Heresy? He wanted to kill the Emperor? Terra above! How could such an absurd thing happen in this world?

However, the more worlds I've been to, the more credible this becomes. One or two worlds might be somewhat explainable as being deceived, but in every place I've been, people despise their names.

Therefore, I have to believe that after the Caliban's war ended, another rebellion was born.

Moreover, it is much larger in scale and has a much greater impact.

Three hundred and ninety-two years of escape confirmed this with my own eyes. People became ignorant and fanatical, almost every world became stagnant, and war never left. The Horus Heresy was not the end, but the beginning of another nightmare.

Traitors and Xenos —those things we drove away during the Great Crusade —have returned, and now a new formidable enemy has joined the fray: Chaos.

Just thinking about that word sends chills down my spine. The truth about the Warp is unbearable, and the changes in this world are unbearable for me as well. The Imperium is still called the Imperium, but it is no longer the Imperium I know.

It has been changed forever.

"The Imperium of Man."

The foolish, arrogant mortal who thought himself capable of interrogating me answered in this way, his tone still dismissive.

He sat upright, and his uniform was impeccably neat. In the past, I would have admired someone like that. But now, I only want him to repent.

"I'm afraid the Imperium I know is different from the one you know."

I told him that, and he sighed.

That one sentence ignited my anger—what? My answer disappointed you?

I struggled to control myself, and he spoke again, "Then, let me put it another way, Lord Zabriel. Are you still loyal to the Emperor?"

I nodded without hesitation.

It had almost become instinct. Although it sounds absurd, it was the truth: I was loyal to the Emperor. Until the very last moment, I remained loyal to him.

The Emperor did not betray us; it was my brothers and my Primarch who betrayed us. The Emperor did not unleash a barrage of fire upon us, nor did he charge into our midst with his sword to slaughter us.

The Emperor sat mortally wounded on a torture device, desperately trying to keep the Astronomican. Everyone knew about it, and they wept for it, but I saw more—I understood, the Emperor had not changed.

He is still the emperor to whom I swore allegiance, and I am his Angel of Death, the primordial Angel of Death. I will fight for him as he fights for us.

"Very good, thank you," Shefa said.

He nodded and slowly stood up. I looked at him, puzzled, not understanding what he was going to do. He looked at me with apathy, his face full of absurd helplessness.

I was stunned, and then I gradually realized what he was doing.

He raised his right hand, took off his hat, pressed it to his chest, pressed his fingers against the gleaming Aquila, and then spoke in a low voice.

I could hardly hear what he was saying because a door behind him opened, and someone I knew very well walked in. I didn't even need to look to know who he was.

My blood began to boil, and a fury beyond my ability to resist overwhelmed me, which I let seize.

I heard a voice roaring, "Traitor!"

Was that me screaming? Maybe, but I don't want to admit it, because the scream sounded very weak.

"Interesting, you call me a traitor," he said, stepping aside to let the damned mortal go.

I stood up, panting heavily, feeling like I couldn't breathe, or even go on living. My first thought was of my gun, so I reached for it, but it wasn't there, nor was my knife.

I was empty-handed, with only this armor with blurred markings, and myself.

But that's enough.

I charged toward my Primarch and was knocked to the ground. That was to be expected, wasn't it? How could I possibly fight him? I knew about it back in Caliban; I watched him slaughter his offspring, those new recruits, with the Lion Sword.

They had just finished their training, dressed in ceremonial armor, and were about to meet the Gene-Father. They met him, and were then killed by the Gene-Father.

I scrambled to my feet, trembling all over. He stood there, empty-handed, looking at me without offering any resistance.

"Come on!" I roared at him, then charged at him again.

He looked at me, and time seemed to stand still. I could clearly see his eyes, which were no longer the same as before. The familiar emerald green was gone, replaced by a deep green that had witnessed the vicissitudes of life.

This made me instinctively observe him. I noticed he had aged, very obviously aged; even his hair and beard seemed faded.

He reached out and grasped my right fist.

A question arose in my mind.

"Already," I said, my voice trembling. "How long has it been?"

My Primarch looked down at me, his eyes filled with pity, and then he sighed.

"Ten thousand years," he said.

My vision went black.