30. Late Judgment (III, Thousand Eyes Warband, 6k)

I woke up.

Darkness, as always. This is what I asked for. I don't like light, at least not anymore. In the past, when I finished meditating, the burning candles in the room and the breathing of my brothers would tell me where I was.

But now it's different. There are no candles, no light, and no one else. It's just me. But I'm not completely alone. I have a hidden buzzing sound for company.

I know where the sound came from, but I don't know how to describe it in simple and easy-to-understand language.

To me, this sound originates from the engine room of the Battle Barge "Blade of Truth." It has been there ever since she was offered to the gods three centuries ago.

However, the mutants, Beastmen, and other hybrid savages on board called it "Heartbeat," believing it contained the very thoughts of the Blade of Truth. They believed that whoever could decipher its mysteries could survive the Blade of Truth's occasional outbursts of rage.

And I have to say, that's all bullshit. It was simply sacrificed, that's all, there's not much more to say about it.

We took it from the War Hounds, renamed it, and offered it to the gods. It was that simple.

As for what followed, it was merely a chain reaction.

I stood up and, following the habits the legion had taught me, began to check and tidy myself up.

First, I made sure my knight's robe was intact, then I checked the winged sword emblem I had tucked away in an inconspicuous corner of my belt. Only after that did I check the functionality of my weapons and armor.

It took me three minutes to finish this task—a long time, but worthwhile. The tranquility of meditation was transformed by this movement into a small cloud in the corner of my mind, continuously providing me with a sense of mental coolness.

I straightened my back, put on my helmet, and then opened the door to leave my room. Behind the goggles, I was able to clearly observe the world before me.

A world filled with filthy bastards.

My room was on the second deck, and anyone with common sense knows how important it is. Yet, even in this vital heartland, I could see countless Beastmen. They huddled in the halls, corridors, and the rooms that had been renovated to pray.

These degenerated Abhumans hybrids were taller than us— Astartes —but they weren't human at all; they were just a bunch of beasts. I tried my best to ignore them and walked past.

However, the dirty graffiti covering the walls, floors, and ceilings, as well as the chaotic and violent view outside the portholes, never truly calmed my nerves.

They kept provoking me, arousing in me a murderous urge.

So I stopped, shifted my feet, and continued walking in a different direction. A few minutes later, I came to the entrance of a corridor decorated with a large number of skulls, the endless skulls seeming to be telling me something.

I walked in, all alone, and arrived at a special place.

I've never known how to describe this place. All I can say is that it's vast, covered in blood-stained yellow sand. Many people are standing on the edge, watching a battle taking place in the middle of the sand.

In the middle of the yellow sand, a giant like me, clad in black armor, was fighting another giant. His opponent wore blue and white Ceramite armor, had no helmet, and his face was covered in blood.

I want to leave. I don't like this kind of thing.

"Belo."

I turned my head and saw Olamon. Like me, a knight, Caliban, who had joined the Legion a little over six months earlier than me.

"How's it going on the field, Olamon?" I asked him, then casually asked a question.

I don't really care what's happening on the field. This yellow sand pit isn't our tradition; it belongs to the War Hounds, although we've preserved it in a less-than-ideal way.

The reason I changed the subject was simply to get his attention away from me.

"Oh no, this isn't good. I think our brother will lose."

Olamon said he followed my plan perfectly. I saw his eyebrows furrowed tightly above his pale eyes, causing his facial features to contort.

Our prolonged immersion in the Warp and the blessings of the gods have caused varying degrees of mutation in us. I'm relatively alright, since I'm not particularly devout, but Olamon is different.

He is devoted to a pleasing deity, though he has only recently embraced this deity; however, to me, the signs were already sown long ago. His pursuit of art and his desire for beautiful servants have long revealed his current state to me.

But then again—yes, he mutated. His eyes changed color, as did his skin tone; I could see his veins through his face.

I think this is probably just the beginning.

"Why do you say that? Shanael is in the lead," I said.

I'm not making this up; it's true. Shanael —the black-armored giant currently fighting—has a clear advantage; he has already knocked the prisoner from the War Hounds to the ground twice.

If he wanted, the battle would probably be over soon. As always, the War Hounds would be killed, its body dragged away and fed to the Daemon or other more terrible things on the ship.

"He underestimated him," Olamon said dismissively. "And underestimating your opponent is a cardinal sin, Belo."

He turned to look at me, speaking slowly, which showed his respect for me.

"Although his opponent is young, with perhaps less than twenty years of combat experience, and in very poor condition, he is still a son of Angron. Shanael's underestimation of his opponent will cost him the battle and his life."

His words still failed to pique my interest in watching the battle, but not wanting to spoil his fun, I still turned my head and glanced at the fight.

I quickly realized that Olamon was right. Shanael was indulging his own desires for torture. The young War Hounds, however, was not.

We destroyed him and his squad of sixty men in a raid half a month ago. The War Hounds have multiplied, but it is still a huge loss.

And if we consider the planet they swore to protect, which we bombarded into cosmic dust with our fleet, the enmity would likely be even deeper. Not to mention, the hatred between us actually began long ago.

Three centuries ago, when we seized the Blade of Truth, we also destroyed several of their battleships and their Auxilia. They considered those men their brothers and sisters.

In conclusion, I had reason to believe that the War Hounds would seize every opportunity to kill Shanael, and my belief came true.

Just as Shanael swung his sword again, felling him to the ground, and raised his hands like a champion to receive the cheers or jeers of the audience, the War Hounds swiftly got up.

Shanael swiftly sheathed his sword to parry. I don't like him, but I won't erase the effort he's put into his swordsmanship. The parry and counterattack were almost simultaneous; he deflected the War Hounds's Chainaxe and thrust out with a backhand, striking his opponent squarely in the chest and abdomen.

This attack destroyed vital organs and the spine. If Shanael wanted, he could easily slice open the War Hounds's chest; the Power Sword would make it much easier for him.

But, as I said, he enjoyed the torment, so he slowly twisted his wrist, trying to see more pain in that young face.

The War Hounds seized the opportunity, charging forward and inflicting more damage on himself with the Power Sword, but also using the Chainaxe to bite open Shanael's neck.

They fell to the ground together, and we could hear Shanael's wounded cries and the dying growl of the War Hounds from deep within its throat.

"For Angron!"

He roared and used Chainaxe, fists, and teeth to rip Shanael's head off his neck.

He won.

The owner of the sandpit was very unhappy about this. The owner of the sandpit was named Zadkar, who used to be a clear-headed commander. Now, however, he was a bloodthirsty madman.

When needed, we release him to kill all our enemies and briefly bring him to his senses before he starts killing us. When not needed, he will linger around the sandpit, inviting others in to fight.

Anyone can step into this yellow sand, but the main event is always Astartes against Astartes. As far as I know, he did many disgusting things here. We captured many prisoners, all of which were wasted on this.

Many within the Warband were dissatisfied with him, but my master, Seraphax, did not respond to any of these discontents.

Therefore, for the time being, the mad Zadkar can still occupy this place with impunity, venting his bloodlust anytime, anywhere.

I saw him leap into the yellow sand, and before "after" came, I looked away, intending to turn and leave. I'd seen enough; I'd come here to legitimately kill a few Beastmen and bleed them dry in one-on-one duels.

This isn't particularly difficult to do, but I must be careful myself; they are, after all, the darlings of the darkness. I didn't intend to come here to see a few Astartes killed, whether they were my brothers or not.

Where are you going?

Amidst Zadkar's roar and the sounds of blood splattering, Olamon asked me this. I ignored him and simply walked away.

Today, my relationship with my brothers has changed drastically. The brotherhood still exists, but only among a few. Most others, such as Olamon, Shanael, or Zadkar, have changed.

They won't harm me, they know me, they obey my orders, and they even fawn over me, but only because of my status. In other words, little of the legacy of the Legion era remains.

My only consolation in this matter is that the Imperium is in a similar situation. Up to now, every Astartes I have seen has been a product of that so-called Codex Astartes.

It's laughable that they can shout "Fight for him!" when they've never even seen the Emperor.

As I ascended, I encountered more grotesque things along the way: Daemon bound by chains, wizards whispering around corners, and cave-dwelling monsters licking flesh and blood.

If I hadn't learned to ignore these things a long time ago, I probably would have been in great pain.

The elevator inside the Blade of Truth that leads directly to the main bridge offered me mechanical comfort—at least it still looked familiar to me.

I gave it my thanks and stepped onto the main bridge. Unlike what I remembered, it was deserted, with no busy crew or Servitor. Correspondingly, the instruments that required their operation had all been destroyed.

This Battle Barge no longer needs instruments to operate; it has become another form of life.

If you don't believe me, just look at this main bridge, its darkness, and the symbols, objects, and half-dead Daemon hanging from the observation windows. What ship would adorn its bridge with such things?

I bowed my head and walked toward the Throne in the darkness.

"Ah, you've come at the perfect time, Belo," my master Seraphax said with delight.

I was a little confused—he wasn't usually a very happy person, perhaps he used to be, but he certainly wasn't now.

He used to be my company commander, a knight captain, a typical Caliban, with a full head of red hair. He was commanding me before the Caliban Uprising. And we continued to fight side by side afterward.

As for now, he is a man difficult to define in words. He has grown taller, his red hair now burning like flames, as has half of his face.

This signifies that he has received a blessing from one of the gods, and the resulting transformation is seen among my brothers as a symbol of power and authority.

I am saddened by this. I obeyed him because he was my superior, my brother, and the person I now serve. But they are different, at least most of them are.

They are loyal to him only because he possesses power.

Or rather, the Thousand Eyes Warband of Seraphax possesses power.

Years of plunder have amassed a massive fleet of over two hundred warships. Our piety and sacrifices to the gods have yielded numerous blessings and useful knowledge. Everyone who can venture into the Warp has heard of us; even Daemon recognize us.

Am I proud of this?

"Come here quickly, my friend."

Seraphax beckoned to me. He sat on his Throne, surrounded by books and silver amulets, the steps beneath his feet covered in blue runes and magic circles. I glanced at them cautiously, making sure I had a place to step before approaching him.

It was only then that I realized he was holding a phantom spine in his hand.

"What is this?" I asked.

"One of our spies," Seraphax replied with a laugh. "Remember Leona de Laar?"

I searched my memory, and a woman's face slowly emerged. Just as Seraphax said, we have many spies scattered throughout the stars, providing us with information and intelligence.

Generally speaking, they will remain loyal and honest for a long time, until they believe they have the power to rival us.

This kind of thing is not uncommon, and we always profit from it—frankly, killing them is not difficult. Giving their wealth, power, and souls to the gods or Daemon is even less difficult.

So yes, we're not just raising spies.

I nodded.

"She's probably dead," Seraphax said casually. "And completely, without body or soul. I couldn't sense her soul. Someone took it before we could, and that person even deciphered the horn we left for her."

He showed me the piece of spine in his hand, which was gradually solidifying. I had seen this many times before, but I still couldn't help feeling a strange, tingling sensation rising from the depths of my bones.

I don't think I could get used to this even if I watched it a thousand times. How could a human spine be used as a communication device, especially one capable of traversing such a distance?

We waited patiently, and half a minute later, the vertebrae finally took shape in his hands.

"Moreover, whoever this person is, he left us a message," Seraphax said slowly.

He looked up at me, his eye, not replaced by flames, patiently watching me. I didn't speak, leaving the decision to him as always.

He chuckled and crushed the spine in one swift motion. A muffled explosion quietly erupted between his fingers. The bone fragments, which should have fallen to the ground, were instead drawn into the air by an inexplicable force, and a phantom slowly appeared amidst the flying bone pieces.

He stared straight at us. He had deep green eyes and faded blond hair. He was old, and although I didn't really recognize him yet, the thought immediately arose, followed by a wave of sadness.

He's old. I thought with fear.

Only after that did my mind instinctively tell me who he was.

My fear intensified into a tremor.

The Lion El'Jonson is old, I think.

I couldn't control my instinctive reaction and turned to Seraphax, hoping to get help from him, only to find his face calm, as if he had long expected this day to come.

Nevertheless, his clenched fists resting on the armrests of the Throne told me that he was not entirely at peace at that moment.

"Thousand Eyes, listen carefully to what I have to say."

A familiar voice slowly drifted over, forcing me to turn my head to look at the projection of the Lion El'Jonson and accept its cold gaze.

Ten thousand years have passed; ten thousand years of time have gone by in the material world. We have gradually transformed from hiding and fleeing, and although we still need to enter the Warp to hide, the Lion El'Jonson has never gone far away.

News of him and the counterfeits he created in an attempt to replace us still reaches our ears. Nevertheless, I haven't heard his voice in a long time.

I had no sense of the passage of ten thousand years until I heard his voice again. The coldness and murderous intent were genuine, just like Caliban back then. I had to take a deep breath to calm myself down.

"A hundred centuries have passed, and you still refuse to face the truth and your own mistakes. You kill, plunder, and indulge in debauchery, defiling my name with my blood."

His projection slowly moved forward until it became a contemptuous, downward gaze.

"Without a doubt," the Lion El'Jonson declared to us, "You are all traitors, traitors to mankind."

I shuddered as if I'd been electrocuted. I knew perfectly well that what we'd done was hardly honorable, but...

A hand grabbed me; it was Seraphax. He held my hand, looking at me with concern. The projection of the Lion El'Jonson paused its activity, presumably his doing.

"Don't be misled by him, my friend," Seraphax whispered.

I nodded reluctantly, and Seraphax squeezed my hand, the Lion El'Jonson's roar echoing once more.

"To this day, Sinner who survived the massacre at Caliban have received what they deserved, but you still flee from me. If you are not cowards, come to Kamas."

The Lion El'Jonson straightened up, expressionless.

"I swear on my honor that there will be no ambush or trap. This matter needs to be settled. Regardless of how you view me, the truth about Caliban must be revealed. I'll be waiting for you in Kamas."

Kamas. I frantically searched my memory, but Seraphax's laughter followed immediately, interrupting my thoughts.

I looked at him, puzzled, and found him laughing heartily. This kind of laughter couldn't be faked; the Lion El'Jonson's words must have genuinely pleased him, otherwise he would never have laughed like that. I stared at him, bewildered.

"Oh, please don't be offended, Belo. I just didn't expect our Primarch to actually talk about his honor with such seriousness."

He looked at me and exhaled softly with great satisfaction.

"You don't understand, Belo, but honor means nothing to Lion El'Jonson, at least not to victory. He's the kind of man who would give up honor for victory, and so are we."

He slowly stood up, his robes glowing a fiery red as if painted by burning flames. A sudden light appeared as he rose, illuminating the entire dark bridge as if it were daytime.

I looked around, trying to observe this rare scene, but instead I saw something that horrified my heart and soul.

It was a mirror, or at least it looked like one. Huge, like an inverted silver lake, it reflected our own image above us.

"Don't look." A hand pulled me back on track, Seraphax warned me gently. "That's a gift from the Tzeentch; you mustn't look directly at it, Belo."

"You are the last one among us who is still conscious. I must rely on your reason; otherwise, even I would truly become a servant of the gods. I serve them, but only temporarily."

He put his hand on my shoulder, waved his left hand to plunge the surroundings into darkness again, and led me down the long steps.

"Do you remember what I once said to you?" he asked.

Of course I remember.

"The opportunity to realize it is just around the corner," Seraphax told me. "Right on Kamas."

I looked at him and saw a Radiance gleaming in his one remaining eye that I couldn't understand at all. I could only read pain and sorrow in it; nothing more was clear to me.

He noticed my gaze, so he looked at me, then reached out and took off my helmet, making eye contact with me.

"Brother," he called me with the same tone he used during our Legion days, "Let us wash away our shame, from this moment on. The tragedy of Caliban and the Order will be over."

I bowed my head in obedience.