43: Late Judgment (16, Triple-Length Chapter)

In Zabriel's memory, the Aldurukh Fortress Monastery was a magnificent and solemn building.

The flags of the Dark Angels' various companies and the expeditionary fleet covered the entire ceiling of the first-floor hall. These battle flags were not merely decorative replicas, but true testaments of bloodshed brought back from the battlefield.

The blood of enemies and comrades-in-arms soaked every flag; the damage from bullets and bombings still clung to their surfaces. Untouched by repair, they hung above everyone's heads. Beneath these flags, the Dark Angels' recruits listened to the teachings and experiences of their predecessors, learning the price of victory and the meaning of honor.

Therefore, the newly formed Caliban- born Dark Angels regard this place as a place of supreme glory, and while the Terra veterans have different opinions, they do indeed agree with the concept of honor.

But all of that is gone now. Ironically, even though he was in the "past," he couldn't connect the fortress and monastery of his past with the one before him.

Bright lights, luxurious pure marble floors, some even inlaid with gold—outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the corridor, a crimson wave surged, ripples spreading, reflecting a breathtakingly rapid light onto Lion Eljonsson's face.

The young Primarch stood calmly in place, awaiting Zabriel's reply in this original version of the monastery.

How should I answer?

Behind the eyepiece, Zabriel glanced at Midris. The latter was looking at him with a slightly puzzled expression, which was good. After all, it was just puzzlement for now, but there was only a thin line between puzzlement and suspicion, and he couldn't let it continue to develop.

"Zabriel." He bowed slightly, raised his hands, crossed them in front of his chest, and simply introduced himself, "The Bone Angels."

Midris's brow relaxed slightly; the lingering doubt dissipated, but questions remained. Zabriel even knew what he wanted to ask—how could a Bone Angels be here? Your main force should still be fighting on the other side of the galaxy.

Fortunately, Midris didn't get a chance to voice his question. The young Primarch nodded slightly and hurried away; they clearly had more important matters to attend to, and Zabriel couldn't help but feel a sense of relief.

If the Primarch were a few years older, no, or even just a few more months to familiarize Lion Eljonsson with the specific structure of the First Legion, he would surely have noticed those subtle suspicious points about Zabriel.

The Dark Angels himself could even casually point out two suspicious points: first, the armor itself was too simple, lacking the complex insignia and emblems that Bone Angels should have; second, a Bone Angels shouldn't be in Caliban at this time.

If he were a member of the Firewing, such a solo operation might be understandable, but he is not one of those deadly infiltrators.

Zabriel turned slightly, watching the Primarch depart, before continuing deeper into the monastery.

There weren't many First Legion soldiers inside the ancient brick building, and they didn't venture as deep inside as Zabriel, which greatly facilitated his movements.

It's difficult for ordinary people to detect what's lurking in the darkness, especially for a seasoned veteran of the First Legion.

Although Zabriel wouldn't dare say he possessed the stealth skills of the Night Lords or the Raven Guard, if he couldn't move freely in this environment, he might as well find a rock to smash his head against and die, erasing his identity as Dark Angels before he dies.

Zabriel spent ten minutes figuring out the entire monastery's structure. It had six floors in total, or seven if you included the basement. During the day, he had already measured the building's exact height and width through his eyepiece. Now, with the help of his on-site visit, he easily deduced that there must be many hidden rooms inside the monastery.

Three minutes after reaching this conclusion, Zabriel found the first one. It was located in the east corridor on the second floor, and could be entered simply by pushing open a door that was hidden in a perfectly placed spot.

He saw some privately kept books here, some of which were sensual, vulgar, and boring. Others were collections of poems by anonymous authors, but the very material of the books made Zabriel want to set them on fire.

But he ultimately didn't do that; he simply tore up those few particularly repulsive books with leather covers and threw them in the middle of the room before leaving.

I imagine the owner's expression when they return and see this mess will be quite amusing.

Over the next ten minutes, he visited eight new dark rooms. Only one of them was a quiet retreat, which the owner probably used only as a meditation room.

The other seven were either filled with contraband like the first one, or overflowing with bootleggings of unknown origin. Clearly, not every member of the Order maintained the strict discipline they usually did.

"Just a minor incident," Zabriel frowned. He didn't expect to find direct evidence of rebellion, but these things weren't a reason for him to go to such lengths.

The Dark Angels stopped and slipped away in the darkness from his two drunken servants. Only after they had gone did he ascend the stairs and head towards the top floor of the monastery.

The outside world was bustling with noise, but here it became quite faint. After being transmitted through the layered spaces inside the monastery, the sounds became rather hollow and strange.

Zabriel listened intently for a few seconds, deducing that the banquet was probably nearing its end; tomorrow's celebration was the main event, and people wouldn't be partying all night.

He realized he needed to go faster.

Urged on by his own impulse, Zabriel quickly reached the top floor of the monastery and began to search for suspicious places one by one with remarkable efficiency. In just five minutes, he had discovered four more dark rooms.

A meeting place and three private storage rooms, filled with paintings and gold and silver jewelry. Judging from the flags hanging on the walls, these three private storage rooms probably belong to the same person.

Zabriel was somewhat annoyed as he examined the issues layer by layer, only to find these disciplinary problems that were completely useless to him.

Fortunately, there was one last suspicious location before him—a council hall on the top floor. Judging from the solemnity of its layout and decoration, this should be the meeting place reserved for the knights of Aldurukh on weekdays.

Zabriel walked halfway around the hall and easily found the oddly shaped stone slab to the right rear of the podium.

He reached out and lifted it up, revealing a huge void beneath which stretched out darkness and a spiraling brick staircase leading downwards. The air was free of any dust, suggesting that this place was frequently used. Faint whispers of conversation drifted up and reached Zabriel's ears.

He squinted and hurried down the stairs, reaching the bottom in no time. A one-way path appeared before him, leading to a brightly lit, doorless room. Inside, several people in white robes and hoods were talking to each other.

The Dark Angels drew his battle dagger after hearing only a few words.

"I'm afraid we must make a choice, gentlemen, we have no choice. The Imperium will take Caliban from us, and I'm not exaggerating; the signs are already there, aren't they?"

"You said there was no problem, brother. Now everyone's talking about the Imperium and those so-called Astartes monsters, those ungrateful scum, they've completely forgotten how long we actually protected them."

"Those Terra say Caliban is a colony? Bullshit! Caliban is Caliban, and I've lived most of my life without ever hearing of this damn Terra! They're even planning to use those damned farmers in the war; have you seen those Auxilia they've set up?"

"On this point, Brother Redley, I disagree. While I stand here, it doesn't mean I endorse your the Order's doctrine of bloodline in war. Time has proven us right. War is not a game for nobles, but a sacred and glorious cause, open to any brave soul."

The man called Redley let out a cold laugh from beneath his robes, "Ha! Of course you'd say that, great Knight of Order! Weren't you just a peasant yourself?"

"You've gone too far, Redley!" someone rebuked. "Don't forget why we're gathered here today. The issue isn't why your the Order failed or disbanded, but how we can reclaim Caliban from the Imperium!"

Zabriel could no longer stop; he bent over and stepped inside. In that instant, he interrupted all conversation and drew everyone's attention.

He didn't speak, but slowly straightened up, his winged helmet pressing against the low ceiling, the metal scraping against the bricks, making a series of sharp sounds.

Half a second later, the oil lamp hanging on the wall began to sway and quietly shattered amidst someone's scream. Six seconds later, he easily finished his work and began to identify the deceased.

Following his memory, he first located the faces he had already memorized. Without exception, all the traitors who had discussed assassinating the Emperor on the city wall were among those present. Following this was the search for the bodies.

Aside from the insignificant things like money and personal seals, several unsigned letters caught his attention. These letters had probably been exchanged between different people multiple times, and each letter bore five to eight different handwritings.

The discussions progressed from superficial to profound, from rational to radical, and the entire development of the situation could even be predicted through these conversations. One of the letters mentioned that they would make a final decision at the meeting "tonight."

Therefore, the original writer hoped that a "gentleman" would reconsider what they had said. He spoke earnestly, but the replyer, who shared the same stationery with him, refuted him quite bluntly.

His handwriting was immediately recognizable to Zabriel.

"Your actions and thoughts are undoubtedly very unwise. First of all, the Great Crusade is a glorious cause, and any true knight should not hesitate to throw himself into it and fight for the liberation and freedom of all mankind."

"Secondly, your idea that the Order's armor alone can contend with the Imperium seems to me like hunting a giant beast single-handedly—but you are not Lion El-Jonson."

"It is foreseeable that you will all fail, and you will suffer an extremely devastating defeat."

"That's all I have to say. There's no need to send any more correspondence to me. Colleagueship is completely exhausted; you'd better take care of yourselves. I don't want to see any foolish actions at tomorrow's celebration."

"Believe me, you will never have the chance to turn that ridiculous fantasy into reality. You have no idea who you are really fighting against. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Luther was also involved.

Zabriel frowned; he hadn't expected that. But the old sergeant's reply was unusually scathing. In the style of his time in the Legion, such words were practically tantamount to pointing a finger at these people and calling them fools.

However, he didn't believe Luther had informed Lion Eljonsson of this. Given the young Primarch's temperament, it would be highly unlikely he would know that a group within his monastery were plotting a rebellion against the Imperium and assassinating the Emperor at the celebration.

He would never be satisfied until these people were publicly executed and beheaded.

In other words, Luther concealed the truth from the Primarch.

Zabriel's furrowed brow quickly relaxed—people's hearts are fickle, and whatever Luther's decision was in this matter, the final result proved his loyalty.

The Dark Angels sheathed his sword and returned to the hall. He closed the stone slab and prepared to leave, without intending to bury the body. In the history he knew, the idea of rebellion among the knights of Aldurukh had not been revealed.

Etc.

Zabriel's steps suddenly halted, a sharp, stabbing pain spreading heavily from both temples, rapidly spreading throughout his body in a very short time.

The pain caused his adrenaline to surge, causing his muscles to tense up. He reflexively drew the sword from his waist and used it to block above his head.

It looked comical, yet just centimeters above his head, a heavy Power Halberd hung suspended in mid-air, its grip a deep gold. Its owner stood quietly beside the podium, gazing at Zabriel.

Adeptus Custodes.

A buzzing sound came from the Dark Angels's mind.

"He wants to see you," the Adeptus Custodes said, sheathing his weapon.

He was much taller Zabriel and wasn't wearing their signature helmet. A white snake tattoo covered his dark face, and his eyes were frighteningly empty, like two windows leading to another world.

Zabriel's heart sank. This shared trait among the Adeptus Custodes was impossible to fake, and he reluctantly accepted the fact that he had been discovered. However, clinging to a last glimmer of hope, he foolishly asked a question he already knew the answer to.

"Who?" he asked.

The Adeptus Custodes glanced at him and calmly said, "Your the Emperor."

You can personally board the Emperor's Dream and meet the Emperor. You don't need to disarm; you can carry a sword and a gun, and you can even be alone with him in a room.

Such a great honor, Zabriel wished it had never happened. Clutching his helmet, he tried to keep his face taut as he stood outside a heavy golden door. Despite being mentally prepared, he couldn't help but tremble and feel a pang of bitterness.

Meeting the Emperor —he had used all his willpower to suppress this terrifying thought. But now, the Emperor himself was summoning him.

"Does he know what I'm doing here?" the Dark Angels couldn't help but wonder.

More, deeper, and more dangerous thoughts rushed in with this idea, creating an artificial storm in his mind, each swirl sounding like a scream.

Zabriel was soon overwhelmed by the terror and had to put these things down to avoid being completely crushed at this crucial moment.

He took a deep breath, looked at the tightly closed golden door, and told himself that this was just a matter of going through a door.

A few seconds later, as if to confirm his idea, the door slowly opened with a buzzing sound coming from the wall. A golden light spread out from it, stinging Zabriel's eyes.

At first, he felt thirsty and thought the light came from the Emperor, but he soon realized it did not.

The light actually originated from a careful design, presumably intended to create the same stinging sensation every time the door opened, preventing those waiting outside from looking directly at the golden Throne in the center of the hall.

It is a true Throne, not the instrument of torture that the Emperor would sit on. Its overall shape is majestic and square, and every detail shows the designer's painstaking efforts.

However, in Zabriel's bitter eyes, the chair was utterly insignificant, for its sole owner did not sit upon it, but instead stood to the right of the Throne.

There was a deliberately left-behind darkness, within which the silhouette of a man could be vaguely discerned.

A voice slowly drifted over.

"Yes, just like you thought, I don't really like this chair," the man said. "Ultimately, it's a design problem. This chair and the overall design of the hall force ordinary people to close their eyes when the door opens; otherwise, they'll go blind."

Zabriel suppressed the urge to look at him and obediently knelt down.

"Stand up." The man's voice suddenly turned somewhat annoyed. "They're kneeling, and you're kneeling too? Stand up, Zabriel of Starkholm!"

He remembers?!

Zabriel excitedly complied without hesitation, as if he were a puppet or something else. His actions drew a sigh, not of reproach, but of obvious weariness.

"Please forgive me," the man spoke again. "I have no choice but to meet you here. The designer of this audience hall has earned a promise from me for his loyalty. Now, please come forward, Zabriel."

Zabriel took a deep breath and walked toward the person who had spoken. The door closed slowly behind him with a heavy thud, and he continued until a white Shadow came into view before stopping.

The speaker gave a helpless laugh, "Raise your head, Zabriel. You've killed them all, and the evidence is right there on their corpses. Now you're trying to ignore me, pretending I don't exist?"

"Absolutely not, my lord," Zabriel replied swiftly.

He looked up and saw an ordinary-looking man.

This man was neither tall nor short. He possessed neither the majesty of an emperor nor the legendary handsomeness. At first glance, he seemed unremarkable, even wearing glasses and looking tired, as if he had recently been studying late into the night and had been forced to come here to meet Zabriel.

He looked up at Zabriel for a long while before speaking, "You look much older, my knight."

"I--"

Zabriel was speechless. He had imagined this scene many times, so many times that it briefly blurred the boundary between imagination and reality, but he had never thought of this kind of opening.

He never imagined that the Emperor would care about him.

His lord seemed completely unaware of this, and simply continued speaking.

"When I created you Primarch on the Primarch, I did not consider setting a limit on your lifespan. Therefore, an Astartes can actually live a very long time if it does not die on the battlefield."

"To be honest, Zabriel, I know nothing about what you've been through or why you've come here. But it probably isn't anything good, or even something bad."

"Ordinary bad things shouldn't have ravaged one of my primordial angels to this state of gray hair."

In that instant, Zabriel almost wanted to reveal everything. Only a genius knows how he managed to restrain himself; even he himself was surprised by his self-control.

The man looked at him for a while, then took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and sighed.

"You are wearing shackles and chains."

With a confident tone, he spoke again, his voice completely different from before. If he had been speaking to Zabriel in a personal capacity before, now, only the Emperor stood before the Dark Angels.

"I haven't seen anything like this with anyone since the conflict on Terra ended. Your timeline is messed up, Zabriel. Are you doing this voluntarily? Constantly traveling through some past?"

"It's very dangerous to do this. I've seen countless people try to change the past, present, and future, but none of them have succeeded. Those who manipulate time will eventually become its slaves, and time treats everything equally, without the slightest favoritism."

How did he know everything? Zabriel thought with a hint of indignation.

"Your Majesty," he began stiffly, "I apologize that I cannot answer."

The man smiled.

He approached Zabriel, reached into a small compartment on his belt, and simply took out the two insignia. The winged sword and the eagle emblem gleamed on his dark, broad, calloused hand.

He looked at them, then at Zabriel, and suddenly put on an almost sarcastic expression.

"So you didn't come here voluntarily," he said. "I think I know who sent you."

Zabriel took another deep breath, tensing his face as if afraid of giving the slightest reaction.

He knew that doing so was actually foolish, because the Emperor would know everything the moment he saw the eagle emblem, but he couldn't come up with a better option at the moment.

The man smiled again. He put back the winged sword insignia, leaving only the eagle insignia, and then clenched his right hand tightly in his palm.

Zabriel suddenly felt a shiver run down his spine for no apparent reason, and heard him say, "Don't worry, I won't investigate further."

"And the fact that we can still stand here and talk to each other proves that this conversation will not change the future—" He shook his head meaningfully. "What has been will be again."

He opened his palm, then pulled Zabriel's hand back, placing the eagle emblem back in his hand, and then made him clench his right fist. Zabriel did as he was told, but suddenly a burning pain shot through his palm. It wasn't particularly intense, but it was persistent.

He looked at the man in confusion, who was also staring at him with eyes full of pity that struck Zabriel instantly, stirring up his memories.

In the ten thousand years following the Caliban Uprising, he saw many statues named after the Emperor's Mercy. Some he only glimpsed briefly, while others he actually lingered before in the dead of night, praying with questions or entreaties, hoping for an answer.

The stones and steel had never answered him. This time was different; this time, it was real flesh and blood, shedding tears for him.

The Dark Angels opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then he sensed something in his heart—he thought, these tears were probably not just for him.

"His Majesty."

"Let's go," The Emperor said, his voice as firm as iron. "You don't need to tell me anything. I knew from the beginning how difficult this path would be. I have a thousand paths before me, and I must choose the most difficult one."

"I've already gone halfway, and I must grit my teeth and finish the other half no matter what. It's the only option; there's no other way. I can't take shortcuts or turn back. If I did, all the sacrifices I've made so far would have been in vain."

"Go do what you have to do, Zabriel. Throughout history, I have never seen anyone conquer time, but since you are standing here—"

His gaze was like lightning, fixed intently on Zabriel. A fiery heat surged through the Dark Angels, as if his lord's eyes were peering through him at other people or things.

"Does this mean we have already won?"

--

Daylight broke.

As the first ray of light pierced through the cave entrance, Lion Aljonson stopped what he was doing and put away his magazine.

For the past four hours, he had been testing the magazine's durability—yes, he had been continuously loading and unloading bullets. This task, besides being monotonous, also generated a noticeable amount of noise.

Considering that an old knight was fast asleep not far from the fire, this was undoubtedly very inappropriate. The Lion El'Jonson had no reason not to know this, therefore he knowingly committed the offense.

So what reason could drive him to spend four hours of hard work adding this ultimately useless blockage to Luther?

The answer is simply that they only told half the story.

Throughout history, no one has ever been able to endure such torment. Not even Lion Aljonsen. In fact, it is precisely because he is Lion Aljonsen that he is even more unable to bear it than others.

"You should wake up," the Lion El'Jonson urged coldly.

Strangely enough, the old knight, who had been snoring and comfortably sleeping in the warmth with his sword as a pillow just a few seconds ago, suddenly opened his eyes after being called, looking radiant and in excellent spirits.

He sat up, took a small skinning knife from under his cloak, and then stood up his sword, pulling out a small section to use as a mirror, and began to shave.

The Lion El'Jonson suppressed a certain unpleasant impulse and waited patiently until he had finished what he was doing before speaking again, "Last night—"

"--Get up, Lion."

With a smile, the old knight interrupted him, lightly leaping up and kicking his longsword. With his other hand, he swung the scabbard in an arc, seamlessly attaching the sword and scabbard to his belt.

The skinning knife vanished without a trace from his hand, and he looked exactly the same as before, except that his hair and beard were now completely white, even causing the Lion El'Jonson to feel a slight sense of disorientation.

The tone of her voice sounded as if it were yesterday.

"We're going hunting, kid. Get out of bed." Luther said, winking at Lion Aljonson, his words still rambling on. "A lazy man makes a good hunter. Remember that."

The Lion El'Jonson took a deep breath.

"What trick are you playing?" he asked earnestly, his brow furrowed.

Luther didn't answer, but simply turned and walked out of the cave. The Lion El'Jonson stood up right behind him, holding the Lion Sword, and also walked out without a word. However, the sight outside made his expression suddenly turn extremely gloomy.

As a native of Caliban, the Lion El'Jonson was naturally familiar with the primeval forests here. To him, only a small part of Caliban's forests could be called beautiful; the rest was like the work of a skilled painter who loved to use terrifying and sticky colors to paint his oil paintings.

There is not a trace of kindness in His paintings; everything is extremely gloomy, even rotten, emitting a stench like that of cannibalistic beasts.

This is why even the most experienced Caliban hunters would never choose to stay in the forest for too long. Everyone knows that Caliban has man-eating beasts, but how many humans have perished there compared to even a tenth of the forest's infestation?

And now, that gloomy, decaying, terrifying, and disgusting oil painting was vividly displayed before him, occupying every corner. The leaves of the towering trees, which were still verdant at sunset yesterday, now looked scorched yellow in the morning. The forest was dark, without a trace of light, and the distorted and deformed giant shadows moved patiently within it.

Some had their mouths agape, saliva dripping onto the ground, corroding the soil and emitting a stench that even made the Lion El'Jonson uncomfortable. Others had no mouths at all, their bodies covered in multiple eyes, some scarlet, some dull yellow, devoid of any animal vitality, only a rotting malice spreading within them.

"Welcome to my daily morning workout," Luther said. "Which side do you choose?"

"What?" the Lion El'Jonson asked instinctively.

"I choose the left," Luther said. "You can come with me, or you can deal with the ones on the right first."

Before he finished speaking, he had already walked to the left side of the flat area outside the cave. The ferocious beasts lurking in the forest could no longer contain themselves and let out a series of low growls, but the old knight remained calm, as if he had experienced this countless times before.

He drew his short sword from his waist with a backhand motion, and Perturabo's personal crest once again stung the Lion El'Jonson's eyes—and this was only the beginning. Luther's free left hand shot out from under his faded cloak with lightning speed, and a few shimmering silver lights flew from his fingertips, disappearing into the forest before he could reach him.

The lights moved with incredible speed; even Lion El'Jonson had to spare some attention to capture their complete trace.

He had intended to observe what Luther was up to, but instead discovered that the reckless old man had charged into the forest with his sword, without any strategy whatsoever, and even let out a few loud laughs, as if he couldn't wait any longer.

So Lion Al-Jonson, who had been itching to Luther, immediately followed up with a Caliban slang term.

As soon as he stepped into the forest, he felt an unusual chill. In the past, he had felt unwell briefly when hunting giant beasts, but that was only because of the Chaos pollution they carried. This time was different.

The Lion El'Jonson's extraordinary intuition made him clearly cross the line between reason and emotion. Before he could even draw his sword, he "saw" a large snake with unusually smooth scales, empty pupils, and a long tongue.

Its mouth was wide open, filled with fine teeth, and it was chewing its own tail.

"Ouroboros awaits you, Lion," the snake hissed, flicking its tongue. "Ouroboros has been waiting for you for a very, very long time."

The Lion El'Jonson shuddered, its muscles tensing, as it was abruptly pulled back to reality. A spray of hot, foul-smelling blood splattered onto its cheek, and the giant beast crashed to the ground, the impact echoing through the air.

Luther's voice came precisely from his left side, still carrying the same composure the old knight had when they first met.

"Have you seen that damn snake?"

The Lion El'Jonson finally came to his full senses, and the first thing he did was to draw his sword and kill.

A monstrous beast with a goat's head, twisted tentacles on its back, and eyes covered in grotesque pupils was cleaved in two from head to tail by his Lion Sword. In the afterglow of the slaughter, the King of Caliban's profile looked unusually cold. His white hair was still flowing, but no longer stained with a single drop of blood.

He didn't say a word, focusing solely on the killing. He slaughtered his way from one end of the forest to the other, until the ground was littered with corpses and no more giant beasts stood before them, before finally sheathing the Lion Sword with practiced ease.

At this moment, his expression changed, and the majesty and indifference of the First Army Commander completely dominated his face. Luther seemed unsurprised by this; he slowly wiped his sword with the hem of his cloak and spoke without looking up.

"Ouroboros, in the ancient language, is its name, but we call it the Ouroboros. In the Inquisition's definition, the Warp entity named Ouroboros is a being that is difficult to define precisely."

"Based on the available information, we can only say that it has a very deep connection with Caliban. One could even say that it is, to a certain extent, Caliban itself."

The First Army Commander narrowed his eyes and calmly asked, "Is this what you discovered after disappearing from the material world for ten thousand years?"

Luther shook his head. "No, of course it's more than that. I've also established solid connections with the Watchers in the Dark, which is quite rare. They usually don't like dealing with other people, so I guess I'm benefiting from your connections. Anyway, Lion, Caliban's secrets are far bigger and more important than you and I can imagine."

"I only want to know one thing now," the Lion El'Jonson said slowly.

I will answer all your questions.

"You say this is your daily morning exercise—" the Lion El'Jonson stared at him. "—What have you been doing for the past ten thousand years?"

Luther smiled slightly.