54. Interlude: A Prophecy

M40, Nostramo, Surface, Fifth Temple.

Reverend and Vindicators Maergante extended his right hand, took a handful of candies from a small jar on the dark round table in front of him, and turned to distribute them to some of the children.

In the dimly lit hall, only this spot was illuminated by a faint candlelight. The chilling atmosphere made everyone's Shadow appear extremely sinister, not to mention the uniform black robes. If an ordinary Imperium official were to arrive here, he would most likely immediately order his guards to prepare for battle against the cult.

Of course, this is conditional.

Yes, there are many prerequisites.

"After you finish eating the candy, brush your teeth, wash your face, and then go to bed, understand? No prayers tonight," Maergante told the children.

His voice was rough, like two hand grenades with their fuses pulled in someone's hand. The scraping sound was extremely grating and contained an explosive power. But the children were not afraid of him. On the contrary, one of their leaders even started asking questions.

"Why don't you pray, Father?" a rather tall girl asked.

Unlike most children, she didn't wear the hood of her robe. Her unnaturally pale skin was covered with numerous horrific scars, the most prominent of which ran through her entire neck. It was almost unimaginable how she had survived such severe injuries.

"Because there's no prayer tonight." Maergante nodded to her. "That's it, no more haggling, or you won't get any candy tomorrow, Karani."

The girl obediently hummed in agreement, seemingly sensing something from the priest's attitude. Instead of trying to linger in the main hall as usual, she finished the candy without hesitation and left with the group.

Their departure seemed to have taken away the last bit of life from the place, Maergante's own face gradually returned to calm in the candlelight—or rather, lifeless.

The moment an ordinary person sees him, they immediately sense something is amiss. Some describe this feeling as "seeing a ghost while walking at night" or "opening the door to find a coffin."

In short, none of the words were kind, but Maergante was already used to it.

Strictly speaking, he really has little to do with living people anymore.

"You've been too lenient with her, Maergante." A deep voice suddenly rang out in the darkness. "The girl is intelligent, but your upbringing is stifling that intelligence. How about handing her over to someone who truly knows how to use it?"

"I refuse, Company Commander Shadrius."

Why?

Maergante turned back and shook his head at the darkness; "I promised her mother I wouldn't let Karani follow in her footsteps. Besides, every orphan has the right to choose their own path in life."

"Shall we make a bet?" asked the man called Company Commander Shadrius.

Maergante raised his hand and swung it forcefully, giving his answer, "No, I don't joke about children's lives."

The company commander was silent for a few seconds, then spoke again, his voice tinged with displeasure. "Your words make me sound like a scumbag, Maergante. But I still don't agree with your thinking."

"Which point?"

"Every single point."

A tall Shadow slowly emerged from the darkness. He was fully armed, with two power short swords tucked into his waistbands on either side. Apart from that, no other armor could be seen.

The insignia on his shoulder armor consisted of two intersecting blades in an X shape, with a black background and silver trim. This signified that he came from the Second Company Night Lords, the company with the highest casualty rate within the entire Night Lords.

Maergante looked at him, remaining patient. "I'd like to hear more."

"Now?" Shadrius raised his right eyebrow, a mocking smile appearing on his face. "I'm afraid now is not a good time to discuss the orphans' future, my good priest. Let's focus on the important matters."

Maergante sighed almost imperceptibly, but said nothing more, simply turning and leaving, his footsteps echoing within the ancient stone building.

He had worked with Shadrius Anfred for over a century. The longest-living Second Company to date had never hidden his reservations about Maergante from the first day they met, and even when Jago Sevatarion personally intervened, he had not let go of those reservations.

Therefore, Maergante no longer expected to persuade the Second Company on these matters. Of course, their disagreement was limited to this one issue.

Soon, they arrived at their destination—the place where the "serious business" that Shadrius had mentioned was taking place. After passing through a quiet corridor and two brick archways, they came to the gray-white quiet room.

It had no doors, and one could even say it lacked an entire wall—this was, of course, intentional. Dense, orderly Nostramo script filled every inch of its space. Four monks, heads bowed in meditation, stood in the center of the room, their hands tucked into their sleeves, silently awaiting Maergante's arrival.

"I still think you need reforms, Pastor," the Second Company commander said slowly, but not very seriously, speaking from behind him.

"This old trick, full of mystery and cult-like atmosphere, really needs to change. He'll be back sooner or later. Do you think he'd be happy to see his hometown become like this?"

Maergante reached up and pulled up his hood, answering him slowly and deliberately. "Before he sees these things, what he'll notice first is the steel dome of Nostramo, and its true nature now—so it's not me who should be troubled by this, but our beloved Chapter Master."

The Second Company stopped talking, only letting out an impatient grumble. Maergante, seeing that things were going well, immediately stepped into the room.

His right foot had barely touched the brick floor when the grayish-white characters suddenly began to move, at a speed that could drive a person mad.

The monks scattered, quietly raising their hands, crossing them at their chests, and pressing their index fingers against their necks, making a cut. Blood immediately dripped down their fingers, slowly moving from the four corners of the room toward the center where Maergante was now.

A sudden gust of wind began to howl, and Shadrius squinted, his Nostramo- like dark eyes beginning to turn bloodshot.

There's something interesting—Kassady Nuon, the first Chapter Second Company of Night Lords during the Chapter era, was called "Blood Eyes" by his enemies with hatred, fear, and respect. After his death, the Second Company began to use this name as its company name.

His extreme fighting style has been passed down to the Second Company to this day, which is the main reason for the Second Company's high casualty rate.

The wind howled, Maergante slowly closed his eyes.

This wasn't the first time he'd done this, yet he could never remain calm—despite his teacher and the ancient texts advising that the caster should ideally stay composed, he simply couldn't manage it. His teacher, before dying, had told him with deep regret and sorrow, "Your talent surpasses all of ours, child. I'm so sorry."

Normally, teachers shouldn't feel sad or even apologize for their students' excellence, but the situation between them is different.

The shouts began to reach Maergante's ears, not far away, but almost within reach. He tried his best to calm himself, telling himself not to listen or look, but he still couldn't help but hear them clearly.

Lamentations, screams, the final sigh of death. A child crying amidst the ruins of his own home; a man's overwhelming hatred as he helplessly watches his wife and daughter being skinned alive; a mother's screams as she holds her lifeless infant in the cold street.

He was Vindicators, which was why these things came to him, but he had not come for them. The blood of the pious, propelled by the divine writings all around him, began to envelop his spirit, carrying him into the deepest reaches of the ceaseless tide of Chaos.

This process is extremely dangerous; countless people and Xenos have gotten lost in the galaxy throughout history, but Maergante has no such worries.

He counted down five seconds, then opened his eyes and saw a heavy shadow. Countless Daemon were shrouded in it, some already corpses, others still fighting. Apart from the dead, those still alive were attacking each other.

They can be roughly divided into two groups: one half is mainly dark blue, while the other half is covered with ominous black and red.

Of course, this is only the most superficial difference. In the details, Maergante even had to force himself to forget—these things do not belong to the human world. He has not yet finished his duties and cannot yet lay down his burdens to become a relatively carefree Vengeance. Therefore, he must forget these things.

However, at the very top of this shadow, there is one exception.

Maergante looked up at him. The man, as if sensing something, lowered his head and precisely located him amidst the flying flesh and blood and the blasphemous storm of witchcraft. Then, he raised his right hand, slightly beckoned his fingers, and Maergante was swept away by a gust of wind and blown to the top of this shadow.

The Vindicators immediately bowed, raising his hands horizontally in front of his chest. Two sharp blades had appeared in his hands without his noticing. His right hand was gripped upright, his wrist slightly turned, the tip of the blade pointing towards the air in front of him. His left hand was gripped in reverse, the blade pressed against his neck.

"You're not one to really enjoy seeing me, Maergante." The master of the shadows smiled, tilting his head slightly as he scrutinized him, completely disregarding formalities. "So, I suppose you had no choice but to come?"

Your Highness.

The master of the shadows pursed his lips and gestured to him. "Don't call me that. You fundamentalist diehards are the most annoying in this regard. Just say what you have to say, my apostle—and then go back to taking care of your children; they're still growing."

"A dispute broke out in the Hall of Prophecy today. The Great Prophet was unable to judge who was right and who was wrong, so he reported the details to me."

"And you can't make a judgment either?"

The Shadow Lord chuckled with amusement, raised his hand, and removed the crown from his head. The magnificent treasure, seemingly formed from condensed moonlight, drew Maergante's gaze involuntarily. It wasn't the first time he had met him, but it was the first time he had actually seen him wearing the crown properly. Although he had taken it off now, he was still carrying it with him.

"What is it?" Konrad Curze Curze, the ruler of Nostramo and lord of the Eighth Legion, asked with a hint of curiosity.

Maergante instinctively took a deep breath and began to speak.

The matter is actually not complicated; it is merely a disagreement between two prophets belonging to the Hall of Prophecy regarding the outcome of a prophecy. However, its nature is quite serious because both prophets claimed that they dreamed of Terra last night.

The Hall of Prophecy is filled with Psyker possessing powerful prophetic talents, who frequently see secrets about the future or the past. They should be under strict surveillance, and even those with more controllable abilities would be subjected to torture-like training, but Night Lords has a different perspective.

According to the Book of Prophecy left by Konrad Curze Curze, they established the Hall of Prophecy, a structure that was actually quite loosely organized. Apart from basic education, they imposed almost no restrictions, studies, or coercion on the prophets.

Terra was reportedly quite dissatisfied with this, but considering the high success rate of the prophecy, they even sent people from the Scholastica Psykana to discuss cooperation.

When Maergante learned of this, he was initially incredulous.

It's important to understand that most institutions on Terra have long held a grudge against the majority of those established during the Chapter era on Nostramo. The Temple of Prophecy is perhaps the only organization they've reluctantly acknowledged as legitimate throughout the Imperium, and they even require a group of prophets to perform psychic readings of the information they provide every twenty-five years.

And they give money, a lot of money.

Maergante didn't know what role their respected Chapter Master played here; he only knew that Jago Sevatarion always had a smile on his face when he talked about it, and that any words that came out of the Hall of Prophecy should be treated with caution.

It's not that he believes everything, but if he's to ignore it, he might as well just find a rock and smash his head against it.

In any case, this is about Terra —and Terra is still intact.

Terra before the day of Terra's destruction.

Konrad Curze Curze stood quietly, listening to him finish his story. The Eighth Legion Commander's expression remained unchanged throughout. Had it not been for the two armies of Daemon clashing beneath their feet, Maergante might have even had someone else, or himself, paint the scene.

However, the screams that kept echoing in his ears reminded him.

The Vindicators looked at him cautiously, wanting an answer. And Curze did not disappoint him, nor did he keep him waiting long, before speaking directly.

"Go back immediately and tell them to refrain from making any related prophecies for at least the next five years, and to switch entirely to meditation. Also, tell Jago Sevatarion to contact Terra through official channels immediately and activate all contingency plans within the Inquisition regarding the first-line emergency response."

Konrad Curze Curze paused for a moment, then sighed rather irritably. Maergante noticed his anger and his expression gradually became more cautious—but before he could ask anything, Curze poured out his grievances.

"Listen up, Maergante, stay in your position as long as you can, understand? Look at me, you brought such important intelligence, but I couldn't deliver it to Terra myself."

The Night Lords put on the crown with a half-smile, snorted coldly, and left, muttering things like, "The gold is too dazzling."

Maergante not to hear, closed his eyes, the gale subsided, and the wailing in his ears finally stopped.

"How is it?" Shadrius Anfred asked, sounding slightly nervous.

Maergante opened his eyes, glanced at him, and said, "The Chapter Master is probably going to give us a piece of his mind."

The Second Company let out a long sigh and shrugged, "Let him be. When haven't I been scolded in meetings? Let's go, my good priest, we're going to ruin Jago Sevatarion's good mood."