I Am a Criminal

What kind of being is it exactly?

What kind of person is he exactly?

Dante's cloudy gaze pierced through the window of his visor and landed on the blue-gold figure in the center of the battlefield.

That does indeed seem to be the legendary Thirteenth Primarch, Robert Guilliman.

His perception told him it was true, yet deep down his soul remained trembling and confused.

So that's what the "gods" who traversed the Milky Way ten thousand years ago were like...

Dante couldn't find the exact words.

powerful?

That's not enough to describe it.

It was an absolute sense of presence that transcended individual physical strength, enough to distort reality and define the battlefield.

Their presence alters the laws of nature, igniting or extinguishing hope.

This is quite different from the vague praise in the Ecclesiarchy texts and the ambiguous glory in the ancient records of the Chapter.

This is a living, breathing, awe-inspiring, and even awe-inspiring reality.

An indescribable bitterness and longing welled up in Dante's heart, overwhelming his physical exhaustion and pain.

Father... if you were still here... if your holy wings could still protect your children...

Such despair, such sacrifice, such pain... will it ever befall us?

He seemed to see a vision in his mind: a golden archangel perched high above the burning sky, his holy sword pointing and the swarm of insects turning to ashes.

And he, Dante, only needed to follow that glorious figure, just like those fortunate first generation predecessors ten thousand years ago, roaring and raging, pouring his loyalty and fury onto the enemy.

How exhilarating, how... relaxed that would be!

"Now... it's not too late."

It's not too late now!

Dante shook his head violently, forcibly suppressing those unrealistic fantasies and the deeper weariness that followed.

He gripped the Power Sword that had accompanied him through countless battles, the worn texture on the hilt digging into his palm, bringing a familiar sense of reality.

However, the weight that has accumulated for 1,500 years cannot be lifted by a mere word of self-encouragement.

It turned into a Whisper, almost a sob, that escaped from his chapped lips, so faint that only he could hear it:

"My Father... hear my voice... I beg you... lower your gaze... I'm so... so tired... I'm so... so tired..."

He murmured to himself like a lost child crying out to a parent who is no longer there.

Perhaps his prayers were too earnest, or perhaps the compassion left by Sanguinius in this place had not completely dissipated.

A faint, almost illusory golden halo seemed to truly pierce through the pervasive smoke and blood mist, enveloping his tattered red-gold armor.

Hot, unfamiliar tears were welling up in my eyes.

For Space Marines, especially one who has lived for fifteen hundred Space Marines, tears are something too distant and unfamiliar.

The Blood Angels' selection process for new recruits is rigorous and unique.

Unlike some Chapter that select only the top hunters from the Savage Worlds, their recruits sometimes even come from prisons.

Those boys who were chosen, whether they were farmers, scholars or... criminals, would be placed in stasis coffins and injected with "holy blood" containing the Gene-seed of Sanguinius.

What followed was a year-long period of dormancy and transformation.

A year has passed, washing away all past memories, identities, sins, and attachments.

When they emerged from the coffin again, they were reborn.

They have only one name in common: Blood Angels.

Everything from the past has been buried.

At this moment, Dante seemed to vaguely touch, through the "holy blood" flowing in his veins, the original fragments belonging to the individual "Dante" buried deep within his genes and stillness.

I think... I'm a criminal...

What crime was committed?

It seems... my sin is... living?

Fragments of memory flicker: a dilapidated house, a woman's terrified face, the figure of a thug wielding a sharp knife bursting in...

Then came fierce resistance, the splattering of warm liquid, and the heavy, red-stained farm tools or some other crude weapon in their hands...

Someone wanted to harm my mother... so I grabbed whatever I could... and killed him.

Yes... that's exactly what I did.

That's just who I am.

I am... Dante!

He wasn't the Chapter Master the Blood Angels, nor a legend who had lived for a thousand years; he was just a boy desperately trying to protect his mother.

"It's still the same now!!!"

The muttering abruptly stopped, transforming into a thunderous roar!

That wasn't the roar of a seasoned warrior; the voice had shed the burdens of duty, the weariness of a thousand years, and the considerations of strategy.

Only the most primal, intense, and undisguised emotions remain!

That was the loudest scream a boy could muster to protect the person he cared about most!

Only by shouting like this can the flame of "love" that is about to overflow in one's heart be released.

"My mother has long since returned to dust, to the winds of Baal, to the land of Baal!"

Dante roared, each word seemingly forged from his very soul, "Then now— Baal is my mother!"

She is my home planet, and also the resting place of my mother's soul!

His gaze was fixed ahead, where a Hive Tyrant, having just flung away two Blood Angels warriors, was emitting a menacing hiss.

"Come forth, tyrant of the hive!"

Come on, bugs!

Let's see what it means to be the offspring of angels!

Let's see what it means to protect one's mother's son!!!

He rushed out.

There was no tactical evasion, no flanking maneuver.

It's the most direct and straightforward charge!

The heavy leg components of the Power Armour pounded heavily on the gravel ground covered with blood and fungal carpet, step by step, faster and faster!

Yellow sand swept past him, and the smoke of gunpowder was dispersed by his movements.

At this moment, he is not only a resolute warrior, but also a young man who has traversed countless years and crossed endless deserts.

Finally freed from all the heavy armor and destiny, he returned to the original, most authentic state of life—a boy fighting to protect.

The Hive Tyrant seemed to have sensed something.

It flung aside the tattered armor hanging from its claws, revealing the simple thoughts that should have been completely dominated by the Hive Mind, leaving only the command to kill.

A string that had long been dead was inexplicably plucked by the charging figures and the pure shouts.

What does that feel like?

Even the rudimentary thought modules temporarily granted to it by the Hive Mind were unable to decipher this fluctuation.

Born as a weapon of slaughter, it was meant to be born for battle and die to be devoured by the insect hive.

But why... why does its remaining, fundamental "warrior" instinct resonate with that charging figure in such an inexplicable way?

Even... expectations?

That's what warriors are like—a warrior respecting another warrior, a warrior aspiring to be another warrior.

It slowly turned its head, its compound eyes focusing.

In the distance, what rushed out from the endless yellow sand and bloodshed didn't seem to be a battle-hardened super soldier, but rather... a human boy.

His gait carried a strange, reckless "ease."

The lower half of his face, exposed by the broken part of his visor, seemed to be carrying a... pure, almost excited "smile"?

The Hive Tyrant cannot understand "smile," but instinctively responds with a strange "pleasure."

This pleasure was so vivid that it even disrupted the stability of the cold, command-driven flow of the upper Hive Mind.

The Hive Mind, deep within the mothership, was slightly "surprised".

My puppet... has developed its own 'feelings'?

This flutter... this longing... what is it?

Its mind, driven by an insatiable desire to devour, is ill-equipped to analyze such subtle "noise."

But this noise... made it... find it interesting.

Because in the broadest sense, every Tyranids unit is an extension of its senses and limbs.

Even the slightest or most unusual feeling of this tyrant is essentially just a ripple in its vast consciousness.

If 'I' wanted to do that... if this very thought of 'I want to do that' truly existed...

The Hive Mind hesitated for a rare moment.

Immediately, it relinquished most of its direct control over the Hive Tyrant, retaining only the most basic life support and observation links.

If I want to do it, then I'll do it!