40k: Midnight Blade

Chapter 111 14. Red Sand (2)

The sword blade was swung down, and the limbs were cut off by the cold sharpness. The skin, muscles, and bones - the pain was transmitted by the nerves. However, the moment they screamed and rushed into the injured man's brain with a crazy attitude, the blood flowed from it. The section of the wound exploded.

Scarlet colors burst out of the veins, creating a blooming flower in the air.

Then, there were screams.

Khalil lowered his head thoughtfully, staring at the man who fell in the snow, and dropped the long sword made of ice and snow in his hand. It fell into the snow and soon returned to its original state. appearance.

As for the man who was trying to crawl away from him.

He chuckled and shook his head, looking away from the man.

The snow-capped mountains in Nuceria are so beautiful. With this sigh, he raised his head and observed the mountain peak standing in the wind and snow.

It is looming, fascinating and dangerous. This scenery is undoubtedly rare, and only a few brave people dare to go so deep into the snowfields of Nuceria. Even the tribes who live here only survive on the edge of the snowfield.

In their legends, there are monsters deep in the snowfields.

Have it?

Khalil didn't have an answer, but he hoped that the monster could come out of the depths of the snowfield himself, which would save him some trouble.

He stepped forward and put his foot on the back of the man who was trying to move away from him. He exerted some force gently, and the muffled sound disappeared in a flash, and the screams sounded again.

"Then, ask for the third time." Kalil said calmly. He was still looking at the snow-capped mountains, as if he was talking to himself. "Where did you learn the psychic spell to control the Butcher's Nail?"

Silence, still only silence. The person being questioned screamed dully, but did not speak, as if he had been deprived of the ability to speak. Khalil could have done it, but he didn't.

"Ah, a tough one."

With a low smile, Khalil slowly squatted down. He took a handful of snow and sprinkled it gently on the man's wound, causing even more pain. But he still chose to remain silent, just burying his face deeply in the snow and letting the blood and pain fill the air.

Khalil shook his head regretfully.

Excessive torture is meaningless in such torture. Pain can make most people surrender. However, for others, pain will only make their resistance more intense.

"I didn't want to do this at first, but after all, you have all manipulated your brains and memories." Khalil said softly. "This kind of spell is really surprising, it's as sophisticated as a triggered bomb."

He laughed, stretched out his hand, and grabbed the man's head, a cold light flashing in his eyes.

"But you ignore the soul."

In the blizzard, amid the violent screams, he spoke in a low voice.

At 9:17 in the morning, Khalil concluded his investigation. The results were unsatisfactory.

——

"Emperor?" Angron asked.

He was currently sitting at a long table with Robert Guilliman, eating a hearty breakfast. In the past, Robert Guilliman actually didn't have many requirements for food during the working day.

He likes to eat steaks or some sweet fruits, and he usually chews them slowly, using his sensory system that is hundreds of times richer than ordinary people to savor every taste of the food.

But this will take a lot of time.

So, in other words, during the working day, Robert Guilliman would only eat simple canned food.

Because of this incident, the chefs responsible for his catering have jointly complained to Thalasa Euton many times, on the grounds that the Lord of Macragge forced them to neglect their duties.

Thinking of this, Guilliman couldn't help but smile.

He conveniently took two plates of steaks that had just been served less than three minutes ago and placed them in front of Angron: "This is Grax steaks, brother, try it - and besides, yes, the Emperor."

Angron frowned, and a little suspicion flashed across his light blue eyes: "Doesn't he have a name of his own?"

"Maybe, but we don't know."

"But you are his son, don't you even know that?"

"Yes, I don't know. But you are also his son, Angron, there is no mistake about that."

Guilliman sighed regretfully, then began to persuade his new brother.

"I know that you have already made up your mind about who to choose as your father, but there is a blood connection between us and him. When you see him, you will understand, just like I see you and you see me."

"When I saw you, I just thought you were a noble." Angron smiled and made a joke, and the rough tone of a gladiator returned to him. "And he's a very powerful nobleman."

"But I was wearing armor and there was even blood on it."

"Do you think the nobles of Nuceria don't kill people?"

Guilliman was silent, and for a moment he didn't know how to respond to this sentence. Fortunately, Angron did not embarrass him for too long. The gladiator laughed: "It doesn't have to be like this, brother, I know you are different from them."

Roboute Guilliman should have been grateful for those words, but he wasn't.

He looked at Angron and asked gently.

"How do you know that I am different from them? As you said, I am indeed a great noble, and I am proud of this status. The empire extends beyond your imagination, Angron. The Emperor is its ruler, and we are his sons, which means that we also enjoy supreme power within the Empire. From this perspective, you are also a noble. "

The gladiator slowly narrowed his eyes and stared at Robert Guilliman, saying nothing for two minutes. His silence was terrifying and heavy, but for some reason, Guilliman did not feel that his brother would attack him.

Angron shook his head and stood up slowly. He unbuttoned his white hospital gown, revealing his body covered with scars. He pointed to his waist, where there was a long scarlet rope with knots formed by scars.

"This is the rope of triumph," he said. "Before you start fighting, open a wound with a knife. If you win, let it heal itself. If you lose, sprinkle some soil into it and turn it black."

Guilliman stared at the horrific scar, raised his head, and said, "And yours are all red."

"This means I have never lost once." Angron replied dully.

"But this is not an honor, brother. This is proof that I have lost my dignity. I accept this rope because it is the tradition of the gladiators. In such an environment, you must do everything possible to keep yourself To maintain dignity, we must let ourselves remember who we are, otherwise we will really become slaves. If you say that I am a noble, will nobles do this? "

"I don't know," Guilliman said.

"You know it well." Angron stared at him and said softly.

The sequelae of the Butcher's Nails came back again at this moment, and they still replaced part of his spinal nerves and cerebral cortex. Now, Angron could think, laugh, and argue with his brother, but every time he did, it hurt.

His face began to twitch, aching from thinking. The machine itself has lost its activity, but it relies on some cursed inertia to punish the host for its disrespect.

The gladiator's response was a calm snort, he smiled, and spoke firmly with pain.

"If my previous words offended you, I apologize, brother."

"In my world, nobility is an insulting word that represents slave owners and their atrocities. But in your world, I guess it is a word that represents honor. I ask you to forgive me, Robert. I was an ignorant gladiator who didn't even know what the word surface meant half an hour ago."

Guilliman sighed helplessly. He tried to cover up this matter-that is, his displeasure-but Angron was obviously unwilling to do so.

He has a straightforward and resolute temperament. Gladiators survive in an environment where they may die tomorrow, so naturally they will not use roundabout ways of speaking.

And this directness also hit Guilliman deeply.

"I do not know how to answer you, Angron," said the Lord of Macragge.

"Normally, I am a person who is good at using words to achieve my goals, but you left me speechless. Well, I was indeed a little unhappy before, but after that, what I said was not Totally motivated by displeasure.”

Angron raised his eyebrows, sat down, and buttoned up his clothes at the same time: "What do you mean?"

"The part about you being a noble," Guilliman said seriously.

"You are a Primarch, you are one of the Emperor's sons - which means you are born with a certain responsibility on your shoulders. For example, I am the Legion Master of the Ultramarines Legion, and I am also the leader of Markkula The ruler of the world is on his way."

"Me? Legion?"

Angron laughed, seemingly taking Guilliman's words as a joke, but when he said these words, he kept looking into Robert Guilliman's eyes.

"Yes, your legion." Guilliman nodded slowly and seriously, not escaping Angron's heavy gaze.

"They are your warriors and will obey any of your orders. They are also your sons, because your blood flows in their bodies. They were already preparing for this before we were separated from the Emperor. ”

"Like I said, Angron, the galaxy is vast, so humanity needs to be united, and as a Primarch, we will use various methods to facilitate this. This is one of our responsibilities."

Angron didn't answer, his expression gradually changing to one of complexity, and for a moment Guilliman feared he would become angry - but he didn't.

He just frowned deeply.

"I need to know more about this," the gladiator said calmly, before biting off an entire plate of Gracchus steak with his teeth.

besides