40k: Midnight Blade

Chapter 515 33. Stone·Ghost·Face

Zell reads a lot, but make no mistake, he only reads to get answers to some questions. It was only because these questions often eluded concrete and detailed explanations from other people that he turned to books.

If someone could solve all the problems he raised in just a few words, Zell would probably only read the professional books of Berlus von Sharp in his lifetime.

Unfortunately, such a person did not exist, so Zell gradually read all the books on the Night Soul. However, after that, his problems increased a lot.

The knowledge in the book has indeed solved many problems. This is true. Unfortunately, problems often breed more problems.

Just like now, looking at the person walking in front of him, Zell's thoughts couldn't help but wander to a distant place that even he himself could not predict.

There are many memoirs stored in the books room of the Nightfall. Some of them were recorded by the narrator himself, such as the twenty-five works of Bellos von Sharp that were banned by Yago Savitarion. Others were written by the author himself. write.

These memoirs often only record the details of one or two wars. They are more like longer detailed battle reports than a book. They are very different in style and provide a very different reading experience due to the personality of the person who wrote them.

Some are frivolous, some are detailed, some are devoid of emotion or metaphor, and some are extremely gorgeous, as if they are composing poetry. If you want to say what they have in common, maybe there are only two names.

One is Conrad Coates, and the other is Khalil Lohars.

The former has many titles, including the King of Night, the Lord of Blades, the King of Assassins, the Poem Singer, or the slightly ironic Gargoyle Collector.

The latter is different. For the latter, the long-dead authors will only use one word to call him.

instructor.

But why? What did he do and teach to deserve such respect from the heroes of the Great Crusade?

Zell temporarily cut off his thoughts, threw these complicated thoughts into a corner of his mind, and began to focus all his attention on what was really important at the moment.

It was almost evening, and Litatra had not yet recovered from the grief caused by the war, and cries could be heard everywhere in the city. In the flames, the bodies of the dead who have not yet been collected are being piled up and burned.

They will not get the chance to be buried peacefully. Death treats everyone equally. Whether you were a thug who committed evil or a rich man who loved to enjoy yourself, there will be no difference at this moment. You will eventually become a handful of ashes in the fire.

People are not allowed to receive the ashes of their relatives for many reasons, and they cannot know any of them. They are just told, 'This is the Emperor's will.' Of course, the Emperor has not issued any decree in this regard. This is just for Chaos is a common choice made by people with basic cognition.

In order to avoid greater disasters, they can only add more suffering to innocent people.

Zell's keen senses captured these things for him, like a huge network composed of several different organs united, encompassing everything around him.

He walked quietly and silently behind Khalil Lohars, gradually entering the deepest part of the ruins. They didn't stop until the sky was completely dark.

At this time, the surroundings were extremely silent. The remains of the shanty towns and the charred personnel carriers lay together. The corpses here had not yet had time to be cleaned up. The tortured bodies of soldiers and civilians still waited on the walls or on the ground, enjoying the desolate moonlight.

But at this moment, Zell keenly discovered something was wrong - there was no wronged soul.

Based on his experience, in such a massacre scene, there must be countless innocent souls lingering and waiting, wanting to pour out their grievances to him. However, there is nothing here. The only quiet sound in the ruins is the whining of the wind, which forms the shape of a ghost. The cry of the same city.

"This is it," Khalil said.

His voice seemed hoarse than before. Zell looked at him, wanting more explanations, but only saw a pair of eyes that were dimmer than darkness.

"Would you mind doing me a favor, Zell?" Khalil looked away and asked. He pointed to where he was standing, which looked like a mound of dirt.

Zell twitched his nose and sniffed the air, but found nothing strange. He didn't believe that things were really that simple, so he even came up with the idea of ​​wearing a helmet and using the analysis function.

But he didn't do that after all. Instead, he walked straight over, pulled out the fighting knife from his waist, and started digging the mound with it.

Doing this reminded him of some of the solo infiltration missions, and to be fair, killing people with a combat knife was exactly the same as using it to dig into the ground. There was no difference. It's nothing more than poking, twisting the wrist, and bringing out blood and flesh.

"clang--!"

A sound of gold and iron colliding suddenly sounded, and quickly spread to the surrounding ruins, forming a small noise that seemed real and illusory.

Zell frowned and pulled out his short knife from the dug hole, but did not see any damage on the tip of the blade. So he stretched out his left hand, went deep into the pit, grabbed something with his fingers, and jerked it outward.

In the flying dust, a skeletal face reflected the moonlight and appeared in front of them.

Zell was silent for a while, and then handed over the mask in his hand, but his movements became a little cautious for some reason. Compared with him, the person who reached out to take the mask was not very gentle, and even seemed a bit rough.

He frowned, took it in his hand, rubbed his fingers on the thin edge of the mask, and the blood immediately flowed down, flowing tightly along the lines on it, and soon it was covered The entire mask turned pale into scarlet.

Zell looked at him confused, but only received a calm look.

"Let me do the next thing." Khalil said.

Zell stood up, moved away from his position, and watched him half-kneeling in front of the mound, leaning down and reaching his left hand into the hole. A burst of golden light suddenly bloomed, bright and dazzling. To Zell, it was like a mortal looking directly at the sun on a clear day at noon.

The Paladin couldn't help but narrow his eyes due to the defects caused by the gene seed. There was even a brief ghosting phenomenon in front of his eyes, accompanied by tears and severe stinging pain.

He covered his eyes and began to blink rapidly to offset the pain, feeling shocked - even if he really looked directly at the sun, there was no way he would be stimulated to this extent.

What is that light?

He had no way of knowing the answer.

Khalil stood up slowly and held the stone in his bloody palm. Strangely enough, his blood did not leave any traces on them. Without exception, they all fell to the ground, like the drizzle of spring sunset in the wilderness.

He looked down at the stone, or to be precise, at the bright red blood stain in the center of it.

It is the last mark left on this world by countless sons of Aurelion. They all vowed to take back the name of the Gene Father. They did it, but they can no longer see it.

Well, Lorgar Aurelion, I hope you deserve it. Khalil thought.

——

Malcador held his scepter tightly, and the light of psychic energy came out, making his body almost transparent. Things like bones, nerves, and internal organs are clearly visible in the blue light, as if they were being examined with medical instruments.

The reality is of course far from this.

Perturabo looked away, folded his hands, and looked at a porthole.

Through it, he could gaze out to the outside world.

The dim light of the sun danced across the retina, a series of dark suspended fortresses surrounding it and the shattered Terra keeping a steadfast watch in the icy vacuum.

Invisible and ancient chains are connected to each other between these fortresses, forming a series of connected 'warning lines' in the warp. Any daemon who wants to try to jump over them to reach the solar system will taste the wrath of mankind.

Perturabo was its designer, bar none.

But he wasn't proud of it, ever.

In fact, it had been a long time since he'd been proud of anything he'd done, and in his mind, what he'd done was never good enough.

This is a morbid mentality that stems from his disgust at his own incompetence and stupidity. If you dig deeper, there may be some self-punishment and self-destructive psychology mixed in.

He knew all this.

Ten thousand years, even if he is only half asleep, is enough for a person to completely tear himself apart and put himself back together several times, not to mention that the Lord of Steel has never 'dreamed'. He has always stayed in this cruel and clear real world, facing Holding everything.

He accepted the challenge, accepted the test, accepted the suffering and the torture that came with it, staggered forward, stood firm, and watched generations of outstanding steel melt in the flames.

He is still standing here, never retreating, never falling.

".It's over." Malcador said suddenly, his tone was dull, as if he was sleepwalking.

Perturabo turned around and saw extremely obvious fatigue on that too-young face, which was understandable.

The soul of the person holding the seal has long since decayed. He has been in the reincarnation hell of mental and physical stress for too long, and the huge amount of work has long been turned into punishment, weighing on his strong mind. At this point, it's a miracle that he's still able to hold his own.

"He's back?" asked Perturabo.

He remained calm and cautious, asking the question without any expectations.

Malcador coughed and lowered his head, expressing his affirmation in a hoarse voice. But blood gurgled out from his nose, and he fell to the ground, shattering to pieces.

"Yes, he is out of trouble and our plan was successful."

Perturabo frowned, showing no emotion, remaining calm. He strode towards Malcador and helped him up from the chair. The wrinkles between his eyebrows were as deep as a knife blade.

"You've never looked so weak before," he said accusingly. "Tell me, Malcador, what caused you to act so weak."

"I'm just old and I refuse to accept the word weak."

"You are an immortal."

"Don't immortals never grow old?" Malcador raised his head and asked. "What's more, immortality is just an illusory concept. We can still be killed by something. In the world we live in, nothing is immortal, not even you."

"I never said I wanted immortality," Perturabo said quietly. "I've never been so vulgar."

The palm bearer shook his head and fell into silence for the time being. Similar conversations like this have happened between them at least tens of thousands of times.

In the first few decades, when the Mark Bearer's humanity was still alive, he would engage in philosophical debates with Perturabo and Rogal Dorn, or engage in regicide with them in his spare time. chess.

However, as time went by, the visits from the Patrons began to become less and less frequent. The word "reclusive" is not even suitable to describe him. Malcador has surpassed the meaning of this word and has moved towards a higher realm.

He considers infinite things and deals with infinite disasters and wars. Even with the help of Sanguinius, he could not escape from this quagmire. On the contrary, the Archangel himself who extended a helping hand fell into it with him.

"So, what to do next?" Perturabo asked, taking the initiative to break the silence.

"I don't know how many people are working behind your plan, and I don't want to know in what form he exists now. I just want to know what we should do next. Chaos will definitely not just watch. Watch as we bring him back to the solar system—"

"——Who said we should take him back to the solar system?" Malcador asked.

Yingying blue light flashed in the air, and a star map appeared in front of them.

Above the solar system, Medusa and Caliban, who are connected together, are facing a green light spot together. Fenris and Baal in the east were swept into the subspace storm and were attacked again.

The situation in Chemos, Chogolis and Nocturne is calm. However, if we go further east, the entire extreme star field will be in darkness.

Not to mention the Five Hundred Worlds, Nuceria and Nostramo, even some small worlds that were on the edge of it centuries ago are now plunged into darkness.

Looking at it, only the Storm Star Region and the Pacific Star Region in the entire empire are relatively stable. However, they are bordering the solar system after all, and the poison brought by the constant anti-Chaos war has already made this place full of dangers.

Staring at this star map, Perturabo's frown gradually relaxed.

"I understand." He nodded. "Soldiers will block it, water will cover it, but what's his condition now? I don't believe he still has that kind of power."

"An old hunter is still a hunter," said Malcador. "What's more, he won't be alone."