40k: Midnight Blade

Chapter 537 55. Interlude: The Seal Holder and the Regent

Malcador slowly opened his eyes.

He sat up from his wooden bed, and before he had time to put on his robe, a servo skull glowing with steel flew over with a buzz, bringing hundreds of paper documents bundled together, and a brand new The improved 'Galaxy' quill pen.

This pen is already the 192nd one that Machado has replaced this year.

A staggering number. If the designer of the quill pen knew this, he would probably wonder whether his acclaimed work was just garbage. But Machado wouldn’t say that. In fact, compared to his workload, no pen can be called durable.

The young-looking palmer stretched out his right hand, rescued the bundle of documents from the anti-gravity impeller of the servo skull, and placed them on the wooden table nearby.

Red light flashed in the eye sockets of the skull, and it was watching his every move to judge what action should be taken next, but Malcador just glanced at it, then reached out to take away the quill again, and then took away the quill that had been missing all year. Xio's poor machine turned so that it was aimed at an open wooden door.

As the flying sound of the servo skull gradually receded, Malcador slowly stood up.

He inevitably frowned, for no other reason than a stabbing pain in his head.

This is an inevitable and stubborn disease. His body is too young, but his soul is old enough to drown the ocean with wrinkles. They were supposed to be like water and fire, incompatible with each other, but they were forced to be combined together because of one person's will.

He knew early on that he would get this kind of reward, and he was fully prepared.

He raised his hands, caressed his cheeks, and used spiritual energy to erase the physical pain. The robe draped on the wooden chair automatically floated up and draped around his body without the wind. By the time he put his hands down, Malcador had forced himself into working mode.

For the next four hours, he sat at that wooden desk and processed documents. They were sorted out one by one by his staff and the thousands of offices under his subordinates during the week, and were reported layer by layer, and finally submitted. The 'essence' that comes to him.

Each one of them is enough to determine the fate of many people and the fate of their children and grandchildren. Ordinary people would feel dizzy even just looking at it, let alone making a decision.

Those huge numbers and countless agency names will confuse anyone who tries to understand their meaning. Throughout the entire empire, perhaps only Malcador can read these documents with an expressionless face.

Not only that, he can even make appropriate judgments at extremely fast speeds, and even the most advanced meditators cannot compare with him on this matter. After all, machines are just machines, following rigid and rigid programming.

Who can really trust a meditator to make decisions on important matters concerning the fate of countless people?

After he finished processing the last document, he pressed the call bell on the wooden table.

Within a few moments, servants would come in with a cart and take away the documents. They will be sent back to the staff for them to study Malcador's ideas and discuss whether there is anything unreasonable.

They had two hours to do this before transferring the files into the Cogitator and delivering them to Regent Sanguinius in the form of data.

The Archangel will do a second review and approval, and he has the right to intercept or send back any of these documents before they are actually sent out.

Malcador stood up slowly, hunched over unconsciously, like a real old man.

He soon realized that his current demeanor was a bit inappropriate, so he stretched out his right hand. The psychic light flickered and pulsed, bringing a scepter into his hand.

The master of the seal frowned habitually, held the scepter tightly, and supported his whole body weight on it, and then stood up straight little by little.

The fatigue in his mind has in turn oppressed his body. This is a cancer that no matter how healthy a flesh and blood body is, it is difficult to resist. As long as he remains in office, there is no chance of recovery.

The young but old palm-printer calmly turned around and walked out of his room.

Compared with his antique living room, the scenery outside is not even good. The corridors are upside down and disorderly, the stone bricks are floating, the murals are blurred, and every place is filled with unreal colors.

Malcador held his scepter and took every step with precision. He could always step on the right tile, thus avoiding the traps he had set himself.

To the average person, a corridor is still just a corridor. To a servitor or servo-skull, they wouldn't even notice the strangeness here. However, for daemons, psykers, or those tainted by the Warp, this is a deadly labyrinth.

It was designed by Malcador himself and gradually perfected over ten thousand years. Every trap contains the ultimate viciousness imitated by him. The seemingly harmless floor tiles may turn into a sea of ​​​​fire at any time, or be enough to cut off fine gold. A sharp blade, or a terrifying curse that can make time decay.

These things are so scary to say, but for the palmer, this corridor is just a refreshing device - he needs a little external stimulation. Only in this way can he get rid of the rigid state of processing documents.

He was going to meet someone next, and that person wouldn't like to see him like this.

Therefore, even if he is just pretending, Macado must try his best to pretend that nothing is wrong.

He took the last step, and the scepter and bricks collided with each other, making a heavy muffled sound.

In an instant, the sky was spinning, the space was folded and distorted. In this seemingly eternal moment, Malcador's spiritual energy continuously lit up from the eagle on the top of the scepter, hanging upside down on the ceiling, like an upside down Milky Way.

Malcador slowly raised his right hand, briefly turning himself into a burning torch, surging in the subspace.

Many beings have noticed him, including the God of Death with the Lantern, the Red Fool, or the evil Ancient Four. Their eyes are the most ruthless and greedy.

Nurgle admired his stiffness and stagnation, Khorne admired his courage and fearlessness, Tzeentch chattered endlessly about his wisdom and agility, and Slaanesh tempted him to embrace him, even wanting to let him cross a certain path at his own expense. Limits, thus making thousands of years of hard work come to nothing.

Malcador looked at them coldly, and there was not even disdain or contempt in his eyes, only a void of contempt.

He was not calling them, never.

A flash of golden light floated over, instantly driving away the gazes of the four gods. This light is the storm on the sea, the lightning hidden in the dark clouds, a broken and complete will contained in it, and thousands of different faces flashing through it one by one.

Malcador unconsciously tightened his hold on the scepter.

The next second, golden light engulfed him. A strong sense of weightlessness and tearing enveloped him familiarly, making him feel like he was in two completely different places at the same time.

On the one hand, he felt like he was walking on the surface of the sun, enduring its relentless scorch and heat.

On the other hand, he felt like he was drowning in the cold seabed, surrounded by darkness, and invisible monsters kept wandering around him, biting his arm with their teeth.

Malcador took a deep breath, raised his scepter high, and forcibly got rid of this depressing illusion.

No. Are they really illusions?

He opened his eyes and saw a dark stone room.

The surroundings were dull, and the torches hanging on the walls looked like they had not been lit for at least a few thousand years, and even the smell of grease had dissipated.

The ground was covered with thick dust, and I didn't know where it came from. There was some strange and distant sound that penetrated the stone and sounded faintly in Malcador's ears.

He ignored it and just turned his attention to a huge, rough and cold throne.

In other words, he threw himself at the person on the throne.

This man had long since lost his breath. He lowered his head, and his skinny body was connected to many black cables.

There is no trace of where they came from, but they penetrated into the man's already decayed flesh and blood, greedily sucking the remaining dust in the blood vessels.

However, compared to the throne itself, the mummy sitting on it is incredibly humble. No matter how primitive this stone throne is, judging from its size, it should have been prepared for a giant.

And what virtue and ability does this mummy have to sit on a throne that is so cold and natural?

Is he worthy?

Malcador let go of his hand and let the scepter stand in place. He straightened his collar and stepped forward. After dozens of steps, he stopped right under the throne. He raised his head, looked into the empty eye sockets of the mummy, and turned his voice very soft.

"Your Majesty," he called softly. "It's time to wake up."

The mummy didn't answer, but something was awakening in the darkness around him. He didn't really wake up, he just heard a familiar voice in the endless sinking of half-dream and half-awake, so he opened his eyes a little.

Such a small movement caused the tide of chaos to surge violently. The golden light was bright, cold and ruthless, and a sound reached Malcador's ears, making him dizzy.

This endlessly heavy sound was definitely not a weight that humans could bear, but the palmer straightened his back and did not grovel in front of this god.

He gritted his teeth and stood there, waiting. The golden light continued to spread until the stone chamber was completely illuminated, and then the terrifying coldness dissipated.

Instead, there was a gentle wave of warmth that was almost unreal.

Malcador breathed a sigh of relief, slowly raised his head, and saw his friend as he wished.

"Your Majesty, the storm is coming."

The man called Your Majesty did not answer his words, and his body had no connection with the mummy with its head hanging down on the throne. This man wore a linen robe and his hands were covered with calluses. These were the only personal characteristics he could retain.

He is tall but also short, strong but also weak. He was a farmer, a warlord, a careerist and an executioner, as well as a philosopher and the most compassionate scholar of all time.

He stood at the only boundary between darkness and light, like a wall or fortress. The shadow he casts is darkness, but he himself is light.

In his shadow stood countless people whose faces could not be seen, including guards holding golden spears, civilians carrying hoes, dancers, scientists, soldiers, and every soul whose soul had belonged to him throughout the ages.

They stood in his shadow, staring at Malcador.

"We must take action." The person holding the seal lowered his head and narrated in a deep voice. "Khalil Lohars has been reborn as a human being. His defective skin will continue to fill up during the process of retrieving the fragments. Sooner or later, he will return to a complete human being."

"Our plan will succeed, but we still need to face other things. Internal worries are not enough to worry about, but external threats are so huge that we must face them head-on."

A hand placed on his shoulder, interrupting his narration. Malcador raised his head and saw a face blurred by the light. Then, a chorus of divine sounds.

"You are already very tired, my friend." said the being. "How about putting aside the plan for now and let's talk about yourself?"

".There is no need." Makado said.

He lowered his head again, took a step back, and avoided the warm hands.

His Majesty sighed at this, but did not force it. But his thoughts continued to boil in this illusory stone chamber that did not exist, and then heated up, becoming a complex sound exposed.

Each spoke in his shadow, recounting his loyalties and longing to rest or to fight again. Their wishes floated from the depths of their souls and pressed on the back of this being. Such a heavy weight could not make him bend even an inch.

He stood there with his head held high, and on his face that had been blurred, only a pair of eyes still showed the appearance of the past, and in these eyes there was only concern for his friends.

There had never been a moment when his humanity could so easily break through the barriers he had set for himself.

The reason may come down to two gems.

"They are ready to make a move." Malcador said coldly.

"I know" the man sighed. "They have always been like this, haven't they? Primitive creatures driven by the greed for survival think they are pure and supreme, but in fact they are just carriers of chaotic desires and low logic."

"They will not stop. Seeing that the stagnation of thousands of years will usher in new changes, none of them will miss this grand event that is about to begin. But I want to say, Malcador, This is just the beginning.”

His choral voice became deeper and wiser, and also became single and peaceful. The people who stood in his shadow and supported each other quietly left, as if they wanted to leave the next precious time to them alone.

Malcador still didn't want to understand the possible deep meaning behind this matter. He just gathered his thoughts, threw away the sorrow that belonged to flesh and blood, and forced himself to continue speaking.

"And we have to act before they do."

"This is impossible, my friend." The man shook his head. "The subspace is a reflection of the material world, and there is no concept of time in it. Everything we do in the material world will cast a wave in the tide of chaos."

"They can easily see our every move without even observing. Don't worry about it again, Malcador, it won't do you any good."

The palmer raised his head, and his cold silver eyes were as bright as burning at this moment. This is not a false illusion, but real anger.

"I have worked hard for this victory for ten thousand years, and I have given everything. So, even if I come back for another ten thousand years, why not?"

"That's not all," the man whispered sadly. "Everything is a grand and cold quantifier, which is enough to destroy a person's foundation in the world. I don't want to see anyone giving everything. Nothing is worth your sacrifice, Malcador."

The palm-printer frowned unbearably.

"Your arrogance still hasn't changed at all." He clenched his fists angrily. "You are not the only one in this empire who is qualified to talk about 'everything', Your Majesty! I know where my limits are, and I still have something to put on the scale!"

The man sighed helplessly again.

"Let's just ignore this topic," he said. "You and I are both stubborn, and we don't have much time left."

Malcador stared at him, and after a while he let out a breath.

——

A shuttle landed slowly, its fuselage was elegantly streamlined, and the emblem of the Blood Angels shone brightly on the right side of the fuselage. The condensed cold water droplets spread on it, refracting many stunning lights out of thin air.

The cabin door began to land a few seconds later, and the honor guard who had been prepared played sacred music desperately, and a choir composed of pure children sang in unison at the edge of the red carpet.

Petals began to fall from the sky, and the machinery hidden in the clouds of the high-rise buildings completed this artificial miracle, causing the crowds of people from all directions to cry one after another.

At the end of their blurred vision, a god walked out of the cabin.

The top local official stepped forward excitedly and saluted him. The Blood Angels stepped out of the thunderhawks and followed their primarch, majestic and gorgeous, with armor that could match the imagination of anyone who admired them.

The cries and prayers that broke out from the crowd became more intense, and the priests of the state church began to loudly praise his name, shouting out with thunderous momentum with their transformed voices.

"Look—" he shouted. "——That is none other than the ninth son of the Emperor, the Regent of the Empire, the great Sanguinius!"

Then he began to chant an endless hymn.

Sanguinius passed him with an impeccable smile, but did not even glance at the priest.

He was not wearing armor, but was wearing the uniform of a high-ranking archon. The bright red mark of the Blood Angel was revealed on his chest, and his cloak was fluttering behind him. The luxurious golden scabbard of the ceremonial sword reflected the ecological dome on the edge of the cloak. Imaginary sunshine.

People were shouting his name from the edge of the wide red carpet, eager for his gaze. They shouted, cried, screamed, and some were even so excited that they fell to the ground in convulsions, and were then put on stretchers and taken away by the medical team who were already used to it.

It wasn't until a full six hours later that this routine activity ended.

"Turn down the rest of today's meeting for me, just saying I'm not feeling well. Please forgive me, Dante." Sanguinius said softly.

He was sitting in a magnificent banquet hall. The dining table was filled with candles, but there was no aroma of food. He took off his cloak and sword, put on a loose robe, and sat at the head of the long table.

The Astartes, whom he called Dante, stood beside him, wearing golden armor and a serious face. Hearing this, he nodded slightly and immediately turned around to leave the place to convey the original body's words, but Sanguinius stopped him just as he was about to leave.

"Let's leave next month." The archangel said without looking back. "A warrior's greatest fear is to die anonymously. Your name has not been mentioned for almost four centuries. I can no longer selfishly keep you by my side, my son."

"You should make great achievements and lead your brothers to defeat the enemies of mankind across the galaxy. The last thing I want to see is for a warrior to become unknown because of my suspicion."

Dante paused, his lips trembling very visibly for a moment, and then he asked: "Who, then, will succeed me, Primarch?"

"No one will succeed you, and I intend to abolish this tradition," Sanguinius said. "I'm tired of seeing soldiers being smoothed out, and I don't want to see you languish in politics for the rest of your life like me."

"I am proud of you, but I hope you can be proud of yourself, so I must abolish this tradition. All Blood Angels should leave me and do what you should do."

"But-"

"—No words like 'but', 'however', 'I beg', my son."

Sanguinius finally turned around with a smile on his face: "I have only one blessing to say. May you have good military fortune and victory."

Dante was speechless and could only salute and then left quickly.

Sanguinius watched him leave until the two doors that had been forced to open due to Dante's departure closed again. Then he slowly stood up and began to pace in the banquet hall.

The splendor is actually just a straightforward description of the luxurious scene here, and it is impossible to describe one-tenth of its splendor. Despite this, there was no joy in the archangel's eyes.

He was alone and therefore no longer had to wear any mask.

Although the man standing here now has wings on his back and is extremely handsome, he has no life at all. His blue eyes were filled with the pain of swallowing for thousands of years, and numbness and sighs had even piled up at the top of his throat.

He is the warrior whose edges have been smoothed out in his words.

He must accept his current mediocrity just as he accepted the breathtaking responsibility of regent.

Sanguinius lowered his head, returned to his seat, and began to wait in silence.

There is a reason why he is here today, although he has often visited fortresses all over the solar system in the past ten thousand years. He is willing to be a harmless symbol and bring the aura of deification to people so that they can be full of courage.

However, in recent centuries, he has rarely done so. Today is a special case, just because of one person's call.

A burst of footsteps suddenly sounded from behind him, and a person came slowly, pulled out the seat, and took a seat.

"Why are we meeting here, Malcador?" Sanguinius asked without looking up.

He was staring intently at the glass in front of him. The exquisite and possibly priceless glass vaguely reflected his eyes. The azure color was deeply smeared on the wall of the glass, mixed with golden light, forming a ball. A dense cloud that rises and falls with the beating of light.

"It's just a coincidence." The palm-printer replied calmly. "I happened to be here to inspect whether the reform of the local weapons production line was in compliance with regulations. I received a message from my spies on the way, saying that you happened to be nearby, so I invited you to come here to talk."

Sanguinius gave a humorless chuckle.

"Of course, your arrival has also been of great help to my spies in their investigation and evidence collection. It would be better if none of them left their posts without permission to take a look at you."

"Do you think I want to show my face here?" Sanguinius finally raised his head from the glass and looked at him. Although the words seemed to be questioning, there was no hint of indignation in his voice. Instead, there was a genuine and rare smile.

The palmer flexed his facial muscles stiffly, giving the most vivid response within his ability to the archangel's smile.

"You'd better stop laughing." Sanguinius sighed. "Every time I see you smile, I feel like I have seen my not-too-distant future."

"You won't end up like this." Malcador replied expressionlessly.

There seemed to be a hidden meaning in his words, and even Sanguinius couldn't help but look at him in surprise. He didn't expect that Malcador would answer him with such a cold and humorous sentence. This was a bit unlike his usual self.

The archangel frowned, and soon noticed the slight difference in Malcador's hiding through the tacit understanding formed through these ten thousand years of cooperation, and came to a conclusion.

"Did you go to see him?"

"Yes." The palm-printer nodded. "And, he was very angry."

Sanguinius looked at him slightly oddly.

"I can also joke." Makado said. He still maintained his trademark expressionless face, and when he said these words with this look, even Sanguinius inevitably smiled.

Of course, this smile did not last long. Sanguinius had too many things on his mind that could destroy all happiness.

They haunted him like hunting ghosts, swarming him every time he tried to be happy, tearing those positive emotions into pieces and roaring at him to remind him that he There are still many responsibilities to be done.

Until these things are fully accomplished, he is not worthy of happiness.

".So-" Sanguinius calmed down his emotions and spoke slowly. "Why did you come to me?"

"To get you to leave."

Sanguinius stared at him silently, as if he didn't understand what this sentence meant, until Malcador raised his head and met his eyes.

The eyes of the person holding the seal lit up with a bright golden light at this moment, but it was not cold or aloof, like a god. That gaze is gentle but powerful, like a blind man's detecting stick or a soldier's beloved gun, which can give people endless support and courage.

Sanguinius stood up uncontrollably.

He wanted to say something, but instead he acted like a drowning man who had just been rescued, taking in big gulps of air and paying no attention to anything else.

His hands on the table couldn't help but clenched tightly, and the tablecloth began to twist, whine, and break. They arrived here through the hands of countless people. They worked so hard, but now they are completely broken and turned back into fibers in the hands of those who need to serve.

"What. What do you mean?" After a long time, the archangel finally asked this question with difficulty.

Machado didn't answer, just closed his eyes gently, and conveyed a father's apology to his son's ears.

+Sanguinius, my pride. How are you doing? +

+I hear your name every day in the prayers of people wishing you good health and praying to me to see you flying over their heads. They love and respect you, my son, but I can hear the anguish in your heart. +

+I have seen your efforts over the past ten thousand years. I want to persuade you to leave, but I know that your self-esteem and your sense of responsibility will not let you accept my proposal. However, the time has come. +

+ Khalil Lohars has returned. He is human again, but he is still the same person who is used to facing everything in the simplest way. I was relieved that he was still the same, but also worried for him. +

+You and I both know that Chaos will not ignore this, not to mention that he is in a place where the light of the Star Torch cannot illuminate. Your brother Robert is coming to him, but it's not enough. +

+I can't see what they are going to face, but I can smell the moisture of the rain curtain when the storm is coming. They are going to face an unprecedented disaster. I know it very well, and now, I need you to go, My son. +

+You have marched forward head-on during these ten thousand years and become a strong shield for the empire. You shield people from wind and rain and endure hardships. They sincerely thank you for this, but they don't know that you are originally a sharp sword and have always been so. +

+Your sharpness has not been worn out in these ten thousand years, you just hid it. I need you to become a sharp blade again. I want you to cut through the darkness that is about to fall on your brother. I want you to move forward and win. +

+At this moment, only you can take on this important task. +

+Most importantly, I want you to be yourself, Sanguinius. +

+I wish you good luck in martial arts, victory and triumph. +

Sanguinius returned to his seat tremblingly, his wings folded, and bursts of golden light descended from them.

Malcador looked at him and tried to smile again. With his muscles working stiffly, he patted the table gently, and the aroma of food and Bal's fragrant blood wine came to his face.

Sanguinius raised his head, his eyes sparkling, and he saw Malcador who was toasting.

"This is a toast to you, Sanguinius," Malcador said.

The archangel looked at him, but did not immediately raise the glass in his hand. He just looked at the palmer quietly, at his elders, friends and like-minded people. His eyes were extremely sad.

Then he asked, "What do you do?"

"I have my own way." Malcador said calmly. "Don't worry about me, put aside these useless thoughts, angel, and go save them."