40k: Midnight Blade

Chapter 572 90. Interlude: false or true

The walls of the orphanage are a pure white, and the tile blocks bury the gray of the concrete, making it comfortable and holy.

There is a statue of Robert Guilliman in the hall, but it is not the most common sword-holding statue, but the image of a scholar holding a book and wearing a robe. It seems that he may have placed some good wishes on him.

Looking from Khalil's perspective, he could just see the calm eyes of the emperor's portrait. The painter's skill is most vividly reflected in these eyes. No matter what angle they are looked at, they always carry a touch of compassion.

Khalil looked at them, and gently spread his right hand, and the blade that was originally held tightly by Fel Zalost began to tremble.

No matter how hard he clenched his right hand, even using psychic energy to block it, it was of no avail. In the tragic sound of metal friction, the metal glove was completely destroyed by the handle of the blade, turning into curled scrap metal and stuck in the mud-like flesh.

Khalil reached out and grasped the knife again. It was not stained by a drop of blood.

"Are you a Nostramo?" Fehr hissed, his face looking even paler.

"yes."

"Then why don't you speak Nostramo?"

"This is not something you should care about." Khalil replied slowly and took a step forward with the knife in hand.

His behavior caused all the other giants in the hall to raise their guns except this so-called Feir. Fourteen bolters were aimed at his vitals with vigilance, but they knew that it had no effect.

In the past two Terra hours, they had heard the continuous screams in the communication channel and a few descriptions of the enemy. The combination of these things created a person far more terrifying than them. monster.

"Why?"

"Because you should speak Gothic instead," said Khalil. "You are Terran, just like those behind you. You are not Nostramo, so there is no need to speak this language."

"You" Feier swallowed a mouthful of saliva that smelled of blood. "How did you know?"

Khalil didn't answer—or rather, he didn't answer verbally.

The brilliance of psychic energy also lit up in his eyes. The light was not bright. In fact, it could even be called gloomy. Moreover, it did not shine for long, only for a short moment.

But in such a short moment, the world in front of Fei Zalost suddenly changed.

The orphanage and his siblings had all disappeared, leaving only raw, pure darkness. Before Feier had time to think, a word broke into his mind: hometown.

The word came extremely suddenly, like an instinctive reaction. Feir looked around, and soon the sight he saw proved how sharp his instinct was - he was not wrong, this was indeed his hometown.

This is Terra's underground prison, a place where those who commit heinous crimes and their descendants are banished. There is no light, no law, and no freedom.

The so-called freedom here is just a choice to kill or not. There is no such broad right to choose as the world knows. Feir is very familiar with this place. Before joining the Legion, this was his home.

He didn't like this place, but it was still home.

"What did you want to do by bringing me here?" he asked weakly.

A shadow steps out of the darkness.

"Just to prove something," Khalil said, still incomprehensibly calm.

He walked up to the so-called Night Lord and carefully looked at the MK2 power armor worn by the latter, as well as the midnight color, the lightning paint outlined the day before, and the eagle wing emblem on the chest.

After a few seconds, the silence began to turn into a complex emotion that Felzalost could not yet understand.

He thought hard for a while, but he could only analyze one of them: mercy.

"Are you pitying me?"

"Yes." Khalil nodded and admitted. "You... shouldn't exist."

The Night Lord mistakenly interpreted his words to mean something else: "Are you going to kill me?"

"Not yet," Khalil said.

The blue light in the depths of his eyes shined again, and the world spun, sucking everything into it like a whirlpool, but Feier had no ability to resist. As a psyker and the Librarian of the Eighth Legion, he never thought he would see such a day.

But the facts were the facts and could not be changed. He could no more defeat this man's power than he could defy the Primarch's orders.

Fehr began to scream, and he felt an idea penetrate into his mind. It was not gentle, but very sharp. It is no ordinary weapon, it is far superior to them.

This illusory sharp blade sliced ​​through everything in him, and memories began to flow. They dispersed in formation like soldiers who received orders, and were divided into two distinct ends.

Before joining the legion and after joining the legion, they had a strong desire to become one, but they were unable to do so. The knife was so sharp that it made Phil feel like he was almost cut in half - could that be the truth?

In the midst of pain and impending madness, he wondered: Could it be that I have gone crazy? Is this all my fantasy? Or am I actually dead?

"Not yet," said a voice.

The blade continued to cut and penetrate deeper, and the feeling of division became stronger. Feier even saw his own face in his trance, but it was a younger version. Degenerate mutants in underground caves, descendants of criminals, pale, photophobic, black eyes, naturally sharp teeth, used to bite the enemy's throat

Then there is another face, tired and bored, tortured in war, committing bloody crimes, holding a long staff and torturing the enemy in dreams.

The two men stood in front of him, with their backs to him, both holding one of his hands.

The child on the left asks in an innocent yet cruel tone: "What are we eating tonight?"

The madman on the right replied in a sleepy voice: "We must stop the Primarch's madness."

The words Primarch, Primarch, Primarch began to echo in his mind.

The child started to recite it, the madman started to recite it, and Feier roared with a splitting headache, trying to stop them, but when the words came to his mouth, he found that he was also reciting the word, and not only that, he wanted to Go deeper.

His name was Conrad Coates.

The strong wind swept over him, blowing on his face, cutting his flesh, and drinking his blood. It was cruel but also real.

"We cannot go on any longer, Primarch!" he shouted. "All this must stop! Killing innocent people is not the trial and justice we pursue. Come back and continue to lead us!"

The blade cut and penetrated deeply, destroying all his deepest desires. The justice he longed for, the lessons he received in the Legion, his rare joy at the return of his Primarch and the indescribable disappointment that followed.

All of this was destroyed. The knife was like a greedy beast that could never be satisfied. It had devoured everything in the deepest part of Felzalost's heart, but it still longed for more.

Fell was powerless to stop it, and could only plead in a sobbing voice for it to stop. He got no answer, only more intense pain.

He roared and screamed in pain in the darkness, as crazy as those mindless monsters that had completely degenerated in Terra's underground prison. However, the knife was right, and the reason why it did not stop was right.

After a certain moment, after the flesh and blood that the blade could cut reached its end, it cut into a blank space.

Then, things that had been hidden began to surface.

The first thing that came was a scarred face, ugly, with white hair scattered like weeds. This man wore a set of rusty power armor that had faded, but the eagle wing still stood upright on his right shoulder.

With a tired and painful face, he stood in front of another man, who was slightly taller than him and had his back to Feir.

They were probably talking, but all the sounds sounded distorted and indistinct, as if they were coming from the water.

Trying his best, Feier couldn't hear what they were talking about. He could only observe and remember that ugly, scarred face in his heart.

But that was not the end, for the other interlocutor also turned. He has a face that I don't know how to describe. It's ordinary to the extreme, and it can't be said to have any characteristics at all.

The man walked up to Fair and looked at him carefully. But this time, Feier heard what he said clearly.

"Continue cloning, Bayer, our cooperation has just begun."

The blank disappeared suddenly, the blade was drawn out, the wound healed, and Felzalost fell to the ground, gasping for air. Everything he had just experienced was rising from the depths of his mind, and the memories were as swollen and pale as a corpse.

He couldn't help but vomit, and dark, sticky blood spilled all over the floor. His brothers gathered around, some were worried, some were angry, and some were still wary.

And all of this is incomparable to another voice. It is calm and low, far from loud. The tone is so soft that it is no different from a whisper. This is the most common tone that the Night Lords use to talk to each other.

"You don't exist."

Feier raised his head in a daze and looked at the speaker. For some reason, he couldn't see the latter's face clearly. Even though he tried his best, he couldn't see clearly.

He stood up silently, the memories still rising in his mind. The pure white place gradually changed, the walls and surroundings turned into a gloomy iron gray, and then from his perspective, it was like gazing out while soaking in water.

He suddenly understood something, but he was not sad. Instead, he stumbled forward several steps as if grasping a life-saving straw, until he grabbed the man's shoulder.

"You said-" he gasped. "you mean--"

He coughed and spat out more blood, but his eyes grew brighter.

"So we don't exist?" he asked with implicit expectation. "So all this struggle, these so-called betrayals, demands, and the crazy behavior of our Primarch, are all fake?"

Khalil looked at him and the group of 'Midnight Lords' behind him who had no idea what was going on. After several seconds of silence, he nodded.

A dream bloomed quietly from his eyes. In this dream, there were no recruits who were becoming increasingly corrupt, a flagship full of corpses, brothers who were willing to perish, and a primarch who was extremely crazy.

The Eighth Legion are not bloody butchers and sadists who take pleasure in torture, they are still who the Emperor created them to be, knives of judgment and final mercy.

This dream spread quickly, including these fifteen miserable souls who thought they were 'Terrans'. They fell to the ground and their breathing became even.

Their hands are unbloody, and this stolen memory may be false, but the personality it gives them is real.

Khalil gripped the blade and walked toward them, but a trembling child stopped him.

"Are you going to kill them, my lord?" he asked fearfully. "Can you not do this? The Emperor taught us to be kind, and they protected us. There were many people who wanted to come in, but they didn't allow it."

Khalil looked at him silently, and after a few seconds, he nodded. Fifteen people floated up and followed him out of the orphanage gate. It is still unstained with blood, and the war seems to have nothing to do with it.

He kept walking, and kept walking, until he was very far away, until the Great Expedition in the dream ended at its most glorious moment, and then he waved off the sharp blade in his hand.