40k: Midnight Blade

Chapter 600 118. Dark Crusade (Thirty-nine)

Callistarius slowly opened his eyes.

The first thing that came was pain, a huge amount, indescribable, pain that seemed to tear his whole body apart alive.

It was as if every nerve in his body had been picked out with a knife blade, and then gently but meticulously rubbed with a file. The same is true for his bones. Every time his heart beats, there is a shocking shock deep in the bone marrow.

It seems that there are countless sculptors working inside with hammers, carving out different patterns according to their own artistic preferences.

The left arm is a flower, the right arm is a burning hell, the two thigh bones are surging rivers, the rib plates on the left and right are the open mouth of a beast that wants to devour people, and the skull is different. A rapidly falling bomb.

A thousandth of a second later, the bomb began to explode.

Callistarius screamed hoarsely.

What kind of injury is it? What hit him? Was he hit by the chain reaction caused by the devil's gang-hopping? Or was it because the nature of the ritual was changed that it suffered backlash that it shouldn't have suffered?

Emperor.

Callistarius took a deep breath in pain.

His flesh was melting.

When reason returned, so did his senses, so that he could now clearly perceive the event.

The ceremonial robe had been burned to the ground a long time ago. The tough skin and flesh obtained after genetic modification turned into melted blood under the constant burning of high temperature, flowing all over the ground and hanging on his red and blackened bones. It has to drip down.

All of this - all that he had endured since his return - was driving him crazy, his sanity was crumbling, and he would soon follow in his flesh and blood footsteps

He could barely think about anything anymore, he had to slip into madness to escape the pain that was enough to drive an Astartes mad. If he could still think, he would chant the Primarch's name silently.

But he can't.

Then a voice briefly transcended reality and reached his ears.

"Willpower—never forget one thing, Callistarius," the voice whispered to him softly. "You conquered death."

In the unspeakable frenzy, Callistarius actually felt a sense of absurdity.

He couldn't understand where this emotion arose. Could it be that there was still a consciousness in his heart that had not experienced any pain and retained its self and rationality? Is it possible to respond emotionally to other people's words at such a moment?

He instinctively dug deep into his heart, and then he actually found a small corner there, a stable safe room that belonged only to Callistarius of the Blood Angels.

The young think tank gritted his teeth and dug deep into it, and began to rummage through it, trying to find anything that could help him at this moment.

He succeeded because there was nothing there.

Solid corner? It's just a self-deception of physiological instinct. It's just a blank, a small temporary shelter temporarily constructed in the horror and pain to allow people to escape reality.

Can't escape. Callistarius took a deep, shaky breath.

You must not run away from them, you must face them head on. Either try to conquer the pain as you conquered death, or drown in them.

Callistarius began to try to open his eyes. A burning pain came from near the eye socket and quickly spread to the eyeball, giving him an urge to escape.

He ignored the impulse and forced himself to open his eyes. The cruel hell returned immediately, the flames soared into the sky, and the senses returned again. The pungent air was crackled by the flames. It sounded to Callistarius almost like gunboats dropping bombs in unison.

Then, he tried to make a fist, but found that he could no longer feel it in his left hand.

The 'flower' had withered, and now probably only the bones were left. So he turned to look for support from his right arm.

This time, the three fingers of the index finger, middle finger and little finger responded to him. They closed together quickly and forcefully, clenched tightly, and the ceramic steel that had somehow escaped the damage began to rub carefully.

Callistarius smiled hard, his eyes rolling in their sockets. Logically speaking, his eyes should be the first organ to be burned, but at this moment they are still there. Not only that, his vision was not affected.

In the flames, a huge boulder suddenly flew up, carrying the strong wind, and crashed into the burning flames. Callistarius's right hand trembled, and his collapsed chest began to rise and fall rapidly.

He regained a little strength - or perhaps, this strength never left him at all. They have been waiting for his call.

The most loyal soldiers, gathered in blood vessels and nerves, have already been assembled, and only one order is needed to attack the whole army.

The blue light flashed again, and his deflated chest began to recover. The skin lifted up by the broken bones and the bloody parts began to recover rapidly in the blue light.

With his complete knowledge of human physiology, Callistarius successfully reconstructed his chest system, and the injuries to his organs were completely restored under the influence of psychic energy.

It sounded so good, but some doubts flashed through the young think tank's mind: Could I have done this so easily in the past?

His knowledge told him: No, it cannot.

But now is obviously not the best time to dwell on these matters. Callistarius began to heal himself, and in just a few minutes, he stood up from under the ruins.

Although he was still covered in blood, there was no longer any injury on his body that could stop him from moving, and even the melted flesh and blood had returned.

The young think tank had an illusion about them. He thought they were all rotten meat, a low-quality substitute that was attached to his hot bones by psychic energy.

But this was not the case. His body was still strong and could lead him out of the ceremony hall and do more things.

After crushing the flames, Calistarius soon came to the corridor inside the Red Tear. If it had not been destroyed, it would be as beautiful as other places, but now it was just a burning hell.

Corpses were everywhere, and the broken bodies of the crew and his brothers were thrown casually on both sides of the road, and some were even nailed to the wall. Most of them were headless corpses, and the heads disappeared strangely, as if the initiator had a special need for this.

Calistarius looked at the scene furiously and roared impatiently.

To be fair, he should have remained calm. It was not the best solution to make a sound rashly, but how could he remain calm in such a situation?

No, there was no way. At this moment, he had no means to stop the anger and could only let it attack his whole body.

But he was not the only one here. His reckless behavior soon led to some not-so-good consequences. Several ferocious beasts discovered his presence among the corpses and rushed over, biting him with their bloody mouths wide open.

They were incredibly fast, but Calistarius was faster. He recognized it as Khorne's hound at a glance, and then kicked the first one that rushed the fastest and sent it flying back.

His original intention was to stop it, but without armor, this kick easily kicked the hound's head crooked, and it flew out and crashed into the pile of corpses, flesh and blood exploded, blood mist rose, and the beast died completely.

Calistarius was confused again, but his fighting instincts had to react before him. Thinking was thrown out of his mind, he raised his foot, predicted exactly when the second hound would bite him, and then fell heavily.

A dull sound followed, and the hound was trampled to death alive, its internal organs gushing out along the broken skin, leaving a winding trail on the ground.

Calistarius growled, and the violent release made him feel a little comfortable for a short time. He began to charge, and rushed in the opposite direction to the third, fourth, and even more hounds.

He rushed into them and began to kill with his bare hands, each attack faster and more fierce than the previous one.

Is this a good thing? He was not sure, he just felt as if he was breaking. Some kind of foundation for Calistarius' existence, the beliefs he believed in in his past life, were breaking bit by bit.

He should have stopped to think about what this meant, but the increase in enemies stopped him. Khorne's bloodletters noticed what was happening here, so they turned their troops and rushed towards him.

Calistarius immediately realized that he had to leave, and he withdrew from the violence and ran away from the corridor.

——

Robert Guilliman walked towards a mortal.

He lowered his head and looked at her carefully.

This person was wrapped in a white robe. She must have lived a pampered life on weekdays. Her skin was delicate and there was no trace of labor on her fingers. The face had also been adjusted many times, showing a kind of acquired beauty, and every corner contained subtle traces left by the operation.

He smiled, then stretched out his right hand and casually stroked her neck with his index finger. Blood gushed out, staining his hand red,

He lowered his body. Soon, her memory rushed into his mind.

The daughter of the governor, a noble family, a forbidden lover, rich knowledge, and abuse of family power-looking at these things, Robert Guilliman smiled and looked at others.

In the small corner of the banquet hall, they huddled together, keeping each other warm like animals, and were almost going crazy. They were afraid of him, afraid that they would be the next food to be put on the table or eaten on the spot.

Others were not like that. They were not afraid of him. These unarmed warriors in blue armor were staring at him angrily, and each of them was missing some limbs.

Guilliman knew how they lost their limbs-of course they were torn off by him alive, otherwise? These were precious ingredients and could not be eaten all at once. Otherwise, if he missed the taste, where would he find them again?

Not long ago, he had destroyed most of them with conspiracy. The artillery bombardment and the subsequent ship crash turned most of the food into completely inedible charcoal and dust.

These only sons of his left must be properly dealt with.

Guilliman looked at them gently.

"Monster!"

A young battle brother roared. Compared with the others, he had lost more. Not only did he lose his left hand, but also a part of the flesh on his face was taken away, and the hideous teeth marks stayed on his cheekbone.

Watching this scene, the delicious feeling at that time suddenly surged back from the corner of his memory, and Robert Guilliman couldn't help but salivate. He suppressed his desire and shook his head slowly.

"Whatever you say, my son." He replied with a smile. "But you must feel the blood connection between us"

He raised his hands, revealing his chest as if asking for a hug. What he said was true. Every Ultramarines present could feel the blood connection from him.

It was an indescribable feeling, which should not exist, but it did. Realizing this really drove them crazy. Some of them gnashed their teeth, wishing they could rush up and kill him right now - or throw themselves into his arms and hug the Primarch.

"That's the truth." Guilliman slowly caught up with his words, smiling as always.

His golden hair was emitting a dazzling light in the golden splendor of the banquet hall. Although he had just done such a bloody evil, there was no blood on his face. His blue eyes were extremely bright and clear.

From every angle, he was Robert Guilliman, the Primarch of the Thirteenth Legion, the son of Macragge. However, the long table behind him was piled with corpses.

Every seat and every corner was filled with human remains. Hair, teeth, nails and broken parts of power armor were thrown everywhere, emitting an incredible bloody smell. The ground was scarlet and the carpet was completely soaked with them.

Roboute Guilliman put down his hands.

"I-"

He nodded to them, accepting all the anger, fear and madness.

"- is your Primarch, I am Roboute Guilliman. I stand in front of you alive, don't I? Can't you see how real my existence is?"

He stepped forward and smiled and nodded his chest.

"If you don't believe it, just touch it." He said gently. "See if the touch of this flesh and blood is real, how about it? Want to try it, my pride?"

No one responded, only heavy breathing. After a moment, an Ultramarine stepped forward.

"I don't care what you are, I don't care. I don't know what you want to do, but you won't succeed."

"Oh, really? Why?" Guilliman asked, and sighed secretly-the taste of an idealist.

He was almost proud of him.

Facing powerful enemies and incomprehensible terror, he still stood up and gave inspiring speeches. Although he had no weapons and his right leg was missing, he still stood straight enough to be included in the military posture standard for others to learn.

It would be great if you were on my side.

Roboute Guilliman looked at his son sadly, and suddenly, an idea slowly came to him.

"Because we know what you are, you are just--"

Guilliman didn't let him finish his words. He rushed to him, dragged him out of the crowd, and walked to the long table. He pressed him to the table and dislocated his jaw, then raised his left hand and slowly drew a circle on his chest with his index finger.

A piece of steaming meat fell into his palm.

Guilliman looked at the battle brother and saw fear in his eyes for the first time.

"It doesn't have to be like this." He patted his head gently. "My son, you will soon know what I am."