40k: Midnight Blade

Chapter 671 53 Belated Judgment (Twenty-two, twists and turns)

Chapter 671 53. Belated Judgment (Twenty-two, Twists and Turns)

If possible, Serafax hopes that he and Lion El'Jonson can have a chance to sit down and talk to each other calmly.

No deception, no conspiracy, and even no hostility-but he also knows that Lion El'Jonson will never agree to this.

The lion he knows is a man with extremely strong willpower. He was too cold-blooded when he was young, and he became harder as he got older. No matter how hard you try, he will just stand there, holding the lion sword in his hand, waiting for the opportunity to strike a fatal blow.

Lion El'Jonson considers himself the guardian of mankind-for this, he can do anything.

It's just that there is still a long way to go between "doing" and "doing it".

Of course, he can continue to fight, and continue to use the willpower that Serafax has never seen in other Lion El'Jonsons to resist the influence of the warp magic, and even wake up for a short time and make his own voice.

But he can't overcome all this.

Serafax turned his head and looked deeply at his Primarch.

The surroundings were full of darkness, and the lion sat on the throne with his eyes closed, leaning on the lion sword in his hand. A faint light fell from the sky and hit his face. Although he was covered in blood, his majesty was not damaged. At this moment, he looked like a king of bloody battles, and murderous intent suddenly rose between his frowning brows.

Serafax couldn't help but sigh.

He was very tired, really tired. Even if he held the power given by the gods, he couldn't offset this fatigue. In his life, there was never a moment when he realized his insignificance more deeply than now.

I am just a mortal after all, with a mortal mind. I am neither immortal nor a saint. Serafax thought about this, reminded himself again, and felt a sense of calm.

Yes, calm.

He did not grow mad like other self-righteous collaborators of Tzeentch, nor did he step into any inevitable traps forged by human nature. He did not forget his goal - in a sense, this is the best proof that he is the descendant of Lion El'Jonson: he has the willpower and action of his original master.

Of course, the lion will never be proud of this.

Serafax couldn't help laughing, and at the same time hooked his fingers, making the undead in the dark wail together. He didn't want to torture them, but he had no other choice. Tzeentch really gave him power, but he never said that he would not obstruct or tempt him along the way.

The magic he provided was one of the endless temptations that Serafax had to face.

In essence, this magic circle is very simple. It requires human pain and despair, absorbs it, and refines the souls of the sacrifices into pure energy to feed back to the caster. How much you give it, how much it can give back.

It sounds simple, but the simpler it is, the harder it is - the reason is that it has no side effects, no side effects at all.

It is energy, and it is energy, without any other impurities. It will be fed back to the caster, and it will never be accepted or transferred.

Think about it carefully, how tempting is this for a normal Chaos wizard? Think about it again, how incredible is this for any witchcraft born from Chaos?

Tzeentch gave too much, but Serafax still chose not to.

He concentrated on manipulating the magic circle, and the constant wailing and screaming in his ears could not affect him at all. When a person really makes up his mind, he can no longer be tied down by anything other than death.

This applies to all human beings, even the lowest, most shameless, and weakest scum. Every time he thinks of this, his tired heart will be rejuvenated - strangely enough, he is even proud of it.

Not for himself, but for them.

Which them?

Are they the ordinary soldiers who dared and still dared to charge when facing him? Are they his brothers who let the civilians board the ship first and stayed on the ground, raising the flag of the Knights? Or are they the bureaucrats who dared to call him a traitor to his face?

Serafax had no answer.

He had seen people kneeling and begging for mercy, people who tried to cooperate with him to become a member of the so-called "new god", and people who betrayed everything in order to survive. But the ones he saw most were those who refused to surrender to him.

There are so many timelines related to this world, and countless similar or different Calibans. Killing, blood, betrayal, sacrifice - endless, and countless victims.

The soaked soldier who stood up in the trench stepping on the corpses of his companions, trembling and holding the gun tightly, shot at him. The crew leader who climbed out of the burning tank limped and charged at him. The knight, who had used up all his ammunition and whose power swords were worn down by the resurrected dead, protected the few remaining civilians behind him, using the company's flag as a weapon, and roared at him.

Too much, too much.

Serafax felt tears sliding down his charred face. This was strange, because he had probably not shed tears for many years.

He had fallen into madness and collapsed and cried in the face of endless slaughter. The tears at that time were the pain and self-blame for the atrocities caused by his own stupidity, but the tears now came from sadness, a sadness that had existed since the ape era.

He wouldn't want to kill any of them if he could. If possible, he would like to be the victim himself. If this is the most beautiful, dreamy, and painful word in the world - when you read it, your brain will start to fantasize. When you think of it, the beautiful things you can't get will appear before your eyes.

Then it becomes more and more painful because of all the disparity and because reality does not accept what-ifs.

Reality rejects all beautiful illusions. Reality is cold and cruel. Otherwise, why would people use it to refer to or even accuse someone of being particularly pragmatic? Ultimately, everyone has a moment or thought that can only be replaced by an 'what if', and that's what separates Serafax from them all - he takes action.

No matter what the cost.

"We were born of the Great Crusade, Primarch."

With his back to the sleeping lion, the traitor who had committed the most horrific atrocities in the history of the Dark Legion spoke in a steady voice and began to tell his genetic father word for word about his purpose and plan.

"This is a noble and arduous task, but it is also a task that must be carried out. Since the old night, humans have been lost to each other for too long. Our compatriots have been living in pain, and some have even become slaves of aliens. ”

"The Emperor could not tolerate this, so he created us. He needed us as tools to make humanity whole again. He trusted us so much that we must not let him down. But we failed. "

The scorched corpse turned around, and two dark ropes suddenly popped out of the darkness and wrapped around both sides of his wrists. A dim light flashed in his eyes, and terrifying energy began to spread along his hands to the surroundings.

"The Emperor is wounded, Terra is broken, superstition is rampant, and bureaucracy is killing people. You can pick a thousand worlds across the galaxy, put them on a list, look at them, and you'll hear them scream, You will hear the cries of our compatriots." "I believe you can hear it, Primarch, and you must also realize the absurdity of this matter - we have clearly won, but why are our compatriots still alive? pain?"

"You must have seen this mistake, otherwise you would not carry out drastic reforms in the place you protect. I understand, Primarch, I understand your difficulties. Even as Primarch, you are still a human being, not a god. Even the emperor can't do it, so why can you do it? It's not easy to manage the world now. "

"But, have we really won?" The burnt corpse raised its head and asked the lion.

The lion didn't answer, and couldn't answer, so it was more like he was asking and answering himself.

"According to the official statement, we won, and it was a great victory. The traitors Horus and Alpharius have been killed, and their traitorous descendants can only hide and escape, and will eventually wait for the judgment. But what is the reality? "

"Chaos doesn't care about the death of Horus and Alpharius. They never cared. They just want the Emperor to sit on that instrument of torture. Ha, the state religion proudly calls it the residence of the gods, gold. Throne. It’s all bullshit!”

"That chair is just another tool of the Emperor, one that he uses to burn himself to protect humanity. So accept it, Primarch."

Serafax sighed in shame, sadness, and anger.

"Humanity lost, and we failed to make any difference," he said. "I can't accept this, so I'm going to change it."

He paused for a few seconds, his cheek suddenly twitched, and a hollow and distant echo came from the darkness.

"And this requires a huge amount of energy and strength. I must be able to participate on that day and have an impact on the situation. But what if I fail?"

Serafax lowered his head and began to step upward. He walked slowly, each step up the steps awkward. The rope wrapped around his wrist stretched straight, and there were two sounds of heavy objects falling to the ground again in the darkness, followed by a creeping and sticky crunching sound.

"I have to have two things prepared, a backup plan, just like you taught us, just like Ser Luther told us - before you initiate a fight or enter a fight, make sure you have at least two options. Don’t just think about how to win, but also how to deal with failure.”

Serafax walked step by step in front of his original body, and then knelt down on one knee. His arms were bent into a very ridiculous posture, and the weight of his sins was being held on his wrists, causing him incomparable torture.

Another spell is at work, one that feeds greedily on the pain wrenched from the human soul, hungry for more.

And here happened to be a person who was in great pain and had been in pain for ten years.

Serafax is powering it herself.

"My second solution is you, Primarch." The Dark Angel said very calmly. "I don't believe I can simply go back to the Shattered Day of Terra and undo everything. No, it's not possible, not even if I cut off ten thousand more Calibans. The longer I kill, the more I kill. , the more you can understand how powerful the enemy of Chaos is, and how powerful the Emperor is."

"He is our only light, our only shield and sword. If I can't change all this, I hope I can at least do something for him. Therefore, I need you - or in other words, a better you."

Except for the throne, the ground began to melt, the darkness disappeared, and the corpses were exposed. The Lion El'Jonsons wrapped in roots floated up one by one and floated around the throne.

A blond boy floated up, he was still alive, his eyes closed.

"Body." Serafax said. "You, the purest and most flawless of countless timelines, will be the carrier of your return to the past."

A dark angel floated up, it was Zabril who fell into deep sleep. Many roots inserted into his face, quietly changing everything, making his eyebrows look extremely similar to Serafax.

"Guardian." Serafax said. "A loyal man, an extremely determined man. I will tell him everything, and then let him accompany you back to the past. Trust him, Primarch, just as you once trusted me and Sir Luther."

He closed his mouth, as if he had finished speaking, and his charred face began to recover rapidly.

The bones became solid and white again, and the places that had been damaged or stained by Chaos were erased. Then came the nerves and flesh, and finally the skin. Even the tattoos returned—a winged sword emblem, engraved on the left side of his chest.

Serafax slowly stood up, and a set of armor flew out of the darkness, as if controlled by an invisible hand, floating one by one on his body, aiming at the neural interface, and began to put on the armor.

This is a very old MK2. The unique black color of the First Legion makes it look very majestic. The unique relief of the Astartes during the Great Expedition shines on the shoulder armor and arm armor. A power sword hangs on his waist and a bolter is held in his hand.

The dark angel Serafax raised his head and let the helmet fall, covering his face. The scarlet eyepiece lit up rapidly, and then his low voice, which had been changed by the breathing grid, sounded in the lion's ears for the last time.

"But you must prove yourself first, Primarch. Not to me, but to them."

Who? Prove to whom?

Looking at the corpses around, the answer is self-evident.

Serafax turned around, and a door appeared in front of him. There was no sign, just pure light.

Behind him, Zabril, who was still asleep, suddenly opened his eyes. He obviously didn't know what happened, but his eyes were instinctively fixed on Serafax who had his back to him.

The Dark Angel said without looking back: "Do what you should do, Zabril, don't let the Emperor and the Lion down."

After that, he stepped into the door of light, and a war world that he and many Dark Angels had never been to roared over and swallowed him up.

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