40k: Midnight Blade

Chapter 690 72. Interlude: Resurrection (2)

"I'm organizing language," said Konrad Coates.

The lights flickered, and the hard metal that made up the deck was creaking, slowly deforming in the unnatural cold. The inventor of this alloy must have never imagined that his creation would one day have to undergo such a test.

But fate is so unpredictable.

"I must think it over carefully before expressing my opinion." The King of Night frowned and said.

He was walking, pacing back and forth, and darkness and mist continued to escape from his feet, making him look like a lanky ghost, with his head even touching the top of the cabin. Despite this, no footsteps could be heard in the narrow room.

The cold continues to spread.

Soon after, the lights stopped flickering, and the remaining light began to grow dimmer. This poor technological creation was on the verge of collapse. Seemingly noticing this, Konrad Coates finally stopped.

There was a hint of irritation on his pale face, and then he looked up at the filament protected by the metal mesh and glass cover, and his lips trembled slightly.

A man sitting upright on the edge of the bed, with a wide-brimmed hat covering his knees, thought he would utter an unflattering curse, but he was wrong.

Conrad Curze simply said: "I've thought it over, Sealbearer."

A gust of wind whistled.

"Yes, I insist. It's his own business if he wants to deal with this problem on his own, but we can't just do nothing and leave it like this. Malcador, I have other things to deal with."

When the breeze died down, Conrad Coates closed his eyes, took off the crown on his head, and threw it to the man.

The latter raised his hand to take it, neither hurried nor slow. The time was stuck just right, and the movement of his arms and fingers showed a kind of mechanical precision and stiffness.

The moonlight shined brightly, illuminating his pale face, and a few strands of life hung stubbornly on it, allowing those eyes to retain the last trace of humanity.

Curze folded his hands, bent down, and looked into these eyes.

"That's strange," he said sarcastically. "You actually learned when enough is enough."

The man tried several times to answer this sentence, but to no avail. Some deep-rooted coldness in his soul cruelly suppressed the urge to speak.

This coldness was like a dull program. It judged that this ridicule did not require an answer, so it responded to the man's limited humanity at this time with superior authority - silence.

This led to even more serious ridicule.

"I really can't stand you looking like this," Curze said softly. "It's almost like going back to those fateful eighteen years. It's a shame our ravens aren't here."

The man frowned, but that seemed to be the best response he could give.

So, will the Night King be happy with this? The answer is obvious.

He smiled, this smile was very gentle, his facial muscles were raised slightly, and the corners of his lips were slightly hooked, as if he was feeling the spring breeze blowing on his face, strolling in one of the newly built large baths in Nostramo.

He turned around, walked to a corner of the cabin, bent down, and approached the larger port window.

At this time, a battleship was passing by silently. Its surface was mottled, and the muzzle of the gun still emitted a warm and red light after the firing. You don't need to think about it to know what kind of hard work the sailors on the artillery positions are doing.

Cleaning, cooling, and maintenance. These three things may sound simple, but when it comes to actually needing to be performed with both hands, they become arduous tasks that can make any healthy and strong adult exhausted. .

He spoke slowly with a straight face.

"Soon, you will have to deal with the Dark Angels, and Leon will obviously not be able to come back for a while. So, what are you going to do, Khalil? Do it again, and let the Dark Angels experience what they were like back then. How do we feel in fear?"

Finally, the man who sat upright made a little sound. It was a lonely syllable, firm and short, with unquestionable determination.

"No."

Conrad Coates turned around with a smile.

"Really?" he asked, his robes flowing like a living thing.

He was bathing in the dim red light brought by the battleship, but there was no shadow under his feet. In fact, those lights even penetrated his body. At this moment, a little blood seemed to surge on his pale face.

However, those dark eyes also turned dark red. Black and red blend together, and the red threads surround the black like twisted railings.

He smiled, and then said: "I don't believe you can return to normal in such a short period of time - we have to find a way, father, otherwise those young lions will go crazy. They are not like us, who can accept those incredible things. Well, they might drive all the way to Terra for this."

The man still maintained a shocking silence, but his hands moved again: he slowly picked up the wide-brimmed hat and put it on his head upright.

Coates understood what he was trying to say without a teacher.

"I don't think you can get away with being an Inquisitor - indeed, the Inquisition has always been like a big mental hospital, but it cannot accommodate a lunatic of your level."

After the words fell, Coze sighed softly, and the Moonlight Crown slowly floated up and returned to its original position.

"I have to go back, father. The wasteland needs me. There are too many unjust deaths in this galaxy."

He raised his head, walked up to the man, and then spoke again, and he spoke in great detail, telling almost every detail of what he was thinking, which was completely different from his previous style.

"But I can't worry about you. The diplomatic incident between the First Army and the Eighth Army has been enough once, and it must not happen again. There must be some among those young lions who have a bad temper like Leon when he was young. People, if they are possessed by anger for a moment, I don’t even dare to think about what will happen next.”

The man's face was tense, making him look like he was wearing a mask that was about to slip off.

The King of Night took in all this reaction, and the expression on his face turned into a complex expression mixed with guilt at some point, but he still continued to speak - or, in other words, analyzed it.

In the past, with the tacit understanding between them, these things could be explained clearly with just one look. But things are different now. Now, what dominates the body of Khalil Lohars is something completely cold.

This thing will use absolute rationality to judge everyone, regardless of status. It doesn't matter whether you are noble, ordinary or powerful. Even the Primarch felt sick as if from the terrifying chill.

During those eighteen years, everyone who stood in front of it was forced to bear this heavy pressure.

Roger Dorn describes it directly as going to court and being tried for something you never did. Angron said it was like someone cutting the flesh with a dull knife, then throwing a handful of hot sand on it and rubbing it constantly.

Even the blacksmith who was living in seclusion on Nocturne once said that he didn't like that feeling - "pain." Vulkan said. "That was the first feeling that came over me at that time, even the anger was secondary."

Coates slowed down his tone and said carefully and patiently: "It is impossible for them to have experienced something similar, so they will definitely regard your performance at that time as a precursor to an attack. Once some things start, there is no room to look back, father. "

"It seemed to me that they were going to fight back - at least in their eyes. Think about it, when the bombs are whizzing past your ears, even though some people are calling on their brothers to calm down. You will be there do what?"

The man lowered his head speechlessly.

"So, you have only one choice now - leave." The King of Night said. "The temporary departure will make them confused, but it will definitely not make things slide into the worst direction. Let me remind you again, they are not the same people we were back then."

He paused for a moment and shook his head with complicated eyes.

"So, you will definitely not have any patience left at that time. So, you must leave, Khalil. Otherwise, the Dark Angels Chapter will be destroyed in your hands today."

"To put it worse, the people on Camas may not be immune to the disaster. You have never killed anyone, but if you don't listen to my advice, then today will be the wrong start and the beginning of destruction."

The Night King lowered his head, reached out and grasped his father's shoulders, and spoke deeply, lowly.

"You will be consumed by it, and it will hate us all until the galaxy is empty and everything is burned."

".Okay." Khalil Lohars made a voice in great pain.

Conrad Coates smiled slightly, took a step back, and the moonlight lit up. Amidst the solemn chanting that followed, he told through lip language——

"——I'll take you to Terra, where someone is already waiting for you."

——

What Curze said was true. When the man in the Inquisitor uniform strode out of the dimming moonlight, a person he had seen before was already standing among the dark bricks and cables laying on the ground and facing him. Bowed slightly.

His cloudy white eyes were reflecting the dim light, naturally giving off an inhuman feeling.

"Instructor, the Soul Hunter salutes you."

After bowing, the hunter who appeared here for some reason slowly straightened up, and the scripture hanging on the power armor swayed slightly.

The man didn't respond to his greetings at all. The little bit of humanity he had left was urging his body to think about the cause of the teleportation that just happened.

He wanted to know what price the Midnight Ghost paid. He was going crazy thinking about it.

But the hunter seemed to understand his thoughts clearly, and soon his unique husky voice sounded again.

"The Primarch paid nothing."

As he spoke, he reached out and pulled off a piece of scripture on his right shoulder armor, slowly crumpled the parchment roll, and held it in his palm. The coldness representing spiritual energy passed by gently, attracting the man's cold gaze.

The hunter frowned in a rare way, and it wasn't until several seconds later that he opened his palm and showed the pitch-black piece of armor to the man.

"We will pay the price," the hunter said, throwing out the armor. The man quickly raised his hand and held it, and the light flashed away. When it disappeared completely, Khalil Lohars sighed deeply.

"How many people?" he asked.

"Not worth mentioning," said the hunter. "Also, welcome back, instructor."

"No, this is important, hunter. Tell me, how many?"

His words caused a moment of careful scrutiny, and then the hunter nodded slightly and answered the question.

"Then, the answer is 55,555 people. However, in fact, they should not be counted as humans, but as dead souls."

Khalil frowned immediately. He had just recovered some of his humanity. If it was 1 before, it would be 5 now. It was not much, but it was enough for him to barely shut out the coldness - unless there was a battle.

However, this also meant that he could not easily use the power brought by authority as usual.

"Yes, just as you thought, they are the dead souls in the wasteland." The hunter lowered his eyebrows and eyes. "They paid the price for the primarch."

"What did they pay?"

"They paid nothing, but got rest, a real rest." The hunter said thoughtfully. "Their grievances have long been washed away, and they usually sleep quietly under the wasteland, just waiting for moments like today to come."

The more Khalil listened, the tighter his brows: "Who came up with this idea?"

He secretly hoped that it was not Konrad Curze.

"Primarch."

".How could he do this?"

The hunter quickly raised his eyes to look at him, as if he heard the disbelief and great heartache in this sentence. Without pausing, he answered fluently.

"For ten thousand years, the Primarch rarely left the wasteland and cemetery. He has been dealing with the dead souls, the angriest, the craziest, the saddest. No matter how much hatred they once had, this hatred will inevitably be eliminated one day."

"According to your words, everything has two sides, instructor. Your power will give the innocent dead the power of revenge, but what about after that? What if their hatred is appeased?"

"They will come back." The hunter said in a low voice. "Father, mother, husband, wife, son, daughter - these most precious annotations and identities will return with the emotions that surge from the depths of the soul."

"They will know who they are, they will reunite with their loved ones, and they will also know who forged the sharp blade for them and cut open the enemy's chest. They will understand who has always stood on their side and who has always disobeyed authority and been a biased evil god."

When he said this, the hunter seemed to smile. If other Night Blade Chapter Captains who knew him were here, they would probably be surprised to speak in their hometown dialect.

Khalil looked at him quietly, his eyes shining like the lake at night.

The hunter stopped laughing and even looked a little shocked.

".Anyway." He said slowly. "It may sound absurd, but the dead souls did form a committee. For ten thousand years, they kept writing letters to the Primarch, asking him to agree and adopt their opinions. In the end, the Primarch agreed."

"So, that's what happened, instructor. I think if it were you, you would agree too."

"No." Khalil said. "I won't."

This time, the hunter really laughed, but he didn't say anything.