Warhammer: In the Name of Nirvana

Unlike those trivial matters that have been worn away in the tide of memory, I always remember clearly the day I died.

When you are dying, it is an unforgettable memory: when the scythe of the god of death stays beside your bed for a long time, kissing your fate for the rest of your life, the memory it brings is so deep, and the fear and trembling it spreads are far beyond the comparison of those [life and death crises] that are like playing house.

So, I remember clearly that I died at the end of the Terra Unification War, died in the seventy-seventh year of official service, died at the moment when the keel of the Indomitable Truth gradually built up cast a shadow in the sky, and died in the place where I could see the Thunderstone Church: the great emperor watched my final chapter.

He also decided my fate.

Damn generous.

Memories brought anger, and I started to cough again, mixed with the dull footsteps and the echoes in the corridor, sounding sticky and disgusting, like an old mortal who has reached the end of his life: the best dreadnoughts do guarantee my combat capability and allow me to vent my anger, but even these ingenious creations cannot change the sad fact that my body has long been broken and I am now just lingering on in the world.

Every time at this time, I can understand my old brothers: why they are willing to fall into a long sleep like the cowards they despise the most, and they are unwilling to wake up no matter how they plead and lament, because they know that waking up will be a more terrible hell.

We all know that the world no longer needs us. Even the younger generations and warriors who respect us the most only respect our bravery and legends in life, not our current decay: as an Astartes warrior, we are most proud of our powerful military force and unparalleled loyalty, but these are now invalid. All we can offer is the so-called wisdom that we once disdained.

As for the strength of the fearless?

That is the credit of these mechas. What does it have to do with us old guys? If it were not for cost considerations, putting those young people in this fearless mecha would not be less powerful than us. The so-called experience and experience are just icing on the cake, and there is rarely a chance to help in times of trouble: but they don’t need these living coffins.

After all, for any true Astartes warrior, the basic skills that must be mastered are: even if he loses all the armor, weapons or other equipment on his body and can only fight with bare hands, he will still be the most deadly killer in this galaxy.

Bolt guns, chainswords, terminators or dreadnoughts: these sacred equipment make us stronger, but they are not the source of our power. Even without these things, we can still fight, but now I can't do that.

Without this coffin, it's very difficult for me to even crawl a few meters above the ground.

So, I see it very clearly: no matter how respected I am, it doesn't change the reality that I am a useless person. I have long lost the original meaning of existence, making reality the most terrible purgatory in my eyes, and making sleep the choice of most of the time.

Although I don't know much about other legions, at least here, this huge gap is the reason why I and other old things choose to fall into sleep: As for the pain of the dreadnought? That's just an excuse to fool people and deceive ourselves.

This thing does hurt, but it doesn't hurt so much that we have to escape.

Besides, if we were really suffering terrible pain all the time, how could we fall into such a long and peaceful sleep: Again, I don’t know much about other legions, but if it is in our Second Legion, even in the dark years when the legion was almost collapsed, the younger generation did not forget to take care of us old guys. The fearless does bring a sense of torture, but the careful and meticulous care can offset most of it.

(I remember that the setting of the fearless mecha torturing people is actually quite difficult to understand, but there is an explanation: because the people who take care of the fearless are generally characters like mechanical priests, these guys habitually do not treat people as people, so it is inevitable that they will be a little rough when taking care of the elderly)

What makes me happy is that after our gene mother took over the Second Legion, she did not cancel the benefits of us old guys, but strengthened them a lot: she has a monastery composed of Astartes warriors, mortal doctors and gear boys, who are responsible for the daily life of us old guys.

This behavior is consistent with her reputation for being sentimental. I know this is definitely not a good word in the outside world, but it seems to be well accepted within the Legion, because although most people don't see the Primarch often, they will definitely see him once or twice: it is said that the performance of the Mother of Genes perfectly fits this word.

Sentimental... um...

And mysterious, shrewd, good at using psychic powers, and petty.

"Like a slightly extroverted and flamboyant Eugenie Grandet."

The old friend's comment slipped into my mind at this time. He was someone who fought side by side with the Mother of Genes. I had to believe his evaluation of our Primarch, and then I remembered the ancient book we all read: when we were still able to walk on Terra, we dug up thousands of books from the Golden Age or even older times, and the earliest entertainment activities of the Legion were to study them.

It is said that it is still the same now: and it has become more and more refined.

Refined: It goes well with sentimentality.

I still don't like this word. I don't know if this rumor has spread, and whether those old bastards in the First and Third Legions know about it: If they have the slightest intention of mocking me when we meet next time, I must punch them into amnesia.

It's better to practice now: Anyway, someone will take care of my daily maintenance.

There shouldn't be anyone to take care of them: If they become like me.

Although I still think it's a waste: The Legion Council did pass it unanimously.

This is good.

But for so many years, our Primarch has been in charge of the Legion for a hundred years, and no new dreadnoughts have been sent over: These young people seem to have new means, so they can return to the battlefield so lively, or just close their eyes cleanly.

This is not good.

Why am I not so lucky!

"Damn it, I died too early..."

"If I had known I would be born later, maybe I could live to the 40th millennium."

"By then, I can still see the good future we have won with our own hands."

Walking on the long corridor of the North Star, which should now be called the Aurora, I admired the murals, flags and various honor banners that have changed a lot, trying to remember the achievements of the Legion in my absence, and I couldn't help but lament in my heart: Lamenting that I have fallen to the current situation.

I even blame the gene mother who gave me seeds and power: Why is she not the first child of the empire to return? Look at the achievements she has made, look at the Legion she pulled back from the edge of the cliff, look at the country she has built with her own strength, she deserves the title of Warmaster more than that Cthonia bastard!

If it was my gene mother who was holding the Warmaster ceremony in Ullanor, I would definitely wake up those sleeping old things one by one, and then gather the team to wake up my old acquaintances who were also sleeping in other legions.

They can of course scold me and go back to sleep, anyway, I must let them know that my great gene mother is the Warmaster, which is very important: of course, it is also important to torment those bastards.

I laughed, briefly indulging in this rare fantasy time, and the little kid leading the way in front of me seemed to tremble: the young people nowadays are so cowardly, far from us who dared to fight against heaven and earth, holding either radiation weapons or hot melt bombs in our hands, unlike the children I introduced to me, holding...

Hmm?

"Why are you holding a book in your hand?"

I couldn't help but feel strange, because the name of this book is really weird.

"Forget it, you tell me first."

"What is the Fearless Codex?"

"Um... this..."

The little guy opened his mouth and looked at the gear boy next to him for help, but after receiving a strange electronic noise, he could only turn his stupid face to me again: I am surprised that I am so patient.

"Report to you, elder: This is the manual written by Lord Guilliman."

"Guilliman? Manual?"

Both words are unfamiliar to me.

"Who is Guilliman?"

"Lord Guilliman is the Primarch of the 13th Ultramarines Legion and the lord of the 500 Worlds of Ultramar. He is the closest brother, friend and ally of our Gene Mother. The bond between Mother and him is second only to Lords Jonson and Conrad."

"I have heard of Jonson. He was there when the Primarch returned."

"Who is Conrad?"

"Uh...our champion swordsman?"

"Ah?"

"..."

"Forget it, what happened next?"

"Then, then, Mother told Lord Guilliman about the fact that she had set up the Fearless Order to take care of the daily maintenance of the elders. Guilliman felt I thought this was good, so I came to visit it, and then I wrote this book of fearlessness after I went back, wanting to tell others how to take care of their fearless mental and physical state as much as possible in their daily lives. "

"It sounds like a big-assed baby who has just made a career in his own remote village, and can't wait to run into the nearest rural TV station to sell his success theory and life philosophy to everyone. It's not enough to be on TV, and he also wants to publish a book: Do you have to give personal lectures? Go to various universities and units to spit shit one by one? "

"..."

Obviously, the kid standing in front of me shook unconsciously: I can see recognition in his eyes.

"I'm telling you, elder: don't say this in public."

"What else?"

"Otherwise it will easily destroy the unbreakable alliance between us and the Five Hundred Worlds."

"Got it: I'll talk to you in a few years."

"Now, kid, continue to lead the way for me, and take out a pen and paper. I want you to write down a few names and find out if these bastards are still alive. Since you summoned me, if you want me to accompany you to perform tricks, you have to fulfill my wish in the next few days."

"What... wish?"

"It's very simple."

I noticed how hideous the smile on my face looked at this moment. Even though we were separated by the heavy Dreadnought, the slight laughter that leaked out was enough to make the kid tremble: These juniors are really cowardly, although I know this may just be respect for me.

After all, I am also the first batch of genuine Fang Angels, or the first batch of Dawnbreakers. My number in the legion is [Fifteen]: literally, I am the fifteenth member after the establishment of the Second Legion, and the first Dreadnought in the entire army. At the same time, strictly speaking, I am the 336th Astartes warrior in the human empire.

I still have this status.

But this still did not stop those old guys from tricking me to this extent back then.

It's time to settle accounts with them.

I spit out all the names in my mind, one by one: According to the kid's exclamation, some of these guys have become legion commanders, and the worst have become company commanders. There are also a few old guys who are already in semi-retirement.

Damn, I'm so lucky.

I cursed again, like clearing the last blockage in my brain, and I finally remembered those important things: when we moved forward again, I remembered how I died.

Just like I said.

I died in the Thunderstone Church.

But I didn't die in the battle.

...

This sentence is not accurate either.

After all: I was indeed beaten to death.

Just when we were doing the most popular hobby in the legion.

Um... archaeology...

——————

I remember very clearly that when the Emperor went to the Thunderstone Church to deal with the private matters he mentioned, he did not intend to choose us as his guard at first: he only brought some of the Imperial Guards and Thunder Warriors. Although a few of us Fangs also went, we were mostly left outside by the old man and raised.

It can't be said to be raised, we did have a mission at that time: the Thunderstone Church is one of the best preserved monuments on Terra, and there are countless ancient tombs, vaults and dungeons next to it. Digging any of them can bring practical benefits to the empire at that time, and this is our mission.

No one really thought that we would devote a lot of manpower, material resources, and even lives to an amateur activity like archaeology: it was called an amateur activity, but it was actually one of the main responsibilities of our legion at that time. Otherwise, how could those bastards from the First Legion be so kind as to come and clean up our messes every time?

Because that was also their responsibility: to settle things for us pathfinders.

It was all the Emperor's mission.

I am a veteran in this business. In my more than 70 years of military career, I have emptied hundreds of tombs and bases: but I was defeated in that incident. It can't be said that I was defeated in the ditch. Facing several security robots left over from the golden age, I think it was a feat to lead the team to retreat unscathed.

As for the only price?

Probably only myself who was beaten to pieces as the rear guard.

Death came as expected, but none of us panicked at the time. The atmosphere was like sending an old friend off on a long journey. We even had the leisure to discuss how to divide the loot while waiting for the medical officer: most of the things do need to be handed in, and we can keep the small parts ourselves.

But some things are not so important but are indeed valuable, which is often the premise of wandering in the gray area: although in most cases, we cannot keep these loot in the hands of the Imperial Guards and the First Legion, but there are also successful cases.

And more importantly, we did dig out good things in the vault that time, so good that I felt that my death was worth it: it was military armor from ancient times, which was more than enough to match the Imperial Guards. After we handed in most of the finished products, the descendants of these military armors are still praising their names in the land of the human empire.

The Imperial Guards have two types of Contemptor-level Dreadnoughts, Achilles and Gratus.

That's right: this is what we dug out from the underground vault, and it's worth risking my life for. But it's a little regrettable that at that time, most of my attention was attracted by the Lord of Humanity and the movement in the Thunderstone Church, and I didn't wait for the late-coming medical officer.

I walked towards death: death didn't scare me at that time.

But before dying, those bastard comrades who fought side by side with me surrounded those coveted military armors and my gradually cold body, looked at each other, and started a tacit conversation.

——————

"We really suffered heavy losses this time."

"Yes: an old friend was lost."

"You can't say that: look at these treasures from the golden age."

"So what? Those imperial guards may not bring medical officers, but they will definitely take away these priceless military armors: we risked our lives to bring these things out, but in the end, we couldn't keep any of them. I can't think of any reason why those imperial guards would show mercy. They are not the easy-to-talk First Army."

"..."

"Not all of them can be left behind..."

"...What do you mean?"

"Have you forgotten?"

"Our brother is a ruthless man with a good reputation in the eyes of the Emperor. Even if the imperial guards come in person, they can't bear the Emperor's anger and worry and bury our old brother in fearlessness and pull him out again: if we calculate the time, it should be enough."

＃Collective silence＃

"Fuck... Great!"

"Fuck... Absolute!"

"Fuck... Don't!!!"