Emperor's Bane

Chapter 671 The Wolf God Wants More

"eternal?"

"It's a terrible word: especially for someone like me."

A scar across his lip made any words from the Prince of Crows seem like a sneer and mockery of contempt, and he often did so: when those dark eyes moved, the style, will and soul of the entire Eighth Legion were vividly embodied in one person.

This person is not the Primarch of the Legion, but he is qualified enough.

"I can even say this on behalf of my battle brothers, all the brothers who serve the same gene father as me: We don't want eternity, that is a curse. If this galaxy really has mercy on us, it should let us die at the right time."

“When do you think is the right time?”

"Before I feel like confessing."

Sevatar laughed, and his genuine smile looked so terrifying. The pale skin and dark eyes that were standard for a Night Lord made him stand out even in the darkness where no light could reach. He wandered around like a ghost: in the dim light of the power halberd, the adamantium collar unique to the Nostramo warrior was embedded in his broad jaw.

This faint golden glow was Ahriman's only accurate means of detecting his enemies: when he and the spawn of Midnight Haunter fought each other in the pitch-black night, even the visual control ability granted by the Astartes surgery seemed not so efficient.

When he was not wearing a helmet and not using psychic powers, Ahriman could only rely on his weak vision and instinctive senses to search for Sevatar's power halberd in the shadows: he actually didn't like this arrogant feeling, but the Dawnbreaker veterans led by Bayar insisted that he do so many years ago.

“It will give you a higher chance of survival.”

They all say that.

(The visual control in the Astartes surgery will give them the ability to see normally in low-light radiation environments, but this is not true night vision, which requires light emission, so there is an electro-optical imaging system in their helmets to provide vision in low-light environments.)
(But it is well known that true Astartes do not need helmets.)
At first, Ahriman hated this meaningless torture, but he got used to it over time: when he was able to exert his original combat effectiveness without wearing a helmet, the Dawnbreaker veterans led by Bayar made new demands on him in a timely manner.

He does not use psychic powers during sword fights, does not wear power armor during sword fights, and does not use his usual blade during sword fights. In the end, he has evolved into wearing only a simple cloth robe and holding a blade he picked up, but he must also exert his combat effectiveness when fully armed: use agility, experience and skills to defeat his opponents, or at least successfully escape.

By the way, throughout the entire special training process, Ahriman's [opponents] had always been the Terran veterans led by Bayar, the killing gods against whom he could not guarantee victory even if he was fully armed and used his psychic powers.

And such painful trials continued uninterruptedly for more than ten years.

Specifically, ever since Ahriman declined the opportunity to return to the Thousand Sons Legion and placed his identity in the Dawnbreaker Legion and Avalon, thereby receiving private banquets and toasts from veterans such as Bayar, the most elite Terran warriors under Morgan's command began to tailor a set of corresponding training plans for their new member.

Ahriman never knew exactly how many people there were in this small group. He only remembered that during every training session, there would be at least two veterans with more than two hundred years of service, who would serve as his instructors and sparring partners throughout the entire process. There were very few duplicate personnel, and each face would only be seen again after a few months.

With such treatment, his current strong strength seems natural.

Ahriman sometimes wondered if he was the only one who received such preferential treatment: until he accidentally found out that he had several fellow disciples, and Sevatar was one of them. However, unlike Ahriman's "self-reliance", the Prince of Crows was shamelessly forced in by Conrad.

The Night Haunter may not be able to bend veterans like Bayard to his will, but he can nag at their mothers.

Unlike Ahriman, Sevatar's private training seemed hurried and casual. He did not always come for training and often had to leave to participate in expeditions to the Ghoul Stars, but his progress never fell behind. He easily surpassed Ahriman's diligence and successfully graduated a few years later.

Typical Night Lord style: gifted yet cynical.

Frankly speaking, Ahriman did not think highly of this irresponsible attitude, but he also had to marvel at Sevatar's talent: after fighting in the shadows where they could not see for about four or five minutes, the pair of fighting brothers who had been silent from the beginning finally put their blades against each other's necks at the same time, but their expressions were completely different.

Ahriman's face turned pale, and he felt that there seemed to be an imperceptible distance between the neck of his Chanabal saber and Sevatar's neck, but he could already feel the trembling of the power halberd on his cheek: the breathing of both parties was within the distance of each other's earlobes, and the smile of the Prince of Crows was so dazzling.

"Why are you so strong?"

Ahriman couldn't help but feel strange.

True, he admitted that he did not face the duel as a matter of life and death. He strolled leisurely in the darkness, swinging his sword with an attitude of sparring rather than hatred: but when he delivered the final blow, he was indeed serious, and his speed has always been an advantage boasted by Bayar and others.

But Sevatar was faster than he was: so fast that Ahriman envied her.

"I do not know either."

In the darkness, Sevatar's voice sounded so sincere.

"I seem to be born this way. Ever since I became conscious, I have always wanted to be stronger and faster than others, and be more able to endure the cold and pain on Nostramo. This is still the case even in the Legion. Your fighting skills are indeed better than mine, Ahriman, but I think the gap between us is..."

"talent."

The Thousand Son uttered this unfair word with a slightly bitter tone: before this, this word was used to describe him, describing his unparalleled psychic powers, a fact recognized by both Morgan and Magnus.

And apparently, Sevatar feels the same way about swords.

They each took a step back and sank back into the shadows, holding their breath. Only the sound of burning wood and the cheers of the crowd in the distance could briefly disturb their thoughts: the duel between swords and halberds continued, but no one cared about the outcome. They were simply trying to appreciate the inspiration that the other's martial arts could give them.

Ahriman's skills were obviously better, and Sevatar felt that his understanding of swordsmanship might exceed that of most of the Primarchs. He was a master who had walked his own path: The Prince of Crows assessed with ease every attack he had dodged before, only to find that apart from him, there seemed to be no one in the entire Eighth Legion who could withstand such an offensive.

In other words, if Konrad and Sevatar were both taken out, Ahriman alone would be able to shame the entire Night Lords Legion: just like what Akudona did to the Iron Hands Legion back then, they are already characters of the same level.

The Prince of Crows was amazed, and Ahriman on the opposite side was doing the same thing: as he swung the sword more and more seriously, while Sevatar remained unharmed, the Thousand Son quietly muttered to himself in his heart, if he did not have the guarantee of psychic power, could he defeat such an opponent with only the sword in his hand?

the answer is negative.

After once again pouring all his attention and skills into swinging the sword from an angle that he thought was impossible to dodge, only to see Sevatar slightly tilt his head with impossible agility and beast-like reaction ability, leaving only a few strands of broken hair, Ahriman was certain of the answer.

Without psychic powers, he would most likely not be a match for Sevatar, although there is not much difference in strength between the two. It is possible that two bodies would fall at the same time, or one would be submerged in a pool of blood, while the other would be struggling to survive for the last few seconds before the gates of hell.

"..."

Really: Why did I suddenly think of these scenes of brothers killing each other?

Ahriman shook his head. Sevatar's power halberd passed by his ear, but there was no fluctuation in the Thousand Sons' heart. He calmly dodged the attack, distanced himself, stopped, and stuck the blade into the ground. The Crow Prince opposite him did the same action, and the two of them tacitly stopped the fight.

"It seems like we do share the same teacher."

Ahriman shook his head, feeling grateful for his own unharmed condition.

"Same moves, same techniques, in the end no one can hurt anyone."

"A master taught me, and I can't break my moves."

Sevatar, who was a few meters away, laughed out loud, his playful spirit evident in his words.

"But compared to this: there is one thing I am very concerned about, Ahriman."

The next second, Sevatar's tone became unprecedentedly serious, which made Ahriman think of Conrad: Are all these Nostramo proficient in face changing?

"what's up?"

"Have you noticed..."

Before he finished speaking, something strange happened.

There was a sharp sound of breaking through the air. It was Sevatar's power halberd, projected out from the darkness, as fast as lightning: but Ahriman's reaction speed was faster than lightning. He turned sideways lightly and watched as the power halberd just brushed past his cheek and was nailed to the wall not far behind him. Sevatar's voice had not yet dissipated in the night, and Ahriman just frowned in displeasure.

"What are you doing?"

"You see, that's it."

Only then did Sevatar slowly walk out of the darkness until Ahriman could see his dark pupils clearly.

"You have changed, Ahriman."

"How to say?"

Ahriman's hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

"Didn't you notice?"

Sevatar pointed at his and Ahriman's hair, which were disheveled from the fight.

"Whether you pushed me into a desperate situation or I asked you to push me into a desperate situation, whether you were about to win or about to swallow defeat, even when my power spear was treacherously and immorally brushing past your head: your inner emotions did not fluctuate even a little, as still as dead water."

"Maybe it's because you don't know the word peace of mind, Sevatar."

"This is different!"

Sevatar pointed at himself.

"You see, I wouldn't be like that."

"indeed."

Ahriman nodded.

"During our duel, you kept cursing in your mind. I could hear you."

"That's because it's hard for me to understand the other emotions you guys are talking about. Anger and contempt are already my limit. Nothing in the world can make me waver. But I'm still trying to adapt to my shortcomings and make my heart different from yours, Ahriman."

"It's not like you... dead."

The Prince of Crows shook his head repeatedly, seeming quite proud of his mistake.

"Maybe you should discuss this matter with those guys from Bayar."

"Do you think this is serious?"

Ahriman instinctively touched his crimson armor, feeling the heartbeat that was exactly the same as when he was born. He recalled it carefully and found that what Sevatar said was indeed true: When did he become so calm?

It seems to be: the first time his swordsmanship was praised as miraculous?
At that time, he was not so happy, but was more obsessed with skills and fighting.

"Isn't this serious?"

Sevatar asked back.

"It's not just you, Ahriman. Many people are starting to become like this. Look at Sigismund over there. When he was fighting, he was as cold as an iron man. Is this how a human being should behave?"

"I never thought you would care about this kind of thing, Sevatar?"

"Of course I don't want to care, but there are too many people as cold as you, and they are becoming more and more numerous."

Sevatar took a step forward, and Ahriman felt an indescribable sense of oppression.

"And so do I."

The Prince of Crows said, causing Ahriman to raise a brow at his words.

"I have had experiences similar to those of you, Ahriman. I, too, have been calm. When I was fighting, I didn't think about anything. When I wasn't fighting, all I could think about was taking out my sword to fight. During that time, I felt like I was gradually turning into a weapon, without any emotions or feelings. I would block and strike with an expressionless face until any of my battle brothers who were sparring with me would drop their weapons in fear and surrender."

“They said I was terribly cold.”

Sevatar lowered his eyes.

"I admit that was the period in my life when my martial arts improved the fastest. I seemed to have vaguely touched a new palace, where there was a peace and concentration that was out of reach for me. It seemed that as long as I stepped into it, all the troubles and chaos in the world would have nothing to do with me. I would exist as a pure weapon, focusing on my mission and responsibility until the end of the world."

"Perhaps this is a good ending for a warrior."

"But alas: I have never been a fighter."

The Prince of Crows narrated his experience in a strange, indescribable tone. He was not calm, and it was obvious that the memory was deeply engraved in his mind, but he was not excited either. He was just a third-party spectator. When his gaze turned to Ahriman, he found that the expression on the Thousand Son's face was equally intriguing.

"Well, Ahriman? Have you ever had the same experience as I have?"

Ahriman nodded, remaining silent.

"I have touched that temple, but I still seem to be some way away from it."

"It really is... calming."

"You haven't been in yet?"

"No."

Ahriman shook his head: he remembered that it was the voice within him that stopped him.

"That's a good thing."

Sevatar laughed.

"You don't know how much effort my gene father and I put in to suppress my desire to push open the door of the palace. Its temptation to us is fatal. That state of not having to care about anything in the world, that perfection of being one with one's weapon, for natural killers like us, what else is more worthy of pursuit than this?"

"For any loyalist: that is the end."

Ahriman remained silent.

"But you don't like it?"

"It's not dislike: it's fear."

“I’m afraid of it.”

The expression on the Prince of Crows' face was more serious than Ahriman had ever seen it.

"Inside that temple lies our essence as an Astartes warrior, but this essence seems to be trying to strip away the last bit of humanity left in us. It wants to turn us into bloodless and tearless war machines, even more terrifying than the group of gearmen on Mars."

"But here's the real horror: it lies before every one of us. Every amazing swordsman I've ever met has felt that hall at some point, as we two have." "Have you not noticed? The best Astartes are often horribly silent, a tendency that has become more pronounced in recent years: the best of us are slowly becoming weapons. Is this what the Emperor wants?"

Sevatar took another step forward, ensuring that Ahriman could not escape his gaze.

"Or we can imagine this: The Emperor has made countless promises. He promised that after the Great Crusade, humans and the Empire will usher in a great peace that will last forever. But if the position he gives us is a weapon, then what does peace have to do with us?"

"A prosperous era also needs weapons to protect it."

Ahriman countered.

"Yes."

Sevatar smiled.

“But aren’t these too many weapons? He also acquiesced to all the military expansion.”

Ahriman was silent.

"Sevata, no matter what: you cannot slander our supreme lord without reason."

"I thought so too. I told you it was just a guess."

Prince Crow's brows were somewhat dim.

"I also don't believe that the Lord of Mankind would be such a ruthless person. After all, it was he who personally initiated this Great Crusade and entrusted the fate of the entire human race to him alone. How could a ruthless person do such things? He is not only compassionate, but also has a boundless compassion that is willing to care for the world."

"The Emperor is compassionate."

"Then the question is: How could such a compassionate man guide us down such a ruthless path? Isn't this completely contrary to his beliefs? What king would create warriors who go against his own principles? It doesn't make sense."

"may be……"

Ahriman found himself wavering.

“Maybe it’s because this kind of calm state of mind is not fundamentally a bad thing?”

"Isn't it?"

Sevatar asked back, turning his head to look at the distant fire.

"To be fair, Ahriman: You know more about the Warp than I do. You should know that in that chaotic ocean, any extreme thing is harmful: whether it is extreme courage or extreme wisdom, extreme kindness or extreme perfection, when they break the balance of human nature and begin to manipulate the soul itself, the most beautiful emotions will become a deadly nightmare."

"Extreme calmness, ruthlessness, numbness, even dead silence: Is this really a good thing?"

"When we become weapons, who can ensure that we will not be used to commit evil?"

“This is groundless worry.”

Ahriman frowned.

"Even if we become weapons, it will be the Emperor who will use us..."

The Thousand Son found himself suddenly stuck. He looked up in surprise and realized what Sevatar wanted to say. The smile of the Prince of Crows was reflected in his pupils. Ahriman was silent until Konrad's heir came up and patted him on the shoulder.

"Have you thought about it too?"

"Someone designed us so that the end of our road to advancement would be a palace that is destined to be ruthless. The best among us will become silent weapons, wielding them until the end of time."

"This man not only stands in the position of the Emperor, possesses the Emperor's power, and has interfered with the Emperor's plans, but now he can influence us like the Emperor: even the Emperor himself is not aware of his existence, or he is helpless against him."

"But he is not the Emperor, because the Emperor is compassionate, and he wants us to be compassionate."

"So: who will he be?"

"Who is it that is not the emperor, but can control all this like the emperor?"

"Or maybe it's actually the Emperor who did it all: that seems even more terrifying."

In the quiet night, Sevatar's voice made Ahriman tremble all over.

"Don't forget it, brother."

"No matter if he is the emperor or not."

"He's influencing the best of us: you and me."

------

[This also includes every warrior who has joined the Great Crusade.]

[They have all been handed over to you by our gene father. One day, they will fight under your banner: any of your orders can determine the survival of hundreds of millions of people, the life and death, honor and disgrace of thousands of worlds, and decide whether they will be glorious or fall? ]

[What mortals call power is nothing more than this: How does it feel? ]

In the Spider Queen's goblet, the light red liquid reflected the air in the distance that was distorted beyond recognition by the burning of torches. The singing of mortals created ripples, causing Morgan's pupils in the glass to become confused, mottled with countless colors, like the night sky of Ullanor with a slight blue glow, and blending with the already reddish wine, finally remaining on a touch of purple that made one's back shiver.

Morgan frowned. She certainly didn't like this color, but it was indeed permeating her life with an unstoppable momentum: whether it was Virgo's slightly changing hair color, or the paintings that were inadvertently painted by the mortals and children on the Aurora, they were all filled with a subtle purple atmosphere.

In comparison, the bright blue in the corner was always overlooked: just like the other dozen or so Primarchs surrounding the fire besides Horus, Sanguinius and Fulgrim, such a sense of gap was really heartbreaking.

But Horus did not think so. He listened to Morgan's words and then acted as flattered as possible: ever since he had confirmed with his own ears in front of the Emperor that he was the war commander chosen by the Lord of Mankind, the Wolf God's temper had softened a lot, and he was now as sincere as if he were treating his relatives and friends, and even Morgan and Corax could not find any fault with him.

"If I really want to say it..."

When Horus raised his glass, nodded, shook his head with a smile on his face, every word he said sounded like it came from the heart.

"I am nervous. I am also a little scared."

[Nervous? Scared?]

Morgan laughed.

[This doesn't seem like the emotion that a successor to the Great Crusade should have.]

"I know."

Horus swallowed his wine absentmindedly.

"But there is nothing we can do about it. To be honest with you, Morgan, when my father promised me the title of Warmaster, I realized that I was actually not prepared at all. I had never thought about how to take this position and perform its functions. I was like a child who had just walked out of the White Jade Tower, but my father had already let go of my hand."

"Before this, I acted as a Primarch. All my decisions could be bold and even reckless, because our father would be my backer. When I had something I didn't understand or couldn't solve, I knew who I should look for."

"These were happy times for all of us, weren't they?"

【…】

Morgan smiled in response, but she said nothing.

She listened to Horus' sigh.

"But now it's different. I've become the backer. I've become the person who needs to solve problems that everyone doesn't understand or can't solve. I can't be bold or reckless. I have to be cautious and careful. I have to be omnipotent to help all of them, but I know clearly that I'm not omnipotent."

"I still make mistakes, but now I even know who to go to when I make a mistake."

"I don't know what I should do anymore."

Horus lowered his head, the loneliness between his brows seemed more sad than crying.

"What should I do? How can I stand on my own after leaving him? How can I respond to his and everyone else's expectations of me? How can I do the work that was originally his? How can I figure out his thoughts? All of this is a blank to me, but the burden of the Great Crusade has already fallen into my hands. I don't even have time to hesitate."

[This is indeed a problem. 】

Morgan nodded: she agreed with Horus's concerns in her heart.

I had never thought about it before, but now that I have pondered over what Horus said, I find that the Wolf God's concerns were correct. This was indeed the Emperor's negligence: no matter who he wanted to choose as the Warmaster, before leaving the Great Crusade and returning to Terra, the Lord of Mankind should have taken some time to teach the new Warmaster how to take over and use the position and power that originally belonged to the Emperor.

Instead of letting Horus, the Warmaster, take this post without any experience or training as is done now: the Great Crusade is related to the life and death of countless people. For such a grand undertaking, any Primarch is as immature as a child and needs education and guidance. Even the Wolf God is no exception. He should never take the post without any training like he does now.

In other words: How could there be a prince who would supervise the country and the army without any experience in politics?
Yes, the Wolf God's performance before this could indeed be described as being capable of doing things on his own, but that was all him acting as a Primarch, and being a Primarch is completely different from being the incarnation of the Emperor himself: the Wolf God knew this very well.

The Emperor had evidently missed this: and he had no time to remedy it.

Morgan rubbed her brows in distress. She really wanted to relax tonight and relieve the pressure brought by official duties, but she didn't expect that after just chatting with a brother, the high blood pressure brought by the Emperor could still hit her face across half a distance of Ullanor.

This old bastard...

The Spider Queen tried her best to maintain a smile and listened quietly to Horus' complaints, but she never gave any solutions: she was sure that even if she gave a solution, Horus might not adopt it. The trust between them was not deep enough to that extent. The Wolf God just needed a quiet listener.

Among the rumors he collected, Morgan happened to be such a person: she knew when to open a new topic.

But you still accepted it?

After Horus quieted down, Morgan restored his smile with just one sentence.

"of course."

The wolf shepherd god was breathing out white steam.

"Because I have no reason to refuse: just like my father never refused me."

The corner of Morgan's mouth twitched: Why does this sentence sound so weird?

[You can tell.]

The Spider Queen's laughter was a little dry.

[You are my guest of honor, brother. When the party started, I stood beside you and watched all kinds of people come to you, bow and salute you, calling you Warmaster or the incarnation of the Emperor, and you never refused any of the titles from their mouths.]

"Yes."

The Wolf God nodded and turned his gaze to Morgan.

Horus' smile was somewhat playful.

"Just as you never seem to call me Warmaster, my sister."

"You either call me the Successor of the Great Crusade or the Avatar of the Emperor. I admit that both titles are equally attractive, but you have never called me the Warmaster. This is a bit strange for the Spider Queen who always pursues minimalist style."

Neither of them spoke: an indescribable low pressure quietly spread.

[It's a bit strange.]

Morgan raised her head, and even though her nose could only touch the Wolf God's chest, she still looked at Horus fearlessly: when the invisible auras collided, it was the Wolf God who felt that he was a little powerless, and a throbbing look flashed across his eyes.

【But you know.】

Morgan turned her head, and both she and Horus could see the golden trace: the Lion of Caliban was standing there, chatting with Guilliman and Corax, with Konrad and Leman Russ entwined around his shoulders. The relationship between the brothers was a little tense, but they still got along smoothly for several hours.

[My warmaster is someone else.]

Morgan laughed.

I have found the oath, and I do not intend to break it.

“Loyalty is a good thing.”

The wolf-god was looking in the direction of Jonson, but his gaze was more focused on Guilliman. He gave Jonson only a hint of fear, but for Guilliman, it was the same silence as Morgan's, after careful consideration, and the serious look of a beast looking at another beast.

As for Konrad, Corax, and Leman Russ: Horus looked at them with a much gentler look.

[Do you think so too? ]

"of course."

The Wolf Shepherd God's hearty laughter dispelled the temporarily accumulated gloom.

Morgan did not ignore the steel-like determination hidden behind his smile.

"Loyalty is a noble word."

------

"And what I like best is to hold on to every bit of nobility I can see."

------

I had a fever a few days ago, so I wasn't in a very good condition and the progress was a bit slow. Today my condition has improved, and I need to speed up the progress. I will probably wear the Warmaster's Crown the day after tomorrow, and then start working on Nikea's affairs.

(End of this chapter)