40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 690 72. Interlude: Resurrection (Part )
"I'm trying to form the language," said Conrad Kurtz.

Lights flickered, and the solid metal that made up the deck creaked, slowly deforming in the unnatural cold. The inventor of this alloy could never have imagined that his creation would one day be put to such a test.

But fate is so fickle.

"I must think it over carefully before expressing my opinion." The Night King said with a frown.

He was walking, pacing back and forth, darkness and mist emanating from his feet, making him look like a tall and thin ghost, with his head even touching the top of the cabin. Despite this, no footsteps were heard in this 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. Conrad Curz seemed to have noticed this, and finally stopped.

There was a hint of annoyance on his pale face. 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 was thought to be about to utter a curse that was not worthy of being uttered in public, but he was wrong.

Conrad Curze simply said, "I have thought it over, Sigillite."

There was a whistling sound of wind.

"Yes, I insist. It's his business if he wants to deal with this himself, but we can't just leave it at that, Malcador. I have other things to attend to."

The breeze died down, Conrad Curze 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, with the timing just right, and the movement of his arms and fingers revealed a kind of mechanical precision and stiffness.

The moonlight was bright, illuminating his pale face. A few strands of life stubbornly clung to it, allowing his eyes to retain the last bit of humanity.

Koz folded his hands, bent down, and looked into those eyes.

"It's amazing," he said sarcastically. "You've learned to stop."

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

This coldness was like a rigid program, which determined that this ridicule did not require an answer, so it used its higher authority to respond on behalf of the man's limited humanity at that moment - silence.

This led to even more serious ridicule.

"I can't stand you looking like this," Curze whispered. "It's like going back to those damn eighteen years. It's a pity our raven isn'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, a very gentle smile, his facial muscles slightly lifted, the corners of his lips slightly curled, as if he was feeling the spring breeze on his face, strolling in a newly built large bathhouse in Nostramo.
He turned around, walked to a corner of the cabin, bent down, and moved closer to the larger porthole.

At this moment, a warship passed silently, its surface was mottled, and the muzzle was still emitting residual heat and red light after firing. It was not necessary to think about how hard the sailors on the artillery position were working.

Cleaning, heat dissipation, and maintenance. These three things may sound simple, but when it comes to actually having to do them with your hands, they become arduous tasks that are enough to exhaust any healthy and strong adult.

He spoke slowly with a stern face.

"You'll have to deal with the Dark Angels soon, and Leon obviously won't be back for a while. So, what are you going to do, Khalil? Do you want to do it again, so that the Dark Angels can experience the same fear we felt back then?"

Finally, the man sitting upright uttered a sound. It was a solitary syllable, firm and short, with unquestionable determination.

"Do not."

Conrad Coates turned around and smiled.

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

He was bathed in the dim red light brought by the battleship, but there was no shadow under his feet. In fact, the light even penetrated his body. At this moment, his pale face seemed to have some blood flowing.

However, those dark eyes also turned deep red. Black and red blended together, and the red thread was like a twisted railing that enclosed the black inside.

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

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

Coates understood what he meant without any instruction.

"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 can't accommodate a lunatic of your level."

As he finished speaking, Koz 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 innocent people who died in this galaxy."

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

"But I am worried about you. The diplomatic incident between the First Legion and the Eighth Legion happened once and that's enough. It must not happen again. Among those young lions, there must be people with tempers as violent as Leon when he was young. If they are controlled by anger for a while, 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 Night King took in all of this reaction, and his expression had turned into a complex one mixed with guilt, but he still continued to speak - or rather, he continued to analyze.

In the past, with the tacit understanding between them, these things could be explained with just a glance. But now it was different. Now, what was dominating Caryl Rohals's body was something completely cold.

This thing will use absolute rationality to judge everyone, no matter what their status is. It doesn't matter if they are noble, ordinary or powerful. Even the Primarch will feel sick and uncomfortable because of the terrible chill.

During those eighteen years, everyone who had stood before it was forced to bear this tremendous pressure.

Rogal Dorn described it as going to court and being judged for something he had never done. Angron said it was like being cut with a dull knife and then having a handful of hot sand rubbed over it.

Even the blacksmith who lived in seclusion on Nocturne said he didn't like that feeling - "Pain," Vulkan said. "That was the first feeling I had at the time, even anger was secondary."

Koz slowed down his tone and spoke carefully and patiently: "They have never experienced anything like this before, so they will definitely regard your behavior at that time as a precursor to attack. Some things cannot be turned back once they start, father." "In my opinion, they will definitely fight back - at least in their eyes. Think about it, when dense bombs whizzed past your ears, even if someone would call on their brothers to calm down, what would you do at that time?"

The man lowered his head in silence.

"So, you only have one choice now - leave." The Night King said. "Leaving temporarily will confuse them, but it will definitely not let things slide into the worst direction. I remind you again, they are not the same as we were back then."

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

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

"To put it worse, the people on Kamas may not be spared. You have never killed the wrong person, but if you don't listen to my advice, then today will be the beginning of a mistake and the beginning of destruction."

The Night King lowered his head, reached out and grasped his father's shoulders, and spoke in a deep, low voice.

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

".Okay." Caryl Rohals made a sound of extreme pain.

Conrad Curz smiled slightly, took a step back, and the moonlight lit up. In the solemn chant that followed, he told her with his lips:

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"——I'll take you to Terra. Someone is waiting for you there."
-
What Curze said was true. When the man in the Inquisitor's uniform strode out from the dimming moonlight, a man he had seen before was already standing among the dark bricks and cables spread out on the ground and bowed slightly to him.

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

"Instructor, the Soul Hunter salutes you."

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

The man did not respond to his greeting at all. The little bit of humanity he had left was urging his body to think about what had caused the teleportation that had just happened.
He wondered what price the Night Haunter had paid, and he was going crazy with the thought.

But the hunter seemed to know exactly what he was thinking, and soon his distinctive hoarse voice was heard again.

"The Primarch paid no price."

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

The hunter frowned, which was rare. It was not until several seconds later that he opened his palm and showed the black armor to the man.

"We will pay the price," the hunter said, throwing the armor. The man raised his hand quickly and grabbed it. The light flashed and disappeared. When it disappeared completely, Caryl Rohals sighed deeply.

"How many people?" he asked.

"Not a big deal," the hunter said. "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, they should not be counted as people, but as ghosts."

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

However, this also means that he cannot use the power that comes with authority as easily as usual.

"Yes, just as you thought, they are the dead souls of the wasteland." The hunter said with his brows lowered. "They paid the price for the primarch."

“What did they pay for it?”

"They didn't pay anything, but they got a rest, a real rest." The hunter said thoughtfully. "Their grievances have long been washed away, and they usually just sleep quietly under the wasteland, just waiting for moments like today to come."

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

He secretly hoped it wasn't Conrad Coates.

"Primarch."

".How could he do that?"

The hunter glanced up at him quickly, seeming to hear the disbelief and great pain in his words. 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 what you said, everything has two sides, instructor. Your power will give those who died unjustly the power of revenge, but what happens after that? What happens after their hatred is appeased?"

"They will come back," the hunter said in a low voice. "Fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, sons, daughters - these most precious annotations and identities will return along with the emotions that flow from the depths of their souls."

"They will know who they are, they will be reunited with their loved ones, and they will also know who forged the sharp blade for them to cut open the chest of their enemies. They will understand who has always been on their side and who has always been disobeying authority and being a biased evil god."

When the hunter said this, he seemed to smile. If other Night Blade Division leaders who knew him were here, they would probably be so surprised that they would 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 have continuously signed letters asking the Primarch to agree and adopt their opinions. Finally, the Primarch agreed."

"So, this is it, instructor. I think if you were in my shoes, you would agree with it."

"No," Khalil said. "I can't."

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

(End of this chapter)