40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 701 83. Interlude: Triumphal Ceremony (Part )
Jago Servitarion studied the face of the man before him with a kind of detached calm.

Undoubtedly, the first feature that should be noticed is his skin color.

That kind of paleness could not be possessed by even a slave imprisoned in a dungeon without seeing the light of day for his entire life. He was as pale as the ashes after a fire had burned out, even slightly paler than a dead person.

Then there were those eyes. In Sevatar's memory, they were always covered with a dark veil, like two foggy black mirrors. When you looked at them, you could only see your own reflection.

But this is only his gaze without any emotion. If he has something in mind, the mirror will immediately become a pair of sharp blades that cut your heart and bones. Every second you stand in front of him, you must endure this terrible torment.

You will be driven by instinct, feel fear, and then have the urge to run away or kneel down and beg for mercy, unless you have a clear conscience.

Sevatar closed his eyes.

Cheerful music continued to flow out from both sides of the box, and the triumphal ceremony in the center of the square had entered a new stage. Soon, the warships and shuttles would land, and the noise would be a million times louder than it was now.

"Yago?"

The man called him by a rare name. In this era, almost no one called him that. He was called sir, hero, and chapter master. Even those who called him by his name "Sevatar" became rare.

They all knew his story, his ten-thousand-year perseverance and his endless legend. They called him with respect, looked up to him, and condensed their respect in careful and cumbersome etiquette.
It was as if he was another creature, a monster that could not be looked at directly or else it would bring bloody disaster.

"Yago? Are you okay?"

Sevatar almost smiled - the corner of his mouth twitched, and the terrible scar twisted with it. But he didn't laugh after all, so he had to stop being silent.

"No," he said. "I'm allergic to 'good' lately, sir."

The man blinked, as if thinking about how to answer this question, and Sevatar decided to solve this problem for him.

He continued, "But you call me Yago, that's good. Have I ever told you that I actually hate being called that? I even had a fight with Shen over it."

".So, Sevatar?"

Here it comes again. Sevatar narrowed his eyes and finally laughed in the truest sense of the word, and his laugh was very cunning, as if his plan had succeeded.

"But you are an exception, instructor," he said slowly. "You are the only one who would call me that these days, Caryl Rohals of the Eighth Legion, and I am grateful for it."

Sevatar stood up, took off the helmet that was buckled on his belt, and threw it casually on the sofa. Its surface was mottled, and there was a deep dent on the right eyepiece, as if it had been severely damaged.

The man reached out and picked it up, examining it carefully, and Sevatar heard his free left hand making a slow sound, like dull thunder.

"I'm fine," Sevatar said, rolling his shoulders. "I chopped that thing into pieces."

"You're always like this." The man said with a hint of blame. "Why don't you adopt a more cautious approach?"

"Because my teacher was like this, my Primarch was like this, and my instructor was like this. I had the opportunity to change it, but unfortunately all the people who could persuade me at that time died, and now I am too old and too stubborn."

The man seemed to sigh, and then there was silence. When he spoke again, his voice had become softer than ever before. Sevatar was surprised by this, but still decided to finish what he wanted to do.

The man said softly: "You did this in the past to seek death--"

Sevatar turned his head, stared into his eyes, and interrupted him rudely: "-It still is now."

The man stared at him for a moment, his eyes piercing, but there was no disappointment or other emotions in them that Sevatar wanted to see. In fact, he only saw guilt and regret.

Sevatar suddenly spoke in a stern voice: "You should be fair and just, instructor. I have violated combat discipline more than once and have been throwing myself into the demonic tide to seek death. Aren't you going to punish me for this?"

"I wouldn't do that."

"Yeah, you fucking won't," Sevatar sneered in response.

The salutes of cannons coincidentally drowned out his laughter. A thousand military drums began to be beaten at the same time, and the fireworks that had been prepared long ago streaked across the sky like meteors, exploding around the gradually descending huge warships and countless gunboats.

The flames spread, illuminating the ruggedness and scars of the metal, proving in another way the cruelty of the battle and the glory they had achieved.

The air was originally trembling, and now it gradually turned into an explosion, as if millions of bombs were launched at the same time and hit the target instantly.

The mechanical structures in the walls on both sides of the box began to operate, displaying the small flags that had been prepared long ago. They were just replicas, not stained with the smell of blood and gunpowder, but they were still well made.

The Ultramarines, the Blood Angels, and the Midnight Blades. It started with three founding groups, followed by subsidiary groups, auxiliary forces, and special forces.

The ceiling of the box opened up at the right moment, the wind blew back, the flags fluttered, the continuous broadcasting sound from the speakers on both sides stopped instantly, and every magnificent note of the triumphal movement came with the wind, the drum beats echoed the heartbeat, the melody changed the breathing, passionate and majestic, and gradually advanced
Straight to the climax.

A sharp golden figure descended from the sky with wings on its back.

The stroke he made was as light as a feather. The bright explosion could not illuminate his face, but made the golden armor even brighter. At this moment, he looked almost like a small sun, carrying all the glory, blessings and hopes.

Sevatar grunted and looked away, walked to the control panel of the box, punched the side, and made the ceiling close again. He rubbed his eyes and turned around, just in time to see the man doing the same thing.

"It's too dazzling." Noticing his gaze, the man explained with a frown.

"Yeah, it's too dazzling." Sevatar smiled and agreed. "I always think our genetic defects are really interesting, and the coincidence is ridiculous - there are so many worlds in the galaxy, why did Conrad Curze end up in Nostramo? Moreover, his legion just happens to be prefixed with midnight."

"Whether it's a coincidence or a carefully woven conspiracy, what do you want to say now, Yago?"

Caryl Rohals finally left the sofa, his back as straight as a knife. The Inquisitor's coat was a perfect fit for him. If someone was bold and capable enough to take photos of the Inquisitors one by one and put them in newspapers for the general public to comment on, then his face would probably be elected as the synonym of the Inquisitor.

Pale, heartless, inhuman, and extremely cold. He completely fits the uninformed person's imagination of the position of Inquisitor.

But Sevatar looked into his eyes and saw pleading in them.

The First Reserve sighed in frustration, walked to his side, and threw himself into the sofa. His weight caused the carefully crafted comfort item to sink into a huge hole in an instant. If it weren't for the extraordinary toughness of the supporting material, it would probably have broken by now.

"Yago?"

"Stop yelling, old man." Sevatar said uninterested. "Watch the triumphal ceremony. You won't be free later."

His words came true.
-
As night fell, the city of Fortress No. 300 was still brightly lit.

Lights were on in every house, the streets were filled with excited people, and priests of the state religion were handing out candies and pure milk along the streets. These were not the low-quality synthetic products commonly seen, but delicacies that were originally only enjoyed by the nobility.

In order to celebrate this grand event held in their hometown, all the nobles in Fortress No. 300 invested heavily. Huge amounts of supplies had come along the trade routes half a month ago and filled up the warehouses of their respective families.

In the past, someone might have tried to make some money from it, but this time it was different. The nobles jointly elected an executive committee, which cooperated with the Ministry of Justice and patrolled day and night. Anyone who dared to steal, destroy, or do anything else that was not conducive to the triumphal ceremony would be immediately charged with treason and executed on the spot.

Such a heavy punishment brought many benefits that people would never dare to think about on weekdays. The candy in the hands of the priests was just one of them. There were also good things such as Grax steak, canned fruit, winter clothes, free medical care, and some even handed out money on the street with a wave of their hands.
It is foreseeable that the people in Fortress No. 300 will not be able to sleep well for at least a whole month.

Perturabo easily came to this conclusion, as well as some chain reactions, such as the temporary chaos caused by the suspension of work, or the opening of the black market after the triumphal ceremony, which could lead to inflation.
He thought about these things, with his right hand supporting his cheek, his expression focused and serious, as if he really intended to step in and send a team of Iron Warriors to deal with these matters.

Of course, this is far from the truth.

He raised his eyes calmly and looked at every person sitting at the long table in front of him.

The first thing that came into view was Sanguinius, still in his ceremonial armor, and no matter how noble and perfect he looked, Perturabo could still tell at a glance that the Archangel was suppressing discomfort.

His straight sitting posture and the occasional twitching of his eyes were the most obvious evidence, and the Lord of Steel could even guess the reason - it was not because he was injured, or because he was not happy with the occasion, but simply because the design of the ceremonial armor was not that good for Sanguinius.
Everyone knows that the archangel has a pair of pure white wings. This world-famous treasure is now folded behind him. Although the luxurious golden armor he wears has taken this into consideration, it is not very comprehensive.

The hole reserved for the wings and the position of the shoulder armor formed a sharp angle. Without having to experience it personally, Perturabo could also know how much discomfort this design brought to his brother.
But his thoughts suddenly went astray for a moment at this moment. The sequelae left by years of war made him realize something like lightning that Sanguinius would never say out loud.

His wings were probably injured in the war and were recovering. Otherwise, how could an archangel who had endured ten thousand years of suffering as the regent be driven to twitch by such a small pain?
If I want to fight him, I can start from here. The Lord of Steel thought calmly, and then quickly annihilated this thought in his heart with the most extreme violence, the external manifestation of which was a sudden clenched fist and a suddenly gloomy face.

He could hardly tolerate these sudden dark thoughts, but he had no way to solve them for the time being.

He had been alienated by the war. The endless defensive battles, positional battles, and tug-of-war battles over the past ten thousand years had crushed the little humanity he had left. But steel was still steel, and he could still bear the weight. It was just that—

"——Abo?" A woman called him worriedly.

Perturabo looked over expressionlessly, his body showing the utmost tolerance ahead of his mind, allowing him to be approached without him noticing.

He lowered his head, and for some reason, he felt a surge of anger in his heart. The woman who called him knew nothing about it, or rather, she acted as if she knew nothing about it.
She held his left hand tightly clenched on the table with concern, and tried to pry open his fingers as they did in their childhood games, but she could only feel a frightening cold arc through the leather glove.

The woman was stunned, a few gloomy flashes across her thin face, but soon disappeared without a trace. She raised her hand to tuck the long gray hair by her ears, and before she knew it, her face had become calm.

"It turns out those legends are true." She said. "I thought..."

"Legend? What legend?"

The eldest sister of the last tyrant of Olympia smiled and replied: "I heard many stories about you on the way back, Abo."

"I won't ask who it was, but what did he tell you?" Perturabo asked nonchalantly, and at the same time, he glanced over and saw Sanguinius staring at this place.

The latter immediately raised his glass, turned around with a smile on his face, and went to drink with Rogal Dorn and Robert Guilliman.

The Stone was aware of this, but accepted it. The Ultramarines' Lord was unaware, his heart captured by the joy of the reunion of his brothers, and there was no room for anything else at the moment.

"Why are you speaking in such a tone, Abo? He didn't say anything wrong."

The Lord of Steel hummed indifferently, turned his head, and looked into her eyes intently: "Go on, I'm listening."

Kaliphon sighed and began to tell the so-called story she had heard.

She began to tell the first story, about a general who was in dire straits with his army.

They had no way to retreat, no reinforcements, and the enemy kept coming in droves, with no sign of reduction. Fortunately, they had a large and very strong fortress. It could even be said that the world where this war took place was a huge fortress.

They fought with the enemy, blood flowed and heads rolled, and when they ran out of ammunition and food, they delayed the defeat for eleven days at the cost of their lives.

But they were defeated in the end, and the general was captured. He watched as the enemy threw the corpses of his army into a huge furnace, cast them into iron chains and iron pillars, tied him to them, and forced him to open his eyes to watch what happened next.
What happened? Tragic, sad, unfortunate things - the general saw his remaining soldiers being tortured and killed one by one, their bodies twisted beyond recognition, and even being cannibalized after death.

At this moment, an evil-minded enemy came forward to laugh at him, calling him a liar, and then told the general about his past defeats in a familiar tone.
It kept talking about how the general had been careless with human lives in the past, how foolish and ignorant he was. It also said that he had not improved at all after ten thousand years, and still liked to send people to die. It also said, we gave you a chance, but you didn't want it.

Kaliphon closed her eyes—she could not speak any further, but her listener remained expressionless.

"Go on," Perturabo said calmly. "This is only the beginning."

(End of this chapter)