40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 705 86. The Dark Side of the Moon (Happy New Year!)

Adro Branuel holds a book and reads.

It was so obvious that he was reading very seriously that you didn't even need to observe his dark face to easily get the correct answer - he was immersed in it.

As the old folks used to say, the book had become a goblin and had stolen his soul. And what was left of his flesh and blood was just a little bit of instinct to keep him breathing.
To keep him alive so he can continue reading.

Addicted, obsessed, obsessed.

The book cover was made of an unknown leather, and the original brown color had been replaced by deep white marks over a large area. In the past, tens of thousands of borrowers had probably rubbed it with their fingers, so this solid material could be worn to this extent.

That was no problem for Adlo Branuel, a salamander with a pair of smith's hands that were both hard and soft. They ensured that his powers would be completely bent to his will, no matter what he read in the books.

But the words in the book were whispering, throwing a concept in front of him. That concept was of no use to an Astartes, but it made the Salamander shiver and forced him to continue reading.

The dark side of the moon. The book smiles. Do you know, Adro Branule? Have you heard this term before? No? Well, let me explain.

The Moon is a satellite of Terra. Terra rotates, and it revolves around her while also rotating on itself, which means that there is always a side of it that cannot be observed by astronomers on Terra.

In the distant past, this side was poetically called the Dark Side of the Moon. It still exists today, even though Terra has been shattered and the gravity that bound it has long since dissipated.

"It shouldn't exist," Kesos Mechanic said.

But it exists, the Salamander thought. It exists, and therefore you should exist too.

"You should learn to let go as soon as possible, Adro. This so-called dark side will not do you any good."

I insist.

Adro Branuel put the book down, the obsession dissipated with regret, and the remaining things lingered in his mind, turning into a lingering sorrow. So did the voice of his dead captain, gradually fading away.

Adro carefully put the book away and placed it in a small compartment on his waist, then stood up. He had a feeling that the person they had been waiting for today was about to arrive.

Standing in front of a full-length mirror, he stared at himself.

His armor was still gorgeous, with dark green dragon scales, gilded dragon heads, and detailed carvings representing the honor of the Legion period. The scars were also carefully preserved, with bullet holes and knife marks cruelly announcing how terrible their malice was to the person protected by this armor, but it was not important now.

In any case, the malice has long since vanished. As for these traces, they have forever become part of the warriors' honor. It is quite romantic and poetic, gently dissolving the cruelty.

Still, he was angry, still angry—there were things and people he couldn't forgive, but he couldn't let that affect what was coming next. He had been preparing for this since he had started his journey back to the city.

His brothers, like Narik Dragor of the Iron Warriors and Kefa Morag of the Death Guard, all relied on him for this matter.

As the three representatives jointly elected, the three of them have been working very hard for a while, trying to learn the political game which they are not very good at.
Yes, politics - Robert Guilliman stood in the brightly lit white hall and warned them earnestly - never think that everything will go smoothly after returning to the Empire.

While my brothers and I will do everything we can to ensure your safety, I want you to understand that you have been awakened from the possession of a xenos, and the Imperial Propaganda Department will never miss such a good opportunity.

They will make you into a role model, a role model and a hero, and then publicize it. They will say that you broke free of the stasis field by willpower, and that you killed the alien. Even more exaggerated, you will become a heroic spirit who was resurrected by the Emperor.

There are so many things that can be done here, but we have to prevent them from having any chance to do them. In other words, we have to shut them up, which is not an easy task.

They have worked in the center of power of the empire for many years. This place is a living hell, and they are the little devils in it. You must learn how to step on hell and magma under your feet, and at the same time make sure that these little devils can't bite your toes.
I'll help you guys, okay? Trust me, I'll do my best.

They believed him, and he did exactly what he could, in the simplest, most direct way.

First, Robouti Guilliman completely dismantled and broke down the essence of political operations in front of the three of them. He was a natural orator, and with this gift, he completely changed this boring process.

His words were like the flash of swords and sabers, without any smell of blood, but they made the three of them feel as if they were on a battlefield, and they could smell the endless danger.
Then, he invited Sanguinius over, and the two began to analyze together the possible reactions of various forces in the empire to this matter. They were extremely detailed and did not hide anything, but Adro broke out in a cold sweat after hearing it.

He had never imagined that these mortals living in the center of the Empire, in this peaceful universe at the feet of the Emperor, could treat their compatriots, even young children, in such a cruel and evil way.

It's not like he hasn't seen these things before, but who were the people who did these things in the past? The warlords who committed all kinds of evil, the traitors who fell at the feet of the aliens, and what were those people?
Most of them have been living in luxury since birth, and even a piece of cloth is a fortune that countless people cannot earn in their entire lives, but they can look down on others with such malice.
Adro Branuel had to admit that he felt sick.

He was not naive, of course he knew that the world was like this, he just couldn't accept that so much sacrifice and bloodshed would result in such a
There was a knock on the door, temporarily putting the dark side to rest.

He walked over and opened the door. The glare from the outer universe shone through the porthole, shining squarely on his face, and also illuminating the profiles of Narik Dregul and Kefa Morag.

The two men stood in front of him, one on each side, their armor had been polished to a shine, spotless. Their expressions were very familiar to Adro. He had seen similar muscle movements in the mirror countless times during these days.
He was the first to greet, his voice steady, the words bursting out, but like a hammer hitting an anvil: "Has the person responsible for handling us arrived?"

He never skimped on the little kindness he had left when it came to treating respectable people. He used it to make a not-so-funny joke, and with the language skills of a man who was not good at speaking, he had done the best he could.

To be honest, Adro didn't really expect this joke to liven up the atmosphere, but both of them laughed.

The Warsmith's smile was fleeting, stiff and terrifying, but it was still a smile. But Mortarion's guards were different. His smile lasted for a long time, but it was full of grief. Moreover, Adlo noticed that a new tattoo had appeared on his face.

Salamander guessed that it was a word from Barbarus. He didn't know how to decipher its meaning, but he felt that it must represent mourning.

After laughing, Narik Dregul spoke slowly.

"He arrived very quickly. I checked the data terminal. It was a Skyhawk shuttle with a very special paint job. It probably belonged to some important person. And my Primarch told me—"

He paused, glancing at the Death Guard before continuing.

"—From a personal perspective, the best advice he could give us is to take this matter seriously."

"Have you made contact with your Primarch?" asked Adro.

He knew that this might hurt Kefa Morag, but there was a desire in his heart that drove him to ask guiltily.
As soon as he finished speaking, he began to regret it. In the war not long ago, Morag had already won his respect with his own hands. He didn't want to let this respectable warrior's broken heart suffer another blow.

But he obviously thought the heir of Mortarion was too weak.

"Yes." Kefa Morag took over calmly. "Lord Perturabo sent a letter and communication eleven hours ago. It's a pity that you were busy reading at that time, Adro, otherwise you could have met him."

"How is he now?" Salamander asked, feeling relieved. However, he got two meaningful moments of awkward silence. Finally, it was the Warsmith who broke it.

"Well," Narik Dregul said dryly. "He's not very good."

The Salamander was stunned for a moment, then looked at him in shock.

"He was injured, seriously injured, and his hands have been replaced with mechanical prostheses."

"I'm not sure if there are more injuries. He didn't give me more room to look. But, from what I know about him, he must be covered in bruises."

As he spoke, the Warsmith's voice became calm again. The Astartes had an instinct that was hard to disobey. In most cases, as long as the Primarch was injured, their sanity would quickly burn out. But this was not the case with the Iron Warrior at this moment. His sanity still remained in his mind. He stood here with a clear mind, not affected by any other emotions.

Adro secretly admired in his heart, and Narik immediately turned to another matter. He was still handling everything with the style of the past legion period, and inefficiency was never acceptable.

"So I think that in the past ten thousand years, Terra - no, the situation in the solar system is definitely not good. Think about it, cousin, what could hurt him like that?"

He raised the question very calmly, but Adro and Kefa immediately fell into deep thought.

They frowned unconsciously, and the anger in Salamander's heart, which had finally faded away temporarily, regained power, causing his gauntlets to creak. The Death Guard's eyes were wide open, and the pair of gray eyes on his withered face were now full of bloodshot.
Although they stood firmly in this new world ten thousand years later, they did not feel much reality in their hearts. Their way of thinking and philosophy of life still came from the glorious and enterprising era ten thousand years ago, and that era shaped them into extremely pure warriors.

What are they thinking? Simple - is there an enemy? Yes. Great, here are a list of kill options.
Fortunately, there was one person among them who remained calm.

Narik Dregul raised his hands and pressed down on the shoulder armor of the two men. As the metal collided, he spoke slowly.

"We should go to the hangar and wait now. Even if it's just for show, it's good. What do you think?"

“I don’t like bureaucracy, but I agree with it,” Adero said.

The Death Guard didn't speak, but nodded, the bloodshot in his eyes slowly fading. He raised his right hand and rubbed the tattoo on his face, his jaw muscles suddenly tensed.

A few minutes later, they drove into the hangar in a temporary transport vehicle. It stopped in front of the hangar door, the tires rubbed against the steel, the engine slowly shut down, and the driver who was temporarily recruited sternly saluted them with a Sky Eagle salute, then turned around and left. This little episode made the three people's dull expressions become much more relaxed, but it did not last long. Soon, a series of prompts sounded in the hangar. One after another, like a stubborn declaration.

I won't stop until the shuttle slides into the hangar.

It stopped exactly one minute and thirty-five seconds later.

The hangar door slid open slowly, cold air filled the air, and the outer security door made a loud noise as it closed. The gears meshed and rotated, and a deep roar came from the wall, and a giant beast was sent to them.

It looked around coldly in the darkness, its roaring engine not yet completely dead, the afterglow echoing in the empty hangar, sounding like a roar.

The three of them watched as the cabin door slowly opened.

They had already prepared themselves mentally and expected that the person who came out would be accompanied by a whole group of attendants and guards. Regardless of whether it was a man or a woman, this person would most likely be dressed like those in the information provided by Robert Guilliman, exaggerated to the point of being uncomfortable, and wearing a wig that required someone to hold it from behind to bear the weight.
They made such a bad plan, but it was of no use at all.

"I'm here on orders, okay? Wait a minute." The man waved the data pad in his hand at them. "To be precise, it's not orders, because this matter has been fully handled by me. Come on, three of you, let's find a meeting room and sort out everything."

His words were vague but his movements were incredibly fast. In the blink of an eye he turned and walked into the passage on the side of the hangar.

The three people who had not yet fully understood the situation were still in shock, and the "entourage" brought by the man also walked out of the cabin.

They were not the servitors, watchdogs, or strong mortal guards as imagined, and there were not many of them, only six. However, they left the veterans' representatives almost stunned - most of the shock came from a silent giant in golden armor.

He followed the man out of the shuttle, the eagle on his chest shining, and followed quickly. He attracted almost all the attention, so much so that the representatives were even a little distracted.
It was not until several seconds later, when the five Astartes disappeared without a trace in the darkness, that they woke up from their dream.

"Is that a Custodian?" Narik Dregul asked in a tone of great doubt, as if he did not believe his eyes.
-
"Let's talk about the number of people first. Four hundred and seventy-seven Iron Warriors, three hundred and sixty-two Death Guards, and one hundred and sixty-one Salamanders."

Khalil hesitated for half a second, then skillfully manipulated the data tablet in his hand, completely missing the impression that he was a complete stranger to these new models not long ago.

Soon, lines of data, briefings and materials rose from the center of the conference table, with clear light and constant fluctuations, fully presenting the complex analysis.

The delegates stared in silence, their full attention captured.

"I'll start with the Salamanders," Khalil said, putting down his datapad. "Vulkan has learned of your return. Although he cannot leave Nocturne for the time being, he has sent a team to take you back."

"However, Brother Adro, during this period of time, many forces that are friendly with your mother group will come to visit you. You need to be prepared."

The fire lizard was slightly startled when his name was called, and it was obvious that he didn't know anything about this. Fortunately, the projection in the center of the long table quickly resolved the question.

A series of lists emerged from the light, with dense text, bringing one name after another to his eyes, followed by family, position or military rank.
The more Adro Branull looked, the more surprised he became - being on good terms with the Mechanicus was still within his expectations, but what about the dignitaries, officers and combat heroes?

He even found people who came to visit in the name of an entire auxiliary army, but he had no impression of the number of this unit. Was it an honor in the post-legion era?
Before he could think more, the scrolling list brought to his eyes some other names that would cause even greater surprise, such as the Battlefield Medical Association, the Corpse Guild, and the Veterans Union.
Especially the last one, which made him almost doubt whether there was something wrong with his eyes.

In his era, the words "soldiers" and "retirement" were hardly related. Although they had a term of service, most of them were either promoted or died gloriously, and retirement seemed to have never been a question they would consider.

Khalil was not surprised that he inevitably fell into deep thought. In fact, that was the effect he wanted.

"Next up is the Iron Warrior - the Warsmith. Please stand up for a moment."

Narik Dregul was startled for a moment, then immediately stood up in a solemn military posture.

Khalil gave him a fleeting smile and flipped his left hand slightly. The guards behind him handed him an iron medal that was much larger than his entire hand.

"On behalf of the Primarch of the IV Legion, Perturabo, I hereby relieve Narik Dregul of his duties as Warsmith at Camp 114 and send him and his brothers to Fortress 004. This order is effective immediately and those who receive it are to leave immediately."

He placed the medal on the table and gently pushed it, and it came to Narik Dregul. The latter gently picked it up, his eyes almost frozen.
You could say he was stunned, and the reason was the medal. It was shaped like a small fleur-de-lis shield, but the surface was very rough.

A battle-hardened warrior like Narik could tell its former self at a glance: a fragment of armor, the bloody rust still not wiped off. A line of small words gleamed in the middle of the steel and blood.

Steel creates strength. The beginning and end of a prayer.

"Let me explain to you, Brother Narik. This medal has no official name. Outside your chapter, it is called 'Incarnation of Steel', and within the chapter, it is simply called 'Inheritance'."

"Initially, the material used to forge it was a breastplate of Citybreaker Fricks. After he died in battle, it was brought back to the warband by Warsmith Dantioch. He was the first recipient of it."

"Similarly, after he entered the Dreadnought due to his serious injuries, a fragment of his gauntlet was recast along with the medal of Fricks. To date, the medal that has reached your hands has 116,924 heirs."

Narik Dregul slowly raised his head.

"Where should I wear it?" he asked hoarsely, looking as bewildered as if he were being awarded a medal for the first time.

"When you arrive at Fortress No. 4, you can choose to cast it into any part of your armor." Khalil replied solemnly. "The shield is you, you are the steel, and the glory is eternal."

The Iron Warrior let out a deep, trembling breath, gave the Skyhawk salute, nodded to the other two in turn, and then strode out of the meeting room without saying a word, clutching the medal tightly.

Khalil watched him leave, but did not speak again. Instead, he walked to Adlo Branull's side and whispered a few words. Soon, the Salamander's expression was filled with surprise. He glanced at the Death Guards who were sitting upright, stood up, and also left the meeting room. The door did not close, and the Imperial Guards also strode out. For a moment, only the former Mortarion guards and Khalil were left here.

The Chief Inquisitor pulled out a chair, took off his hat, and slowly sat down.

"You are in sorrow."

He spoke in a calm tone, with his hands placed on the table in the shape of a spire, and his dark eyes were now staring at the silent Death Guard through the sharp narrow slit.

The latter did not deny it.

"Yes."

"I believe your brothers are probably the same?"

"No one is spared, my lord," the guards whispered. "We have decided to mourn for the Primarch."

"In what form?"

"Kill." The guard said. "Blood debt must be paid with blood."

“Do you set any goals?”

"Death is the end."

After saying this, Kefa Morag thought he would receive a cold look that only existed in the descriptions of the Eighth Legion soldiers, "like a guillotine", but he was wrong. He only received a cold smile full of approval.

"You are already determined to die. Logically, I should not say anything more. However, just like brothers Narik and Adlo, your Primarch also has something to say."

The guard was stunned for less than a third of a second before his face was twisted by anger - and then he was swallowed up by a burst of golden light.

Khalil leaned back, supporting his weight on the back of his chair like a tired clerk after a long day's work, crossed his legs, spun the chair, and looked up at the ceiling.

There was a stained glass window depicting a hooded, robed man carrying a lantern to lead the dead, his face shrouded in darkness save for two pitiful golden lights.

Khalil closed his eyes and felt the soft light on his face.
Then he heard a thank you and the barely perceptible sound of crying.

The Grand Inquisitor sighed, stood up, put his chair back in place, put on his hat, picked up the data tablet, and strode out of the conference room.

Outside the door, five Astartes who were not allowed to enter were staring at a royal guard eagerly, and were also waiting for him.

He couldn't help but smile.

"Let's go." He waved at them. "There shouldn't be anything to do in the second half of the night - gather the brothers in the chapter, how about we have a sand eel jerky banquet?"

(End of this chapter)