40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 743: Extra: A Psychic Videotape (I)

795.M31
Sigismund fell face down in a river of blood.

After a few seconds, or centuries, he clenched his fists and pulled himself up.

He felt pain, and agony—it felt as if someone had stabbed every inch of his skin with tiny, hooked blades and then tied them with a wire, strapped to his three lungs.

As long as he tried to breathe, the barbs began to torture him, and they were not dead things. With every breath he took, they screamed and danced in joy, digging into his flesh and scraping his bones, turning the endless pain into an endless wave that swallowed him up.

But if that were all, they would not be worthy of being called pain to Sigismund—remember? Those things are alive, and they can talk.

With every breath he took, every movement he made, every second he forced his body to function, those barbs whispered to his heart.

Rogal Dorn is dead, they said.

The tone was neither gloomy nor suspicious, but rather one that was both firm and confident, and full of power.

Sigismund knew that they were not lying.

He stood up slowly, then bent down and reached out to search for a weapon in the blood that had already covered his calves. He was lucky, and his fingers touched a solid and reliable handle at the first try.
But this feeling made him dazed for a moment, until his body instinctively moved his arm and pulled the sword out, he realized that the armor on his right hand had disappeared.

The forearm was covered in blood, and a long, horrible sword wound extended from above the wrist to the outside of the forearm near the elbow, with the skin and flesh rolled up.

The blood had long stopped flowing, and the pink-dyed bones were faintly visible in it, like the exposed seabed after the sea was parted.

Where did this wound come from?
He tried hard to recall and began to move forward, taking one deep step forward and one shallow step forward.

He was no longer able to raise the sword to prepare for battle, so he could only drag it forward with both hands. Blood foam slowly spread out from under his feet, and the sword blade slid behind his feet, splitting the river in two.

A few minutes later, he finally remembered - the wound on his forearm came from a demon, extremely brutal and powerful. He had fought it for a long time, but he was still evenly matched with it, and he still had enough strength to continue this situation, but
Ah. Sigismund sighed sadly.

Now, he remembered everything, including the most crucial point - the only reason for his defeat.

The death of Rogal Dorn.

Sigismund began to work his memory backwards to make sure his conception of the matter was not confused.
It was not easy to do this, but he was as hard as stone. Ordinary people would retreat, be afraid, and waver uncontrollably in front of this trembling event, but he felt nothing. He just simply and quickly completed the task and confirmed it again.

Yes, Rogal Dorn is dead.

As he thought back to that moment, an axe flashed before his eyes—huge and bloody, with a brass base dotted with bones, and the axe blade covered with traces of rust.

It bit his throat cruelly.

In the center of the battlefield, at that moment, the blood gushing from Rogal Dorn's throat splashed almost several meters high, even covering his face.

Then he fell heavily to the ground, without a sound, leaving only the laughter of the demons, the shouts of the traitors, and the roars of the Imperial Fists.

At that moment, the blood and hearts of the sons of Dorne were closely connected together by this unspeakable huge impact. Even Sigismund could see his brothers' thoughts intuitively and almost transparently.

He knew, at that moment, that the Imperial Fists had all gone mad, but he hadn't.

He still stood there, stepping on the corpses, holding his line, and fighting with the demon named Skarbrand.

Unfortunately, this did not last long, and the line he had worked so hard to maintain was soon completely broken. All the descendants of Rogal Dorn who were supposed to fight in the fortifications rushed out and ran towards their gene-father, abandoning their responsibilities.

So the demons rushed forward and surrounded him, and the big demon seized the opportunity with a grim smile, swung an axe, and tried to kill him - if he had not been prepared, the scar on his right arm would probably have moved to his neck at this moment.

So why? Sigismund asked himself in confusion.

How could I have watched Dorne fall and still have my sanity intact? Why was I immune to this blood connection? Am I not Dorne's son?

He stopped.

Perhaps he was troubled by the question, or perhaps he heard some noise - in any case, Sigismund stopped.

Then he raised his sword.

An axe attacked from his right side, and the chainsaw spun and was caught by his sword blade. The cursed weapon blessed by Chaos had performance far beyond that of a normal chainsaw weapon, so that this chainsaw axe could actually wrestle with the power sword in his hand.

Fires flew everywhere. Sigismund lowered his shoulders and exerted force, seizing an indescribable opportunity in a moment that ordinary people could not perceive at all. He did not make any movement, but just shook his wrist slightly, causing the tip of the sword to shake suddenly, and the chainsaw axe actually flew into the sky from one hand.

A look of astonishment crossed its owner's tattooed and bloodied face, and that was his final expression.

With the gentlest movement and the smallest force, Sigismund took a tired step forward and pierced the man's heart, then twisted his wrist and turned around to spin the sword. Blood splattered, a heavy object fell to the ground, and the scream that could not be uttered turned into a sigh full of unwillingness and slowly disappeared.

He turned around silently, changed direction and continued walking.

This path was no longer viable, and he knew it - there was no basis, no reason, he just knew it.

Still, another Word Bearer, he thought. And an elite one, apparently, for the axe was unusual, and his face showed no signs of degeneration or mutation.
Nearly a thousand years after the traitors retreated into the Eye of Terror, reports have continued, and these precious but obscure records reveal a disturbing fact: the Word Bearers are becoming increasingly corrupt.

Take, for example, the most recent report from before this battle. Forty-two years ago, a naval captain wrote in his report that he felt the Word Bearers warriors looked almost inhuman, even those who were not combined with demons.

However, the face of the traitor who had just died at his hands still belonged to a human being, without any signs of mutation. The same was true of his armor, which, despite being old, still carefully maintained the last bit of glory from the Legion era.

Therefore, he is probably a Word Bearer who has lived for a long time.

Very good. Sigismund felt a little relieved. At least one more person who deserved to die was killed.

He continued forward, walking alone in this dark and bloody space without wavering. He knew that the darkness around him was not real, but was only temporarily distorted by the power of chaos.

His brothers must still be alive and fighting—but it doesn't matter if they are all dead, Sigismund thought grimly.

He lives. As long as one of Dorne's sons remains, the war is not over.

But he couldn't be satisfied with this.

How can the self-deceiving statement of 'it's not over yet' compare to 'seize the opportunity to win'?
He thought calmly.

First of all, there are two battlefields. One is in their castle, the seventh fortress, and the other is in the fourth fortress where the fourth legion is stationed.
As two important nodes of the unfinished fortress wall, one on the left and the other on the right, guarding Broken Terra, these two fortresses have experienced thousands of years of wind and rain. Before this, let alone entering in the true sense, the Imperial Fists and Iron Warriors had never even allowed any demon to approach the edge of the solar system.

Unfortunately, any fortress or fortress can be breached from within.

A day ago, with the fading light of the Astronomican and the black rain of fire streaking across the sky, the demons and traitors finally entered the depths of the human empire again. This appearance was extremely sudden, without any signs at all, almost equivalent to the power of Chaos directly tearing the veil apart.

And Sigismund knew that this absurd statement was actually not much different from the truth - how could he not know what the black rain of fire that passed over all of their heads was?
However, such a sudden attack directly made the powerful fleet patrolling back and forth in and out of the solar system lose its original function. If it was a conventional battle, the Mountain Phalanx and the Emperor's Dream could even kill the enemy before they saw the glory of the Astronomican.
As for now, even if the fleet has returned, it may not be of much use.

The two fortresses have now become a hell on earth. No matter how many living forces are sent into them, it will be in vain. The precious currency in the hands of the Lord of Humanity will be wasted in vain - fighting a tug-of-war with the demons in the turbulent area of ​​the Veil?

It would be better to enter Broken Terra, wait for the arrival of the God's Birth, and become a reinforcement in this eternal war.

therefore--

Sigismund slowly stopped.

——If the situation of the fortress is so bad that it cannot be saved, the fleet commander should immediately order the bombing of Fortress No. 7 and completely destroy it. In this way, the enemy will not be able to appear again, and naturally it will not be possible to threaten the Astronomican Hall.

This was a completely worthwhile sacrifice, and if Sigismund himself were the commander of the fleet, he would have issued such an order without hesitation after observing the situation - but the current commander would never do so.

There was no way that Lord Iron Perturabo would give such an order again.

What should be done? The captain of the Imperial Fists asked himself.

He remained calm, not anxious at all, not even afraid. Many things that a human being should have seemed to have disappeared from him. He had had similar feelings before, but he was not alone at that time. Although he was walking in the endless darkness like now, stepping on the bones and blood of his compatriots, he did not need to worry about anything other than facing the enemy head-on.

If there is an ambush, Sol Tarvitz will see through the illusion before all of them; if help is needed, Thunder and Bjorn will be his left and right arms; if they really fall down due to exhaustion and disappear in the river of blood, the Blind Man will arrive in time and pull them out one by one with his cold hands.
At that time, the world only consisted of him, responsibility, brothers, and endless battles.

Instead of being like now, with concerns in my heart and even unable to face the sword in my hand sincerely.

Sigismund raised the sword and stared at it - the disintegration field hummed, so he turned it off, and the blade remained bright. Things like blood or minced meat could not have any effect on the physical blade under the disintegration field, so it remained as clean as new.
However, there was clearly no light in this world, so how could he see his own eyes through the reflection of the sword?

There was no answer, no reason, he just saw it, but it didn't seem to be his eyes.

Those were a pair of golden eyes, pure gold, with blazing heavenly fire boiling and flowing, turning into the purest rage, roaring there.

Is that you? Sigismund asked silently.

Yes.

The blade answered for him—no, for Him—with a certain change.

His hands sank suddenly, and the sword that he had tamed suddenly became heavy, carrying his hands down with it.

What kind of weight is this? Sigismund had never held such a weapon in his life. He felt that even if ten assault shields were tied together, they would not be as heavy as this.

He held on, struggling with the sword with all his might, almost gritting his teeth - but it was clearly superior.

The hilt of the sword burned his hands and flesh like hot iron, hissing and emitting smoke, and with its unrivaled weight it instantly pierced into the depths of the blood river, forcing Sigismund to kneel on the ground.
A real cracking sound came from his tightly closed mouth, veins bulged on his face, blood vessels on his forehead shattered, and his neck swelled with roots protruding from it, like a thick old oak tree.

But he still held the sword.

So he was rewarded.

The river of blood surged, and a huge whirlpool quickly rose from the place where the sword was stabbed, like a tornado sucking in air, which stirred up a gust of wind that was strong enough to blow ordinary people apart, and it was extremely cold.

But this chill not only did not hurt him, but helped him to drive away the iron hooks and barbs that had been gnawing at his flesh. They went away with resentment, and before leaving, they still did not forget to utter small and sharp curses in his ears, but he was too lazy to listen anymore.

He just held the sword.

You want me to be a tool? Fine, that's what I was born for. Come on, send me to him.

As if in response, a whirlpool rose up immediately and swallowed him up - but in an instant, the world suddenly turned upside down, and the scene that appeared before Sigismund's eyes made him feel extremely familiar.

He saw trenches, bunkers, crumbling ruins and wreckage of steel. The bloodstained banners of the Imperial Fists fluttered in the wind above the smoke-filled battlefield, as did the banners of the Guards from Rogal Dorn's homeland.

Fighting, fighting was everywhere, but his crazy brothers had all calmed down - they were following the predetermined plan, leading the guards in a seesaw battle with the enemy on the battlefield, risking their lives.

Sigismund could not help smiling. He could not, of course, laugh, but he had the urge to do so.

It turned out that I had abandoned them.

As soon as he thought of this, the hilt of the sword in his hand, which was as hot as magma, quickly cooled down. He looked up and found that the sword had become another appearance. It was completely black, with a wide blade, and no light was reflected by it, like an abyss.

As he gazed, the sword blade itself surged with power again, pulling him to adjust his body in the air and quickly falling towards a hill made of a mixture of steel and corpses.

With a bang, he landed cleanly on the ground, but his body started moving before he realized it.

He raised his sword, blocked, counterattacked, stabbed, and slashed. Countless sword moves burst out in one go, but there was no beauty in them, only the evil of killing. He had no thoughts in his heart, and nothing in his mind. He had already strode into a place that only a few people had entered before.

There, 'he' did not exist, there was only a sword, a monster holding the sword, and many corpses to be killed.

So he committed suicide.

Flesh and blood flew everywhere, and corpses littered the field.

The savage but strong mutants were rushing forward one second, but he turned them into a bloody rain with a circular slash the next. The huge brass bull roared and attacked from behind him, crushing the corpses under his feet into mud, but he didn't even look at it, just bent his knees and jumped up, slashing vertically in the air, accurately and fatally turning the furious beast into a running corpse. The Word Bearers, who were obviously showing signs of corruption, raised their guns and shot at him randomly, but he landed lightly, strolled leisurely, raised his hand and waved his sword to instantly slash the rain that was so dense that it could overturn a tank.
Yes, there were no enemies in Sigismund's eyes. There was nothing in his eyes, just nothingness and dead silence.

He marched, killed, and dodged without any emotion. He was exercising violence and his muscles contained great power, but there was nothing under his skin but emptiness.

Even the dancing sword itself is sometimes not held or wielded by him.

It is the Emperor who is dropping the sword.

He killed traitors with his sword, he killed demons with his sword, he killed everything here that dared not kneel down with his sword - there was only malice and violence in his heart - he was mourning and sad, Sigismund could feel it clearly, but he was not here.

There is only Him here, and only vengeance.

Unconsciously, the bell rang, one after another, ringing non-stop as Sigismund's footsteps spun. It soon reached the fifth ring, and it should have stopped at the fifth ring, but some will painfully drove it to continue ringing.
Then the bells continued to ring and turned into a huge thunderous sound, reaching heaven and earth, beating the entire fortress like a hammer.

It goes on like this until the thirteenth sound comes.

Sigismund stopped in front of Skarbrand, who fluttered his wings, raised his axe, and stood ready with a fierce smile.

"You--!" it roared.

It only had time to utter that one word before Sigismund pounced on it. He pounced on it.

Unparalleled malice slowly erupted in the silence of the man holding the black sword. It was no longer something that could be contained by the human mind and body. It was more like a collection of the craziest resentment in the hearts of every wrongfully died person throughout history.

This thing is the dark side of all killing, the opposite of justice, and the end of hatred - in that realm of nothingness, even Sigismund trembled at it.

What is this? Emperor, what is this? He asked, almost at a loss.

"Revenge," a voice said.

That voice was not the Emperor's.

Sigismund's sanity was destroyed in an instant.

The bell continued to ring, past twenty, past thirty-five, past fifty-five, and finally stopped at sixty-five.

Sigismund knew nothing of this, but he had indeed awakened at this moment, holding the black sword, standing like a sleepwalker on the huge dismembered body of Skarbrand.

The demon had been broken into many pieces. Its bones were completely cut out of its flesh without any flesh attached. Its claws and hooves were cut off and placed on both sides of its body. Its head was in its open chest. Its eyes were destroyed, and a viscous liquid redder than blood flowed inside. Its horns were broken off, and there was a mark carved on its forehead.
For some reason Sigismund would not look at it. He knew what it was, but he would not look at it, and he did not dare to look at it.

He looked around, and saw smoke everywhere. A Chaos Sacrifice Field destroyed by some force was emitting wisps of smoke five steps away from the body under his feet. It looked like a deep bomb crater that had been recycled, with countless broken limbs and heads floating inside, gathering in the blood and floating on each other.

There was only one intact body floating there.

Rogal Dorn.

Sigismund walked towards him.

Thirteen hours later, they killed the last demon and the last traitor. Thirteen hours later, Sigismund and Perturabo, who had not even had time to change their armor, stood side by side in a transport plane and slowly landed on the fragments of the Astronomican Hall.

Malcador the Sigillite spoke slowly behind them.

"Five hours," he said. "You only have five hours."

"That is enough," Perturabo said.

He carried the body of Rogal Dorn on his shoulders, his expression as dull as over-beaten steel. Sigismund nodded silently and waited for the transport plane to land.

(End of this chapter)