40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 744 Extra: A Psychic Videotape (End)

Perturabo bent down and placed his brother's body on the ground. Then he slowly sat cross-legged like a tired old man.

However, during this process, his unique power armor, which he made by himself, made a whine. Sigismund stopped behind him and looked closely. He actually saw a terrible gap behind the armor that had completely broken through its defense line.
The wound was long, narrow, rough, and incredibly deep, and what was dripping from both ends of the gap was no longer blood, but pus.

Sigismund immediately understood who had left the scar.

"You fought well," said the Lord of Steel.

His voice was quiet and hollow, and it didn't sound like the way Sigismund remembered him—Perturabo's voice had never sounded like this.
Sigismund didn't know how to describe it, so he just remained silent.

Guardsmen came and went around them, coming from the outside world, constantly carrying heavy objects into this dimly lit room. It had walls of stone and a roof of mud, and looked ordinary, and it should not have appeared on a piece of Terra that was so important to the Empire as the Astronomican Hall.

But Sigismund understood that now only their work was important - only when they completed this original transport could the thing that drove him and the Lord of Steel to come here truly work.

Perturabo continued slowly.

"Although this attack bypassed the fleet defense line we had to set up, the long-term rapid response training was still effective. It only took us a day and a half to complete the raid. It can be said to be efficient. However, there is still room for improvement."

"The reason why your Primarch and I chose to build our respective fortresses at the left and right ends of the Astronomican Hall fragment, apart from considerations in the material world, there are also certain mystical factors."

"You know in your heart, Sigismund, that faith, fanaticism, and ignorance are rampant in the empire, and as the only symbol of humanity in the post-Terra War era, the unfinished fortress wall will sooner or later be endowed with great, strong mystical symbolic significance—"

He spoke many words in one breath, but his head was always bowed and his shoulders did not move, as if he no longer needed to breathe. He sat there with his brother's bloodless body and closed eyes lying in front of him, looking like a statue.

"——Sir." Sigismund finally interrupted him.

"What's the matter?"

"Are you okay?"

As if he had heard the funniest joke in the world, Perturabo suddenly laughed out loud, his laughter was low and full of coldness.

Obviously, he didn't agree with the joke and didn't find it funny. His laughter at this moment was just a mockery.
Sigismund was silent, extremely acutely aware that he was not just mocking him.

Perturabo stood up slowly, his limbs so stiff that it was doubtful whether he would fall to the ground in the next second.

He looked extremely weak at the moment, not to mention the Primarch, even a mortal could be healthier than him at this moment. And this was absolutely no exaggeration, not only was he struggling to stand, even his breathing began to gradually become rapid.

Sigismund immediately stepped forward and tried to support him, but was also prepared to be punched back by the furious Lord of Steel. To his surprise, Perturabo accepted the help without saying a word.

A huge weight was pressing down on Sigismund, but he didn't feel anything real, only a complicated feeling in his heart.

He looked up and happened to see a pool of rancid blood gushing out from between the Lord of Iron's clenched lips and teeth. His eyes were widened to an unsettling degree and his face was frighteningly pale.

A guard immediately rushed forward, and together with Sigismund, they helped the Lord of Steel to the side and helped him lie down.

However, in just a short while, his eyes began to blink rapidly, and the rise and fall of his chest became chaotic and frantic. To Sigismund, the sound of his breathing almost sounded like a dying beast gasping in blood foam.
The Imperial Fist was suddenly filled with sorrow and let out a deep sigh from the depths of his throat.

The guard who came to help glanced at him sideways, turned around and walked into the darkness without saying a word, leaving Sigismund alone standing here, looking at the two giants on the ground in the light of the torches on the wall, his face full of compassion and his lips trembling.

Ten minutes later, a slight clicking sound was heard in the darkness.

"Okay."

Perturabo spoke hoarsely, waving his right hand wildly on the ground, trying to gain leverage, but he was unable to stand up. His eyes seemed to be blazing with fire, and he immediately roared at Sigismund.

"Help me up, quick!"

The Imperial Fists obeyed in silence, but their movements were not careful - and this obviously caused the Lord of Steel even more pain.

Every bone in his body groaned as he stood up, but this was exactly what he needed.

He smiled and nodded to Sigismund, but the sound of his body breaking apart could be clearly heard all around, entering every pair of ears.

Perturabo laughed and coughed, spitting out more rancid blood and fragments of internal organs, then shook off Sigismund's helping hand, slowly stood up with his own strength, and gave orders while panting.

"Begin," he said grimly.

No one answered in the darkness.

"I said start!" He growled weakly in rage. "Whatever test awaits, it won't be a problem! Start!"

Still no one answered in the darkness. It was as if the imperial guards had suddenly disappeared. Not to mention their breathing, even the slightest evidence of their 'existence' disappeared without a trace.

Sigismund began to doubt, and his right hand subconsciously tried to grasp the hilt of the sword as he had done in the past - but the sword was not in his hand. It disappeared as soon as the war ended.
Wait. His eyes widened.

He held it.

That sword. That black sword.

It was definitely around his waist, although given its length, it was impossible for him to wear it in this way, and he didn't feel any of its weight. But it was still cold in his hand.
The sword was truly there, giving him strength and comfort, but he was filled with confusion and had no solution.

Then, a voice was heard in the darkness.

[Horus is dead.] said the voice.

The darkness disappeared, the light of the torches disappeared, and a gentle light, a light that would not burn other people's eyes, poured down from overhead, illuminating everything, illuminating the three chairs and the two people who had already sat down.

what?
The moment he saw clearly what was in front of him, extreme astonishment surged into his heart, and even forced Sigismund's hand, which had always been as steady as a rock, to tremble violently.

Perturabo was not much better off. His breathing turned into a strange gurgling sound, as if his throat was stuck with blood or meat.

A heavy sound like stones rubbing against the ground came from not far away. A footstep that was too calm to sound like a living creature followed closely behind, walking into the light.

He was very tall, much taller than the original body, dressed in a black robe. Where his face should have been was a skull mask. His eye sockets were deep, with two points of psychic light shining in them.

【How is the situation? 】 he asked.

The older one of the other two looked up at him, a look of pity welling up on his gloomy and old face, but he still disguised himself with coldness and then shook his head in response.

A long staff that was very familiar to Sigismund and Perturabo flew from not far away and arrived in front of him. He slowly grasped it with one hand, and the eagle on the top of the staff suddenly shone brightly.

The illusion was fleeting, and they could not see clearly, but they could catch every move of the giant wearing a skull mask. He nodded, said nothing more, and then sat down on the only empty chair like a ghost.

The old man spoke with a little annoyance about this.

[Aren't you going to take off the mask? ]

"I'm afraid I'll scare you, old man." The giant said with a hint of laughter. "The face beneath the mask is probably a little scary."

The old man snorted coldly, and roughly pushed out the scepter in his hand, causing it to whiz towards the giant, ready to attack - of course, it stopped when it was about to actually touch him.

The giant stretched out his hand and grasped the scepter. A dazzling light burst out in an instant, almost drowning the entire room. Sigismund couldn't help but close his eyes, and at the same time heard the groan of the Lord of Steel beside him.
When the light faded, the face behind the giant's mask was revealed. However, to the two of them, this face was more familiar than unfamiliar.

It was still pale, but looked broken, and the things in the eye sockets were no longer eyes, but two dark flames of anger - all of this made him look no longer like a human or a sentient creature.

In fact, Sigismund even felt a chill down his spine.

They said something else, the sound was vague and could not be heard clearly, but the image was very clear. They seemed to be joking and the atmosphere was relaxed, but they were actually all paying attention to the man who never said a word.

The man had black hair and black eyes, and his skin was as rough as parchment. Although he was wearing a black robe, it looked more like mourning than casual clothes. His hands and face were stained with a brown-black powder, like a miner who had just finished work and had not had time to wipe himself clean.
From beginning to end, he sat in the chair, silent and with a sad expression.

Emperor. Sigismund uttered his name silently, and then his mind went blank.

The Emperor seemed to have heard his voice, and he slowly spoke - and when he spoke, the sadness disappeared without a trace. Unfortunately, his voice was also unclear.

They began to talk to each other, their expressions were serious and subdued, and the atmosphere suddenly changed drastically, turning into a cold solemnity. Even though he didn't know what they were talking about, Sigismund was deeply attracted.

It’s a pity that the Lord of Steel seems to have different ideas from him.

"What is this?" he asked in a very soft voice.

It seemed as if he was asking Sigismund, but the latter thought that he was probably just talking to himself, so he did not answer. But the Primarch's emotions quickly surged like a storm, pulling his anger to vent in this stone house.

He roared: "Come out, Constantine Waldo! I know you are there! Explain, what is this? I want a device that can bring this man lying here back to life, or--"

In the light not far away, the sound suddenly became clear.

[——Have you ever thought about how this war will be described in the future?] the giant asked.

The old man seemed to sigh, and his eagle-claw-like yet very skinny fingers tightly grasped his scepter.

[I would rather not think about it. Although my duties do include the pursuit and protection of history, if we can win, I hope that this part of history will disappear in the long river of history.]

[What do you think, my friend?] The giant then turned to the Emperor. [What do you think, my friend?]

Yeah, what do you think, Emperor?

Sigismund stared at him deeply, waiting for his answer.

He thought he would hear an answer that was nothing short of arrogant, one that would be filled with unrivaled confidence. The Lord of Mankind would calmly wave his robe like a sword and tell how he would end this war and how he would make mankind victorious again and again.
After all, he had done all these things, he had kept them alive, kept them victorious, kept them hopeful. But he was wrong.

Sitting on the rough stone chair, the emperor said nothing.

Just a few seconds ago, his expression was still the supreme majesty that an 'emperor' usually had, with his will and determination to break metal and jade. But now, in just a few seconds, this majesty and determination disappeared quickly.

His shoulders drooped heavily, as if he was a porter sitting at the door of his house to rest, his shoulders were bruised and swollen from the heavy load, and no matter how rough his skin was, it would still bleed, staining his thin clothes red.

He just sat there, his lips gradually trembling, his hands groping around like a drowning man, and when he touched the barely shaped handrail, he quickly grabbed it, and his fingers immediately turned white.

The old man couldn't bear to watch any longer, so he looked away, wanting to sigh, but he resisted the urge. The giant still seemed indifferent, and he used the sides of the chair to put his hands together, with his fingers pointed together, forming a small, narrow spire.

Through it he gazed wordlessly at the Emperor.

Sigismund could no longer think.

He couldn't be sure whether he was in a dream or not. He subconsciously held his breath, forgetting that the three people were just images of the past. He didn't know how much time had passed, and finally, a new voice came.

If we win, I'll declare them heroes.

Who? Who was declared a hero? Sigismund was stunned. He had no idea who this answer was referring to, but the words were not finished yet.

“What if we can’t?” the giant asked.

The Emperor leaned forward. [Then they are just traitors.]

There was another long silence. The three of them stopped talking, and except for the giant's sigh, there was only dead silence. The Lord of Steel slowly turned around.

"grown ups?"

Sigismund looked at him, nothing more, and Perturabo, with one look at him, understood what he was not saying.

He sneered unconsciously - or rather grinned - his teeth were exposed and stained with blood. When he started to speak, his tongue, which had been bitten off at some point, was faintly visible in the shadows. When he spoke again, his voice was unusually hoarse.

It was not until this moment that Sigismund suddenly realized that the Fourth Legion's Primarch might not have felt any more relaxed than he did.
No, he must be more shocked and more unable to understand than him.

Who had ever seen such an emperor?
As he was thinking, he noticed that Perturabo suddenly stopped smiling. At this moment, the Primarch's frail face was filled with calmness.

“He’s talking about my brothers,” he answered, and his voice sounded like he had just swallowed a dozen razor blades. “Horus, and Lorgar Aurelion.”

He turned and walked towards Rogal Dorn, who was still lying motionless on the ground.

The latter was still lifeless. Sigismund's eyes moved away quickly as soon as they met him. His heart seemed to be tainted with fire - he could not see Dorne, at least not now, he had to remain calm.
The seal master said five hours, and now there are probably less than four hours left. If he allows the blood connection to control himself, the consequences will be disastrous.

Calm down. He took a deep breath and said to himself, his hand unconsciously resting on the hilt of the sword again. As he expected, it was still there, firmly supporting him.

And Perturabo slowly knelt down.

"Is this a test?" He asked, facing his brother's corpse. "He used to design tasks to test us. Do you remember? I think you must remember that your memory is second to none even among us."

After he finished speaking, he was silent for a few seconds, then continued speaking, completely ignoring how amazing his performance was at the moment.

"But if this was a test, what did he want?" Perturabo asked, his voice trembling with doubt. "Tenacity? Indomitable? We have it all, Rogal Dorn. Your son single-handedly turned the tide of the Seventh Keep, and I banished the creature's stolen skin. This was a sudden and unprovoked disaster, and we dealt with it in a single day. No demon or traitor is left alive, they are all dead. What did we fail to do?"

He suddenly raised his right hand and struck Rog Dorn's right shoulder from top to bottom in a standard boxing posture.

"Wake up!" he roared, his voice like thunder.

No one answered, so Sigismund raised his hand to his forehead, imprisoning himself, while the thunder continued.

"Wake up!"

No one answered, so he stood up and rushed to the images of the three people. The soft light shone on him, but it did not soothe his wounds and sorrow, but only made the rage he used to vent even more fierce.

He strode up to the Emperor, fists clenched, as if he were about to strike out. But he didn't. Instead, he fell to his knees once more, powerless under his father's lap like a punished child.

Now, his voice was very soft.

"How could this be?" he asked. "Doesn't he deserve a miracle? You are the Emperor, how could you—"

[——There is too little time. I have too little time, and there are too many things I need to do. ]

Without warning, the Emperor's voice suddenly rang out. He remained sitting there, his eyes lowered in front of him, falling on a place with no boundaries. Perturabo suddenly raised his head to look at him, just in time to be penetrated by his gaze.

[I can only make up lies one after another in a hurry to achieve my goal. For example, this crude system, the empire. Take the most basic point - the law. Even if it is the law, even if it is the most important thing, it has to be updated countless times every day. ]

[Sentencing is even more difficult to call fair, as the judge’s own bias can be the main factor. Two closely adjacent worlds may even make completely opposite judgments on the same case.]

【And Imperial Truth.】

[I told them that this is the only way for humans to understand the world. This lie is neither materialistic nor rational, and has a completely opposite core to what it promotes. How can anything in this world be unique?]

[I have told so many lies that even I feel confused when I think back on them. Are they false or true?]

Perturabo swayed and pulled himself up, whispering: "Are you speaking to me?"

The man in the light looked at him.

"What do you think of me as? An omnipotent god, Perturabo?" he asked his son, speaking in person. "Or a strict father who tests you harshly in everything and never gets my approval no matter how hard you try?"

Sigismund knelt trembling and bowed his head deeply.

"Get up, stop doing this." The man in the light suddenly said to him. "Go see your father, my champion."

His champion obeyed like a lamb, his body shaking as if he had realized something.

"I don't know," Perturabo said. "I don't know, I really don't know."

"I don't know either." The man in the light said to him. "But I know one thing: you have done enough. It is completely enough. Moreover, this is not a test. It was not a test from the beginning."

The light grew thinner, the stone walls and mud roofs quickly faded, and darkness swept in, enveloping them and carrying them away. In the last second before they left, Sigismund and Perturabo saw the Emperor.

The real emperor.

A thousand years ago, he died on a large stone chair. A thousand years later, he has become as withered as a dead tree.

Only a little of the once majestic and godlike figure remained, curled up on the chair, his arms and legs skinny to the bone. He seemed very cold, holding himself tightly with both hands, like a man with nothing who wanted to survive the cold winter with this unrealistic fantasy.

Countless things—perhaps torture, perhaps unspeakable technology that helped him survive—extended from under the chair and pierced deeply into his flesh.

But he kept his eyes open and looked at them.

Perturabo limped and began to run, madly and desperately towards him.

The father on the throne shook his head, and there seemed to be dust dripping from his eyes, which must have been tears.

"No," he said. "Go back, my son."

"Father!"

"Go back." He said, his voice gradually becoming weaker. "Go back quickly"

The last bit of light went out. His image disappeared, and Sigismund stared blankly at everything in front of him. The roar of the transport plane's engine came from behind. He turned around and found that they had not gone far at all.

A faint breathing sound came from in front of him, followed by a gust of wind. He turned around and saw the Lord of Steel picking up Rogal Dorn, who was breathing again, with an expressionless face, and strode towards the shuttle.

"Follow, Champion of the Emperor," he commanded without question, his voice normal, his back still scarred. "We have work to do."

They boarded the transport plane, and the bulky machine was quickly blown away, and the figure of the seal holder gradually walked out of the darkness inside the cabin. He still held the scepter tightly, with an expressionless face, until he saw Dorne breathing again, he felt relieved.

Perturabo ignored this and first secured the medical stretcher in the center of the cabin, then secured Dorn on it and plugged him into a ventilator before turning and walking towards Malcador. His steps were calm, as if he had recovered from his injuries.

"What did he pay for?"

"This has nothing to do with you."

"Tell me," the Lord of Steel said, and suddenly he stretched out his hands - not to attack, but simply to grasp Malcador's shoulders in a gentle plea.

But the seal holder remained indifferent.

"That's not something you should know. You don't need to think about that."

"But I can share," Perturabo said stubbornly. "I absolutely can."

The seal bearer smiled coldly, then answered in a gentle tone, but his words were as sharp as a knife.

"Who do you think he is? Who do you think we are? All sacrifices should start with him, and then with me and Caryl Rohals. So keep your sense of responsibility, child. When we are really dead and dead, it will be your turn!"

(End of this chapter)