40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 752 41. Preparations before War (End)

combustion.

Burn, burn, burn, burn——

It was several minutes before Cato Sicarius realized that he was shaking, or quivering, and that the sound of his teeth clacking together sounded like an irritable blacksmith hammering his anvil in rage.

Without thinking too much, anyone who has had a similar experience would understand that this feeling is definitely not pleasant, but, generally speaking, this feeling is still within his tolerance range.

His chapter had many long-standing spirits, which were condensed into mottos and passed down from generation to generation. Sicarius particularly liked one of them - fearlessness.

These four words are extremely short, yet they carry a lot, countless tears, sacrifices and courage.
So he gritted his teeth and endured.

Not against the shudder, which was nothing. It was the sound, and the vision it brought, that he fought with all his might.

"Burning, everything is burning, Cato Sicarius. I saw the driver, John von Bo, burnt to death in his seat, his body dry and cracked in the flames, and the sound of his flesh exploding sounded no different from the rustling of wheels rolling over dead leaves."

"He was the first and only one to be caught in the flames, but he was the last to die. The others were dragged out. The men stabbed them with bone knives or wooden spears and pinned them to the ground. Then they brought more knives and began to skin them."

"As they screamed, the driver, John Vonbo, was filled with rage."

"He was dying, but he was busy unbuckling his seat belt. He did it with melted fingers, but he didn't have the strength to get up. The fire had turned his bones and muscles into part of the mixed plasma."

"The man who caused his death was standing there by the shattered windshield, still with his flamethrower strapped to his back. I remember his face, he was smiling, the paint on his face had dried."

"When he smiled, they crumpled and broke, sending pieces of his skin flying everywhere, and then his blood - sticky, black blood, as if mixed with bugs - slowly slid down"

"He was laughing the whole time, Cato Sicarius, and the driver, John von Bo, was dead, his last thought as he died was to draw his gun."

"He has been a driver for seven years and has always carried a gun with him. Many people have laughed at him for this, but John Fengbo is different from lazy people like them. John Fengbo has always understood why they are participating in the war."

"So, when he died, all five fingers of his right hand were gripping the gun that he had holstered on his right leg."

The thing that stood inside Sicarius's meditation chamber slowly rose and stretched. Now the darkness could no longer conceal its true form.

It was indeed long and thin, but that was because its limbs were all bones and its body had no skin. The charred flesh and blood were deeply entangled with a set of military uniforms that could no longer be recognized. It would remain like this forever.

But its eyes were pure white, pure and mysterious, like the color of the Astronomican now.

"John von Bo is dead, but I am still here, so I held his hand. His hand was not big, but very strong. When he needed something, his fingers could hold it tightly like a pair of pliers."

"I love his fingers, when they hold me, they mean killing."

It came toward him, in his meditation place. Fires ignited all around him, taking Sicarius back to the small battlefield in an unknown place and time.

It must have been an encounter, the well-prepared enemy ambushed the driver John von Bo and his transport vehicle, killing all 25 people on the vehicle. Except for John von Bo, the remaining 24 people were taken off the vehicle.

The enemy nailed them one by one around the vehicle, then skinned them on the spot, sewed them up, and spread them out, pressing them on the heads of the twenty-four men, covering them and the vehicle together.

Curses and vicious spells were engraved on it, and mixed blood slid down its rough or smooth surface, sprinkling around the burning transport vehicles and dying soldiers, forming a blasphemous and corrupt formation.

Around them, the people smiled happily and sang a song in praise of the gods.

Did I see it? Sicarius asked himself, very doubtfully. Did I really see these things?
He thought he was crazy, but maybe not—and it went on.

"I used his finger to unlock the safety, pointed it at the man who was laughing outside the broken bulletproof glass, and pulled the trigger. Before that, I had fired 129,654 bullets, and after that, this number has not increased except by one."

"The 129,655th bullet, Cato Sicarius, flew out of my gun and spun into the head of the laughing man. Then he died, and then I died."

It stood before him, its hands slightly raised, a mortal-sized bolt pistol lying there.

It had been through battle and had been through many hardships. The paint on the handle had completely fallen off, revealing the steel underneath. A name was carved into the bottom of the barrel with a precious touch, in cursive, high Gothic.

【rest in peace】

"Some people picked me up, and I was reshaped in the trenches with tape and hammers, and used alternately by messengers, company commanders and medics. I have died, I have been reborn, and I continue to be used to launch explosives and pour out my anger."

"The rage of humanity remains as it always has, clear and unstoppable. It permeates my will and my parts, bending the metal and cracking the firing pin, but the rage remains."

"After that, I was handed over to the craftsman and his apprentices, who forged me again with steel and solid wood, and my almost shattered body. In the furnace, I burned like Johann von Bo was consumed by the flames in his seat."

"Finally, a priest found me, declared me holy, and sent me to a vault to wait for a day in the future, for a 'hero worthy of me'. I hate to hear that, but I am a tool, and I obey the will of humans. I was kept in that vault for many years, until I was brought here."

"That person told me that his name is Belisarius Cawl, and he will give me a new mission and a new form, but I will still be myself and nothing will change. He also promised that I will use my own will to confirm whether the future wearer is qualified."

"I don't understand what this means. I am just a tool. It doesn't matter if it's a gun or armor. I am a tool of humanity. I act according to your will. Kill or protect, I accept it."

Sicarius stared down at the gun, then reached out and grasped it. With a sharp chill, his trembling subsided and he returned to the real world.

Caryl Rohals nodded to him.

"Very good," he said, his voice still normal, but it made Sicarius dazed.

He patted Sicarius's forearm approvingly again, then turned and said to the Casting General: "Your thirteenth generation product seems to have achieved a small success, but I still have a question, Cawl."

"Excuse me, my Lord," Belisarius Cawl replied, leaning forward. Given his huge size, this action should have been very intimidating, but he made it look funny and serious.

Khalil turned around, a smile gradually forming on his face, and finally turned into a complicated expression.

"How long will it take you to deliver the five thousand sets of armor I want?"

".I still have a lot of improvements to make, my lord. Also, the situation of this prototype is very special. If you expect every new power armor to be like it, I am afraid I must point out that this is unrealistic."

"And I believe that with your genius and wisdom, mere reality is nothing," Khalil replied, flattering Kaul, but his motive was very obvious. "So I will send a document to the Ministry of War, and in a week at most, you won't have to worry about the material. Go ahead, Kaul."

The Casting General took a deep breath and exhaled. For the next few dozen seconds, his face was filled with worry in addition to excitement.

"I'm worried," he said hoarsely. "Don't worry." Khalil said, raising his left hand slightly and pointing to the nun who remained silent but never stopped praying. "Sister Celestine's devout faith will help you. Five thousand sets, Cawl. Of course, the more the better. As for you, Sicarius."

He turned again.

"Do you understand what you just went through?"

"I only partially understand, my Lord."

"So, you want an explanation?"

"No," Sicarius said. "It is enough for me to know that it is a suit of armor, it is sworn to protect me, and I will bring the killing to it."

"Very good," Khalil praised again. "I will tell this story to your Primarch at the banquet tonight."

From behind his helmet Cato Sicarius uttered a single syllable of utter astonishment.

"what--?"
-
"—so that's what happened," Khalil said.

He sat beneath a golden Skyhawk, deep blue tapestries, the banners of the Ultramarines companies, and a movable hand-carved wooden map of the Milky Way.

The object that carried his weight was a wooden chair that was made to fit his body, beautifully crafted with carved edges. The craftsman's divine skill shone on it like stars in the night sky, impossible to ignore, even stinging one's eyes.

In front of him was a huge long table that was a hundred meters long. All the silver candlesticks were lit, but most of the seats were empty.

In the past, every banquet held in this banquet hall was always packed, and delicacies and fine wines were delivered to the guests from the waiters like flowing water, but this is not the case today.

There were no waiters serving today, nor were there any delicacies being served one after another. Even the famous wine from Ultramar that was supposed to be served was replaced by a few bottles of homemade liquor with notes attached to them.
Roboute Guilliman reached for one of the bottles with a smile on his face, then drank it all in one gulp, earning a half-approving snort from its creator, and a toast not too far away.

"How is it?" he asked casually. "Is it to your taste?"

Guilliman put down the bottle in his hand, patted the white cloth-covered table thoughtfully, and nodded slowly and forcefully.

"It's a very strong taste, brother, it's like you punched me in the face when I wasn't paying attention."

The winemaker folded his hands in disdain and shook his head. "Your taste buds have obviously been spoiled by the wines of Ultramar, Roboute Guilliman."

"You are exaggerating, Perturabo. I could drink Russ's wine without batting an eyelid."

"Still calm?" Another person joined in the conversation, brows raised slightly. "You're going to make Ruth very sad, Robert."

A fourth person raised his voice quietly in opposition.

"No, he would be ecstatic because it means his winemaking skills are finally being challenged."

"After that, he will use all his knowledge and the few times he got drunk to brew a new kind of Fenrisian mead that has never been brewed before to poison us all until Robert says he is satisfied, or we are all poisoned to death."

His words made everyone else at the long table look over.

Roboute Guilliman stared at him tensely, drumming his fingers on the table; Khalil Rohars leaned back in silence, slumping over his chair; Perturabo expressed his disapproval with a frown and a downward curve of his mouth; Sanguinius chuckled without a smile, picked up a bottle of wine and handed it to Rogal Dorn.

"I beg you, brother, can you please not say such terrible words at this time?"

"Terrible? What I described is the truth. If you don't believe me, when he comes back, we will tell him what happened today—"

"—No, no," Guilliman interrupted sternly. "We would never do that, would we, brothers?"

No one answered, and the Primarchs suddenly went about their business. Rogal Dorn was silent, and Sanguinius began to cut the food on his plate and put it into his mouth, chewing it carefully, with juice dripping from his lips. Only Perturabo did something a little bit unusual.

From his arms, he took out a folded piece of white cloth. It looked very old, and this oldness came from the ruthless ravages of time. However, the Lord of Steel must have maintained it very well, so that it didn't even have any obvious damage.

He stood up, walked to the empty seat at the table, laid it flat and unfolded it, and a blank flag suddenly appeared.

Robert Guilliman was stunned.

The Lord of Steel propped up the table with his hands, lowered his head to stare at it, and spoke slowly.

"Ten thousand years ago, I took it from your fortress. I think you probably don't know about this, or maybe you have forgotten it."

Guilliman rose slowly.

"I haven't forgotten, brother."

"That's good." Perturabo raised his head and nodded calmly. "For the past ten thousand years, it has always been hanging in my tactical room. I regard it as a silent bell. Every time I look at it, it rings. I have placed so much trust in it that I almost forgot where it came from."

He reached out and grasped the two ends of the flag and raised it
"But now, I remember it, so I'm going to give it back to you, brother."

Guilliman was silent for a long, long time before he spoke.

"But why? I saw you removed the emblem of your legion from the

"There are many reasons. You don't have to ask. I won't answer. Just accept it." Perturabo said coldly. "But I have a request."

"what?"

The Lord of Steel put down the flag, suddenly gritted his teeth, and clenched his hands at both sides of his body. After a few seconds, he spoke very seriously.

".The museum of the Sollems Dynasty has a large collection, and according to the alien Trazyn, they are likely to have been taken out of the stasis field by its kind."

"They know nothing about the world today, but they will definitely learn from those things how many years they have been kept. The alien told me personally that there are many of its kind who are high and mighty and would deliberately use this to relieve boredom."

"So when you see them, I want you to wave this flag - put a celestial eagle on it, or something else, whatever you want, but you wave it."

"I want you to show them one thing. I want you to tell them that the Empire still exists, that humanity still exists, that they have not been abandoned, nor forgotten."

(End of this chapter)