40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 762 51. Regaining Hope (VIII, 9K)

Balboa looked down at the object in front of him, thought for a few seconds, and finally reached out to pick it up. It felt cold and heavy, almost like holding a piece of ice.

His eyes swept across the dark and rough surface of the object, finally stopping at the side of its protruding curved magazine, where someone had carved a word with a knife.

Hellhound.

The crowned general Zandrick spoke leisurely.

"I always believe that weapons are more important to soldiers than their own lives. You must share the same view as me, Captain."

Balboa held his beloved gun tightly in his arms, said nothing, and just nodded.

Zandrek let out a hollow laugh, turned around, and officially stepped onto the terrifyingly wide avenue of the Soloms Museum.

He stood with his hands behind his back, and although he was made of metal and as tall as a monster, he walked like an old man in his twilight years - too steady and slow, without any sharpness at all.

Balboa looked at the alien's back, and his right hand instinctively rubbed the trigger. Of course, he did not shoot, he suppressed this impulse.

This fact is rare, but not incomprehensible.

The Captain had seen the Necron almost every day for the past twenty-two days, and the Necron had never done anything that could be considered offensive or threatening. It had been not only courteous to him, but even a little too friendly.

He had suspected more than once whether this obviously insane Necron had other intentions.
But, on second thought, even if it had similar ideas, what kind of help could he - a soldier who couldn't even recognize all the words - provide?

You know, this damn Alien Museum houses all kinds of big names, why doesn't it go find them?
After realizing this, the captain was no longer on high alert, but instead put on a mask of calmness in order to test the true purpose of this strange undead.

However, so far, he still has nothing to show for it, but he already has some vague ideas.

“Look at your warriors”

General Dai Guan stopped, looked sideways, and spoke with admiration.

His sight fell on a vast ruin. The sky was dark, and the motionless smoke maintained a strange shape, solidifying in mid-air.

Balboa frowned and looked over. In the center of the ruins, he found a bunker on the verge of collapse. A remnant of the army was making final preparations inside. They were wearing brown and black uniforms, and each of them was wounded and bloody, but they still planned to charge and meet the enemy.

Bayonets were mounted on the front of the muskets, combat knives were held in their hands, and the political commissar's chainsaw sword was ready to go. The flag bearer bent down to pick up the dead bugler's brass horn, and the tattered flag turned into a blurred color on her shoulder. An officer stood at the top of the trench, glaring at the enemy not far away.

It is worth mentioning that a sniper bullet was hovering about ten meters in front of his forehead.

Seeing this, the captain couldn't help but recall a lesson he heard from his instructor when he first started training: You'd better wear a helmet, and you'd better not stick your head out of the trench near the enemy.

Of course, the original words were not as friendly as this. The instructor could put seven or eight different insults in one sentence. His words were like a heavy machine gun.
"Face death head-on and never retreat." The alien general praised in a low voice. "With soldiers like these, it's no wonder your empire has been able to survive so many threats until now."

The captain didn't know how to answer. His long combat experience allowed him to quickly capture many details of the battlefield the moment he saw it, such as the fear that could not be concealed on the faces of the remaining soldiers, and the large group of troops that were steadily advancing with the armored vehicles at the other end of the ruins.

Their numbers were several times greater than that of the remnant army, and their uniforms were exactly the same, except that the Sky Eagle, representing the imperial authority, had been destroyed in some way. This symbol, sewn in dark black lines on the upper right side of the chest, had either been roughly cut or smeared into a mess.

To sum up, the answer is actually obvious - this is just a common war about betrayal.

For this, the captain couldn't help but want to laugh. Not for anything else, just because of the word "threat" from the alien's mouth.

He retracted his gaze and, based on the experience he had gained over the past twenty-two days, looked down at a smooth stone platform outside the ruins. A ball of iron sand was suspended on it, and its shape was changing every second, as if it had life.

After a few seconds, as if it had sensed the captain's gaze, the dark mass began to change rapidly. It dispersed, twisted, and stuck together, and soon it became a short article written in High Gothic.

[In 767.M34 of the Human Annals, a rebellion broke out in the Hive City of Stria. The ruler of this world and his family were publicly executed by the rebels. Their leader claimed that they had only executed a tyrant who should have died long ago, and a group of parasites that followed him and sucked the blood of the Stria people.]

[After doing this, he called on others to stand up and resist, believing that the Stolians should take back what they originally owned. ]

[Due to the high-handed rule of this ruler and his predecessor for more than 400 years, the number of rebels in Stria increased by 272% in just the first week of the rebellion. After just half a month, the number had even expanded to an incalculable level.]

[According to the museum owner's speculation, at this time in Storia, there should be less than 20% of people who still choose to fight for their empire. The scene in front of you is one of the representative battles carefully selected for you by the museum owner. ]

[This battle took place near the capital of Storia. A local auxiliary infantry regiment took two weeks to reach here through the underground passage under the command of their leader. They originally planned to launch a surprise attack and behead the rebel leader, but they did not expect that the other party had already died in the civil strife.]

[At this time, the rebels were busy fighting each other, with many factions and battles for power. As soon as the 118th Infantry Regiment appeared, it collided with the 27th Regiment, which was a former armored regiment, and the battle began.]

[The 118th Regiment was not superior in terms of equipment and numbers, but they resisted stubbornly until the last moment and refused to surrender. However, their resistance was doomed to be in vain.]

[A year later, the Stolians who finally understood what happened would try to distance themselves from the matter and blame it all on the dead. The anti-rebellion troops who arrived also accepted this explanation in order to end the matter as quickly as possible. After purging a group of people, the 118th Regiment was forever listed as a traitor along with other rebels.]

【Therefore, this museum believes that the 118th Regiment is fighting a battle that is doomed to fail, futile, and fading in blood. 】

[But humans are such a stubborn race. They may not be as clear about their own fate as we learned afterwards, but they must have anticipated it.]

[However, this could not shake their determination. For an emperor they had never seen, for an ideal they could never fully understand, these people were willing to die.]

叛乱
The captain raised his left hand and hung the gun belt of his beloved gun around his neck.

The familiar feeling of friction brought him back to the battlefield in a trance, as if he was squatting in the trench, biting the dog tag and licking it, feeling the taste of iron.

He loosened his grip, letting the weight of the gun begin to press on him—and then, the familiar smell of rust really arrived.

Facing the gaze of the crowned general, the captain smiled, revealing a bright red mouth.

"Why are you laughing?"

"Because it's damn funny."

Balboa answered in a vulgar tone, then pointed to himself, him, and the ruins nearby.

"Me, you, and them, how on earth did we end up in the same place at the same time? It's like a beggar, a king, and a blind man walking into a toilet together, you know? Ah, this damn museum."

He fell silent for a few seconds, then suddenly started cursing.

He was so familiar with the matter of suppressing rebellion that he had to be familiar with it.

Back when the Hellhounds were still just a scumbag army filled with death row prisoners, the most common thing these sick dogs did was to be crammed into a stinking ship without knowing anything, tossed around for months, and then thrown into a completely unfamiliar world to kill people there.

Often, the enemies they encounter are just ragged civilians holding things that can hardly be called weapons. However, even if they get a gun, not many people know how to use it correctly.

Although the hellhounds who came from afar may have been criminals not long ago, they have all received the most basic military training, but these people? They have nothing.

As a result, they died in all kinds of ways - charging into the hail of bullets, standing still when artillery fire came, turning around and running away when the enemy jumped into the trenches.
They had almost no will to fight and were forced to come to the front line of the war, facing a group of scum who came all the way from the other side of the galaxy just to kill them all.

In such a war, their only role is to serve as cannon fodder. They are filled with fear, but they don’t know that those scum who came from afar are actually more afraid than them.

As long as there is one person who dares to stand up.
damn it.

Balboa raised his hand to pinch his chin, sniffed, and cursed again instinctively in his heart. The undead general who had been silent all this time suddenly spoke slowly, his voice calm.

"In my opinion, most rebellions by local people are actually acts of desperation. This is also a common phenomenon in our history."

"Many scholars have done statistics and analysis on this. They believe that as long as the local rulers are willing to give people one or two basic ways to survive, they will not take risks. Even if it is the lowest level of order, they will endure it."

"The funny thing is that in most worlds where rebellions occur, even if the rulers realize in advance that the people's livelihood is very bad, they will not think about improving it. They will just keep squeezing until the rebellion occurs, and then they will get very angry about it and use the most brutal means to suppress it."

"In order to prevent such absurd things from happening again, we have united to formulate many new laws that all rulers must abide by."

He gave a low snorting laugh.

"And as far as I know, you humans also have something similar."

The captain restrained his emotions and keenly sensed that something was wrong from this sentence, so he immediately asked back.

"what do you mean?"

Xandrek put his hands behind his back and answered truthfully.

"These days, you and I have visited almost all of this museum. Frankly speaking, I don't have a very good impression of this place, nor do I have a very good impression of its builder. But I must admit that he has done a lot of research and understanding about you."

“I have read some of his unpublished works, such as The History of Human Empires and The Sociology of Human Empires, which are quite interesting.”

"From this, I understand that although your empire is unable to exercise real-time control over its territory due to backward communication and navigation technologies, it does have another way to deal with the endless corruption problem."

"And I'm very interested in this, uh, solution."

The captain was silent for a long time, and finally spoke in a muffled voice.

"I do not know what you're talking about."

The crowned general turned around with interest, tilted his head, and began to look at the human in front of him who was unconsciously showing emotions in a posture that was enough to make people's hair stand on end. A few seconds passed, and his gaze never stopped, with green light surging in the depths of his eye sockets.

"Tell me about it," the necromancer said gently. "I'm all ears."

The captain stared at him for a long while, and his lips began to twitch.

"I don't know what bullshit books you've read, but we don't have 'something like that' you're talking about - we don't have any laws against rulers. Every governor I've met is almost always a fat pig with big ears, incredibly stupid, but he has the power to do anything with a world. As long as he pays taxes on time, he can do whatever he wants."

"But?" Zandrick pressed impatiently. "You must have a 'but' waiting for you, good captain?"

Balboa gave a grin mixed with fear.

"Yes, I do but, there are always people who go looking for them."

"Who?" Zandrick asked immediately.

Of course he noticed the captain's fear at this moment, but he did not realize that his usually steady voice now sounded slightly trembling - was it due to excitement or trembling?
The mind protocol has a plan for this, and it can perfectly simulate any emotion. However, it will inform him in advance, just like a poor actor who is being reminded by the director: You should be surprised! What? Is that so? Okay, I will do it right away.
However, at this moment, what Zandrick has and feels is real expectation.

How long had it been? How long had it been since he had felt this way? The thought protocol in his mind was constantly reporting errors, but he didn't want to stop at all.

Xandrek waited with great excitement, already enjoying the adventure.

"I don't know," Balboa answered honestly. "No one has ever seen them, but everyone knows about them, like a legend, you know?"

Zandrick nodded in a pretentious manner, and the iron mask of the Undead General, which had been shaped since the moment he was thrown into the biological transformation furnace, suddenly underwent some slight changes.

loose.

General Dai Guan racked his brains to search his memory, unraveling the mystery layer by layer, and finally settled on this adjective in the fog.

Yes, loose.

He just felt like a poor man trapped in an iron coffin for tens of millions of years. During these endless years, he had been trying to break the coffin open with his hands, but it never moved. Until recently, until just now
It moved, and it wasn't an illusion.

Some sand and gravel were spilling onto the coffin board through the gaps in the soil, making a sneaky sound that he could hear clearly.

Zandrek became more and more absorbed in the conversation. "Before I joined the army, I always heard their stories in the tavern. I don't know if you, an old, crazy lunatic, have ever been to a place like this before, but for people like us, it's a place worth, as the boys under my command say, a tavern is a place where people can sell their souls for."

The captain said this with a self-deprecating smile, a rare hint of sadness on his rough face, but he quickly returned to the topic without any lingering feelings.

"Listen, what a great sentence! I would never have said anything like that in my life. When I was young, I hung out there almost every day. I drank in almost every bar near my home, which resulted in severe alcoholism, scars all over my body, and a crooked nose."

"And in my experience, no matter which pub you go to, there are always people telling stories: stories about murder, theft, brawls, beautiful young women and a few men."

"It's always these things, but every now and then there'll be a story that makes everyone in the bar stop unconsciously, like the one I'm going to tell you next."

He paused, and his tone suddenly became calmer.

"The cripple who told the story called them Nightsouls himself, ghosts of the night. Ah, did I not mention the cripple?"

"Go ahead, Captain," Zandrick replied sternly. "I want to hear the details."

"Details? You're crazy! What can a cripple have worth talking about? But since you want to hear it."

Balboa laughed exaggeratedly, but sweat began to appear on his forehead and his face became paler and paler, as if someone was stabbing his back with a knife.

"Well, he always stays in the tavern called the Black Cat, all year round, and at 5 o'clock in the afternoon, he pushes open the door and walks in, then orders a full table of wine and drinks it slowly."

"He is very old. If you had a face, he would be about as old as you are. He always wears a ragged robe and holds a faded cane in his hand. The bottom of the cane is always covered with mud. He drinks a lot and can drink a whole pot of beer just by tilting his head back."

The captain's face twitched involuntarily and he closed his mouth. For a few seconds, he gritted his teeth frantically, but soon regained his composure.

"Okay, that's all I can remember. Do you still want to hear the story?"

"Of course," said Zandrick.

His answer was so simple, just two light syllables, like someone's knuckles knocking on the door at midnight - staring at the pale face of the human with a fiery sexual desire, he realized that his thought protocol was inevitably affected.

This feeling was once called empathy, and it still exists after the Necrontyr became the Necrons. Although it is simulated by the program, it does play a real role.
And it was in no way comparable to what Zandrek was feeling at the moment.

Although both are things called empathy, the latter is more real and deeper, and can make Zandrek feel what it means to be "alive". It is also like a thorn in his heart, constantly reminding him how precious the ordinary emotions they had in the past are.

I'm a little jealous of you, Endless, even though we've never met, Zandrek thought. But you've certainly gone a lot further on this path than I have.
“I remember it was winter.”

Balboa said, his voice unconsciously becoming softer, making him sound not at all like himself.

"It snowed heavily and the winds kept blowing for months. People froze to death every day, either at home or outside. The sheriff had to declare a curfew so that we idlers could go home early and avoid being frozen to death in the streets."

"That day was the last day before curfew, and we all knew it, so the atmosphere was surprisingly good. There were no bastards who started fights, no bastards who tried to molest the waitresses, and even the scabby guy who bought wine on credit took out money, which was a rare occurrence."

"The bartender must have been very happy. He bought all of us a round of drinks and turned on the boiler in the store to the maximum so that we, a group of beggars and idlers, could warm our hands and feet. We squeezed on the dirty floor and poured drinks for each other."

"Then it was the second half of the night. You know, the second half of the night is when drunks are most likely to cause trouble. But that day was blessed by the Emperor. Although we were all drunk, we were still rational. But the Emperor probably couldn't stand us torturing our stomachs and families like this, so he sent the cripple and asked him to start telling the story."

The captain's pupils dilated in an instant, as if he was pulled into the past.

His face twitched again, but he was unaware of it. Before he knew it, a deep chill was rising around him.

Zandrick noticed this immediately, as did his guards. Obiang immediately initiated a series of requests in the communication protocol, but was rejected.

Let him continue, Obiang. The crowned general gave the order with a steely heart. You shall not disobey.

Balboa's story continues.

"He started with a prisoner being hung. I don't remember if anyone asked him to tell a story, but once he started, I knew I had to listen. I had no choice. The prisoner's name was Enr, and the man who hung him was the Governor-Governor!"

The captain suddenly shouted, then grinned with satisfaction, and behind his curled lips were two blood-stained teeth.

"I was still a peasant at the time. Do you know how scary this word was to me? And I was definitely not the only one who was scared. The pub was silent at the time. Even the waitress with the most chattering mouth shut her bucktoothed mouth."

"The damn old man must have been very satisfied with this. He raised his glass and took a big gulp before continuing. He said that the governor wanted to hang En'er because En'er killed his youngest son. You can imagine, alien, how scared we were when we heard this."

"I tell you, I nearly vomited up the drink I had drunk, but the cripple didn't care. Ah, the damned old fellow—"

The captain closed his mouth and let out a strange, hoarse laugh. Saliva spurted out from the corners of his tightly closed mouth, and it was as turbid as poisoned blood.

"--Anyway, he continued, or rather, Enr continued. Enr said to the Governor, I know he is your youngest son, and I killed him on purpose."

"Logically, the Governor should be furious at this time. At least I think he should be furious. If my son was killed and the murderer was still so arrogant, I would cut him into pieces with a knife."

"But the governor is the governor. Not only was he not angry, he even began to think that En'er was a killer sent by some hidden enemy of his. He killed his youngest son just to send a warning."

"But he was wrong, Ener continued, he said, I killed your little son for no other reason than that he was a damned bastard. Do you know why I said that?"

"The Governor raised his hand and picked up a knife from the side. He gestured to En'er to continue. En'er immediately did as he asked."

"He said that your son is a damned bastard and a beast. He has an expensive hovercraft that can buy several factories, but he would rather not use its hovering function and instead drove it towards the factory workers' dormitory."

"Your son used the car you bought him to kill 1,922 people in 21 minutes, more than half of whom were crushed to death."

"He broke through the cheap walls of the dormitory, then drunkenly adjusted his direction, knocking down the fleeing workers one by one in the ruins, and even deliberately reduced his power just to crush their bodies a second time."

"I killed your son for this."

The captain let out a long breath, bent down with his gun in his arms, and began to laugh. He seemed very happy, but Zandrick was different. He really was very happy.

"He deserves to die." General Dai Guan said calmly.

Balboa laughed.

"We were breathless. The old cripple's words followed one after another, just like a mountain pressing down on us, almost crushing us to death. But as long as you hear the last sentence, all the pressure disappears."

"Just for this, I killed your son. Listen, what a simple reason this is? Not for money, not for fame, just for this, just because your son is a damn bastard!"

"But what happened next? What happened to En'er after he said this? At such a critical moment, the old cripple actually shut up. He stopped talking and started drinking pot after pot of wine."

"We kept discussing En'er's fate, but the old cripple didn't say anything until he spent almost half an hour drinking all the wine on the table. Then he said, the governor is dead too. Do you want to know how he died? After he said this, he stood up and started to choose people."
-

".They are going to start selecting people," said Cato Sicarius.

He stared intently at the heavy wetware display in front of him, his arms crossed across his chest, his hair casting a shadow on his forehead.

The voyage was long and monotonous, and his short hair had turned into medium-length hair that would occasionally interfere with his vision. Although it was quite annoying, he planned to imitate the Blood Angels and grow warrior braids, and even started growing a beard.

These two things have been ridiculed a lot in the past days, but Cato Sicarius has made up his mind.

“We wouldn’t have been chosen anyway,” Uriel Ventress added, sounding indignant for the first time.

His brows were tightly knitted together, and his lips were tilted downward in a sullen motion, as if two ropes were tied at the ends of his lips to pull at an anvil.

His behavior was justified and understandable - as the voyage continued, the exchanges between the various chapters were becoming more and more in-depth, they had come to understand each other's strengths, and so it was natural that shortcomings would arise.

For example, the pride of the Blood Angels is different from that of the Ultramarines. Their pride can almost be regarded as arrogance.
They never show it in front of others, thinking they have covered it up very well, but what? The way they look at others is like an adult looking at a teenager, full of mild ridicule and contempt.

For example, the Black Templars. To be honest, Uriel actually likes them very much, but their fanaticism is too terrifying.

Just last week, a conflict broke out between one of their battle-brothers and a group of auxiliary troops. The former gave the reason that he passed by and heard the latter casually insulting the Emperor during a chat - but according to a realistic investigation, the so-called insult was just a joke.

"The Emperor's stiff ass!"

Although it does sound a bit unpleasant, what's the big deal? How many people in the entire galaxy express similar sentiments every day? However, the Black Templar refused to give in and insisted that those auxiliary soldiers be punished.

The officers of the auxiliary army naturally found it absurd, but not a single Black Templar considered the overall situation. Instead, they all felt that their battle brother's request was reasonable and logical, not caring at all that the "punishment" he mentioned was actually a complete dismissal and punishment.

This matter became a huge commotion at one point, and was even reported to the Primarchs. In the end, it was handled personally by Robert Guilliman.

He ordered the auxiliary soldiers to "write an apology to the Emperor in decent language", and then invited the Black Templar to listen to the apology of the auxiliary soldiers in person, and the matter was barely over.
The Astral Knights, who were also descendants of Dorne, were much better, except that they were always invisible. The descendants of the Lord of Steel were the same, except that they were too rigid and dogmatic, Uriel could not find any problems with them.

Of course, when thinking about these things, Uriel Ventress did not realize that they, the Ultramarines, also had unacceptable aspects, and it was not just a simple trait of "pride".
"I don't think so." Pasanius Lessani muttered.

He just said it casually, just to respond to his brother slightly.

At this moment, he focused most of his attention on the monitor, staring at the data on it intently, trying to analyze the key points.
What these data streams present is actually not complicated. It is the preliminary preparation for a simulated war. It can be easily understood with a little understanding, but the technology used is very advanced. It originated from an ancient relic in Robert Guilliman's private collection, and then after many improvements and experiments, it became a simulation training machine that can be used on a large scale today.

After the duel pit activities were stopped, this became the main pastime among several chapters, and now it has become the main training method. Compared with sparring and daily activities on the training ground, the immersive experience in the simulation is really more than one level better.
From battlefield conditions, enemy and friendly armaments to specific circumstances of follow-up support, all can be simulated, even extreme situations such as a small team of Astartes facing tens of thousands of undead armies.

And now, a simulation that uses the "week" as the basic unit and unites all the war groups and most of the auxiliary forces is in its early stages.

To put it in a more understandable way, the two Primarchs, the Chapter Masters and senior officers were selecting personnel and making tactical arrangements.

"Yes, even if we are not allowed to enter until the late stage of the simulation like the last time, we will definitely be selected."

Cato Sicarius said this in a very firm tone, and even raised his left hand to stroke his beard, which barely had a shape.

His actions drew tacit stares from the two men, but he was oblivious to this and continued to imitate their captain, Idaeos.

"We are the vanguard," Sicarius said forcefully. "There is no way the Primarch will ignore us again!"

Uriel Ventress rolled his eyes silently and said nothing. Pasanius sighed and covered his forehead, forcing himself not to care about Sicarius's behavior.

"Look!" Sicarius suddenly raised his arms and shouted. "I knew it—"

He got stuck in the middle of his words. The reason was nothing but the data displayed on the screen. They showed that Robert Guilliman had just issued a new order, requiring the Eighth and Sixth Companies to act as the first attackers.

To be fair, this choice is very correct. The Eighth Company of the Ultramarines specializes in close combat and assault, while the Sixth Company is a powerful armored unit. There is no problem in deploying these two companies at the beginning of the ground battlefield.
But Sicarius just found it hard to accept.

He lowered his hands, instantly transforming from a poor imitator back into himself.

"What? Why isn't it us? We are the rapid strike force!"

"Perhaps it's because it was us last time, or perhaps it's because the Primarch hates your beard." Uriel said darkly. "It's really an eyesore, don't you think, Sicarius? It makes you look like a savage. Or, as the Eldar aliens say-"

He paused, and finally did not throw the derogatory name at Cato Sicarius's dangerous gaze. However, Pasanius, who only paid a small part of his attention to them, casually picked up his words.

"--monkey," he murmured. "You are like a monkey, Sicarius."

"."

The face of the yet-to-be-appointed adjutant of the 4th Company of the Ultramarines suddenly turned red with choking.

"Alright." Uriel Ventress said, suppressing his smile. "Let's watch the simulation. The selection should be almost finished."

(End of this chapter)