40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 779 67. Regaining Hope (End, Two-in-One)

Although the dust had settled, Robert Guilliman did not seem to relax at all.

He had a full view of everything on the tactical table, and even if he found a seven or eight-year-old kid from Zhongzi Academy to take a look, he would have no hesitation in concluding that humans had won. The flanks, the front line, the rear.
At any rate, the undead were doomed.

Nowadays, humans only need to clean up the battlefield slowly and collect prisoners to easily win the final victory.

But Guilliman still stood motionless at the table with a frown on his face, letting the icy blue water soak his face. From a distance, he looked almost like an ice sculpture, a grim statue looking into the distance.
His brother dropped from the sky and landed slowly behind him.

Sanguinius perfectly controlled every bit of strength in his body, making this landing almost soundless. When his steel boots touched the ground, he loosened his grip, allowing the heirloom blade given to him by the dead general before his death to stand steadily on the ground, and spoke slowly.

"How's it going?"

"We have won." Guilliman replied. "After you severely damaged their real main force, we have nothing to worry about."

"Really? But you don't look like we won."

Sanguinius walked slowly to his side, the warrior's sharpness had faded from his face, and the concern in the depths of his eyes was so sincere. Under normal circumstances, this precious brotherhood would immediately make the Lord of Five Hundred Worlds, who had not seen his other brothers for ten thousand years, feel the urge to smile.

But now, his face was still extremely stiff.

He shook his head coldly and said, "I'm just thinking."

"What are you thinking about?" Sanguinius asked in a low voice. "Just say whatever you want to say, Robert. You always see further than the rest of us."

Guilliman was silent for a while, and finally spoke reluctantly.

"I don't want to be a killjoy, but since you asked, okay."

He raised his hand and the projection on the tactical table instantly transformed into a combat report, including casualties, ammunition consumption, tactical success, the enemy's specific performance, and even a rough analysis of the weapons they used.
It is extremely detailed and coldly written, with little regard for either side as living individuals - there is no doubt that this is a report that only Robouti Guilliman could write today.

Sanguinius read the report carefully three times from beginning to end, and then said, "Is it too early to start thinking about the next war against the Undead, brother?"

"Early? I even think it's a little late." The more Guilliman spoke, the more obvious the deep frown between his brows became. "The Empire has never really fought against the Necrons before. There have been occasional frictions, but it is definitely not a war."

He paused, subconsciously paced back and forth for a moment, and the blazing white stars in his eyes suddenly dimmed.

Without this radiance, the angel immediately noticed his brother's face, which had become noticeably thinner. The divinity had faded, leaving behind a tired and distressed man, who stood there sighing and pouring out his worries.

"This is the first battle." He closed his eyes and said. "We-"

Sanguinius took a step forward, put his hand around his shoulders, and forcibly led him away from the tactical table that held so many thoughts.

"--What are you doing?" Guilliman asked with a hint of shock.

"Don't ask," the angel said firmly.

They arrived outside the tent, and the scene they saw was difficult to describe in just a few words.

Are there people celebrating the victory? Yes, and most of them are messengers, but many people are still staying at their positions and doing what they should do, without slacking off. Especially the officers who are qualified to come here, all of them have sad faces, frowning, and some are even cursing in a low voice.

The two Primarchs' superior hearing allowed them to easily hear the words.

"If it weren't for Lord Sanguinius."

"The firepower of these aliens is simply unbelievable!"

"We should unite and negotiate with the Inquisition after the war. At least we should try to get our hands on their artillery."

"Are you crazy? Using alien technology is blasphemous and dangerous!"

"I have a clear conscience, and the Emperor can hear my voice! Besides, don't we still have the Mechanical Priests? Can't they think of a way to turn these alien technologies into the creations of the Om Messiah?"

The two Primarchs looked at each other tacitly and stopped at the same time.

The angel coughed lightly, drawing everyone's attention to himself, and then spoke some powerful words, while also mentioning the undead's extremely advanced war technology - he did not say it directly, but he did put the issue on the table.

The two officers who had discussed this issue before immediately burst into laughter. One old and one young, their faces were as wrinkled as the armor plates torn apart by a round of fire from a Leman Russ tank, and joy was evident on their faces.

Guilliman saw it all without any reaction. He simply clapped his hands after his brother finished speaking and then walked away.

At first, it was the angel who led the way, but now he quietly switched their identities.
A few minutes later, they arrived at a secluded spot in the camp. It was located at the edge of the camp, and there was no one there, except for the low hum of various cables.

A wind filled with dead dust blew in from not far away, easily dyeing the hair and armor of the two primarchs black.

The angel glanced at his brother and suddenly laughed.

"What's so funny?" the Macragge man, whose hair had turned from white to black, asked calmly.

"I just didn't think of you with black hair." The angel said with a smile.

The Macragge snorted coldly and raised his hand to scratch his short hair.

Dust stained the edges of his nails and turned the black of his white hair into an acceptable gray - of course, if the housekeepers on his ship saw this, they would scream and run over to hand over a warm, wet towel.
But what if it was another Housekeeper? What would she do?
Robert Guilliman's thoughts suddenly lost track for a moment.

Housekeeper? No, it's the head of the house.

All officials in his court, no matter how big or small, were subject to her jurisdiction, and it was not just out of obedience to power. The greater factor was that people at that time respected her, respecting this respectable person who had been working diligently since her youth.

They knew she had no ulterior motives and that every decision she made was for the people of Macragge.
But Robouti Guilliman would rather she had some selfish motives.

The back injury from years of desk work when she was young and the knee problems caused by constant field visits almost destroyed her when she was old. In her last few years, she was unable to leave her bed and wheelchair, and therefore became reluctant to see people.

She didn't want people to see her haggard and weak appearance, and she didn't want the world to know that she had become a dying candle that could no longer illuminate anyone.

Only he can, only he is the exception.

The son of Konor Guilliman and Talasha Udon, who had no blood relationship with him, pursed his lips. Then he raised his hand to cover his eyes, pressed his middle finger and thumb on his temple, and rubbed it hard.

"What is it, brother?" Sanguinius asked quietly.

"Headache," said Guilliman. "An old ailment. It will soon be gone."

Another breeze blew, and the angel spread his wings, shielding the once blond man from the dust.

They looked at each other in silence, and then looked down and saw countless black shadows trailing smoke and dust rushing from the far end of the horizon.

There are millions of different victorious scenes, and this is probably the weirdest of them all.

The Undead captives who were lining up under the supervision of the Astartes below the camp spoke loudly in High Gothic with a strange accent about their family backgrounds. They did not seem to have any resistance and were even quite proud of it.

The old auxiliary army soldiers, covered in dust, carrying guns and smoking, sat in groups of three or four on crates or on the hoods of cars, looking at the scene with strange expressions and grinning.

Pharmacists and medical officers came and went with their servants, running non-stop. The red-robed priests were all ecstatic, surrounding the undead and questioning them, forcing them to shout, saying that they needed "protection" and "prisoner rights".
Guilliman put his hand down with a strange look on his face, not knowing what to say.

Yes, the Empire hates aliens extremely, so every war against aliens is the most brutal, and the post-war scene is hard to make people feel relaxed. Only this time, the soldiers did not have any negative emotions.
That's right, he thought. There is no deep hatred between us and the Necrons.

"According to the time, he should be here soon." He suddenly said - it's time to get down to business.

"Who?" the angel asked with some confusion.

"Crowned General Zandrick—according to the ancient traditions he upholds, he should come and surrender to us now."

Sanguinius showed a disapproving expression and said hesitantly: "Do you really think..."

"Yes."

Guilliman said, raising his hand to the sky.

There, a crescent-shaped Necron aircraft was flying towards the edge of the command post where the two Primarchs were located at a slow speed that could be hit at any time.

Sanguinius frowned and gave a no-fire order over the comms channel, then he put a hand on his sword and stepped back, back behind his brother like a guard.

Guilliman himself stood calmly on the edge of the cliff with his hands behind his back, waiting for the aircraft to arrive.

Two minutes later, it arrived as promised.

It was already very elegant when viewed from a distance, but now, when viewed up close, it is even more remarkable.

The aircraft was a very beautiful silver color with dark green lines all over it, creating a strange harmony between the flickering and flickering. What was particularly noteworthy was that it was floating so steadily at such a high altitude, but it did not make any sound at all.

It slowly descended, and in accordance with the owner's wishes, a metal bridge extended out, connecting directly to the edge of the cliff, forming a road that was neither wide nor narrow, at least enough to accommodate two people.

The crowned general of the dead strode forward, hands raised high, and his guards followed closely behind, unarmed but with fists clenched.

"What a great fight!"

The voice arrives before the person does, Zandrick praises it.

"Especially that imaginative bunker tactic, which directly cut off the most important lifeline of my front line! I really want to know, where did you find such a group of good soldiers, who could actually hold out against my best siege fighters for three hours?"

"They are called the Galaxy Guard," Guilliman replied. "They are the offspring of my brother, the Iron Lord Perturabo. Their tenacity is renowned throughout the Imperium and the galaxy."

"That's because I'm ignorant!" Zandrick walked towards him quickly and stretched out his right hand. "Please forgive me, I'm an old antique after all."

Guilliman smiled and reached out to shake his hand. Interestingly, although he was clearly holding his head high, there was no trace of the arrogance of a winner on his face.

"What are your plans for the future, General?" Guilliman asked suddenly in a low voice.

Zandrek seemed surprised and straightened up, and the Iron Hand, which was shaking Guilliman's Hand up and down enthusiastically, slowly stopped.

"Since I was defeated in the battle, I will naturally become your prisoner. You can use me to exchange for a reward, or negotiate a deal, anything is fine!"

Guilliman shook his head very firmly, then pulled his hand away.

"I am not a fool who cannot see the situation clearly, nor am I a fool who does not know what is good for him, General. It seems that we have won this battle, but if——"

"——If you lose, you lose!" Zandrek retorted loudly. "There are no ifs, Lord Robert Guilliman, you should know this very well, there are no ifs in war!"

The Lord of Five Hundred Worlds stared at him deeply for a while, then nodded slowly. "Okay," he said. "You've probably made up your mind."

"Of course." Zandrick said, and the arcs on his iron face twisted again made him look like he was smiling. "Some things have to be done by someone, who else but me?"

"In that case," Guilliman said slowly. "I will set you free now?"

"No, it's not the right time yet, sir. Please wait a moment."

Zandrick turned sideways and forcefully reached out to pull his guard over. The latter lowered his head, appearing unusually silent and resistant - but he did not resist in the end.

"Please allow me to introduce you to my most loyal friend." General Dai Guan said solemnly. "After this battle, if nothing unexpected happens, I will most likely be held accountable. I will lose my original position, or even be thrown into jail and become a prisoner. But before that, I still have the power to confer honors and promotions."

Guilliman looked back at the angel, who made a gesture, and he turned his head, then nodded in agreement without saying much.

"Well then, I will do something in front of you two. I declare that from now on, he, Obian, will be the new overlord and crowned general of the Gidrem Dynasty. All the soldiers under my command will obey his orders as if they were my own, no matter what."

After Zandrick finished speaking, he solemnly made a series of complicated gestures, and then whispered something, as if trying to persuade.

Obiang remained silent, but his clenched fists relaxed. He raised his head and looked directly at his master, then nodded slowly.

The old general was visibly relieved, and the distortion on his iron mask became more severe, but he did not look that scary. Instead, there was a kind of sincerity hidden in it.

He patted his only friend's shoulder in a slightly comforting manner, then chuckled.

"Very well." He turned to look at Robouti Guilliman. "I have nothing to say now, my Lord - you shall do what is required of you."

"Then, as the commander-in-chief of the combined fleet, I will give you your freedom."

"Thank you," said Zandrick. "Thank you very much."

He turned around and stepped onto the aircraft, while Obiang got off without saying a word. The silver path slowly retracted, and with a very gentle hum, the aircraft left its original location in the blink of an eye, climbed deep into the clouds, and disappeared.
Dozens of seconds later, a green light shot up into the sky, and the desolate scene around it slowly collapsed.

Guilliman turned around and wanted to say something to the new Overlord who stayed behind to become the leader of the captives, but he caught a glimpse of an indescribable glittering gold from the corner of his eye.

His expression changed and he turned his head quickly, and unexpectedly saw a familiar warship in the surrounding collapse scene that was rippling like water.

Sanguinius, who was standing behind him, expressed his thoughts in a very calm tone.

"The Emperor's Vision." The Archangel sighed very calmly. "Oh, Robert, we may have to write a report for him again."

Robert Guilliman let out a sigh of relief, his eyes gleaming brightly, causing the new overlord beside him to subconsciously raise his hands, as if alert to the possible attack at any time.——
Every corner of the Emperor's Fantasy is magnificent. It has thousands of designers, each of whom is a genius who is worthy of leaving his name in the galaxy.

However, for the sake of perfection here, most of them failed to leave their names behind, and the only thing left of their works is the ship itself.

Their efforts have become unknown, but fortunately the Emperor's fantasy still exists. The thoughts and ideas of thousands of people flowed through the long time, sliding delicately between gold, silver, gems and pearls, creating one after another indescribable and different luxurious scenes.

Some are bright and grand, some are exquisite and elegant, and some are calm and unobtrusive, and their true skills are only seen in the subtleties.
But either way, it was almost unacceptable to an old Nostramo.

"Here, sir."

The tribune opened the door, holding a pair of makeshift sunglasses in his hand, and handed them to the person behind the desk. His face showed no expression, but his posture was particularly anxious.

The latter raised his hand to take it, put his fingers firmly on it, and finally relaxed a little. He could never have imagined that he would be in an embarrassing situation of being unable to see after seeing a piece of gold, hand-carved Milky Way star map.
“That’s what ordinary people are like.”

Conrad Coates expressed his ridicule with a smile on his face, but when he turned around his expression became serious again.

He solemnly expressed his gratitude to La Endymion, who nodded uncomfortably, bowed, and stepped aside.

Caryl Rohals placed his hands on his cheeks and took a deep breath.

"You are right, Conrad."

"But?" The Lord of the Night pointed out this turning point in advance with the unusual tacit understanding between them.

"But my body shouldn't be this fragile."

"Fragile?"

With a sneer, the thin giant slowly stood up and left the desk he was sitting on. Then he bent down and pulled out a real cold steel blade from the darkness where he was standing.

Judging from its appearance, it seemed ordinary, but it made the imperial guards nearby instinctively feel extremely alert.

With a forced smile, Conrad Coates aimed at Caryl Rohals' neck, gathered all his strength, and slashed it across.

Then there was a loud, sharp sound, and the fragments of the broken sword flew past and were swallowed up in mid-air by a dark shadow that was surging like a living thing.

"Spit it out!" The Lord of Night immediately turned his head and gave a cold order to the thing. "Don't eat it!"

The demon named Larhe reluctantly did as he was told, never expecting that he would gain a perfect face-changing art.

After receiving the broken knife fragments from its mouth, Conrad Koz immediately gave it an extremely gentle smile, and even let the person who had just been hit on the neck by the blade share a little bit of it.

He stood up from behind his desk with a complicated expression.

"How is it, father?" The Lord of the Night folded his hands, holding a broken blade in each hand, and nodded at him with a smile. "Are you still calling yourself weak?"

"."

"Why don't you speak?"

"My situation needs more research." Khalil whispered, rubbing his neck. "I also welcome some people with similar experience to do this kind of research. But, what you just did-"

"——Alas, it seems that there are some new people in the wasteland." The Lord of the Night interrupted him without sincerity. "I have to go now. Let's talk later, old man."

As soon as he finished speaking, he disappeared. For several seconds afterwards, the room was completely silent, not even the sound of breathing existed.

The silence did not end until Lalhe began to surge with a grunt, slowly crawling to Khalil's feet, clinging on to it, and turning back into a coat again.

With a sigh, the Inquisitor, still wearing sunglasses, straightened his collar and spoke softly.

"How are they doing?"

La shook his head without looking away, and his expression alone expressed his meaning: not very good.

"How bad?"

"Ecstasy, screaming, celebrating, crying." The tribune spoke slowly. "Deck 13 is in great chaos right now, and many people want to commit suicide."

I knew it. Khalil suppressed the urge to sigh. I knew it would turn out this way.

"Have you talked to them?"

La shook his head indifferently: "We have talked about it, but, sir, most people become even crazier after seeing me."

Khalil glanced back at his makeshift desk and the datapads, slates, and papers that now filled more than half of it.

He put on his hat in silence and strode out of the room.

He wanted to let the people returning to the empire calm down for a while, so he let La go first. But now it seems that this has the opposite effect.

It seems that I should write fewer reports, Caryl thought with some humor.

Twenty minutes later, amidst the chatter of the Emperor's Vision, they arrived on Deck 13.

Contrary to La's description, the most basic order has been restored here - except for the undried blood on the ground and some people with closed eyes, flushed faces, and receiving medical assistance, this place looks like a slightly weird and highly complicated mixed military camp.

Astartes from hundreds of different chapters, thousands of auxiliary troops and their armored vehicles, priests and sages of the Mechanicus, and the precious treasures they had urgently rescued from the museum in Trazyn.
Standing on the stands on the second floor of the deck and looking down, Khalil couldn't help but sigh.

First of all, the Astartes, when the combined fleet returns to the Empire, if nothing unexpected happens, they can return to their own regiments, clear the suspicion of disappearance, or be resurrected from the state of "death in battle".

But this also has a prerequisite - their chapter must still exist.

The Empire has a vast territory. After the Battle of Terra, in order to cope with the increasingly severe war situation, the Codex Astartes came into being, and the sub-groups followed. But it was obviously not enough to divide the sub-groups only once, so, with the consent of Terra, the army was immediately established after approval.

Sadly, even if most of the newly formed sub-groups received a large amount of weapons and personnel support, it was often difficult for them to grow to a size that was strong enough to split off another sub-group.
Next are the Auxiliary Corps, whose problems are similar to those of the Astartes, but easier to solve.

Most people can get good treatment under the arrangement of the Military Affairs Department, either to serve in the new world, or to become an instructor at Zhongsi Academy, or even enjoy a life of retirement that they dare not even dream of.
Not to mention the civilians, any stable world needs a steady stream of people to fill the constantly opening jobs. And Trazyn obviously has some preferences in choosing civilian "collections", he almost only chooses those who have suffered in the war.

For people who have experienced the suffering of war, having a stable job and an environment where they don't have to worry all day long is probably better than anything else.

Therefore, upon closer thought, the real problem lies only with the Mechanicus.

Khalil looked towards them.

The problem is - they got too much stuff.

Let's not talk about the panacea for now. This precious STC will naturally have to go through a lot of review by the Martian side before it can be put into research. But apart from this, what else did the priests get?

Khalil could even make a list: at least eight types of firearms whose manufacturing techniques had long been confirmed to be lost, two complete production lines that could mass-produce power weapons, dozens of special alloys, some mysterious and ancient agricultural machinery, and so on.
How does the Mechanicus classify all these?
You know, not all of these priests are from Mars. Once they return to the Empire, this matter is likely to become a political struggle between Mars and other forging worlds.

Don't think that the Primarch or Terra can settle this matter with just a few words. The whole empire knows a little about the madness of the Red Robes when it comes to knowledge. Even children in remote worlds have heard at least one or two stories about crazy mechanical priests.
As he thought about it, Khalil suddenly laughed.

La looked over immediately, but he had improved. This time he did not put his hand on the sword. Perhaps he felt that even this person would not be likely to have the idea of ​​killing someone in such a situation.
Or maybe he was just simply confused.

Anyway, he asked, "Sir, why are you laughing?"

Khalil smiled and shook his head, sighed a happy trouble, then turned over, jumped down, and landed in front of the crowd.

In front of them, he reached into his bosom and pulled out a piece of cloth that was still thick and wide after being folded many times. He asked for another flagpole and put it on.

People looked up and gazed at it, and saw a touch of never-fading gold in the middle of the old white.

An eagle flaps its wings and is about to fly.

(End of this chapter)