40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 802, Section 23: The Lame Priest (Part 4)

Looking at that limping figure, the hermit felt a rare smile—how could this be? I'm lame, and you're lame too? How could such a coincidence happen?
The thought hovered in his mind like a vulture; he gripped his cane tightly, his gaze shifting slightly upwards.
It could be a coincidence, or it could be intentional, but at that moment, his gaze landed precisely on the priest's unsuspecting nape.

Be careful. He told himself this, but his anger still raged, forcing him to grip his cane tighter and tighter.

The hermit was fully aware of his current state; over the years, his physique was no longer as robust as it once was. The strength that had once been praised within the legion, the vitality that had amazed even the apothecaries, had declined to the point that he found laughable.

He was like a rusty machine, and every time he tried to perform the duties that he was designed and manufactured for, he would hear strange muffled noises coming from inside his body.

The near-eternal battles that had ravaged him over time had left him in this state, but it also meant that his genes remained pure, unburdened by the constraints of humanity, unlike some others. He was proud of this, but also often annoyed by it.

However, on the other hand, the faith he had pursued for so long naturally also bestowed upon him some other powers. These powers weren't particularly prominent when it came to the material world, but they still provided him with some small assistance.
He looked at the pastor, said nothing, and simply observed him calmly.

He saw clearly the effort he put into each step and the torment he endured with each breath, and then he began to delve deeper, wanting to know if it was all a pretense.

Ultimately, the hermit concluded: No.

He understood that the man before him—the pastor with a good reputation in the slums deep in the haunt of the city—was indeed a true cripple and extremely weak.

"Can I kill him?" the hermit pondered thoughtfully.

He gripped the cane again and again, but in the end, he didn't make a move.

The reason was rather amusing: when he realized that the priest's limp wasn't feigned, his initial wariness and hostility returned. They hadn't disappeared, but they were imprisoned along with the enraged beast.

They walked like this for a while, until the church behind them had shrunk to a small, blurry figure, before the priest stopped in front of a medium-sized warehouse.

The two sentries standing guard at the gate immediately came forward. They were wearing transparent breathing masks, and both of their faces were smiling—the hermit glanced at them and knew that they were not fake, obsequious smiles.

He felt inexplicably irritable.

“May the Emperor see your efforts, Priest Naro!” one of the sentries greeted. “I heard from the messengers that you’ve applied for extra allowances for us!”

“Guarding this warehouse is not your job. Similarly, patrolling and maintaining order are not your duties either. I believe that everyone should be paid extra for extra work, which is justified. The Emperor said that those who do not work should not eat, so those who work hard should eat more.”

After the pastor finished speaking, he stepped back and gave the two a salute of the eagle.

The two immediately returned the greeting, still smiling, but one of them was looking at the hermit—he seemed to have just noticed that there was such a person standing not far away, and he even looked surprised.

"Ah, who is this?"

“My colleague,” the pastor said. “The church sent him down to check on my work.”

The sentry's expression behind his mask tightened slightly; he clearly wanted to say something, but meeting the hermit's expressionless gaze, he ultimately couldn't utter a word. Instead, the sentry who had remained silent spoke, appearing remarkably outspoken.

"Inspection? There's no need to come to the warehouse. Wouldn't it be clear if we just went for a walk in the street?"

The pastor smiled but didn't respond. His companion gave him a hard slap on the back, then turned and walked to the storeroom door to open it.

The whole process was rather tedious and complicated. The sentry used two physical keys and also had to go through iris scanning and biometric verification. With so many steps, one couldn't help but wonder what valuable items were stored inside the warehouse.
The thick steel gate slowly rose, and the sentry led the priest and the hermit inside. Then, quite tactfully, he left, even pulling another person along with him.

At this moment, only the priest and the hermit remained in and around the warehouse.

"Medicine? The kind of special medicine you developed?" The hermit spoke first—the white wooden boxes with company names printed on them were quite conspicuous.

The pastor shook his head: "No, it's a different kind. In addition to lung disease, locals and higher-level workers generally also have liver problems."

The hermit glanced at him, raised his cane, and casually pointed to one of the wooden boxes. Before he could say anything, the priest raised his hand and made a gesture.

Please make yourself at home.

He said wearily, and then sat down directly on the ground, leaning against the high stack of boxes, without caring about his image, like a traveler who had been on a long journey for several days.

The hermit observed this scene but simply walked towards the wooden box. He lifted it out, laid it flat on the ground, and then, with a slight effort, pried open the interlocking wooden planks. Inside were numerous small white medicine bottles, made of composite materials, bearing the name and mark of the Shale Merchant Guild.

The hermit took out one of the bottles, twisted it open with one hand, took out a few pills, put them in his mouth, chewed them, and then savored them slowly with the tip of his tongue for a moment.
As the bitter taste gradually spread, he turned around expressionlessly.

“I remember that this world called Lagentium does not have the environment to cultivate Morton grass.”

The pastor smiled with some surprise: "You actually detected it? I remember you used to be very good at it—"

"--answer the questions."

“Okay. Yes, so these Morton grasses were all supplied by the Saller Merchant Guild.”

"Free of charge?"

“It’s free of charge.” The pastor nodded. “Their leader is a devout man.”

"Merchants invariably value profit over promises," the hermit criticized quite harshly. "He wants nothing now, but in the future, you'll have to pay him back with much more."

The pastor's smile faded slightly, but he still managed a forced smile: "I know, but I've seen him—"

"—You also met Eribus and Cole Fallon back then," the hermit coldly interrupted him again. "And the result?"

The smile on the pastor's face finally disappeared completely.

He slowly stood up, glanced at the open doorway, and then walked up to the hermit, speaking very softly.

“You shouldn’t mention those two names here; this is an innocent world.”

"With you here, its innocence probably won't last much longer," the hermit sneered. "And you think you're any better than those two bastards?"

The pastor did not refute the statement. Suddenly, his face turned deathly pale, but he did not fall silent. However, his voice sounded somewhat humble.

“At least these people are innocent, Hemot. If you intend to take action against me, at least don’t involve them.”

In that instant, the hermit's pent-up anger finally erupted.

He stepped forward, raising his cane like a knife, aiming it at the neck of the once tall but now hunchbacked and disabled man, while speaking sharply.

"Who do you take me for? A beast who enjoys harming the innocent?"

"When those traitors, under your leadership, were slaughtering civilians across five hundred worlds, I was busy protecting them; when you set the entire galaxy ablaze in our name, I stood shoulder to shoulder with the loyalists. I swore to you and the Emperor that I would protect the innocent, and that I would stand between them and evil."

"I have upheld this oath for ten thousand years—and you dare to say such things to me now? As if I were the monster who keeps committing evil and sacrificing the souls of innocent people?"

The pastor's teeth began to chatter, his face turned even paler, and sweat and tears streamed down his cheeks.

He replied hoarsely, "No, that's not what I meant."

"Really? But listen to what you just said. Don't you realize how high a position you've placed yourself in? Do you see yourself as a protector, or someone who can bring about change to this hive? How interesting. After committing so many blood debts, so much horror, after burning countless worlds with your own hands, you suddenly have a change of heart? That's fucking great news, but how are you going to tell all those who died because of you?"

The pastor began to breathe heavily.

The hermit grinned mockingly, and for some reason, he seemed quite pleased.

“You’re not worthy,” he said softly. “I understand what you want to do, Loga Aurelion, but you’re not worthy. You don’t deserve it. By the way, I actually know that person isn’t you, but I don’t care.”

He turned and left, leaving only the pastor clutching his chest and slowly collapsing to the ground.
-
"Where is he?" Edland Veron asked.

The hermit did not answer, but simply sat down slowly.

The airship they were in was spacious, specially provided by the State Church, and had undergone some special modifications. The seats were enlarged to the standards of armored Astartes, and even a more formal conversation area was added.

“Where is the hermit?” Edland Velon asked again when he didn’t answer. The hermit still didn’t answer, but slowly put down his cane, took the gas mask out of his pocket, and threw it on the table. He lowered his head and thought for a while before slowly speaking.

"He's not here."

"What?" Edland was visibly surprised. "But—"

"—No buts," the hermit said. "Go tell the local officials that the assessment is over, and we're leaving now."

After he finished speaking, he waited for several seconds, but he didn't hear the kind of terrazzo grinding sound he was looking for. So he looked up at the young man in front of him.

Edland Veron, currently a sergeant in the First Company of the End Children Chapter.

Though nominally a sergeant, he was effectively a company commander, but his service years were insufficient for promotion. However, within this meager fighting regiment, with its dwindling numbers, he was already one of the few remaining officers.
He was born aboard the Glory of Macragge, a very honorable and noble lineage, and therefore should have become an Ultramariner with a bright future.

Rather than like now.

Thinking of this, the hermit suddenly felt a pang of guilt. This feeling was so intense, so overwhelming, that he couldn't help but let out a sigh.

"hermit?"

The young man looked at him with confusion and fear. The former was because he couldn't understand, but the latter was probably the same—he had never seen the hermit like this before. In his heart, and in the hearts of the other thirty-nine Sons of the End who had come with him, he, the hermit, Hemot Lacrus, was someone who could be completely trusted at any time and whose faith could never be shaken.

But you don't really know me. The hermit thought to himself, and finally spoke up to explain.

“Like I said, he’s not here,” he said calmly. “We’ve come to the wrong place.”

"But Lord Anglang said he's right here."

"The Lord of Red Sand is also human, and he can make mistakes."

"but."

"No more 'buts,' Sergeant. Go and inform them. These people have been preparing for our arrival for a long time. Although the welcoming ceremony was unnecessary, we should inform them when we leave, otherwise it would be trampling on their dignity."

The young man was silent for two seconds, then finally turned and left, not forgetting to close the door to the ridiculous room behind him.

Now, only the hermit remains here.

He stood up, grasped his cane, raised it, and looked at the end. Throughout his journey back, the cane had never touched the ground; it had simply been held in his hand.

Therefore, the smear of blood on the angular tail was still clearly visible, only now it had dried.

The hermit reached out and wiped it away, leaving a deep mark between his brows.

The blood could be wiped away, and the cane was now shiny and new again, but what about his hand? He stared at his left hand, the dark red marks on his index and middle fingers so conspicuous.

Some things, once done, are done forever. They cannot be undone or changed; the grave mistake is laid bare before everyone.

If it didn't exist, none of the people living in this world today would be like this.

Short lifespan, disease, poverty. If they hadn't failed, these things would have been cured.

They could have lived with more dignity. And what about those who are already dead? Why did they have to die? Why?
The hermit raised his hand, covered his face, and lowered his head.

He breathed softly, waiting for the airship to take off.

Upon returning to the solar system, he will report everything that happened here truthfully: the priest named Naro is indeed qualified to be on the list of candidates for 'the devout'.

But that's about it.

Loka Aurelion is dead, and someone else has returned. This person is crippled and incompetent, and he tries to make amends, but compared to what he has done, his attempts are utterly ridiculous.

Several minutes passed, but the airship still failed to take off. Meanwhile, all was silent outside.

He raised his head, composed himself, gripped his cane, and strode toward the door—but the door was pushed open first.

The hermit was not surprised; he had already heard the weak, uneven footsteps. But he remained calm, as if the sweaty, filthy man before him had nothing to do with him.

"What do you want to do?" the hermit asked.

The pastor didn't speak; he glanced back. He saw that many of the young, shocked faces already had tears in their eyes.

He turned his head, raised his hand to hold onto the wall, took a deep breath with trembling hands to steady himself, and said with great difficulty, "...The Primarch should provide blood to replenish his legion."

"You?" The hermit looked him up and down. "Forget it."

As soon as he finished speaking, he reached out and pushed him away. The movement was gentle, but it was still something that the current priest could not resist.

He fell to the ground in a sorry state.

Even the hermit was taken aback. He knew the other party was weak, but how could he be so weak?

"Primarch!" The young sergeant rushed over and helped him up, glaring angrily at the hermit.

The latter ignored this, but stared intently at the pastor's face with his brows furrowed—the clenched teeth and stubborn expression did not escape his notice.

“You’re not just injured,” the hermit suddenly said.

“It doesn’t matter,” the pastor said, pushing away the sergeant’s support and slowly straightening his body.

Just moments ago, this hunchbacked man, who appeared to be a cripple on the verge of death, suddenly grew incredibly tall, even towering over Adran, who stood beside him in armor. And the hermit noticed that those familiar eyes had reappeared.

The pastor extended his right hand.

“Take as much as you want, Hemot.” He forced a smile. “This is the only thing I can do for you now.”

The hermit looked at him in silence. After a moment, he said, "Do you know how long these people have persevered for you?"

“I know,” the pastor said. “You are fighting tirelessly to reclaim his name. So am I, so let me at least do something for you.”

The two fell silent again, until Sergeant Edland broke the silence—he was also the only one among the forty Sons of the End to understand the priest’s implication.

“Aren’t you planning to come back, Primarch?” he asked softly.

“I am not your original, Sergeant,” the priest replied swiftly without even looking at him. “I am merely a sinner.”

"But--"

The hermit suddenly spoke, interrupting the conversation. He resolutely waved his left hand and calmly ordered, "Then draw blood, apothecary, come here."
-
In 020.M40, the same year, the assessment team led by the hermit returned to the interior of the solar system.

A name was placed on the list of candidates for the pious, and after nearly three years of comparison and more detailed investigation, Pastor Naro from the Nukelia system successfully became one of the ten pious.

In these three years, he no longer refused promotions as before—probably because he couldn't escape it, since the various drugs he developed had indeed saved many lives and families in and around the Nukelia system.
In short, at the end of the year 023.M40, when he decided to embark on a pilgrimage to the solar system, he had become the youngest deacon in the history of the Church in the Nukelia system.

Everyone believed that he would soon succeed Dorfer Heros as the bishop of the Nukelia system.

024.M40, after a year-long pilgrimage that included visits to various sanctuaries and monasteries, the priest Nelo finally arrived in the solar system.

He witnessed firsthand the shattered Terra and the fortresses linked together by iron chains that drifted along the way.
At that moment, he broke down in tears. His companions all assumed he was simply overwhelmed with emotion.

(End of this chapter)