40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 803, Section 24: The Lame Priest (The End)

The priest named Nairo limped through the crowd, his lips pressed tightly together, looking utterly exhausted.

He had traveled a long and arduous journey before finally arriving at the fortress, but his exhaustion at this moment had little to do with the long journey itself.

"May the God Emperor protect us!"

"By Terra, a saint. But why is he all alone?"

"My God, look at him—how much suffering has he endured?"

Hearing these words, the pastor was at a loss for words. He felt as if a fire was burning inside him, threatening to consume everything, causing him immense pain.

In order to avoid collapsing, he tried his best to keep his eyes fixed ahead and avoid eye contact with anyone on the roadside, but he still couldn't help but hear a lot.

The State Religion headquarters, this magnificent fortress, has countless helipads, at least several thousand of which are off-limits to civilians. However, someone like him, officially recognized as a 'devout,' would naturally not land there.

He will inevitably blend into the crowd, just like he is now.
He couldn't avoid it; he had to take this path.

A moment later, as he reached the end of the path, the shuttle that had brought him there took off, its engine hum briefly drowning out the whispers of the crowd.

A door slowly opened before him, spilling out a pure white light. He was moved and turned to look.

In that brief moment, even he himself couldn't say how many faces he saw.
Men, women, young and old—beggars and wealthy men stood side by side, tiptoeing and craning their necks, just to catch a glimpse of the devout.

The fanatical faith became a terrifying force, surging endlessly in this place. The crowd, which should have rushed towards him, spontaneously formed a wall, creating a so-called path in this place where reason and order should have never existed, so that he could have a way to walk, so that he would not be disturbed or blocked.

The pastor suppressed some emotions, turned his head, and stepped into the light, only to bump into a statue.

It stood seven meters tall, holding a book in one hand and a sword in the other. Its entire body was pure white, its face indistinct except for its eyes, which were clearly colored. Those eyes shone like torches, and its brows were furrowed, giving it an expression that seemed both wary and compassionate.

The pastor looked at its base.

[Missionary Larustos, 471.M36–500.M36, died at the hands of the plague messenger.]

A series of hurried footsteps sounded from not far away, interrupting the priest's intention to take a closer look at the statue.

Two acolytes in grey robes hurried to him, performed the eagle salute, but did not speak. Instead, they expressed their apologies in sign language and then began to explain why they had not picked him up from the airport. They were very sincere and their attitude was impeccable, but the priest still noticed some suspicious points.

For example, their grey robes were not church standard, and they had not performed any formal rituals since we met.
The Eagle Salute, a ritual that has long been popular throughout the empire, differs from the greetings commonly used among religious figures. Although it is sometimes simplified or omitted, it seems somewhat unreasonable not to use formal etiquette in a place like the headquarters of the state religion.

But he didn't say anything, he just nodded.

The monks seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, then respectfully turned around and led him to a smaller wooden door, behind which was an ancient path winding downwards, where the aged stone bricks and torches on the walls waited quietly.

"Is this the place?" the pastor asked.

They nodded and performed the Eagle Salute once more.

The pastor returned the greeting with a sigh, knowing in his heart that these two men were not actually the acolytes who had come to fetch him.

He stepped into the path, gripping the wall, and slowly descended. Soon, the door closed softly behind him, shutting out all outside sounds. For a moment, the place was utterly silent, save for his own breathing, footsteps, and the crackling of his torch.

The pastor's pace slowed down, partly due to exhaustion, but also because of some subtle emotions that he himself couldn't quite explain.
He walked slowly, thinking slowly, and that's how he reached the end.

The road will always come to an end.

But now, there are no more doors or anything like that here.

There was only one Imperial Guard.

He wants to see you. Now.

Naro already knew who the other person meant by "he," but he still clung to a sliver of hope and spoke in a hoarse voice.

"Who?"

The Imperial Guard did not answer, but simply extended a hand to him.

The priest silently grasped it, and a terrifying flash of light erupted afterward, stinging his eyes with excruciating pain. Tears welled up in his eyes, the pain intensified, and a severe dizziness ravaged his already weakened body.

A few seconds later, the Imperial Guards released their grip.

A gentle breeze blew by, dry but carrying a smell of burnt flesh.

The pastor barely opened his eyes, wiped away his tears, completely unaware that what he called tears were actually thick and scarlet.

In the blur, he glimpsed a pure white beam of light shooting into the sky.
He fell to his knees.

A hand helped him up.

"Repent now?" someone asked. "Don't you think it's a bit inappropriate?"

"Who?" the pastor asked in a low voice.

He had never heard that voice before and couldn't tell who was speaking to him. But he felt that the hand that had helped him up wasn't very strong.

"Open your eyes, and you'll know," the man said calmly.

The pastor gritted his teeth and, despite the excruciating pain, pried open his eyes.

The sensation transmitted through his fingers made him realize that the smell of burning actually came from his own body, but he did retain some vision. The blurry world returned in pain, bringing with it a figure in a robe holding a golden scepter.

“Macado,” he hissed.

Hope has returned.

The person holding the seal slowly nodded.

He wants to see you.

He reiterated the words of the Imperial Guard, and the priest froze, his hope vanishing once more.

"What good will running away do?" the one holding the seal said calmly, his voice steady, though it was hard to tell if it was cold. "You've come this far, are you going to back down now?"

"I"

"That's fine."

The scepter, known throughout the empire, was slightly raised before gently falling to the ground, its gentleness sounding like a mountain collapsing to the priest's ears.

The man who held the seal turned around and stepped forward, leaving the pastor alone in place.

“I believe no one can sway your will anymore, Loga Aurelion,” Macardo said. “Therefore, whether you see him or not is your choice.”
-
It's quiet here.

There were no machines in operation, no busy footsteps; the rock walls were empty and desolate, and even the darkness seemed insignificant here.

No words can describe this place, because anyone who comes here would not believe that it looks like this.

But that's just how it is.

It was eerily quiet and eerily empty; in a space that seemed to encompass the entire sky and earth, there was only a single, unpolished stone chair.
A black cloth covered it, concealing something, revealing lines that were lifeless and withered.

Luo Jia opened his half-blind eyes, blood streaming down his face.

That's it?

That's it.

The god he once believed in, the master he once served, his father, the emperor, lay quietly under that black cloth.

The divine emperor he read about in the monasteries and seminaries was not like that; in the books, he was merely seriously injured, yet still sat regally on that supreme throne.

The historical records he consulted after his promotion were also vastly different from what he saw before him. Those histories, known only to a select few, described emperors who had abandoned their swords, transforming themselves into shields, eternally burning alongside the starlight.
Luo Jia frantically rummaged through every bit of newly acquired knowledge in his mind, reading and thinking about it over and over again, but no matter what, it could not possibly form the scene before him. On the contrary, his intuition had warned him years ago.

He's dead, or worse.

Yes, his current situation was more terrifying than death. Luo Jia dragged his crippled leg forward slowly; it hadn't improved over the years and was gradually losing its strength.

He had considered getting a new prosthetic leg, but ultimately decided to wait until it became completely useless. Now, it seems he really should have had the surgery sooner, or perhaps take a cane like a hermit so he could walk faster.
He limped along, making a comical walk among the greyish-white rocks, his eyes bloodshot and mangled, sweat trickling down his charred flesh, causing pain, but he didn't care. After walking a distance, he collapsed in a spasm, trying to get up, but found it impossible—his hands and feet were trembling uncontrollably, unable to exert any strength.

So he switched to crawling.

Soon, his palms were worn raw, then his elbows, chest, thighs, and knees. Many years later, the area finally developed a new color; the winding trail of blood looked incredibly bright red, yet surprisingly harmonious.

He climbed and climbed until he could no longer move.

His fingers were worn down to bone, and he had lost all feeling below his waist. The drop in body temperature caused by excessive blood loss made him shiver and his vision blurred in waves—but how long had he been crawling?

He wanted to know the answer to this question, so, with his last bit of strength, he looked up at the stone seat.
no change.

He smiled.

It looks exactly the same, still so far away.

I have let you down, I have let everyone down, I have ruined everyone.
In the trance between life and death, Luo Jia curled up little by little.

A breath caught in his throat, and before he could exhale, his eyes had already lost their light, his muscles had completely relaxed, and his face was devoid of color.

Many faces flashed before his eyes, but he no longer had the strength to distinguish who was who.

They darted across the water like pebbles in a child's hand, leaping across the surface of a lake, creating only fleeting ripples. Then, the lake returned to stillness. Years later, the children grew up and never came again. The village, for reasons unknown, fell into ruin. The lake, no longer clear, became foul-smelling and deathly silent.

Is death coming?
He suddenly remembered Ingres Tey and how he died.

I have not let you down.

But I have it, I have it.
How did you get through those days under the law of loyalty, my son? How did you endure all of that to gather evidence? And how did you fall into the trap?
I made you endure far too much that you shouldn't have to, but you're not the only one I've let down. Your brothers who stood by you, and everyone else who was deceived by Irebas.
They fell into chaos, devoid of hope, and then committed every bloody crime through their hands.
The voices of the victims still echo in my ears.

I have been back in this world for nine years, and every minute and every second of these nine years, I have heard their screams.

I began to fear being alone, because I would always see their pale faces, yet I had no choice but to be alone. I deserved it, I was justified, and in truth, I didn't deserve to be saved. I didn't understand why Khalil Lohals saved me, I didn't know why Angran guarded me in that cave, and most of all, I couldn't understand how you had managed to hold out for ten thousand years.
If only you knew the truth.

If only you knew that I was nothing but a liar and a coward, you wouldn't have to die, and you wouldn't have wasted your lives.

I want to atone for my sins.

Luo Jia let out a very soft hoarse sound.

I must atone for my sins.

"Can it be redeemed?" a voice asked.

A pair of hands gently lifted him from the ground. Luo Jia's mutilated body felt as light as a feather, and he was easily held in the arms of the owner of those hands.

His form seemed to be formed from light, pure white, yet neither scorching nor dazzling. He gazed into Luo Jia's lifeless eyes, leaned close to his ear, and whispered a question.

How can you atone for this sin?

The sinner in his arms did not answer, so he sighed, slowly sat down, placed the sinner on his lap, raised his right hand slightly, and stroked the crisscrossing bloodstains, finally stopping at the edge of the eyes, the charred flesh and carbonized eyeballs, and the white bone of the eye sockets vaguely visible.
“You can’t atone for it, child,” he said sadly but firmly. “Because they will never forgive you.”

"Like a hermit, he hates you to the extreme, so he can no longer love you. And those who died because of you have also obtained the whole truth in the realm of hatred—there were many culprits, most of whom have been brought to justice, especially the ringleader, who has now fallen into the boundless prison of torture."

"But what about you?"

"They may have heard your screams as you were tortured, and they may have seen that you were merely a puppet. But so what? Weren't they tortured, didn't they scream, didn't they have everything taken away in despair?"

"Sure, you could do many more commendable things and save millions of lives, but no matter what you do, they are all dead. Not only that, but also parents, husbands, wives, children, brothers, and friends. How can such hatred be erased?"

"What I'm saying may be a little unfair to you, but hatred doesn't care about fairness. When they died, no one came to seek fairness for them."

"They hate you to the extreme, they will never forgive you."

A line of bloody tears slid down the sinner's cheek. His father raised his hand and wiped away the tears. In the light, the blood blended with the pure white.

“But you cannot die now; this life of yours does not belong to you alone,” the father said gently. “You received a sliver of life from the ascetic practices of your descendants over ten thousand years, originating from a righteous act you performed ten thousand years ago. You have done many such things throughout your life, but only that one had such a profound impact. I think it is probably because it did not stem from faith, but from love—love that is selfless and unconditional, Loka.”

He paused, as if sighing. After that, his voice turned cold.

“You must live,” the Emperor said. “Death is a reward you do not yet deserve—live, live on, do what you should have done long ago, make the world a better place, and do not waste this hard-won second chance.”

"This is my punishment for you, but I also promise you that when everything settles down, you will get the death you desire. At that time, I hope you can calmly lay down your burdens on that wasteland."

A burst of light erupted, the form dissolving, dazzling like the sun's rays, illuminating the entire area. The corpse beneath the stone pedestal seemed to twitch; some force merged into the light, ultimately flowing into the body of the sinner, who was on the verge of death.

“My son,” the father finally said, “I forgive you.”
-
024.M40, Solar System.

“Let’s go,” Khalil Lohals said.

His will was fully carried out after these words, and the Judgement Mission set sail for the southeastern part of the solar system.

This time, there were more people on the Judgement. For example, there was Rental Sable, who had been in a particularly good mood and cheerful demeanor lately, and his mistress, who was no longer as thin as a rake.

For example, a member of the Imperial Guard.

A royal guard wielding the Spear of the Sun God.

Constantine Waldo.

At this moment, he stood beside the command throne of the Judgement, his spear leaning against his breastplate, his left hand cradling his helmet, standing ramrod straight. Though his face was expressionless, a closer look revealed a subtle smile.

Khalil naturally didn't overlook this small detail. After thinking it over and over again, he finally decided to ask about it.

"You're glad you're leaving—"

"—No," Waldo replied with uncanny foresight. "I just enjoy seeing your tyrannical First Reserve officer with that sour face and helpless expression."

Khalil hadn't intended to say anything more and just laugh it off, but his words made him raise an eyebrow.

“Is that so?” he asked again. “But I remember that the secret letter you sent to my fortress didn’t say that. You seemed to have recommended yourself at the end.”

“The secret message will be automatically destroyed,” Waldo said calmly. “Therefore, I can say that there is absolutely no such thing.”

Khalil was somewhat taken aback by his answer, but still laughed: "You seem to have changed a lot, Constantine. Is it because of Orl Persson?"

"Don't mention him."

"Why?"

“I have nothing to say to a deserter,” Waldo replied coldly.

At the same time, the Judge's broadcast system beeped twice, indicating that it had received a system-wide notification from the highest authority in the solar system. In fact, at this very moment, almost everyone in the solar system was listening to this broadcast.

"Following a joint investigation and study by the Pope, cardinals, bishops, and churches across the major star systems, in the name of our Savior, the Great Divine Emperor, the official list of the pious individuals selected every ten years has been finalized, and their names are as follows."

Khalil listened quietly to the broadcast until it ended completely after being repeated three times before speaking again.

"He's still on the list, I thought..."

Constantine Waldo shook his head, seemingly unwilling to discuss the matter further.

"So be it, Khalil."

"Do you hate him?"

The Imperial Guard Marshal chuckled and did not answer the question.

The Judgeship gradually sailed into the distance, toward Nocturne.

— Volume 11, End.

(End of this chapter)