40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 806, Part 3: The Blacksmith (6k)

I spoke with several old shamans, and from them I learned that long before it returned to the Empire, the Death Volcano was already regarded by the people of Nocturne as an embodiment, a peculiar image that could represent this world to a certain extent.

This should have been nothing but nonsense, like how people in other worlds treat their natural wonders, and it would eventually lose its mystique over time. However, through repeated trials, the ever-changing landscape and colliding tectonic plates have truly shaped this volcano into the center of this world.

Now, I am standing thousands of meters in the air, looking down. It is enormous.

Its central section consists of hundreds of massive craters, black and red in color, billowing with thick smoke, and countless lava pits. For tens of thousands of years, even in the dead of winter when snow covers the ground, the heat deep within this volcano has never been extinguished, with lava and flames constantly erupting and spreading across the surrounding land.

The Salamanders' fortress monastery contains an ancient library dating back to the Legion era. It houses numerous books dating back to the time of Nocturne, including many very old geographical maps. Tracing back to the earliest dates reveals that the Dead Volcano was not nearly as large as it is today.

In other words, it has been expanding.

Aggressive expansion.

Slow, yet unstoppable.

—A Study of Primitive Beliefs and Related Cultures of Extinct Volcanoes

Author: Meek Goun, Imperial Scholar.
-
Caril closed the book.

The author of this book, Meek Goun, is the only scholar within the Empire who has been recognized by the Salamanders and is allowed to visit their homeworld for sightseeing and academic activities.

He was first invited to the country in 792 M34 and published a total of thirty-one books over the next two centuries, covering an extremely wide range of topics, including some specifically about local specialties and their preparation methods.

Single-handedly, he successfully dispelled a certain stereotype about Nocturne held by the empire at the time. And after that, as a world of the dead, Nocturne finally received its second source of income outside of the Mechanicus.
That is, tourism and sightseeing.

However, those who come here and are willing to come are usually not ordinary people—they are naturally not satisfied with a simple tour, merely visiting the seven great cities and going straight home. They want a more exciting experience, one that makes them feel truly alive.

Among this group was a guy named Kenlo Kearney who made up his mind that he absolutely had to visit the Dead Volcano. So he landed on Nocturne two years early and then managed to escape from Sanctuary City.
No one knows whether he was just incredibly lucky or truly exceptionally capable. In any case, the salamanders searched for him for four whole months before finally finding the former nobleman, who was already speaking fluent Nocturne Star Language, in a tribe near the dead volcano.

Then the story spread like wildfire, and the number of imitators was so great that nobles from several nearby star systems held a joint funeral.

The salamanders were extremely troubled by this, and even closed the tourist routes for centuries. Even after they reopened, they implemented remedial measures, such as requiring all tourists to be under supervision and closing the routes just before the trials.
Unfortunately, this trend continues to this day.

Many descendants of high-ranking officials and nobles regard this as a life goal that they must achieve in their youth, in order to prove that they are not simply good-for-nothings.

Of course, most of those who imitated Kenro Kearney were brought back immediately. But these people were not just talking; they had a complete and meticulous plan, and even underwent several years of wilderness survival and counter-surveillance training before landing on Nocturne. From these things, you can see that they were serious, as if even if they died like this, it would be a fulfillment of their wishes.

Khalil seemed to be deep in thought.

He felt that Nocturne possessed some kind of magic, that the people born there had an indomitable will, viewing hardship as a challenge and a gift, never retreating or fearing. But it seemed that this was not enough, so it used Meek Goun's hands to turn those books introducing culture and customs into invitations, attracting brave people who wanted to challenge themselves, or foolish fools.

Most of the time, the difference between the two is very thin.

He turned and walked to the porthole, gazing downwards.

The hellish, scorched-earth scene was almost identical to the horror described in Gowen's book. However, the scholar probably never imagined that just a few hundred years after his death, the extinct volcano would cease the 'endless expansion' he had described.
But its aggressiveness has not disappeared.

Its magma, penetrating deep into the earth's crust and spreading beneath every inch of land, has carried some primitive predators, previously thought to be extinct, to places that were never meant to be theirs. At first, there were only a few scattered individuals, but later their numbers grew to an astonishingly large, collective movement, even though this seemed completely out of character for these apex predators who typically hunted alone.

Moreover, according to research on salamanders, some of them are actually very old individuals, having lived for at least several thousand years.

迁徙
To flee in order to avoid something.

The airship descended slowly, but the cabin door took much longer to close. A wave of intense heat hit them, and even the Third Company Commander of Ashhammer, son of a fire dragon, silently donned his helmet. Rentar Blacksable and his mistress, needless to say, donned full high-temperature protective suits; only the Royal Guard Marshal and the Inquisitor remained unfazed.

They were the first to leave the airship and officially set foot in the deepest part of the dead volcano. All around them was boiling, bright white lava, with only the spot where the airship was docked showing a dark metallic luster, though its edges also showed signs of melting.

Ashhammer bent down and examined them closely for a while, its voice ringing out in a deep, muffled tone.

"The temperature of the magma has risen again."

“This is clearly not a normal natural phenomenon, is it?” Khalil asked, half-jokingly.

“No, my lord,” Ashhammer replied very seriously and earnestly. “Four centuries ago, their temperatures already exceeded the limits that the Mechanicus’ measuring instruments could display. A sage once warned us that if we allowed the extinct volcanoes to continue developing like this, their temperatures could very well rival those of the sun.”

“Alright,” Khalil said. “As far as I know, Vulcan leaves here once every century?”

"Yes, my lord."

"Is he in the deepest part of here?"

"Yes, sir—wait, what are you doing?"

Caril fastened the buttons of his coat, then took off his hat and tossed it to Rental Sable without looking back.

"I'm going down to find him."

As soon as he finished speaking, he plunged into the lava. Norn Corbene was startled and was about to give chase when he was stopped by a golden spear.

“Ignore him,” Constantine Waldo said calmly. “We have our own things to do.”

He raised his spear, and looking up at the top of the ancient artifact with his Ash Hammer, he saw several enormous beasts slowly crawling out of the crater walls.

Their pupils were as golden as flames.

He felt an extremely strong urge to wield the hammer.
-
Smoke swirled, flames leaped, and a bare-chested blacksmith stood before his anvil, meticulously hammering and striking.

A piece of red-hot metal was being hammered and deformed repeatedly, sending fragments flying. The bent parts appeared unrealistically red to the naked eye. However, for some reason, the metal did not cool down with each blow; instead, it grew hotter and hotter.

A few minutes later, the blacksmith put down his hammer. Looking at the piece of steel that was now as bright as a shooting star, he reached out and picked it up, examining it closely.

His coal-black skin was being viciously bitten by it throughout the process, yet when he finally put it down, his hand was completely unharmed.

He picked up the forging hammer again, and the dull clang of hammering began as expected. The steel resisted stubbornly, trying to fight against the hammer and anvil, but it still couldn't escape its fate of being molded into another form.
A moment later, when the blacksmith put down his hammer for the second time, it had become a thick, rough sword blank. It was black, heavy, and covered with crimson patterns.

The blacksmith picked it up, holding one end in each hand, and then swung it back and forth a few times. In this way, amidst the ear-piercing scraping sound, the stubborn black on the surface of the sword blank completely disappeared, replaced by a sharp, clear pale silver, but the crimson lines remained, like twisted blood vessels.

The blacksmith placed it on the anvil, took two steps back, examined it carefully for a while, and couldn't help but smile.

He returned to the anvil, picked up the still round and heavy sword blank with one hand, and carried it into the darkness as if it were a sword. When he reappeared, he was far from his workbench and had come to the front of a cave where there was no light.

Deep within the planet Nocturne, where the heat was unbearable even for Astartes, the howling winds emanating from this cave were surprisingly cold.

As he felt it, the blacksmith's expression gradually turned cold.

He strode forward, fearlessly venturing into the depths—he made no attempt to conceal his presence, and the creatures immediately discovered him.

For so many years, they have been searching for him in the deepest part of Nocturne like headless flies. Only on rare occasions, such as now, have they finally succeeded.

Then came an ending far more tragic than death.

The violent power flowed through the blacksmith's arm into the sword blank, followed closely by a whistling sound, and landed on the monster's head in the simple and direct arc it drew. Its anger turned into a wail, and its filthy flesh and bones ridiculously shrank into its chest cavity.

The blacksmith grabbed it with his free left hand, lifted it up, and then hurled it into the distance with one hand. A series of sharp screams followed by the sound of a heavy object hitting the ground. His bloodshot eyes stared intently at the source of the screams, and then he took off running.

The earth trembled as if the Nocturne star were responding to his wrath.
The sword embryo fell again, but this time its target was a group of tiny, insect-like creatures. Under the immense pressure, their bodies quickly exploded into a heap, the viscous fluid and foul-smelling bone fragments mingling together, softly wailing in the howling wind.

The blacksmith knew this wasn't over yet; their souls were pleading with their false gods to leave.

But Nocturne will not allow it, nor will he.

He raised the half-finished sword high and then slammed it to the ground. Pure white magma, enough to make one's jaw drop, gushed out from the breach along with flames, covering the remains of the insects and instantly driving away the chill of the place.

The ghosts howled, both the dead and the living.

The blacksmith turned around and looked at them.

"There's something you all seem to have never understood." His deep voice slowly rose with the firelight, then he straightened up, his shadow spreading out, inhuman, enormous and terrifying, overwhelming the darkness.

The sword blank fell again.

After some time, he returned to the anvil, the sword blank in his hand now completely transformed. Its edges were now incredibly sharp, and a chilling aura emanated from its gleaming blade. The original crimson patterns had cooled, transforming into black thorns that coiled around the sword, giving it a unique and eerie appearance.

The blacksmith laid it flat on the anvil, then turned and walked to the workbench to begin selecting materials for the hilt and scabbard.
However, at that moment, a soft sound suddenly came from behind him.

He turned around, his body tense, and saw a familiar yet unfamiliar face. The person was holding a sword, examining it with a hint of curiosity.

The blacksmith remained silent for a moment, then slowly walked over, gently took the sword from the other man's hand, and returned to his workbench to begin assembling it.

"When did you get back?" he asked, his voice calm, as if he were just chatting to kill time.

“It’s been a while,” the man replied, looking around. “Including this year, it’s been a full twenty years.”

The blacksmith grunted, pressed the two iron pieces together with his fingers, and said, "I see the Inquisition's insignia on your clothes. Have you already returned to Terra?"

"Yes."

"Where is Nostramamo?"

After a soft chuckle, Khalil shook his head: "I can't go back there anymore, Vulcan. In fact, I can't even get too close to it, let alone go back."

"Is that so? I hope Iago Sevitarion doesn't know about this."

“He knows, and has accepted it—how long has it been since you left Nocturne, Vulcan?”

"It's been many years."

With a sigh, the blacksmith turned around, holding a complete sword in his hand. The scabbard, probably made from the skin and bones of some creature, had a dull sheen. The hilt also inherited this simple style, without any decoration, plain and unassuming.
Then, Vulcan gently pushed the blade out a section with his fingers.

A cold light suddenly appeared.

"Your craftsmanship seems..."

"What does it seem like?"

“It’s nothing.” Khalil shook his head. “Have you thought of a name?”

“Not yet,” Vulcan said. “Names contain power. Weapons are just inanimate objects or tools until they have their own names, but after that, things will be different. I want to treat this matter carefully.”

He looked down at the object in his hand, which seemed to have a life of its own; the blade trembled several times within its sheath in response.

A fleeting smile crossed the blacksmith's face.

He returned to the anvil, leaned the longsword against its side, then found a craftsman's leather apron, put it on, and even skillfully wiped his hands on the apron before extending his right hand to shake hands with someone who was now very different from before.

"It's been a long time, Kalil." The Lord of Fire Dragons smiled, almost nostalgic. "I thought we'd have to wait at least another thousand years before we could meet again."

"You are as optimistic as ever."

"Huh? How do you say this?"

“Rogge thinks it will take at least another five thousand years, Sanguielles says he doesn’t even dare to think about it, and Robert confessed to me that he’s even prepared for the possibility that neither he nor his father will come back. Do you know anyone else who is as optimistic as you?”

"Who?" the blacksmith asked curiously.

“Petulabo.” Khalil smiled slightly. “He firmly believes that I could return at any time.”

"He has changed a lot."

“I think we’ve all changed a lot, like you. I remember you didn’t used to have this reclusive habit,” Khalil said meaningfully.

This statement silenced Vulcan for a moment. After a short while, he raised his hand and pointed around—swords, spears, hammers, axes.
Any weapon that has ever appeared in the history of human warfare, whether its prototype or improved version, can be found here. They are suspended in mid-air by iron chains, but at first glance they are inconspicuous, immersed in darkness, like stones or dust.

But this disguise was of no use to Khalil; he didn't even need to look to smell the strong stench of blood.

In his perception, these weapons were not inanimate objects, nor were they tools that required human intervention to function; they were simply ferocious beasts, thirsting for blood and slaughter. At first, Larch even thought he had encountered one of his own kind.

He gave Vulcan a deep look.

“I must make a change,” the blacksmith said, seemingly oblivious, his voice low. “In the past, I was always unwilling to let my wildness prevail. This restraint brought me some gains, but also cost me a lot, Khalil. It was only after the Great Rebellion ended that I realized that humans are just animals, and the animalistic instincts will always reside within us.”

He raised his hand and tapped his chest, the sound unusually muffled.

"And sometimes, in order to become a qualified protector, you have to make trade-offs."

"Just like your father?" Khalil asked.

“No,” Vulcan said, a faint smile appearing on his face. “I don’t want to be a king like him. I have no ambition, nor that kind of determination. I just want the world to be the way it is meant to be.”

Kalil sighed—to be honest, he didn't want the conversation to end too soon. Such casual conversations were rare for him, and he imagined it was the same for the Lord of Fire Dragons, but he had to get to the point.

"Can I see him?" he suddenly asked.

Vulcan turned to look at him and slowly nodded.

In an instant, the world changed. The intense heat deep within the earth vanished, replaced by normal, peaceful air and a blacksmith's shop located in the center of town.

It had everything one could need, but the door was wide open, and there was no one inside. On the sign outside, a name was outlined in charcoal: Embel, which was very difficult to pronounce in High Gothic, but in the dialect of Nocturne, it was as natural as breathing.

“This is my adoptive father’s shop,” Vulcan said. “I grew up here in a town called Hesiod. It was already one of the seven sanctuaries back then, but it was far from being known as the royal city and having a unique status as it would later become.”

Facing the sunlight, Khalil stepped out of the shop and looked around.

There wasn't a soul in sight on the stone path, and every house had its doors and windows tightly shut, yet he was still astonished—Macado had said that every Primarch inherited a certain aspect of the Emperor. And Vulcan certainly deserved that statement; in his role as a Creator, he might have even surpassed his father.

“Let’s go,” said the Lord of Fire Dragons. “I’ll take you to him.”

Bathed in sunlight, they began to stroll through the town of ten thousand years ago. At this time, Hesiod did not yet have wide and magnificent city walls; it even seemed somewhat unworthy of the name "town," more like a settlement nestled in the mud.

But this is normal. At that time, the Nocturne people not only had to fight against the natural environment, but also had to deal with the threat of the Dark Spirits. In their language, these aliens were called Twilight Ghosts. Just hearing this name, you can understand how much fear they harbored.

Whenever the watchtower's horn sounded, terrified people would run in all directions, fleeing to cellars or caves, praying that they and their loved ones would not be found. It wasn't that no one resisted, but before Vulcan stood up, the people of Nocturne, still living in a primitive age, were simply no match for the Dark Eldar.

Resistance will only lead to a more tragic end.

In this situation, passively accepting one's fate seems to be the only option.

Caril silently imagined how terrified and sorrowful the people were back then.
This caused his hands to twitch reflexively, and Vulcan noticed it.

Not only that, he even realized what had caused Khalil to have murderous intent.

He smiled.

“That was the first time I ever clenched my fist,” Vulcan said.

"and then?"

"I killed some as many as I could, but not all of them; one escaped. Later, I saw her again in another world. But that's another story; we've arrived now."

He stopped in front of a stone house. He raised his hand and knocked on the door. A moment later, footsteps sounded, hurried and joyful, with undisguised sincerity.

Horus Lupecal opened the door and saw his brother, as well as Khalil Lohals.

(End of this chapter)