40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 832, Section 3: The Beginning - Interrogation Report (Part 3)
Grand Inquisitor: Fabius Bayer is dead.

Prisoner (leaning back, with a strange expression): I'm not surprised.
Grand Judge: Your expression doesn't seem to say that.

Prisoner (smiling immediately): Now, sir?
Grand Judge: Playing tricks won't make that little bit of sadness you just showed disappear, Omega.

Prisoner: Sadness? No, no, I think you've misunderstood. How could I pity such a heinous scoundrel as Fabius Bayer? To die at the hands of his own Primarch is a death he doesn't deserve at all.

Grand Judge: Pale Argument.

(The prisoner shook his head and said nothing more.)
Grand Judge: I have a few new questions to ask you.

Prisoner: Bayer's research?

Grand Judge: That's one of them. I was planning to ask you about it last, but since you brought it up, let's talk about it first.

Prisoner (after a brief moment of thought): I generally don't interfere with his research direction, except, well, I won't bring that up again. In short, he can research whatever he wants; it's all his own business. I provide him with space, protect his personal safety, and provide him with materials, logistics, and even some technologies that can help his research progress.

Grand Judge: And you really have no demands of him?
Prisoner: No. It sounds hard to believe, I understand, but that's the truth.

High Inquisitor: Very well, now let's talk about your and your legion's clandestine raids over the past ten thousand years. The Empire knows very little about you; even eyewitness accounts are scarce. I'd love to know how you managed to do this.
Prisoner (smiling): How could I forget my cooking skills? But I can assure you one thing: we haven't infiltrated any Astartes organization, not a single one.

Grand Judge: So, the hardest-hit area is probably the administrative department. You've reactivated the mortal agents?
The prisoner (suddenly becoming polite): They have never left, sir. Our legion's internal structure has never been complete without these respectable men.

Grand Judge: Would you mind making a list?

Prisoner: There's no need for that. You just need to pay attention to those officials who come from humble backgrounds, work diligently, and are dedicated to serving the people.

Grand Judge: A fine irony.

Prisoner: This is not sarcasm or a joke, sir, it is the truth, the reality—all the agents who have infiltrated the Empire are so engrossed in their new posts that they have no time for anything else. Do you need me to give you an example?

Grand Judge (trying to smile): Speak.

Prisoner: Your smile is terrifying.

Grand Judge (expressionless): Speak quickly.

Prisoner (laughs): Okay, okay, okay. Anyway, there's this guy named Lecarver. He's 144 years old and has had three life-extending surgeries and two major organ and limb replacement surgeries due to external injuries. Forty-seven percent of his flesh and blood tissue has been replaced with mechanical parts.

He came from an agricultural world near Inwitt and left his homeland to volunteer for a pilgrimage. From the age of nineteen to twenty-six, he sailed towards Terra on a pilgrimage ship called the Pioneer, visiting the sanctuaries along the way.

However, I don't need to elaborate; you probably already know how severe their masochistic tendencies were. When the pilgrimage was only a third complete, less than half the people on board remained. Most had died, and a small number of lucky survivors were kept by sanctuaries willing to accept and heal them.

Lecarver was one of those left behind. He contracted about a dozen of the millions of strange and bizarre void diseases, coughing constantly, having fevers, being unable to stand, losing teeth and hair, and his bones becoming more fragile than withered branches. He even went to the point of being half-blind at one point.

Nevertheless, he still wanted to continue his pilgrimage.

A missionary at the sanctuary named after Saint Clappe Valcke was moved by him and insisted that he stay. He then cared for him, healed him, and taught him knowledge, gradually strengthening his body. By the age of thirty, Leccarver had become a healthy and strong man, free from disease.

He had read thousands of thick books, his speech had become extremely refined, and he had learned some ways to protect himself. He had no vices, not even a drop of alcohol. He worked every day for the missionary who had saved him until he was thirty-five years old, when the missionary died.

He left a will bequeathing his estate to Lacarver and a letter of recommendation for him. This letter would have allowed Lacarver to attend many seminaries, which would have been excellent for his future, but he chose a different path.

Ten years later, he was forty-five years old. That year, he passed a rigorous examination and took a low-ranking clerical position in the document processing department of Mukaheim 4, a small hive city located on the edge of the Chemos system. Twelve years later, he left Mukaheim 4, and with an impressive resume and outstanding achievements, was promoted to head of the document processing department of Mukaheim 1, a highly productive agricultural world.

After spending twenty years there, his understanding of agriculture led to his transfer to the agricultural department, where he became its second-in-command. He then spent the next ten years collaborating with the Mechanicus, improving much of the land and promoting new farming techniques and gracile animal husbandry.

Grand Inquisitor (finally losing his temper): —Are you trying to promote yourself to me with such a long speech?

Prisoner (seemingly suppressing a laugh): No, no. I just... Well, in short, by any standard, the current Minister of Agriculture of Mukaheim 1, Lakafer, is an impeccably loyal and extremely capable man. He and his officials have led the people of Mukaheim 1 to a completely new life, and he is not even the most representative example.

Grand Judge: You're going to throw out a new name, aren't you?

Prisoner: Yes, and this time I'll keep it short. Lord Gard Kecht of Chemos, go and investigate him, shall we?
(The chief judge stood up and temporarily left the interrogation room.)
(The prisoner looks at the clerk.)
Prisoner: Hey, ma'am.

(The clerk chose to remain silent.)
Prisoner (slightly annoyed): I'm talking to you, Ms. Celestine—you should at least acknowledge me, even with a disdainful snort.
(As he said, the clerk gave him a cold snort full of disdain and contempt.)
prisoner:.
Prisoner: Sometimes I really want to know what's stuffed in the heads of you fanatics. I've clearly expressed my stance, both openly and subtly, many times, so why are you still treating me like an enemy?
Clerk: Because you are a traitor.

Prisoner (raising his voice): There are many kinds of traitors!

Clerk: So which type are you? The kind who doesn't even know if they've betrayed their own beliefs?

Prisoner (looking somewhat surprised): No, I know very well what I did.

Clerk: Then you shouldn't expect any special treatment.

Prisoner (sighing helplessly): What are you talking about?
(The door is pushed open, and Primarch Vorgrim walks in.) Prisoner (quickly stands up): Brother.

Primarch Forgrim (his face was ashen): You'd better give me some evidence. I won't tolerate you slandering two honest officials like this without any proof.

The prisoner (asking incredulously): Slander? How could you think that?

Primarch Vograim (speaking slowly and deliberately): Give me evidence.
-
"I'm afraid I can't do this, Purple Phoenix," said the prisoner, whose hands and feet were restrained by the highest-grade magnetic locks.

His expression remained normal, and he even used a rather affectionate tone to call out the nickname of the Chemos people—a nickname that now mostly exists only among the common people and has essentially become something they don't want to hear.
Yes, in official documents, Forgrim is no longer firmly associated with the term 'Purple Phoenix,' which was quite popular in the early days of the Great Crusade. Instead, it has become a secret name used by enthusiasts. Interestingly, these enthusiasts would never use it in public.

That's why it's become somewhat strange now.

Forgrim's expression grew increasingly grim. He slightly raised his left hand to grip the hilt of the longsword at his waist, while his right hand slowly rose, pointing at the prisoner, his gauntlets still stained with blood.

“Evidence,” the Chemos man said, enunciating each word clearly. “Otherwise I will—”

"—Kill me?" The prisoner shrugged. "Anyone else might actually be intimidated by you, brother, but I won't."

The man from Chemos narrowed his eyes, his hands suddenly dropping to a lower position. He strode up to the prisoner, throwing a punch that sent him slumping back into his chair. Blood slowly trickled from the prisoner's tightly closed mouth. He didn't wipe it away, but instead raised his head, revealing his neck in the stark white light.

“If you’re still not satisfied, you can punch me a few more times, Fugen,” the prisoner said quietly. “But I can’t give you any evidence.”

"Then your words are nothing but slander."

“You can say that, you can even deceive yourself into thinking that way, but you and I both know that’s not true—they are agents of the Alpha Legion, that’s undeniable. But, Fugen, haven’t you realized something yet?”

"What is it, traitor?" Forgrim asked, barely able to contain his anger.

"The fact that they are agents of my legion does not contradict the fact that they are working tirelessly for the Empire."

The prisoner shrugged with a smile, his blood-stained teeth gleaming like strange weapons lodged between his pale lips and skin, lending the smile a touch of horror. Despite this, his tone remained remarkably calm.

“You must understand this.” He looked up and stared at Fogrim. “Otherwise, our conversation will be fruitless.”

“I think you want me to understand something else.” The Chemos man gave a slight, deliberate, and mocking smile.

Those who are fully aware of their own beauty usually don't laugh like that; they're used to constantly ensuring their looks can be used as a weapon. Fulgrim was once one of them, but he stopped caring about it long ago.
Now, he simply wants to hurt his brother, to hurt this suddenly appearing Omega.

"What is it?" the prisoner asked knowingly—he had sensed Forgrim's intentions, but still gave him the opportunity to harm himself.

Realizing this only reignited the anger of the Chemos.

"What do you expect us to believe?" he questioned coldly, his long hair, tied up in a warrior's braid, inexplicably reflecting the metallic sheen under the light. "So you're just going to accept that you've been secretly serving humanity and the Empire all along, never betraying them, and that everything you've done was out of necessity?"

The prisoner laughed and exclaimed, "If that were truly the case, wouldn't all the blood shed for this cause have become a mere game?"

He stood up again, his expression becoming more ferocious than ever before. Between his twitching muscles and twisted skin, he clenched his blood-stained teeth and let out a low growl from his throat.

“My legion and I are all traitors, without exception,” he said coldly. “For millennia, my agents within the Empire have been relentlessly supplying us with all sorts of classified intelligence, big and small. Before Khalil Lohals’ resurrection, our control over the Empire was even stronger than that of the Council of Magadha. In the event of an alien invasion, my people knew even faster than the major warbands with garrisons. We steal secrets, gather intelligence, pave the way for agents, and eliminate dissidents. Our hands are stained with blood.”

He laughed again, his coldness turning into mockery.

"You think the massacre in Sosa was just a coincidence, that the Eldar prophet led Khalil Lohals there, and then he discovered those brainwashed clones and killed them all before they could steal Belisarius Caul's research in the chaos? No, no, we've done similar things many times, brother."

"So let me make things clear for you—I never expected you to believe anything, that was not my purpose. I surrendered simply because I wanted to, and everything I've said is only to reveal a truth that cannot be revealed at this time."

Another person appeared in front of the wide-open door of the interrogation room.

“I already suspected that what happened on Sosa was your doing,” Khalil said softly. “But my presence there doesn’t seem to have much to do with you. Even without those clones, I would have—”

“—No, Uncle.” The prisoner burst into laughter. “What Eldrad Uslan told you was what I told him.”

“Interesting.” Khalil frowned at first, but quickly relaxed. “So, you deliberately led me to Sosa. In the end, all of this you manipulated behind the scenes successfully prevented the Hive Fleet from devouring Sosa and the other worlds around it.”

He closed the door, returned to the chair, and placed his hands on the table.

“What exactly are you doing, Omega?” Khalil asked earnestly.

Alpharis's brother looked up with a sigh, staring at the ceiling, and let out a long, sorrowful sigh.

Finally, he suddenly asked, "How old is Cassidolius Delcunas this year?"

(End of this chapter)