40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 838. 9. NEWVERMORE (Part 3)

It is very important to follow the rules and regulations.

It's not about being rigid and inflexible, following the rules to the letter in every detail; it's just that doing so will reduce a lot of unnecessary trouble.
For example, now, using the Judge's third updated portable operating system, he sent a string of identification codes to the Salvation Star space station, followed by a communication request—and the Raven Guards were very wary of this suddenly appearing warship that could easily be labeled 'terrifying'.

Instead of accepting the communication hastily, they requested secondary verification.

Secondary verification is a commonly used naval term; however, after such a long period of evolution, it has now branched out and developed different forms in various star systems of the Empire.

Take the Stormy Starfield, where the Salvation Star is located, as an example. In the local context, it usually refers to face-to-face conversation.

Very troublesome.

Khalil frowned, but still buttoned up his coat.

This task was usually handled by Larch, but it was currently under a period of imprisonment that was neither short nor long—it was slumped listlessly on the command throne on the bridge, occasionally letting out two strange murmurs.

Khalil completely ignored it, carefully put on his ordinary court uniform, smoothed out the wrinkles, and then walked alone to the hangar.

He didn't bring any helpers on this mission. Apart from a prisoner and a nun, only he and Large remained on the ship.

He hadn't acted alone like this in a long time, and he even felt a little nostalgic about it. But soon, he would face a brand new problem.

How do you precisely maneuver the shuttle into the space station's dock and stop it where it's supposed to?

He raised an eyebrow, staring at the portable operating system in front of him, which had not yet been updated to the third version like the system on the bridge, and seemed quite perplexed as to where to begin.

After some hesitation, he decided to follow his intuition—and the consequences of doing so can be described in three main ways.

First, he stepped out of the shuttle under the cover of thick black smoke.

Secondly, he will probably have to hire a group of professional repairmen out of his own pocket; this matter must not be reported through proper channels.

Third, the Raven Guards were shocked; they clearly hadn't expected anyone in the world to have such terrible driving skills.

Khalil pursed his lips, feeling both embarrassed and annoyed: He should have prioritized learning how to drive tanks and armored vehicles instead of taking his last vacation.
He raised his hand and waved it, speeding up the dissipation of the smoke in front of him, and quickened his pace to walk out of the smoke's cover.

The surrounding area was deserted, clearly indicating that personnel had been evacuated, with only ten fully armed Raven Guards waiting in front of the dock.

The judge blinked, raised his hand to tighten his wide-brimmed hat, and strode over.

Nowadays, the armor paint and various symbols used to identify the Raven Guards are not as conspicuous as those of other warbands; instead, they are very simple. Even the insignia of their respective companies is just a simple cursive number.

Very pragmatic, but it also reveals a hidden logic: they didn't care about honor like most Astartes.

But this was actually a method designed from the very beginning to facilitate manipulation and division of them.
People always need a concept or purpose to believe in, and for soldiers, what could be better than something like honor?
Keeping these cold thoughts to himself, Khalil stepped forward, smiling as he removed his wide-brimmed hat.

He didn't think the Raven Guards from ten thousand years later would recognize him at first glance. Neither the apothecary Serral nor the sergeant Alvin could, and even the latter only realized something after hearing him introduce himself. Therefore, he took a small step back and bowed slightly to the adjutant of the Second Company to express his apology.

“I’ve seen many judges, but you are probably the strangest of them all,” the adjutant said hoarsely.

"What makes you say that?" Khalil straightened up and asked with a hint of curiosity.

“You didn’t bring any servants or guards,” the adjutant replied curtly. “And you have terrible driving skills.”

After saying that, he stepped forward, took off his helmet, and gave a hawk salute: "Kyle Card, adjutant of the second company."

After a moment's thought, the judge decided to proceed as planned: "Khalil Lohals."

Kyle Card was visibly stunned.

His face, which almost perfectly inherited the features of Kolus Collacus, flashed through three emotions in the next second: anger, shock, and confusion, before finally settling on a complex expression mixed with bewilderment.

He didn't speak, but with an attitude of facing death without fear, he slowly extended his right hand.

Khalil was silent for a moment, then keenly sensed something.

He asked, "Did Robert Guilliman ever say anything unpleasant to you? About handshakes?"

Kyle Card wanted to answer, but the Inquisitor's mortal-sized left hand had already climbed up his gauntlet.

The 'bone-chilling cold,' which was exactly the same as the description in the secret manuscript sent by the Lord of Five Hundred Worlds ten thousand years ago, froze his consciousness in an instant. When he came to his senses again, the dock had disappeared, leaving only peaceful silence, two chairs, and a table.

Khalil Lohals, who looked exactly like the portraits and legends, sat in one of the chairs, waiting for him.

Kyle Card took a deep breath, walked over, and sat down.

“I haven’t done this in a long time, Lieutenant Kyle, so you might feel a little uncomfortable after you leave. I’d like to apologize for that in advance. You can start asking me questions now. Don’t rush, there’s no concept of time here. Ask as many questions as you want.”

This was a great temptation, and Kyle Card almost succumbed to it. However, the strong willpower he had developed through years of training allowed him to turn things around and focus his attention on the question he should be asking now.

"Why did you come to the Savior?" he asked cautiously.

Behind the bone, a soft laugh came, sounding quite pleasant, completely different from the terrifying, unsmiling being of legend.

“I thought you would want to know other things, like my room on the Imperial Dream,” Khalil said gently.

The adjutant nodded subconsciously, then immediately shook his head, looking uneasy. He instinctively placed the helmet he was carrying on the table and replied somewhat blankly, "We, uh, I, I understand, sir, I will report this to the guild leader."

"Where is Nikona Sharokin?"

Upon hearing the name, Kyle Card instinctively lowered his head as a sign of respect: "He is in a deep sleep. Would you like to wake him, sir?"

Khalil shook his head: "There's no need for that. Let him sleep. However, I haven't done this in a long time, but I think it's still necessary for you."

This seemingly random sentence only deepened the adjutant's confusion. But then he noticed the instructor pat his hand as if to comfort him, the gesture very natural.

“No need for honorifics,” he said. “Otherwise, my situation will probably be even worse when Kolus Corax returns.”

Something in the adjutant's mind snapped quietly. He stood up abruptly, wanting to ask a question but unable to bring himself to do so.

Khalil smiled again, stood up, picked up his adjutant's helmet, and handed it to him.

His actions contained no hostility whatsoever; however, just as Kyle Card was about to reach for the helmet, he suddenly sensed an indescribable chill.

In that instant, the adjutant of the second company's heart rate suddenly soared, and his pupils involuntarily contracted—his instincts sensed the approaching danger before reason could react, but reason followed closely behind, suppressing the urge to draw his gun.
He spoke, his voice hoarse again, "Instructor?"

The instructors of the Eighth Legion slowly raised their eyes and looked at him, as if they were the dead awakening from an ancient slumber.

He released his grip, letting the helmet return to its owner's hands.

“I’m afraid we have something to do,” Khalil said.
-
Former field pharmacist, now a veteran of the First Company, Seral, led his squad and was the first to jump off the shuttle.

They flew at minimum power and in stealth mode to a location not far from the mine that Nadal had indicated on the map, maintaining as much caution as possible.

Standing on the low mound at his feet and looking ahead, Serar saw an open-pit mine.

According to the data, this area produces minerals of type A-3-1. This designation represents many things, but most of them are closely related to people's lives and are very important resources.

If possible, the Raven Guards still hope to be self-sufficient. If they have to buy everything from outside, not to mention whether the Savior's annual tax revenue can achieve this and maintain a balance of income and expenditure, the merchants who come to them upon hearing the news will be enough to give them a headache.

Rare traveling merchants and ubiquitous smugglers would fiercely compete for the friendship of the Raven Guards, even offering large sums of supplies as gifts.
And that's not a good thing.

Thinking about these things, Seral suddenly felt a little self-deprecating—you've been around the Ultramarines for too long, how come you're starting to think about these politically related things?
He sighed, drew his combat knife from his waist, gestured to his men, and then disappeared into the darkness with them. The shuttle was parked only four kilometers from the mine, a distance that meant nothing to the well-trained veterans of the First Company.

Soon, when Seral arrived at the outskirts of the mine, four more briefings popped up in the upper right corner of his eyepiece—everyone was in position, one person rushed in from above, and the other four each occupied one of the four cardinal directions, advancing inwards.

This is a classic surprise attack and encirclement tactic, although using it here might be overkill.
In the shadows, Seral suddenly stopped moving.

He had completely mastered the Way of Shadow, a skill every veteran entering the First Company was required to possess. And because of this, he could see through the veil of darkness details that would otherwise be impossible to observe in the normal world—call it the Shadow's preference, whatever you like.

In short, Serar saw a corpse.

The body of a miner.

He was killed by someone, or something, in an unusually cruel way.

His internal organs and every piece of flesh inside his abdomen were completely ripped out. The murderer did so with precision and ruthlessness, yet he did not damage his spine while committing such atrocity. The pale bone stood absurdly beneath the wet blood and shriveled belly, all alone.

If a breeze were to blow, it would probably produce a sound like a musical instrument.

Serar felt a chill run down his spine, and not because of the corpse.

He himself could hardly say how many more horrific sights he had seen, but what made this corpse special was that it existed in the shadows.

The dead cast a painful glance at the crows, under the shadow of their fathers.

Something's not right.
Through the neural connection of his power armor, he issued a silent warning within the squad's channel.

There's something there.
Serra interrupted his thoughts and whirled around. His battle instincts, honed through countless trials, allowed him to barely sense the attacker's approach, but that was the limit of his ability. A tremendous force propelled him out of the shadows, forcing him to crash through three walls before finally coming to a stop.
Serra quickly rolled to his feet from the synthetic material, ignoring the pain and protests coming from all over his body. Suddenly, his arm guards trembled, and ten long, narrow blades shot out, followed by a blue light—a personal gift he had received from Robert Guilliman when he left the Glory of Macragge.

While its size and lethality are inferior to ordinary lightning claws, its stealth capabilities are significantly enhanced.

With this knowledge and his experience, Seral successfully pierced the inside of something stiff yet soft.

He intended to seize the opportunity and tear the other party apart, but the thing was far more like a raven guard than he was—it vanished into the shadows in a fleeting moment that could hardly be called time.

Seral growled and continued to issue warnings as he followed it without hesitation.

He had a rough idea of ​​what it was, but he still couldn't believe it. He needed more evidence, but doing so didn't yield good results.

After a chase, the creature vanished, and Seral realized he had seemingly stumbled upon its lair. Everywhere he looked, there were corpses, piled high like mountains, most unrecognizable, fragmented and horrifying. The Raven Guard frowned, trying to escape, but it was too late.

The shadow no longer obeyed him.

The thing's voice came from behind him, like a growl, like a warning, yet it carried a damp, bloody scent.

Seral turned around and saw something he couldn't quite describe.

His eyes turned completely black at that moment.

(End of this chapter)