40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 839, Section 10: Nevermore (Part 4)

Under the spotlight, the corpses appeared exceptionally pale, like a surreal oil painting.

Their blood had drained away, and their once soft flesh had become stiff from death and low temperatures. At first glance, they were almost indistinguishable from mannequins made of synthetic materials, except that their expressions were remarkably lifelike.

Through those faces, the word "fear" peacefully descended from an abstract concept into reality, finding a perfect vehicle.

The Grand Judge stepped over the various tools scattered on the ground, his eyes fixed on them.

It is often said that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and this is indeed true. From this perspective, the eyes are the first and most special tombstone for the dead. They don't last long, but they can bear witness to all the emotions they experienced before death.
The Grand Inquisitor crouched down, his gaze shifting from the pairs of fear-filled eyes to the wounds one by one.

He can be considered one of the experts in the ancient profession of killing. He values ​​efficiency highly and hates mixing personal emotions into his work. This has created his unique, concise style, but also deprived him of the right to express himself poetically.

The murderer who killed 146 miners had no particular style whatsoever.

Its killings are emotionless, yet it is not driven by efficiency. It rampages through the mines, smearing blood everywhere with its claws, and even meticulously strings the miners together to slow their demise.

It's just crazy, that's all.

The Grand Judge, supporting himself on his knees, slowly stood up.

Kyle Card, who was standing nearby, did not hear any sound from the bones, tendons, and flesh working during the process, not even a breathing sound.

In his view, Khalil Lohals at this moment looked more like a dead man than those poor miners.

He couldn't help but lower his head and glance at those dark, deep eyes, only to see his own reflection in them.

“Serra and his squad are missing.” He suppressed the urge to take a deep breath and stated succinctly. “They used the squad’s encrypted communication channel during the operation, and all data was stored on the local servers of their power armor, which we cannot access.”

Khalil shook his head and said nothing.

Kyle Card couldn't figure out what he meant, and then he saw the Grand Inquisitor drift by like a ghost, heading into the mine. His leather boots touched the ground solidly, leaving footprints and kicking up dust, but Kyle Card still couldn't hear a sound, not even the slightest friction.

A few minutes later, they ventured into the deepest part of the mine. Unlike outside, it was pitch black here, with no light in sight, which posed no problem for the two of them.

Kyle Card quickly noticed something.

Deep inside the mine, there was nothing but rubble and dust. The miners had already moved all their machinery out, waiting for the trucks to pick them up. None of the 146 innocent people died here; they were all murdered outside.
However, when he looked down, he could see footprints all over the ground, densely packed, filling every corner and every empty space.

He stared at them, and a voice from the communications channel rang in his ears.

“The number is wrong, Kyle. According to that foreman Nadal, he has three hundred men under him.”

Kyle Card paused for a moment, then turned his gaze to the Grand Inquisitor, who had his back to him. The latter, as if he had foreseen the future, spoke up.

“So, where are the other 154 people?” he asked himself, reaching out to touch the rock face covered in claw marks. “The answer is right here, Kyle Card. How could the dead leave on their own?”

He turned his head, his eyes calm, yet sharp as a dagger, sending shivers down one's spine.

Kyle Card's two hearts skipped a beat simultaneously, and a suspicion he didn't want to accept began to swirl in his mind.

He tried to shoo it away, but it was a greedy vulture, and he was like a dying man, too weak to make a threatening roar or any noise. He could only lie on the dry, cracked ground, waiting for the vulture to fly down and peck at his eyes.

Kyle Card took a deep breath through the breathing grille and then removed his helmet.

A dry, cold wind brushed against his face, and he habitually squinted his eyes, then suddenly vanished without warning.

A few seconds later, he reappeared, and this time, his empty left hand was occupied by something other than the helmet—a corpse. His pale gray work clothes were covered in blood, his face was torn apart by something, a bloody mess with exposed bones, and soft tissue clung tenaciously to the side, swaying gently.

Kyle Card gently placed him on the ground, then put on his helmet and began speaking urgently to his brothers.

Khalil did not interrupt him. He walked to the new victim, slowly squatted down, and stared into those eyes without saying a word.

His soul also vanished, just like all the other dead, and they harbored no hatred whatsoever.

Everything happened too fast and too suddenly. Hatred often accompanies anger, and the miners no longer had time to shake off the influence of fear.

He reached out and gently covered those eyes filled with fear and pleading.
-
When Seral came to his senses, he was already standing on the edge of a cliff.

Before him lay a desolate wasteland, silent and boundless, the wind whispering softly. Some kind of blood-red wild grass grew wildly to a chilling height, a setting sun hung in the sky, coldly overlooking this barren land, and the imposing mountains cast shadows in the distance.

It took Yawei quite a while to realize that he should check himself first.

He looked down and first saw the tattered armor and the lightning claws that had broken off in several places for some reason.

They should have retracted into the arm armor, instead of being stuck stiffly outside like this. He tried to retract them through the neural link, but the only response these two masterpieces could give him was the flashing of blue light from the disintegrating force field, and only for a moment.

The blue light didn't even have time to illuminate his face before it went out completely and never responded again.

Seral's dry lips twitched, and he slowly moved his body.

With the expertise of a pharmacist, he quickly assessed his current situation—however, he didn't want to deal with the hundreds of minor injuries he had, including the fractures and internal bleeding. His immediate priority was a combat knife stuck in his right knee.

Someone used it to precisely pierce the junction of the thick kneecap and calfcap. The blade rubbed against his kneecap like a newly grown bone, and he didn't even feel any pain.

In fact, the bleeding had stopped.

Seral slowly sat down. It took him a while to use his two claws, which had lost the aid of the disintegrating force field, to cut open the armor plates at his knee. He didn't want to do it, but only in this way could he observe the complete wound.

He set the heavy, scratched metal aside, then lifted the artificial muscle fiber bundle beneath it, finally revealing the wound. After a moment's thought, he decided to make the incision directly.

A few minutes later, dark blood trickled from the horrifying gash in his right knee, and Seral stood up, sword in hand.

The pain returned, all at once, and began to assault his flesh and blood like madmen, but he ignored it and remained focused.

This is his greatest strength.

Serar began to examine the combat knife.

An Astartes has a wide variety of melee weapon options, with the chainsword being the most common and versatile. It's a safe choice unless you're facing an extremely powerful enemy, in which case you'll have to rely on power weapons.

However, a fighting knife is a safe choice; everyone should have a short knife that can be drawn at any time, used immediately, and is easy to carry.
For example, the one in his hand has a single-molecule blade, an alloy grip, and has been reinforced and weighted overall.

This is undoubtedly a good knife; its greatest strengths are its simple and reliable design. But Seral's current focus isn't on how excellent it is, but rather on the badge at the bottom of its handle.

That small black and white emblem belonged to his warband.

Seral took a deep breath.

The knife did not belong to any of his squad members.

He turned around, knife in hand, and began to limp along the cliff top, assessing his condition as he went—his fighting ability was reduced to less than 30%, meaning that if any enemy appeared, he would have to trade his life for theirs.
That's the best-case scenario; the more likely outcome is trading life for injury.

He currently only has a fighting knife and two lightning claws that can no longer kill enemies with their disintegrating force fields. Besides these, he is covered in wounds, his armor is tattered, and even his helmet is missing.
Based on some kind of intuition, Serar felt that he had most likely thrown the helmet away himself.

He recalled the object's appearance and knew perfectly well that he had been captured by the black brand. But that wasn't the point; every Raven Guard understood this, otherwise they wouldn't have prefixed the object with 'curse'.
The real problem is that Celar was by no means the first person to see it and survive, yet in those vague records and descriptions, no one ever mentioned the true appearance of the monster known as the Raptor.

But he saw it, he saw it clearly. That face, that posture, that simple armor.

How does it resemble a so-called demon?

The pharmacist gripped his fighting knife and walked down the cliff, the path strewn with corpses. Though they had been dead for many years, their decaying bodies bore new wounds.

He didn't need to look closely to know it was his handiwork. Realizing this made him feel nauseous, followed by fear—he hadn't come to the mine alone; the thing had brought him here, so there was no reason for it to let the other four go.
Are they dead or alive?

Serar abruptly cut off his thoughts, focusing all his energy on maintaining a steady gait.

The power armor is helpful when there is plenty of power, but in the current situation, it only has a little defensive capability left, which can only slow him down and waste his little remaining stamina.

Judging from his level of exhaustion and hunger, Seral felt he had fought at a high intensity for at least eighty to one hundred and forty hours. This was the most optimistic estimate, and also a pointless fantasy, since he currently had no means to determine the time.

He finally descended the cliff and came to the blood-red wild grass.

Only now could he accurately judge their height. By his own standards, most of these weeds had grown to shoulder height.

Seral pondered for a moment, but ultimately chose to go in—he had nowhere else to go. If he didn't venture deeper, he would only be able to return the way he came, sit on the cliff, and gaze down. And doing so would yield nothing but meaningless observation.

He gripped the knife tightly, crouched down, and moved forward in a standard stealth posture.

Thanks to the gentle breeze, the rustling of the wild grasses he stirred as he moved was barely noticeable, so even if someone were observing the area from a high vantage point, they would be unlikely to spot him.
Well, I spoke too soon.

damn it.

The pharmacist silently straightened up, feeling the sharpness on the back of his neck, and slowly released his grip, dropping the knife.

The man who had him held at gunpoint was clearly unhappy with this, and he commanded in high Gothic with a distinct Terran accent, “And those two claws of yours.”

“They can’t be taken back,” Celar said. “I can’t do anything about it—”

"—Silence!" the man suddenly emphasized. "I'm not talking to you, I'm just giving an order. You're a prisoner now, you'd better understand your place."

Hearing such completely unreasonable words, Serar couldn't help but feel a little annoyed.

He was well aware of his situation, but the person speaking to him was clearly not mentally sound, and that was the source of his anger.
I was actually outmaneuvered by a lunatic?!

"Turn around," the man commanded again.

Seral did as he was told. He slowly turned around and saw a mysterious figure wearing an old MK3 power armor.

Although his armor was old and weathered, it was not broken. The black legion insignia gleamed on the gray-white shoulder armor, clearly indicating that it had been polished regularly.

Seral frowned; this movement did not escape the man's notice. He chuckled, sheathed his blade, placed the sword on the ground, and spoke coldly.

"You and your four brothers are completely unqualified in anti-submarine warfare."

Seral's eyes widened suddenly: "What are you saying—?"

"Keep your voice down, kid."

The man then gave the order in a commanding tone, sounding quite disdainful, before turning away on his own.

“Come with me now, I’ll take you to them. Also, pick up that knife, it belongs to Nerat Killing, don’t lose it.”

(End of this chapter)