40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 840, Section 11: Nevermore (Part 5)

Before even getting close to the dark cave entrance, Seral heard a low, painful cry.

His steps faltered for a moment, for no other reason than that he recognized the voice. But it didn't match his impression of the person; the 'Bone Nest' Serefis he knew was an extremely taciturn individual, outstanding even among the Raven Guards.
"Hurry up," the madman with the sword warned. "We don't have much time left."

Suppressing his anger, Seral walked into the darkness.

The first thing he saw was Selphes lying on the ground, covered in blood. The latter was completely unaware of their arrival and just kept roaring and shouting.

Strangely, even though nothing was binding him, he lay there stiffly as if he couldn't move, as if only his pale head was still alive.

This scene made the pharmacist extremely anxious. He subconsciously went to check on the condition of the bone nest, but the madman slapped him with his sword, causing him to stagger backward with astonishing force.

"Don't go near him!" he hissed, then gave the order again. "Keep going."

Seral clenched his fists and stood firm, then slowly released his right hand in front of him, before gripping the fighting knife at his waist.

“No,” he said, looking directly through the goggles.

“I told you, we don’t have much time left,” the swordsman said coldly. “I have no objection to your playing the brotherhood card, but now is not the time.”

Gritting his teeth, Seral said, word by word, "I just want to know what's wrong with him."

"He's insane, it's that simple."

"What's the reason?"

A cold laugh came from behind MK3's iconic helmet. The longsword was then sheathed, and the madman raised his hand to remove the helmet, revealing a face that was completely unexpected by Seral.

That face had nothing to do with the filth and savagery he had imagined; on the contrary, it looked very noble.

The madman casually hung the helmet on his waist; the magnetic device on the side and back of the belt made a soft click, indicating it was working perfectly.

Seral didn't overlook this detail, and combined with the fact that the MK3 was in pretty good condition, he already had a vague idea of ​​what was going on.

"You've already experienced so much that would make one despise reason, logic, and order, yet you still want to know the reason behind everything? Who taught you to be so persistent, and who placed this unnecessary thirst for knowledge on you? A Raven Guard wouldn't be so inquisitive."

Serar didn't care about the man's insults; he skillfully controlled his anger and responded calmly.

"If we were merely executioners, getting to the bottom of things would be unnecessary, but we are not—"

The madman sneered and interrupted him without any politeness.

"—Yes, the Nineteenth Legion isn't an executioner, but you don't think killers and assassins are nobler than executioners, do you? Can a violent group born for the purpose of assassination become the embodiment of justice?"

Serar took a deep breath.

“I have no intention of arguing with you. The Raven Guards never concern themselves with such philosophical propositions that have no practical help.”

“That’s true.” The madman’s smile lost some of its coldness. “It’s just a pity that your other three brothers don’t think the same way.”

He raised his chin, pointed behind Seral, and ordered again, "Move in."

The pharmacist was now truly furious, but there was nothing he could do.

He took one last, deep look at his brother. Bone Nest remained completely oblivious, his roars growing increasingly heart-wrenching, as if he were caught in a colossal catastrophe, utterly helpless, and destined to crumble in despair.
At Serefis's shout, they walked in and soon reached the innermost part of the cave. Unlike the outside, this place was filled with various odds and ends, and there were even holes dug into the walls to hold tiny embers of fire.

In an open area, Seral saw the other three members of his squad, all of them in a deep coma. Their breathing was even, their eyes were closed, and their heartbeats were extremely slow.

But this doesn't mean their situation is good. In fact, all three of them are injured, just not as severely as Seral and Serefis.

The pharmacist turned around and spoke in an icy tone, as if he were the one in control: "Now you should tell me the truth."

The madman ignored him, simply crossed his arms, stared at him with interest for a while, and then nodded.

Immediately afterwards, the shadows around the two began to twist, and the next second, a total of twelve Astartes, dressed in old power armor like madmen, quietly walked out.

Their armor was an extremely uniform MK6, without any decoration or special design, surprisingly simple.

Seeing this, Seral could no longer convince himself to ignore what was about to hit him in the face.

He stared at them for a moment before turning his gaze back to the madman.

“You come from the past,” he said with certainty.

“Very perceptive,” the madman praised. “Why don’t you continue guessing?”

“I don’t need to guess.” Celar shook his head. “These twelve sets of the most primitive Raven-type power armor alone are enough to tell me who you are, but I don’t understand, what exactly is this place? Warp?”

One of the ravens answered him in a low voice, which was surprisingly friendly compared to the madman's sarcasm.

"Not quite a complete subspace; in pure terms, this place is more like a crevice between the material world and the subspace."

Seral looked at him and thanked him very sincerely.

The man laughed, then removed his helmet and gave a warrior's salute by striking his chest with one hand. His face met everyone's definition of reliability and handsomeness, and it was free of any scars.

“Looks like you’re really bothered by Tyne,” he said with a laugh. “Please forgive him, that’s just how he is, he’s always been like this.”

“Better than you, Graf.” The madman—Tyne—rolled his eyes and replied.

"Yes, yes, you are better than me."

Graf answered nonchalantly, then turned to Serar.

"I think you have one more question to ask, but unfortunately we have no way to answer it." His expression gradually turned bitter, and he even sighed involuntarily.

“But one thing is certain: it is still a demon,” Graf said in a low voice. “Although its logic of action in recent years has increasingly deviated from that identity.”

After a moment's thought, Seral cautiously raised a point of doubt.

"It didn't kill us."

“It was born from the curse and misfortune in our blood, and it considers itself one of us; therefore, it will not harm you,” another of the ravens spoke slowly. “However, the others are not so fortunate.”

The atmosphere in the room became somewhat solemn when the matter was brought up. Serar thought of the miners; he knew in his heart that they had no chance of escaping alive.

This event left him saddened and powerless; hundreds of people had died. How many of those living under the Raven Tower would have to endure heartbreaking pain from this day forward?

They are so innocent, why should they suffer such a misfortune?
The pharmacist's anger finally broke through the shackles he had set for himself.

"So, is there any way to solve it once and for all?"

“Yes,” Graf said. “But only Corax can do it.”

Seral was initially surprised by his audacity in calling the Primarch by his name, but judging from Graf's reaction and the indifference of the other ravens, this must have been a frequent occurrence, otherwise they wouldn't have reacted so habitually. No, wait a minute.

Serar opened his mouth in surprise.

“The Primarch—” he began, feeling slightly dizzy. “—is he really still alive?”

The ravens looked at each other.

“How could you think he’s dead?” Graf asked, half-laughing, half-crying. “Young man, the connection between Astartes and the Primarch is far closer than you realize. If he had truly perished, we would all have noticed.”

“I just…” Celar tried to remain calm. “Well, maybe I’m just being pessimistic. I don’t believe he’s still alive because he never returned to his homeland and to us. That’s not the person and style of Kolus Corax that I’ve come to know from the documents and the Warband, no, the Legion’s internal history, so either he couldn’t come back, or he didn’t want to. I’d rather it be the former.”

His words caused the ravens to look at each other for a while, before Graf finally spoke.

“This isn’t pessimism, it’s a realistic consideration. You’ve taken our pragmatism to the extreme. Even Corax himself would be pleased to hear you say this. But you’d better not say it to anyone else, young man, or I’m afraid they’ll shoot you.”

So, is he unable to come back, or does he not want to come back?

Serar ultimately did not ask the question, firstly because he did not want to, and secondly because of the loud, muffled sound coming from outside the cave.

Graf's expression changed drastically, and he quickly fastened his helmet.

"Take good care of your brothers!" he said quickly, pointing to a pile of debris. "There should be something you need in there. Go and search. Remember, no matter what sounds you hear later, don't leave this cave."

"What are you going to do?" Seral was about to ask when he heard a series of footsteps rushing towards him.

Suddenly, the pale face of 'Bone Nest' Selphs appeared behind the ravens. Unaware of his own distorted features, his eyes turned as black as coal.

"Watch out!" the pharmacist roared.

However, before the word "heart" could land, a longsword slammed down on Selphis, stopping him. One of the people on the other side was none other than Tyne, who had been relentlessly mocking him.

This outcast dressed in MK3 armor, as if possessed by divine intervention, blocked the attack from the bone nest that emerged from the shadows with his sword, easily stopping and subduing it. Then, he swung the hilt of his sword and struck hard, knocking Serefis unconscious. The whole process was incredibly skillful, as if he had done it hundreds of times before.

“Take good care of them,” Graf said softly, repeating his words before leading the way away.

Tyne was the last member of this strange team. He stared at Seral and gave him a rather complicated smile.

"I apologize first, kid." He winked at him. "That's just how I am, I can't watch my mouth, so don't take it to heart."

Having said that, he put on the iron mask and followed his brothers, leaving Seral standing there in silence. A few seconds later, he turned to look at the pile of miscellaneous items that had been singled out.

"Alright," the pharmacist thought, taking a deep breath. "I'll have to pray to Jairzinho Guzman."
-
The current Chapter Master of the Ravenguard, the youngest successor in history, known as the Warbringer, Soren Volker, let out a long breath.

“Everything is ready, Instructor,” he said slowly. “Is there anything else you need?”

I need Kolaus Corax himself to tell me what exactly the demon he's hunting has become.
The Grand Judge pondered the matter with a sense of helplessness, but showed no sign of it on his face.

From this perspective, the hardships he endured over the years in Terra, the political center of the empire, were ultimately somewhat helpful.

“I need your blood,” Khalil said, offering to replenish it. “For ritual purposes.”

Without hesitation, Soren Volker tore off his left arm guard, drew his short sword from his waist with his right hand, swung it lightly across his palm, and then shoved the sword into Kalil's hand without a word.

The Grand Inquisitor looked up at him, then at the knife in his hand, hesitating to speak, but the young warband commander was completely oblivious to this, even thinking that he felt it wasn't enough, so he immediately waved to the person next to him to bring over a chainsaw sword.

The Grand Judge abruptly raised his hand to stop him, with astonishing speed, like lightning, no less than, and perhaps even surpassing, the speed at which he drew his sword to kill.

"No, no, this is enough, Chapter Master Sauron."

Khalil stared at him and said, then slowly squatted down and placed the bloodstained fighting dagger in the very center of the pale ritual circle at his feet.

He had used this tactic on Chermos more than a decade ago and had been practicing it privately ever since. Of course, to avoid any unnecessary trouble, he had been constantly summoning the Eighth Legion's chief medic.

The latter initially felt helpless, but gradually became numb, and even offered suggestions, such as what kind of medium he would like to be summoned.
Thanks to his help and the vast amount of information in the courtroom, Khalil has now become a de facto expert in subspace science, instead of the reckless man who used to rely on his psychic abilities to fly around like a brick without any technical skill.

Staring at the knife—or rather, the blood on it—Khalil spoke softly.

"With the soil of my homeland and the blood of my brothers, I command you to appear." He recited a ritualistic phrase in a simple and unadorned manner.

Five seconds later, the magic circle suddenly lit up.

(End of this chapter)