40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 841 12. NEWVERMORE (Six, 7K)

To date, Søren Volk has witnessed twenty-nine summoning rituals. Although still young, he is truly a man of considerable experience.

The first time was seventy-eight years ago, when he was just a combat comrade, fighting alongside the Black Templars against a group of orc pirates near four star systems north of Caliban.

Everything was going smoothly. The peculiar spirit of the most fanatical Sons of Dorne had made their somewhat reckless frontal tactics successful. The orc warships were all crippled after being boarded, and victory was within reach, as long as Sauron and his brothers successfully carried out their decapitation strike.
The mission was indeed a success.

That green-skinned beast is dead, that much is certain, but the orcish force it led has not dissipated. There must have been a very cunning individual among them who, taking advantage of the chaos, forcibly seized command and then escaped in a tattered little boat.

Everyone knows that you absolutely cannot let any orc go, or you'll be asking for trouble.

Forty-two hours later, they caught up with the fleeing orcs in a small, numbered agricultural world, only to find that they were almost all dead by then—killed by whom? By a group of well-equipped cultists.

The escaped greens could never have imagined that they would stumble upon a group of lunatics even more insane than themselves in a remote, impoverished village.
Ironically, according to the subsequent investigation, if they hadn't directly crashed into the cultists' ritual site, things probably wouldn't have gotten that chaotic.

That was a terrible day, for everyone.

For the orcs, it was like escaping one wolf's den only to fall into another; for the Black Templars and Ravenguards, simply hunting down the orcs was already incredibly troublesome, and the cleanup afterwards was enough to drive them mad, but now they've also dragged in a group of cultists who are clearly not ordinary.
However, the most unfortunate ones in the whole incident were these heretics.

For them, this should have been a wonderful day to fulfill their long-cherished wish.

They had drawn up a massive array, prepared offerings, and held a ceremony under the guidance of their leader, awaiting the blessing. Suddenly, fire rained down from the sky.

A large group of orcs descended from the sky in dilapidated planes or metal hulls, crashing into them and instantly crushing the leader, his deputy, and the sacrifices into minced meat.

By the time the remaining people finally figured out what had happened and were able to kill most of the orcs, a second rain of fire began to fall from the sky.

This time, it wasn't orcs who came, but two hundred Astartes, all menacing and fully armed.

No one knows what the cultists were thinking at the time. Soren only remembers the bewildered expressions on their blood-soaked faces; some were even laughing, thinking it was some kind of hallucination. He and the others shattered that illusion with explosives. As soon as they emerged from the drop pod, they began their killing spree.

At that very moment, the damned summoning circle underwent a change. The massive offerings, blood, and death, combined with complex transformations, spurred it to tear open the already unstable veil in one fell swoop, bringing out something from the warp.

The postwar report stated that only eleven people survived.

And now, he is observing another summoning ritual, one that takes place not in some small place, nor in some populous hive, nor on those closed, filthy cargo ships—it is taking place in his homeland, the place he has devoted his life to and longed to revive.

The materials used to draw the ritual magic circle were powdered local minerals, supplied by his order. The medium was his own blood, and the one who orchestrated it was a former instructor of the Eighth Legion, now the only Grand Inquisitor in the Empire.
What will this ritual summon?

Soren was uncertain; he couldn't even understand the magic circle.

He now has a wealth of experience with chaos, but this dangerous theoretical knowledge has never been popularized, not even to a chapter commander, so he could only turn to his chief think tank for help with his eyes.

The latter glanced over silently, then walked to his side, and spoke softly amidst the gradually intensifying psychic light.

“I don’t understand,” the chief said.

Soren was greatly shocked: "You don't understand?"

"Yes, I don't understand it because this ritual is completely irregular. It doesn't draw a standard-sized summoning circle, nor does it prepare any offerings. Even your blood is used as a medium. And the summoning incantation used by the instructor is too vague. Without any real name or title to assist it, its referentiality is terribly weak. To be honest, I can't even guess what it will summon."

The chieftain launched into a rare long speech, then slowly fell silent. Soren glanced at him, then at the magic circle not far away, a look of bewilderment creeping onto his face.

The only saving grace was that all their questions and confusions were answered within a few dozen seconds.

A blinding blue light flashed and disappeared in an instant, and a Raven Guard gradually rose from the tar-like ground.

The first thing he did was look around, and the second was to take off his helmet, revealing a nearly translucent face. This face was devoid of any emotion, like a plastic mannequin—strange, rigid, and utterly lifeless.

But Khalil Lohals laughed.

“To be honest, I just tried it out casually, I didn’t expect to get you involved, Rorschach,” he said. “Did you come on your own initiative, or…?”

The Raven Guard, known as Rorschach, shook his head without speaking, but instead made a series of rapid hand gestures.

Khalil nodded: "Okay, let's get started."

"Begin what?" Soren wondered.

The two people responsible for answering this question, which had not yet been spoken and would never have the chance to be spoken again, did not answer with words, but with actions.

Rorschach—the Raven Guard clad in ancient iron armor—strode out of the summoning circle and put on his helmet.

He slightly bent his knees and vanished from his spot in an instant. The shadow rippled for a moment before returning to silence.

Soren almost considered chasing after them into the shadows, but he didn't. A few minutes later, Rorschach returned, nodded to Khalil Lohals, and the Grand Inquisitor turned and gave Soren and his brothers a not-so-gentle smile.

“This is Alastor Rorschach,” he said briefly. “We’ll be back soon, Chapter Master Sauron, please use this time to prepare.”

"What preparations?" Soren quickly pressed for an answer.

Although he had only met this person today, a figure who had previously only existed in legends and stories, he was no stranger to his style. That decisive and efficient approach was a double-edged sword; it brought efficiency but also raised questions.

Fortunately, Khalil Lohals is not the kind of person who enjoys playing riddles; if you ask him a question and he can answer it, then he will not hide the truth.

“Preparations related to the war,” Khalil said. “And the return of Kolus Corax.”

To the astonishment of the Raven Guards, he raised his hand, allowing Rorschach to grasp his forearm, and the two then vanished.
-
Serar wouldn't dare say he did a great job in his special position as a pharmacist.

No one would dare make such a boast as 'I am a good doctor,' not even Jairzinho Guzman himself. The more professional a doctor is, the less likely they are to do so.

Nevertheless, Seral can still tell everyone with a clear conscience that he never abandons any injured person.

Yes, he would never give up, even though Selphis's two hearts had completely stopped beating.

The Astartes are known for their resilience, and this is Serefis. He once shielded civilians with a bomb, and later recovered his fighting ability after only seventeen days in the hospital. And this is just one of the many miracles that have occurred within the Bone Nest; his achievements are so outstanding that they deserve to be recorded in the history of the Ravenguard.
Serar couldn't believe he would die like this.

However, one thing needs to be emphasized: if he really dies, I must state in the report that it wasn't those old ravens who did it, but that thing. He was affected by it, just like all of us; his eyes were blinded by black ash, so he could only see killing and madness.

As Seral wielded his heavy combat knife, cutting through the power armor, he pondered these matters.

Genetic defect.

Genetic defects caused by psychic powers?

A gentle breeze blew in from outside the cave, carrying a thick stench of blood. Ignoring it, Seral continued his attack, precisely piercing every crevice, and using his knowledge of power armor, he removed Serafis's armor in a mere three minutes. He then grabbed a pre-prepared potion and plunged the needle, the size of a mortal dagger, into the victim's chest cavity.

The first tube of clear liquid was injected into it, followed by the second tube of pale white liquid, and then the third and fourth tubes. The first three tubes were all restorative agents, but the last tube was different; it was a nerve stimulant mixed with poison.

Sierra has performed emergency field medical care at least thousands of times, but never before has the dire situation necessitated such extreme measures as deploying this kind of equipment.

In the past, he had the help of a medical arm, or at the very least, a large quantity of medicines that allowed him to concoct medicines tailored to each patient's condition. Instead, he was now like a homeless man rummaging through a garbage dump, desperately wiping the stains off his clothes with his sleeves in the dead of winter, trying to make things look as decent as possible.

And that's all he could do for Selphis.

Seral drew his knife, tucked it back into his waistband, braced himself with his hands, and stepped back slightly so that his back could rest against the cave wall.

He stared at them, unsure of what to do next.

The Astartes are always given titles like 'superhuman,' making it seem like they are true superhumans. But if even the Primarchs and Emperors can't do these things, how can these degraded versions be considered superhumans?

It should be called 'superhuman', Seral thought. He's still human at heart, and that won't change.

He sighed and stood up.

He had used up all the useful items he had scavenged from the pile of junk, and now he was in a very awkward situation, much like the pair of lightning claws that couldn't be retracted from his arms. He could hear the sounds of battle coming from outside, but he didn't know what the thirteen ravens were fighting.

Could it be that? Perhaps, but the ravens have said that the thing won't harm them.

But if it's not that, then what is it? A vengeful spirit lingering in this crevice, or a demon that has come upon hearing the news?
Serar turned and glanced at his brothers.

Over the past ten thousand years, how many Dark Raven Guards who went missing while hunting it have come here, only to be captured by the Black Brand?

Damn it.

Serar spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the ground, especially hating his own ignorance at that moment.

How he longed to know the answers to these questions so they wouldn't confuse him! But he couldn't; he was just a human being, and one with little knowledge and culture at that.

He only knew two things in his life: saving people and killing people. He didn't even understand how to communicate normally with people.

What a failure. Seral smiled calmly.

He turned around and started running towards the outside of the cave.

The distance of several thousand meters passed in the blink of an eye, and the blood-red sky came into view again, along with thirteen ravens and a monster surrounded by them in the center. The thing was pitch black, shaped like some kind of huge four-legged beast, but with wings on its back and a sharp beak.

It had no eyes, at least that's what Seral thought at first, until he saw it take flight, emitting a furious howl—between those outstretched wings, the apothecary could clearly see countless eyes.

He was utterly horrified at that moment, because they didn't seem to possess any bestiality or evil; instead, they were filled with tears, brimming with sorrow.
"What are you here for?"

One of the ravens fired at it while coldly asking a question.

"I have done everything I could for my brothers."

“But you can’t be of much help here,” the skilled marksman said calmly between shots. “You don’t even know what it is. Fighting a powerful enemy with insufficient intelligence is tantamount to suicide, junior. Haven’t you studied basic tactical theory?”

“I’ve learned something similar, but it’s not called that. I have eyes, and I’ve also learned how to fire a gun.”

As he spoke, Celar pointed to another explosive pistol at his waist, while the shooter merely shook his head almost imperceptibly, unleashing a hail of bullets at the monster. “You can’t use our weapons,” he said after the gunfire subsided. “We’ve been here too long, long enough for our weapons and armor to change, and you can’t withstand that kind of power.”

"Then, what can I do?" Seral asked in a low voice, with a hint of humility.

During the conversation, another raven emerged from the innermost part of the encirclement, its hunched figure covered in jet-black feathers, yet it was unharmed.

The shooter slung his explosive pistol back onto his belt, drew his chainsaw from his waist, and silently took over his position, rushing into the dangerous close combat.

The raven suddenly spoke.

“You can’t do anything. Have some self-awareness, okay, young man? Look at you, still badly injured, your armor is tattered, and even your weapons are damaged. Right now, the highest priority tactical option in front of you is to retreat, not to stay in this dangerous place, or it will tear you apart sooner or later.”

“Even if I go back, there’s nothing I can do,” Seral replied through gritted teeth.

The raven turned its head, glanced at him, and said with a hint of amusement, "But at least you won't lose your life."

He swayed as he stood up, stretched, and raised his hands amidst the quiet hum of the servo motors. The lightning claws collided with each other, emitting a piercing shriek.

The monster immediately looked in his direction, but Raven had already leaped into the air, the pod on his back providing powerful momentum, helping him descend from the sky and land on the creature's back. Before he could even steady himself, he began wildly swinging his arms, hacking and slashing indiscriminately.

Flesh and blood flew everywhere, feathers fluttered, and eyes reappeared, tears mingling with blood as they fell to the ground.
A few minutes later, they killed it, or at least that's what it appeared to be.

Amidst the rising smoke and the pungent stench of melting flesh, Serar was speechless; he couldn't find the right words to describe the creature's death. No matter how hard he racked his brains, he couldn't do it.

There was only one thing he was certain of—those eyes felt very gratified as they melted; they were no longer sad, but instead only had a kind of serene peace filled with regret.

It's like a liberation.

The blood-soaked ravens steadied themselves, looked at each other, and checked to see if anyone was unknowingly injured. Only after doing this did they turn back to deal with Serar.

This time, it was still the sharp-tongued Tyne who spoke first. Leaning on his sword, he stared at the apothecary in the blood-red sunset, then shrugged.

“You really aren’t afraid of death,” he quipped. “I wasn’t this daring when I was your age.”

Serar remained silent, his mouth tightly shut. He was both annoyed and confused.

"Really?" one of the ravens suddenly asked. "But I remember you were always fighting against the Sons of Horus back then?"

Tyne smiled sinisterly: "Who told them to always make us do the hardest, most difficult, and most dangerous work?"

"Alright, let's stop talking about these old stories." Graf walked over and stopped the conversation, a topic that would be considered a secret in today's world.

He wearily removed his helmet, revealing a face drenched in sweat. This sight gave Seral a sense of unreality; before this, he had a vague intuition that these old ravens were long dead.
But how can a dead person sweat?

He felt a brief surge of joy at this conclusion, which briefly dispelled the gloom hanging over him, but also brought a new question.

What have they eaten and drunk all these years?
Before he could even voice his question, Graf turned to him and said in a slightly stern tone, “By now, you’ve seen far too much that you shouldn’t have known, so I don’t think we have any reason to keep anything from you anymore.”

“I told you before that this is a crevice, but—” He raised his hand and pointed to the distant horizon, to the mountains of corpses. “—Where did they come from? I guess that’s what you want to know most right now.”

“Actually, no,” Seral said. “I’d rather know what you usually eat.”

Graf paused slightly, while Tyne burst into laughter. The other ravens gathered around, removing their helmets and looking at their junior with friendly eyes.

One of them, with tattoos on his face, smiled the brightest. He said, "We don't eat anything. What need do dead people have for food?"

Serar was stunned.

Another raven, a particularly strong one, said, "If I could, I'd like to have some dried sand eel again. I miss it."

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Tyne winked at him merrily. “I think you just miss the days when you and our cousins ​​were rolling around in the dueling pit!”

The man smiled warmly, stomped his foot, and dug a small, shallow hole in the ground: "Now I can dig a new duel pit and fight you in there, Tyne."

"Then why didn't you say that to Sigismund back then?" someone jeered.

The man frowned, his face tightening almost imperceptibly for a moment.

He was silent for a moment, then finally said, "Because I can't beat him, going up against him would only add to our losing streak."

"Who can beat that lunatic? Even Sharokin didn't get any advantage!"

Tyne suddenly cursed and started speaking up for the person he had been mocking earlier.

"Besides, we're not exactly a legion known for head-on battles. Let him be smug, hmph, the galactic-renowned dueling master."

His tone was clearly displeased, but his face was full of nostalgia. He then looked at Seral and asked, "Hey kid, how's his reputation these days? Is he still alive?"

The apothecary opened his mouth and answered as if in a daze, "Lord Sigismund is asleep."

"Sleeping? He's entered the Fearless Realm?"

A voice suddenly rang out behind them.

"No, he's just asleep. According to Rogge himself, it was a last resort. Sigismund's mind and humanity had been completely worn away in the long battles, and he had turned himself into a weapon. Therefore, he can only be treated as a weapon now."

The flock of crows turned their heads in unison, but none of them placed their hands on their weapons, as if they were completely unaware of any danger.

Seral was the only one who instinctively gripped his fighting knife until he saw the person approaching.

"Teacher, instructor?"

“Hello, Seral.” The instructor from the Eighth Legion smiled at him. “It has been thirty-five years since we parted ways on the Glory of Macragge. And you gentlemen, it has been a full ten thousand years.”

"What's going on today?" Tyne asked softly. "What brings you here?"

The instructor smiled and pointed behind them, saying, "It's the wind blowing from Alastor Rorschach."

The crows turned their heads again.

"Rorschach!" someone called out to him enthusiastically. "It's you!"

Raven Guard, who had lost his tongue, smiled for once. He nodded and shook hands and embraced his long-lost brothers with simple etiquette.

The greetings they used were completely different from the various gestures and salutes popular today. Each one was very simple, even no different from those used by ordinary people, but the sentiments they conveyed were incredibly deep.

Seeing this scene, Serar felt a mix of emotions.

The instructor walked up to him, waited a moment, and then asked, "Where are your brothers?"

"them."

The pharmacist paused for a moment, unsure how to describe their condition. He sighed involuntarily, but finally found a way.

He lowered his head, looked directly into those eyes, stared at his own reflection in them, and slowly said, "They should be alright now, but they went crazy for a while."

"A black brand?"

"Yes."

The instructor nodded thoughtfully: "So it really was that thing that brought you here."

Seral nodded silently, not wanting to say anything more, but he couldn't help it.

Clutching at a sliver of hope he should never have, he asked softly, "Where are the miners?"

"died."

"not a single one?"

"Yes."

The apothecary raised his hand, intending to rub his throbbing temples, but the unretractable lightning claw ignited a surge of immense rage within him. He raised his hand, glaring at them. He used to cherish them, meticulously maintaining them twice a day, even forbidding his servants from touching them; now, he wished he could tear them apart. He was so angry, so tormented by his own powerlessness, that he didn't even notice the old ravens had fallen silent, staring at him in silence.

Alastor Rorschach gestured a series of signs to his brothers: Should we remind him? This emotion would attract its attention.
Graf shook his head and answered in the same silent language: No, there's no need for that. He shouldn't know the nature of birds of prey. This curse should end in our generation.

The instructors of the Eighth Army Corps witnessed the entire conversation but remained silent.

He sighed almost imperceptibly, the sigh fading naturally into his faint breaths.

The nature of birds of prey.
Erebas cursed the Raven Guards in a fit of rage; he was a complete scumbag, but even he could never have imagined that the demon born of the curse would be twisted into something else by the warp.

It was born of the tragedy of the sons of Corax, but who knows what the Lord of the Crows felt when he witnessed his homeland and offspring fall into hell?

That similar helplessness, similar despair and anger, successfully aligned with his special identity and the massive deaths on the planet he was saving, creating a devastating echo in the warp, ultimately merging with the raptor.

From that moment on, it was no longer just a simple demon.

Despair, pain, betrayal.
It has only one purpose for existence, but Colius Corax would never allow it to come true, so he hunted it for ten thousand years.

Awaken from despair and pick up the will to fight again.

Kalil narrowed his eyes, staring at the ominous sky of this world, without saying a word, until the sky quietly changed color and a dark vortex slowly emerged.

(End of this chapter)