40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 843, Section 14: Nevermore (Part 7)

It's back, it's home.

But what is home?
Although its empty heart was filled with longing to return home, it did not actually understand what this concept meant. It simply acted on instinct, just as a wild beast would eat its own cubs when it was hungry and weak.

They may have feelings, and there is a possibility that they will feel sadness afterward, but in that crucial moment, the moment they bite their sharp teeth at the defenseless neck of their young, it is instinct that controls everything.

The same applies to it.

All it wanted was to come back, to go home, nothing more. It didn't understand why it was doing this, and it didn't care.

Just come back.

It stretched its body, the night sky above its savior, and the seemingly unremarkable power armor emitted a sickeningly loud swelling sound as it moved. All around was nothing but dry Gobi desert, pebbles, and thick dust that choked every inch of air.

A deserted place.

It stands here alone, gazing into the distance, its eyes, as black as the night itself, reflecting a towering spire that seems to pierce the clouds. It is majestic, strange, and twisted, yet twinkling with starlight. Below it, there are crowded, slightly lower buildings and even shorter houses, inconspicuous like ants, yet far more vibrant than the tower itself.

Many people live there.

how many?
It moved stiffly toward the spire.

Go home, back to the Crow Tower. It thought.
-
The hovercraft emitted a low, almost silent hum before coming to a sudden stop.

Soren Volker jumped off the precious gift from the White Scars and walked silently into an underground bunker that served as a temporary command room.

Many familiar pale faces had already taken up the space around the tactical table, making the spacious bunker feel cramped.

The latest Thinker, acquired through a trade with the Cult of Mechanics, beeped incessantly under the control of its automaton servants. Mortal officers bustled between the side and main gates, exchanging brief, hurried words before returning to their busy military duties.

Everything was in perfect order, and even as a real and terrifying war was about to break out, these people still stood up straight and meticulously did what they were supposed to do.

However, Soren was pessimistic about how things would unfold—he felt that this precious profession would soon vanish, and that once they witnessed firsthand how utterly vulnerable their once-trusted Raven Guards were to that thing, their morale would certainly suffer a blow.
Soren didn't want to think about what would happen then, but his lightning-fast mind naturally deduced everything in the next instant and presented it to him for careful review.

He may be born this way, always unconsciously viewing everything with the worst in mind.

In the past, someone had jokingly mocked him for this, saying that he was the kind of person who, even standing in the sunlight with hundreds of thousands of Astartes celebrating victory, would still suspect that a missile might fall from the sky at any moment.
Soren didn't refute it then, and he's even less likely to waste words now. He has no interest in explaining the origins of his pessimism; he just wants to get things done. He's a pragmatist.

So he began to speak and issued a series of orders in an orderly manner.

First, he needed to expedite the evacuation of the civilians beneath Raven Tower. Next, he needed to activate Raven Tower's weapon arrays and the somewhat illegitimate Mechanicus modifications. These were his last resort; Sauron didn't want them to be used unless absolutely necessary.

Meanwhile, dozens of satellites floating around the space station were also busy, having already uploaded information about various parts of the rescue planet to the Raven Tower. Thanks to their help, the technical sergeants had sent a warning twenty-six minutes earlier—

"We've locked it down."

—Yes, that's right, its current location is known to every crow guard.

However, according to the Nineteenth Army Corps' established practices, having obtained the enemy's exact coordinates, they should have immediately set off to deal with it. But at this moment, the corps' communication channels were completely silent; no one spoke.

Time has passed, and the once proud feathers of the crows are now soaked with countless drops of blood, becoming heavy as a thousand pounds, a weight pressing down on their hearts. Every time they take flight, it is, in effect, a self-reproach.
In this long period of suffering, countless deaths and failures brought an undeniable truth to the Sons of Corax.

They cannot defeat it.

To be precise, it's about finding it difficult to maintain one's own identity when facing it.

For example, just by staring at the humanoid figure wearing what appeared to be black and white armor through the screen, Sauron's originally clear mind was overwhelmed by certain emotions that should never have arisen at this moment.

They came so quickly and so directly, as if someone were standing at the dividing line between his left and right hemispheres with a pickaxe, grinning wildly and swinging it downwards with tremendous force, shoveling up pieces of his brain and turning them over one by one.
He had to wave to the pharmacist next to him to give him an injection before he could barely regain his senses.

This is one of the countless pains it brings them: the more skilled the Ravenguards are in the Way of Shadow, the more easily they are affected by it, and the more easily they are directly captured by the Black Mark.

Soren averted his gaze, lowered his hands, and pressed them against the edge of the tactical table, trying his best to suppress his emotions. The sturdy structure of the tactical table easily bore the weight of his armor and that force, while silently establishing a signal connection with his power armor.

Soon, amidst the shimmering blue light, the thoughts in Sauron's mind were truthfully revealed to the silent Raven Guards.

"Three lines of defense."

Compared to other warband leaders who weren't particularly renowned, this skilled warrior spoke seriously, throwing out a concept that wasn't new. This tactic had been proven many times, but its essence wasn't actually that clever.

"As is customary, I will lead the first line, the other company commanders and veterans will take over the second line, and the young combat brothers and new recruits will take the last line. If we all fail, the technical sergeant in the Raven Tower will contact the space station."

He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was extremely soft.

"A point-to-point incineration weapon is installed on the space station, which, when operating at high power, is enough to alter a large area of ​​the landscape. According to calculations, once it hits, we can render it inoperable for at least dozens of hours, which is enough time for all civilians to evacuate the savior. After that, Raven Tower will activate all its weapons and self-destruct programs to bombard it."

"Can't we just bomb it directly?" one of the mortal officers asked.

“No,” one of his colleagues immediately replied. “Based on past combat reports, when faced with this kind of attack, if no one distracts or draws its attention, it will simply step into the shadows.”

Soren continued, "And by then, finding it again would be as difficult as climbing to heaven."

"What about the future of the chapter?" someone asked again.

“The Primarch will return.” Sauron looked at him, his tone calm. “Khalil Lohals said it himself.”

Thanks to the tacit understanding forged in blood and fire, the man immediately understood his meaning, but showed no sadness whatsoever. Instead, he nodded with satisfaction.

"So be it. Let us end this tragedy with our blood. As long as the Primarch exists, the Ravenguard will not perish."

Silent, Soren reached behind his waist and removed his helmet from his belt. Yes, they would not perish. But where would we go from here? We, who have failed our martyrs and burdened future generations with shame.
He stared at the scarlet goggles for a few seconds, then slowly put them on without saying a word.

The old soldier's words were certainly extreme, but didn't they also express the sentiments of most people present? At least, they spoke for Soren.

Behind the helmet, he gave a complicated smile, turned around, walked out of the bunker, and found his motorcycle.

He leaned against the side, summoned two maintenance servants, and raised his hands so they could check the condition of his lightning claws and the flying pack on his back, as well as the plasma and a powered short sword for emergencies tucked into his waistband.

For an ordinary Astartes, this would be considered a luxurious weapon system. However, for a chapter commander, it was merely average.

The Ravenguards were not poor; they had excellent relations with every warband, and the Raven Tower's armory was filled with many powerful weapons. However, Sauron preferred to distribute them to others rather than use them himself.

He possessed a kind of confidence that others would perceive as arrogance. He believed he didn't need any special weapons; even with just a basic monomolecular knife, he could complete the mission.
In fact, if anyone had seen the records of his battle achievements kept within the military affairs department and the battle group, they would have found that this was not arrogance, but a realistic and absolutely rational consideration.

He became a chapter leader at such a young age not because there was no one else in the chapter, but because he was the most talented, the strongest, and had the best record. Otherwise, how could he have shouldered such a heavy responsibility?

"May the wrath of the God of Machines be upon you." The servants finished their preparations, uttered the blessing in a monotonous voice, and then turned and left.

Sauron glanced at them, then clasped his hands together. His lightning claws rubbed against each other for a moment without activating the disintegration field, sparks flying and making the black raven on his shoulder armor seem to come alive.

He climbed onto the vehicle, twisted the handlebars, and sped away, driving alone into the distance as he had done on countless solo missions before.

The White Scars' motorcycles were specially tuned. Their improved anti-gravity engines and lighter bodies pushed speed and handling to an extremely terrifying level. Even with Astartes' reaction speed, it required a neural connection to control them perfectly. This also caused him to stir up a visible wave of dust behind him, as if he were sailing on the sea.
Hundreds of kilometers passed in the blink of an eye.

Riding on the motorcycle, Soren stood up slightly, miraculously maintaining his balance at such high speed. He then leaped into the air, a brief but dazzling burst of light erupting from the pod behind him, carrying him into the sky before plunging back down towards the lone figure.

Before he even landed, his lightning claws had already pierced deep into its flesh. The combined weight and speed allowed the lightning claws to cross over almost without any hindrance, turning the writhing black and white armor and the flesh beneath it into pieces of varying sizes.

Despite his successful strike and remarkable achievement, Sauron showed no joy whatsoever.

Behind the goggles, he pulled back with veins bulging on his forehead, blood already seeping from the corner of his tightly closed mouth.

"So fast?" he thought, trembling with rage.

He stopped in his tracks, his back hunched, and suddenly his whole body began to tremble with a subtle yet terrifying speed. The pieces of flesh he had chopped up then stuck back together, reforming the unremarkable image of the Raven Guard.

Sauron roared and raised his arm, charging at it in a completely frenzied manner.
He had only a sliver of consciousness left to guide this battle-hardened body. Before being completely controlled by the black mark, he gave his body an order with an incomprehensible willpower.

This order allowed him to hold it off for a full ten minutes, after which the company commander and the veterans arrived.

They held out for fifteen minutes before turning on each other, and by then, the thing was only ten kilometers away from the Raven Tower.

One hundred and sixty-four people stood before him, all of them young combat brothers and new recruits.

None of them had mastered the Way of Shadow, and their faces, apart from being pale, bore little resemblance to Kolaus Corax.
This should have been a sad thing, but now it has become the biggest reason why they have taken on this heavy responsibility.

They stood firmly before it, one after another, slowly stepping into the despair and anger that their predecessors had long since fallen into.

No one saw the black vortex slowly cracking open in the sky.
-
“What do you plan to do?” Khalil asked.

When asked his question, the person being questioned said nothing, but simply shook his head.

He sat wearily on a rock, a breeze carrying the strong smell of blood blowing by, ruffling his blood-stained black hair and turning the large patch of scarlet weeds growing on the corpses behind him into swaying waves.

Seeing that he didn't speak, Khalil simply narrowed his eyes and carefully examined the armor that had become battered and bruised over time and endless battles.

Under that 'dissecting' gaze that only he could wield, the person being questioned finally sighed.

The pale, blood-stained marble sculpture slowly opened its mouth, its voice hoarse, as if it had forgotten how to talk to people, and what it said had nothing to do with Khalil's question.

"It is my despair."

As soon as he finished speaking, he stood up, transformed into a shadow, and floated up, rushing into the black vortex in the sky.

Khalil looked up at it, and after a few seconds suddenly spoke, his voice surprisingly not deep at all.

“Is this how you treat your long-lost uncle, Corax? You only say one sentence?” he shouted. “Fine, fine!”

A ray of moonlight shone from his shadow.

“Go help him,” the Nostramo man said to his son. “I have to go find that stupid snake.”

Conrad Coates did not smile, nor did he move; he simply slowly removed the crown from his head.

"You know what?"

"what?"

Koz grinned, a forced smile on his face.

“I imagined many scenarios of what it would be like to see him again. I thought we would hug or exchange pleasantries, or at the very least, we would just stare at each other in silence. The only thing I never imagined was this situation—I actually wanted to punch him in the face.”

"Are you really going to fight?"

"That depends on whether he brings me any food," Coz said.

He threw the crown at the Grand Inquisitor, his figure gradually changing, and a noble blue-gold armor, surrounded by scarlet bat wings and a cloak, replaced the thin black robe.

(End of this chapter)