40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 856, Part 4: Setting Off, Preparing to Beat Up the Old Man (5K)

In his memory, Conrad Coz was paler than the man before him. But it took him only a moment to realize that the man in the black robe and crown was not actually alive. Gazing at the smile, Horus Lupecal sighed, stepped forward, and spoke in a low voice.

Do you know what I am?

The Night King raised an eyebrow, spread his hands ambiguously, shrugged, and said nothing, but this gesture was in fact a form of answer.

Horus suppressed the growing urge to flee born of his conscience and asked again, "So, you've come to see me—"

"—Debt collection?"

The Night King interrupted him at just the right moment, his voice trailing off in a long, flippant tone, but his dark eyes sharpened in an instant.

You probably meant something similar, right?

He asked this question while looking directly into Horus's face.

The latter did not answer; he found it difficult to answer.

Conrad Coates chuckled and casually removed the crown from his head, holding it in his hand.

The gradually dimming moonlight flowed down, making his otherwise ordinary, even somewhat tattered, black robe appear as smooth as silk. However, in the next moment, it erupted with a tremor, the shadows twisting as if alive, exuding a shocking ferocity and murderous intent hidden beneath the calm.

Horus Lupecal suddenly found himself unable to look away.

This bizarre, almost evil scene deprived him of the power to choose not to watch, and the gradually dissipating murderous intent was being replaced by an even stronger smell of blood.

Unbeknownst to them, the silver of the corridor had changed, becoming ancient and desolate. Nearly broken stone pavement replaced the original metal, and the spires of towering buildings, shrouded in darkness, pierced the walls, their sinister forms like blades slicing through flesh. Fear grew rampant on these walls, its slender, outstretched form resembling plants, or perhaps ripped veins or arteries. Gargoyles' wings unfurled slightly with a sinister grin, obscuring the sky, beneath which skeletons rested. The mutilated bones of sinners, suspended by iron chains in the pitch-black world beneath the bronze, were condemned to eternal damnation.

Conrad Coates took another step forward, raising his arms high as he did so.

The arrogant and mocking smile, beneath the surface, revealed the truth to the other person who was already teetering on the brink of collapse.

"If I really wanted to demand repayment," the monster, once human, spoke softly. "Do you think you could ever repay it?"

Horus closed his eyes, then opened them again.

In the weight of grief that had broken his spine, he replied, “Vitus has an emblem forged by Vulcan; destroying it will destroy me.”

“Oh, deprive an innocent child of one of their only possessions? I could never do such a thing. Don’t be so foolish, if I really wanted to kill you, brother—”

Koz smiled and nodded at him, but before he could finish speaking, Horus was overcome with an unconcealable fear because of that address.

"You—" he asked, trembling. "What did you call me?"

Koz's smile widened, like a wound that had been forcibly torn open with fingers.

“Brother. What? Is it not allowed? You used to love using this word to replace our names, especially Saint Gilles. Hmm, you're always calling him brother this and that. If someone who doesn't know High Gothic heard you, they might think his name only has two syllables.”

"No!" Horus's eyes widened in alarm. "I am not him! You don't understand!"

“I understand perfectly,” Conrad Coates replied calmly. “Believe me, brother, there is no one in the Primarchs who understands your situation better than I do.”

He turned and placed the crown on his head with both hands, and the terrifying scene around him vanished in an instant. The neat corridors of the Imperial Messenger reappeared, the heavy metal fixtures standing firmly in their places, the machinery working diligently, their humming echoing low between the two men through the walls.

With his hands behind his back, Coz walked forward, his long robe trailing on the ground, casting no shadow in the lamplight. He spoke without turning his head, his tone almost commanding.

"Follow me."

Horus Lupecal followed him as if in a trance.
-
Inside the cabin, Khalil put down his pen, smiled, and withdrew his scattered senses.

There was no need to worry about anything anymore; he knew Ghost could handle it. Besides, he had another matter to attend to.

He got up, put on his coat, walked out of the room, and headed towards the lower deck of the Imperial Messenger.

There's practically nothing there now; the original supplies have been completely used up by the prisoners during training and after the battle. Fortunately, the situation in Saros is being brought under control by other troops who have been alerted. In a few hours, a supply that will last them a long time will be delivered.

However, until then, the empty warehouse can still be used for a short while.

He walked calmly, unhurriedly, with a leisurely gait as if he were on a picnic. There was no one behind him, but the shadow reflected in the bright porthole suggested otherwise—a giant was silently following behind him, dressed in a single layer of clothing, with a physique as strong as some kind of large predator.

About ten minutes later, they arrived at their destination.

However, for some reason, the motion-sensor lights that should have turned on automatically remained dark, even though the warehouse door had been unlocked with the highest level of access.

Khalil walked straight to the center of the room, the door closing smoothly behind him. Skaldrick silently walked to the side, only to see his instructor slice open his wrist with his fingers.

Blood dripped down, and the Great King was stunned for a moment. He wanted to say something, but in the end, he swallowed it back.

He watched silently as Khalil drew a simple pattern with his blood, then illuminated it with psionic energy.
If the Imperial Messenger were like the other majority of older naval vessels still in service, requiring sailors to constantly monitor the engines, they would have noticed that the engines had suddenly stopped, albeit for only a moment, but it was still a genuine stop.

However, its engine room was now empty, so no one could detect the strange phenomenon that erupted in this massive engine at this moment, which was forged with the cutting-edge technology of the space necromancers and later blessed by Belisarius Caul on Mars.

Kalil withdrew his hand and used his psionic energy to erase the traces of the magic circle. In a very good mood, he hummed a little tune that he had recently learned.

Skladrick thought for a moment, and finally decided to ask.

What did you just do?

“I gave this ship a blessing in my personal capacity,” Khalil replied, glossing over the matter casually. “But that’s not important; we need to prepare to disembark. It turns out that Shefa is indeed capable of replicating what he did to the Last Chance members on other sinners. I think this is not a bad alternative form of transformation; it’s much better than being forced into machine slavery. At least they can still earn a glorious death now.”

The prince nodded and did not raise any further questions.

Finally, at 4:23 AM Terra Standard Time, they departed the Imperial Messenger and, after two days of travel, arrived at a starport where they boarded a merchant ship. The captain generously gave this poorly literate journalist, whom he saw as a potential future author, a nice single room without charging extra.

Seventeen days later, the reporter disembarked.

On a busy afternoon at the cargo port, he bought a newspaper under the blazing sun. The front page was quite interesting; the entire page was printed with several large, bold characters.

Technical difficulties have been overcome.

The reporter walked forward, turning to the second page. Only then did the true nature of the news article come into view.

The writer of the report used an unrestrained tone. Although journalists of the fortieth millennium were accustomed to using exaggerated language to describe anything, the writer's excitement still seemed a bit excessive. This person devoted most of the article to praising the 'sublime wisdom bestowed upon mankind by the divine emperor,' and then used the remaining small portion to describe a novel phenomenon in a rather incomplete way.

Its name is the inertialess engine.

Of course, his explanation was not very useful, because those who knew what this thing represented did not need this report to remind them of its existence; they already knew about it, and the general public could get a more accessible explanation through various radio programs.

The reporter smiled, rolled up the newspaper, picked up his suitcase, and walked towards the cargo port's residential area.

He stayed there for a week, removing some of the malpractices from the local administrative and legal departments, before setting off again for the other side of the starry sea.

He had grown accustomed to measuring the empire's growth in this way; this once decaying, rigid giant, nearing death, was now rising again. Stubborn ailments were cured, festering sores removed, and cancerous bones were being cooked away one by one. In the crucible of progress, the shackles that had bound countless people were melting away, bit by bit.

Khalil can provide ample evidence for this; in fact, his own handwritten reports are the best proof. Perhaps one day in the future, these secret files will be declassified, and people will talk about them with astonishment until they lose their appeal and become just another story among countless others.

Yes, that's it. He thought. The best way to remember us is to forget us, to turn us into dust in history, and then move on.

He couldn't stop smiling.

Two weeks later, he arrived in Chogoris.

By this time, Skaladrik had learned how to describe, in an official tone, something utterly terrifying in the eyes of those who had experienced it firsthand, flawlessly. He frowned as he wrote, trying to finish the report quickly in the office provided by the White Scars, so he could meet those warriors born of the steppes—ideally, in a confrontation involving the clashing of swords.
This was one of the consequences of his past infrequent participation in parliament. If he hadn't missed so many meetings, he might have realized that his instructors were only trying to get rid of him by teaching him these things and having him help write reports.

But why send him away?

The answer was simple: drink. “The best,” the Khan said briefly, tapping one of the two glasses in front of him with his right hand. “Try it.”

Khalil smiled, picked up the one that fit his size, tilted his head back, and drank it all in one gulp.

The familiar sweetness of mare's milk wine then begins to assault the taste buds, followed by a strong sourness and a lingering sweetness.

He savored it for a while before finally managing to pinpoint the bitterness of the wine, which quickly vanished without a trace. But this didn't mean it was low in alcohol; in fact, Khalil realized that his glass was probably one of the strongest rums out there, only its characteristics made the strength imperceptible.
In other words, by the time you realize it exists, it's probably too late.

“A surprise attack,” Khalil said, setting down his glass.

He didn't say much, and the Khan naturally understood.

A smile appeared on his face, and the Eagle of Chogoris nodded approvingly, refilling his cup. Then he pushed forward a beautiful gold-plated silver platter filled with freshly baked, incredibly crispy meat. Its color was almost golden, and the aroma of the fat was simply irresistible.

Khalil raised an eyebrow, feeling an impulse slowly brewing between his lips and teeth.

He looked up and glanced at Chagatai, who smiled and pointed to a sharp knife on the side of the plate.

Click.

After the crisp crack, Khalil gripped his knife and put the meat into his mouth. He didn't taste anything complex; on the contrary, the meat itself was extremely pure, but its superior quality and the chef's exquisite skill made this purity a weapon that could defeat any seasoning.

He exhaled a satisfied breath, continued chewing, and then swallowed.

The Khan lit his long pipe and asked, seemingly casually, "How is it?"

"Don't let too many people know you're hiding this treasure."

The Khan burst into laughter.

"So what if they know? Can they still come and steal it? If they do, that would be incredibly foolish. The best way to eat this meat is to slaughter it fresh, take it, and roast it right now. Any other method of transportation will greatly diminish its flavor. And merchants are driven by profit; they wouldn't do something so unwise."

He exhaled a puff of smoke, which rose slowly and then dissipated, its aroma not strong but rather lingering.

Chagatai leaned back comfortably, stretching his back on the clearly handmade bench, letting out a sigh in the sunlight, and continued smoking until the smoke was enough to obscure his face.

"Yes. I heard about it." His voice came from behind the smoke, now calm.

"Who told you that?" Khalil asked as he cut the roast meat on his plate.

He not only seemed unsurprised, but he also knew exactly what the Khan was referring to just by hearing that seemingly random sentence.

"Saint-Gilles".

"So, from whom did he hear it?"

"I don't know, but the source is always Conrad."

"So, what did Saint Gilles say?"

"He said Conrad denigrated that soul to nothing. He was basically just repeating what I said. I know Saint Gilles is actually a warm-hearted but cold-hearted person, but he has never said anything like that to anyone before. Your good son has accomplished quite a feat."

Khalil chuckled softly: "I just haven't told you or Horus about it."

The Khan put down his pipe, cleared the smoke from his face, and replied thoughtfully, "Is that so? But I've never seen him get into a conflict with anyone in the past."

"Perhaps this is because you used to hardly interact with anyone. You were mysterious and aloof back then, and even your brothers didn't know much about you."

"Oh? When it comes to indifference, can I compare to your famous eighteen years?"

"Not bad at all."

"Each each other."

The two exchanged a knowing smile, tacitly putting aside these old stories and getting back to the main topic.

The Khan reached for his cup and took a large gulp of mare's milk wine, but deep wrinkles gradually appeared between his brows.

A few dozen seconds later, he put down his glass, which was now empty.

He spoke in a deep voice.

"In my opinion, even if that soul is not the real Horus, it is probably very close. Conrad probably thinks the same way. His words are so sharp, but he never said that he was not Horus."

“But the real Horus Lupekar is dead, Chagatai,” Khalil shook his head. “Even the last fragment of his essence was destroyed by my own hand.”

The Khan turned and stared at him, then suddenly raised his right hand and brought it down like a sword.

"No, he had no spirit left by then; it had all vanished with his life on Daven. Just as you said, the real Horus Lupecal is dead; he died in the temple of Daven, under the careful calculation of the Ancient Four. Anyone who sits in that position will die, and he was no exception."

“But I still killed him,” Khalil said calmly. “And I am the Fifth Ancient.”

The Khan snorted and sat up straight, his right hand habitually rubbing the armrest.

There is an intricate emblem there, composed of the personal mark of the Primarch of the Imperial Fist and a lightning bolt from Chogoris, symbolizing the friendship between the two Primarchs—yes, this chair was handcrafted by a furniture maker.

After some time, Chagatai slowly gave a response.

“No.” He said firmly. “His death has nothing to do with you, so you don’t have to feel any undue responsibility for it. In the end, no matter how similar he was, no matter what echoes he experienced in the Warp, he was not the Horus I knew. He was better than him.”

As he spoke, something heartbreaking appeared in the usually calm eyes of the Chogoris.

He paused for a moment before continuing.

“I think he is both the best Horus in Vulcan’s memory and the glorious wolf god in the Warp Echoes. He has all his good qualities, but also things he lacks. Would the Horus of the past have had such compassion for mortals? Probably not. He would never have spent so much time with a child and protected him for so long. The scales in his heart would have driven him toward greater things. He couldn’t lower his head and see the people beneath the statue.”

Khalil lowered his head and did not answer; he did not know how to answer.

Chagatai looked up and sighed.

“I misspoke, I know. I think I just can’t shake this grief. I felt this way when he died, and I still feel this way now. I miss him.”

He turned his head again and looked at Khalil.

“I suspect your father’s longing will be even stronger,” he said. “I know why you came to me, but instead of asking me this question, why don’t you go see him? What do you think?”

“I’m afraid he’ll choose to become emperor at this time,” Khalil replied. “In that case, I’d rather not ask.”

Chagatai laughed, then slammed his hand on the armrest.

"Then you should beat him up. It's time to teach this old man a lesson, don't you think?"

"What if we can't beat them?" Khalil asked.

“Then you should drag Makado along,” Chogoris said without room for argument. “I don’t believe he’d dare lay a hand on either of you.”

"What if he runs away?"

"Where can he run to?"
-
"Anyway, that's how it is," Khalil said slowly.

Makado stood beside him, nodded, and his scepter touched the ground as usual.

The golden light emanating from the person in front of them suddenly began to flash.

(End of this chapter)