40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 857, Part 5: The Ring (Part 1)

The man from Asia Minor slowly sat down, placed his right hand on his knee, and then opened it, revealing a gold ring lying quietly inside.

This ring has weathered many storms; its surface is covered with mottled scratches and the blackening of blood and fire. Time has shown it no mercy, even though it once belonged to the Lord of Mankind and was then personally gifted by him to an invincible commander. Whatever glory it once held, it is now gone.

The man stared at it intently for several minutes before speaking, his voice low and trembling in the dim light.

"He takes it very seriously."

“No, that’s not it,” said Khalil Lohals. “An orphan from Kosonia, homeless and destitute, barely surviving by living under the roof of gangs. Until you came and rescued him. So, this ring is unimportant, my friend; he treasures it only because it is your gift.”

"Did I save him?" The man from Asia Minor couldn't help but laugh, his fingers clenching together as he stroked the edge of the ring. "Perhaps I harmed him."

Upon hearing this, the third person present coldly raised the scepter in his hand. It landed heavily on the ground a fraction of a second later, bringing with it a genuine thunderclap.

Makado's anger echoed without restraint.

"Sentimental and self-pitying." The seal-holder's rebuke was extremely merciless. "When will this indecisive nature of yours ever be corrected? You are the most steadfast and wisest soul I have ever met, yet you always tie your own hands."

The man from Asia Minor leaned back in his chair and sighed, "Be kind to me, okay, Makado?"

"Do not."

"I beg you."

"No!" the one who held the seal glared at him. "I've already been lenient enough; I will never back down on this matter!"

“For some reason, I feel like you will,” Khalil said.

For those words, he received a gritted-teeth response and a very obvious threat.

Frankly, what that threat represented was terrifying, but Khalil continued speaking anyway.

"You know very well that you can't force him to do anything. Is there anyone in the world more stubborn than him?"

Makado laughed angrily: "Then why did you make me come with you to find him? Are you using me for your amusement?"

“I was just worried you’d have something to say about it,” Khalil replied frankly. “I don’t want to turn around and find several more truckloads of documents waiting to be reviewed in my office.”

Macado took a deep breath.

“My time is precious, Your Excellency the High Inquisitor,” he said somberly. “Thanks to your suggestion, I have already wasted one hour and eleven minutes today, time that should have belonged to the administrative departments, who have many things to report to me in person. Of these, twenty-one concerns agricultural reform, and seven of those relate to Robert Guilliman. In recent years, he has not needed to devote much energy to the wars around the Five Hundred Worlds, and has therefore spent most of his time improving people’s livelihoods. He has been conducting research with some botanists for over ten years, and I am confident that their findings will benefit many people.”

He didn't say anything more, but just stared at the esteemed Grand Judge in silence.

The latter sighed and said, "The Experiment on Adapting Common Grain Types and Land Types in the Empire to Local Conditions, is that right? I've read that article."

Macardo sneered, "It's not over yet. There's also the matter of the great sage Belisarius Caul, with whom you have a close personal relationship. To be honest, I've gotten used to his name appearing on my desk, but he's quite the troublemaker."

Khalil blinked and asked, "What did he do now?"

"He seems to have done nothing lately except focus on pushing forward with the original casting work," the seal-bearer said meaningfully. "And that's the biggest problem."

Khalil said tactfully, "That seems like a prejudice."

“Prejudice?!” Macado’s voice suddenly rose. “My prejudice against him stems entirely from his own actions. Which mechanical priest would dare to bypass the Martian side and directly connect with the Ministry of Military Affairs like he has? He’s done this more than once, and eventually Mars stopped even protesting to me because they said—”

The man who had the seal on his hand trembled slightly. He took a deep breath before finishing his sentence: "—Anyway, I won't care!"

Khalil began to suppress his laughter.

"What's with that expression?!"

“Nothing, Makado, I assure you, nothing at all,” Khalil said, then immediately steered the conversation to the silent Asia Minor man. “So, what exactly do you intend to do?”

The man from Asia Minor gripped the ring in his right palm tighter, and after a while, he slowly spoke.

"Chagatai is not wrong. His brother died long ago at the hands of Davin, and the one who patiently nurtured Vitus Sable for twenty years is not him. It's just that the snakes of Nocturne don't seem to think so."

He looked at Khalil.

“I’ve never asked before, but now I have to—what did they give you, and what did you give Vulcan?”

Khalil smiled and gave an irrelevant answer.

“Mek Goun devoted the last part of his life to studying the World Serpents, and he discovered some of the truth on his own. This was no easy feat, and out of respect, after returning from Nocturne, I went to the Inquisition’s main archives and added some of my findings to his only unpublished book. There’s a sentence in it that can answer your question, but I think you already knew this.”

He leaned forward and gazed into the eyes of the man from Asia Minor: "The essence of the world serpents is movement, destruction, and rebirth."

The latter closed his eyes, his shoulders trembling.

“As for what I gave Vulcan—” Khalil said, standing up. “—I gave him a soul, a soul in the truest sense. So go see him, old friend.”
-
For some reason, Vitus felt uneasy lately, a feeling that had been bothering him for three days.

At first, he thought it was just some kind of aftereffect of engaging in high-intensity battles in a short period of time, but his intuition told him that the answer was probably not that simple. However, he didn't have a better way to solve it at the moment, so he decided to ignore it for the time being and focus on his work.

At present, the Imperial Messenger is docked in a military port for repairs, and he has received a new task from the colonel: to receive the 'recruits' who have already been transported to the port and to do a preliminary screening.

This was no difficult task; Vitus was confident he could accomplish it. Just like the other repairmen who shared that confidence in their ability to mend the unique warship, the Imperial Messenger.
Vitus didn't understand where their confidence came from, but they did get things done.

He stood beside a massive transport truck, cap in hand, watching the group of men and women in matching grey uniforms drive away, their laughter still echoing in his ears. They weren't speaking Gothic; it was probably their native dialect. For the past two hours, they had been working and conversing in that language.

Vitus had initially doubted their professional skills, but now it seemed ridiculous—after all, this was a port dedicated to the Ministry of Military Affairs, and the maintenance workers who could provide services here were certainly not ordinary people.

However, their dialect is really strange. And they all seem to have some kind of physical defect, walking unsteadily, as if they were patients who had only recently recovered from being bedridden for many years.

Vitus shook his head, banishing these irrelevant thoughts from his mind, and turned to get into the car. He used the data pad on his waist to unlock the driving privileges of the large transport vehicle temporarily borrowed from the port, and then started it up immediately with exceptional skill.

His training at the academy was quite comprehensive, including the driving of various military vehicles. It was a pity he wasn't interested in going further; otherwise, he would probably have served in an armored unit. Forty-two minutes later, Vitus parked the transport vehicle in front of a dark-colored ship, where two thousand death row inmates in dark prison uniforms and their escorting soldiers were waiting in an open area.

Vitus got out of the car and met with his superior, who saluted him with great pleasure after completing all the handover procedures.

“You have no idea how annoying this trip was, Lieutenant Blacksable.”

"Oh? Are the prisoners restless?" Vitus asked expressionlessly.

“No, that’s not it.” The escorting officer sighed and pointed to a one-eyed woman standing with her head held high in the first row of death row prisoners. “See her? These prisoners are all her men. This major has been keeping them under control all the way here, saving me and my men a lot of trouble.”

"This sounds like a good thing, so why would it bother you?"

“Because her influence among her soldiers hasn’t disappeared, Lieutenant, I dare not gamble on whether she might start a riot on the way. Just imagine, two thousand well-trained soldiers—” The escorting officer shook his head. “—This is not the same as a simple death row inmate riot.”

After a brief conversation, they saluted each other goodbye, and the escorting officer returned to his soldiers and gave the order to disperse. Although it was a military port, there were some places to relax, such as bars or bathhouses open to soldiers, which were more than enough to relieve the stress of the soldiers who were exhausted from escorting prisoners for a long time.

Looking at the faces that couldn't help but laugh, and then at the two thousand stone statues in front of him, all filled with bitterness and hatred, Vitus didn't say anything. He simply tapped the data panel a few times and sent a message to another major he knew.

A moment later, the second transport vehicle slowly drove up and stopped behind him. Augustus Federica stepped out of the lowered rear door, surrounded by darkness.

He raised his right hand expressionlessly, and countless red lights lit up instantly. Forty fully armed fighter jet servants emerged from behind him, and soon surrounded the death row inmates.

Without exchanging words, the major simply made a gesture, and the former soldiers, along with their officers, obediently boarded the two transport vehicles in batches. Those who boarded Vitus's vehicle would receive a small surprise: they would find that this vehicle also carried forty fighter servants.

The major walked toward Vitus.

“Amarans Valerian,” he said, uttering a name. “A former major in the 43rd Regiment of Krieg, an expert in trench warfare and defense, convicted of insubordination, leading a mutiny, and attempting to murder his superior.”

"Attempted murder?"

Major Augustus smiled, and for some reason, Vitus felt there was a hint of regret in that smile.

"She was just one step away from really killing her superior. What a pity. By the way, Lieutenant, did you know that one of our future missions happens to be related to this major's hometown?"

Upon hearing this, Vitus looked at him and asked, "Suppressing the rebellion?"

"Perhaps," the major said calmly. "But it could be worse."

He turned and walked toward the driver's seat of his delivery truck.

Late that night, after finishing all the troubles, Vitus lay exhausted in his bed. He longed to sleep, but couldn't; he couldn't even close his eyes.

The battle aboard the Salos I did not fade with time; Vitus felt a part of him remained there permanently, along with those who believed in him and those he had killed. He often thought of their faces, but strangely enough, he thought most often of the cowardly man who had been terrified.
The latter's terrified expression and the way he looked at the fighting knife that was embedded deep in his abdomen were like carving knives, leaving deep marks on his heart.

Vitus couldn't deny one thing—he didn't hate the man. He had even forgiven his cowardice.

Not everyone has the courage to face everything when faced with a life-or-death situation.

"I wish I had one."

The young lieutenant muttered to himself, which drew unnecessary attention. A familiar voice rang in his ear, tinged with amusement.

“Of course you do, Vitus.”

I don't think so.

"Why? Because you keep having nightmares? That's normal. Even the most elite soldiers are still human, and humans are not immune to fear. Throughout history, countless soldiers have suffered the ravages of war, and even victories are left with indelible scars."

As he spoke, Negui sighed softly. Vitus turned to look at him and noticed a hint of nostalgia in his expression.

“You,” Vitus began hesitantly. “Are you remembering?”

Negui did not deny it: "Yes."

Would you like to talk?

"Not yet."

“Okay,” Vitus said. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Negui smiled slightly at him. “Sleep well, child, may you have no dreams tonight.”

His figure vanished from the spot, and Vitus remained silent for a moment before closing his eyes as well.

Whether it was Negui's words that had an effect, or he actually did something, Vitus didn't have any dreams that night.

He only remembered catching a glimpse of soft golden light before going to sleep.

(End of this chapter)