Warhammer: Hail to the Void Lords!.

Chapter 893, page 08.892: 'The Mystery of the Curse'

Brother Derek handed the special silver bullet to Ragnar Blackmane with a steady hand, as if presenting a sacred object.

The moment Ragnar's power armor gloves touched the cartridge case, a bone-chilling cold instantly pierced through the terracotta and soft inner armor, reaching straight to his bone marrow.

This coldness is not the frost of the world, but a deeper, more primal sense of annihilation.

It awakened the oldest memory deep within Ragnar's soul—the eternal winter of Fenris.

For a moment, he felt as if he had returned to that world ruled by ice and fire, back to the towering rock walls of Wolf Fang Fortress Monastery.

The wind and snow beyond the Great Wall howled like giant wolves, mercilessly lashing the fortress, while he, still a boy, brandished his weapon in the cold training ground, each breath condensing into white mist in the air.

That was his first trial, and the beginning of his destiny.

He composed himself and refocused his gaze on the explosive bullet in his palm.

The cartridge case is made of a dull silver metal with a smooth, unmarked surface, yet it has a peculiar, icy feel on the fingertips.

He could clearly feel a faint but constant energy pulsating from the depths of the core, like a cold barrier gently soothing the ceaseless, wild restlessness in his blood stemming from the Curse of the Wulfen.

"What is this?" He raised his head, his azure eyes sharp as ice, scrutinizing the cultivator before him. "This is no ordinary explosive arrow."

“It is no ordinary item, Lord Wolf,” Brother Derek replied, his voice breaking the silence. “It is a bolt-shaped projectile made of ‘Aseramar Silver’.”

According to my research, this metal, once considered mythical, has a significant suppressive effect on various witchcraft curses. While we may not be able to find a cure, having a means of suppression is always better than being helpless.

“Aseramar Silver, or ‘Mithril’,” Tey continued, “this rare metal is extremely scarce in the galaxy, even less so than adamantite.”

In ancient times, it was one of the most cherished metals of the Aydarin, forming, along with their Wraithbone, the foundation of their magnificent civilization—those towering, dreamlike cities and societies.

However, excessive exploitation eventually depleted this already rare resource, bringing it to the brink of extinction.

However, according to the intelligence we intercepted, there appears to be a newly discovered silver mine in Aseramar within the territory of the rebellious Duchy of Severus.

This is why the Dark Eldar from the Comoros are eyeing Severus so covetously—one of their goals is to seize and mine the mithril, which would be a huge fortune for them, having been exiled from the Comoros.

Horatio added, "The Dark Eldar crave this metal, perhaps not just for its wealth. They themselves suffer from a soul-level curse, needing the suffering of others to delay their own souls from being devoured by the evil god. A substance that can suppress mental mutations is invaluable to them."

“If we could obtain more Aseramar Silver as research samples,” Brother Derek’s gaze pierced through the mask, appearing exceptionally earnest, “we might be able to fully understand the principle behind its suppression of the curse, and even find a way to reverse its progress.”

"..."

Ragnar fell silent, his thick fingers gently stroking the cold bullet.

Brother Derek's words coincided with an ancient rumor he had heard from the wolf priests—that there might be hope to quell the curse in the Calithis sector.

He clenched the silver bullet tightly in his fist, and the joints of his power armor made a slight cracking sound.

He raised his eyes again, his gaze sharp and fixed on the black-shielded cultivator in front of him, as if trying to see right through him from head to toe.

“Sister,” Ragnar’s voice was deep and imposing, “why do you know so much about the ‘Curse of Uffin’?”

At this point, he no longer concealed the true name of this werewolf curse.

Brother Derek's black power armor bore no chapter insignia, only a blurred, erased outline, the symbol of the Deathwatch Black Shield.

Facing the Wolf Lord's scrutiny, he remained unmoved, like an ice sculpture standing on the Fenris Icefield, weathered by countless centuries of wind and snow, with untold secrets and sorrows sealed beneath the thick ice.

"You," the Wolf Lord's voice held a hint of doubt and uncertainty, "were you once our brother?"

“Once,” Brother Derek answered decisively, each word seemingly squeezed from an icy throat, “my duty was to heal my brothers’ wounds. But in the end, I personally sent them... one by one, to their deaths.”

The wolf priest beside him narrowed his eyes, carefully savoring the heavy weight contained in those words.

He could sense a deeper pain in the black-shielded monk's words, a pain that went beyond mere regret.

"You've lost control?" the wolf priest pressed, the most direct and cruel possibility.

"No. They've lost control."

Brother Derek raised his hands and placed them on the sealing buckles on both sides of his helmet.

A slight hissing sound came from the hydraulic system as the cultivator slowly removed his helmet.

All eyes were on this.

The first thing that caught their eye was the monk's long, unruly hair, as coarse as a wolf's mane.

When Brother Derek's face was fully revealed, even the battle-hardened Horatio subconsciously frowned.

Although his face retains the basic human features, it has undergone significant changes.

Thick hair covered his jaw and cheeks, forming the rugged beard characteristic of the Fenris people.

However, his nose was no longer human-shaped, but rather slightly protruded forward, forming a short and blunt wolf snout. Although he was not completely beast-like, the characteristics of a wild beast were already clearly visible.

His ears became long and pointed, standing erect like those of an alert wolfhound.

Everyone then realized why his standard helmet required extra headroom.

Coupled with the wolf fang pendant hanging on his chest and that unique dog-eared helmet, Horatio's scattered guesses about his identity finally pieced together a chilling answer.

“It was a bloody war against the Dark Eldar.” Derek’s voice echoed with a distant resonance, as if recounting a tragic epic long forgotten. “Under the crimson light of the Tyrant’s Moon, my brothers… one by one, they succumbed to the curse.”

They transformed into bloodthirsty Uffin werewolves, tearing at the alien monsters with their claws and fangs.

He paused, a flicker of pain flashing in his eyes.

"I tried to rouse their sanity, but the battle was fierce, and I fell into a bottomless canyon with an alien overlord."

I thought I was going to die for sure, and I only wanted to take that monster down with me. However, when I woke up, I found that I had survived.

It was deep within that canyon that I discovered these mithril ore.

The strange energy they emitted suppressed the boiling curse in my blood and restored my sanity.

"I collected some ores—and later, I used them to make these bullets, both lethal and non-lethal."

Then I set out on a journey to find my brothers in arms. When I finally found them... they had wiped out all the aliens, and the vast majority of my brothers had survived.

but……"

Derek's eyes flashed with an indescribable sense of hardship and despair: "They've... completely lost control."

They slaughtered a small town, killing all the human civilians in the town under the watchful eyes of the eagles.

They killed all those people... whom they had recently risked their lives to protect.

"After defeating them, I used a stone blade made of mithril ore to end my brothers' suffering with my own hands."

From that day on, our company ceased to exist.

"Were you once a member of the wolf pack?" The wolf priest's voice turned unusually serious. "Which Dalian did you belong to? We should have heard about such heavy losses."

“I do not belong to any Dalian.” Brother Derek took a deep breath, as if trying to suppress all the grief in his chest. “Now, I belong only to the Death Watch.”

He put his helmet back on, and the sound of pressure relief rang out again. His face, distorted by the sudden change and grief, along with his complex expression, was now obscured by the black visor.

"If you want to save your brothers."

Derek's voice came through the communicator, regaining its previous coldness and composure, "So, coming to the Whirlwind Line is just the first step toward a solution."

"As for your secrets," They laughed, "I am an inquisitor of the Exile Order, and I have no intention of doing their work for the Holy Hammer Order. It would do me no good, would it, Captain Horatio?"

She smiled and took Horatio's armored arm, her smile natural and warm.

"Of course, we are happy to keep this secret, which should not be known to the world, hidden for the son of Ruth. There are few warriors in the world as loyal and pure as him, don't you think, my lord?"

Horatio nodded to the tall black wolf master.

The Wolf Lord nodded slightly, conveying a tacit greeting to Horatio.

(End of this chapter)