40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 393 122. Terra ([-])

This isn't the first time Rogal Dorn has sought out the Sigil Bearer.

Malcador began acting on his behalf after the Emperor declared that he would be concentrating entirely on other matters, and although no formal declaration had been made, no one disputed this.

After all, who else is more suitable for this position than this short old man?

He has always been the Emperor's shadow, just as the Custodes serve as eternal guardians of the throne room. The Emperor and Malcador, the Custodes and the Palace. When people talk about one, they think of the other.

Dorn walked steadily, but his thoughts sank into an abyss unpredictably.

time.

He chewed on the word, comparing Magnus's words back and forth, as well as his brother's expressions, reactions, and even all the details when he spoke.

He wanted to know if Magnus was lying. This was a cold calculation and consideration, and it would be shameful to use it on someone close to him. But Dorn couldn't help it, he had to be cold.

Compared to the responsibilities he shoulders, he can swallow this little shame.

Eventually, he came to the conclusion that Magnus wasn't lying.

In the past, the Crimson King had faced accountability many times for his and his legions' behavior of deserting the battlefield and abandoning friendly forces. Each time, he found an excuse to excuse himself.

Donne was familiar with what he looked like when he was lying, which was one of the pieces of evidence that led him to that conclusion.

He turned his thoughts back to Xing Yuting's reply, and the data began to float in his mind, and no detail escaped his eyes. He even constructed in his mind the true appearance of the parchment roll recording the data.

The corners are rough and wrinkled. Ink shipped here from another galaxy smudged across the parchment rolls, dates, times, data.
  There is also Machado’s comment, normal, normal, normal.

Everything works fine, no issues. The Markmaster used his quill to leave writings on the parchment rolls, serious assessments, and perhaps occasional comments.

"We need to pay more attention to Magnus's mental state. Does he have severe mood swings during communication?"

Then came the reply from the Astral Court psykers.

"Occasionally."

These words gradually faded away, and Dorn frowned - what went wrong?
  His thoughts began to unravel, and Dorn began to recall Fulgrim's words uncontrollably. The first thing he thought of was the pronoun Fulgrim used to refer to that 'Horus'.

it.

What a cold word, it.

It should never be called a brother, never a human being, and it should not even be used to address an enemy. The alien has a clear referent, not 'it', which is vague, low, and threatening. Then there was Fulgrim's expression when he talked about 'it'.
  Dorn suddenly frowned.

His boots had just squeaked against the wooden floor.

This shouldn't happen, this place has been well maintained and has some ingenious technological support in its construction. He probably had to put on his power armor and step on them to make the floor make such a violent sound.

Dorn slowly lowered his head, and what he saw made the hairs on his neck stand up abruptly for a moment.

He did see the floor—but it was an old, decaying wooden floor that was in disrepair, and not just that.

Some looming skeletons were exposed under the dilapidated and missing wood.

Dorn narrowed his eyes and took a step back slowly. The air he breathed between his mouth and nose became filled with the smell of dust. The chill crawled up his back along his bones, so real.

He has been to this place, many times. Just as Malcador had gone to him many times, they had talked in the fortress, in the palace, or at the Lion's Gate, or at the Pilgrim's Gate.
  If Malcador or one of them was too busy to care for the other, most conversations would take place face to face. After all, communication is just communication, and some things must be discussed in person to get results.

In other words, Dorn was familiar with the place, just as Malcador was familiar with the places where he might appear, just as a Terran was familiar with the pilgrims who came from everywhere. In Dorne's memory, this was not the case here.

This is an ancient building made of wood, stone and glass. It is very old, but it is by no means dilapidated.

It is an integral part of the palace and is not open to the public and does not appear on any map. However, it is directly guarded by the Forbidden Army. Every ten hours, servants will clean and maintain it.

So what went wrong?

Donn did not get the answer to this question. Instead, he heard a soft sound, like birds sitting on the branches of trees and scraping their feathers.

Then there was a voice, soft but smiling.

"Time." He whispered into Stone's ear. "Time waits for no one, the great Rogal Dorn."

He chuckled. "While you are busy with your idle chores, something unknown is happening in the galaxy. And your brother, his time has run out. A debtor who has exhausted the patience of his creditor will lose all his money." Repay him what he owes with interest.”

"The chick has to grow up eventually, what do you think? He can't stay under his father's wings forever, he must mature. He has been hiding in his father's shadow for four years, and now, he can no longer hide. Go down."

"Who are you?" Dorn asked sharply.

He still didn't get the answer, but he suddenly saw a burning flame and a bright golden light in front of his eyes. They soon dissipated, and the air returned to normal again, just like the world before him.

The magic pattern Malcador stood in front of him holding a scepter, his eyes were like torches, and the majestic spiritual energy shook his old skin, allowing some kind of reality to briefly appear in the world.

"Time." Malcador said gloomily. "That thing is playing with time—!"

He sounded almost roaring, the wind howling outside the window, lightning flashing quietly in the dark clouds, followed by thunder.
-
  Khalil slowly opened his eyes.

These days, he rarely really observes the world with his own eyes unless necessary. It is inevitable that his perception of the outside world is weakened, and he needs to focus more on the other side of the galaxy.

This is an instinctive call and a responsibility imposed on him by the crown floating above his head. He has been observing the world being destroyed through the eyes of the dead and the fighters.

Kaos.

He knew its name but had never been there. But he knew it well now, even more so than some people who had lived there all their lives.

He knew the plains, the cities, the ancient customs, and how they had looked when Robert Guilliman first visited them.

The dead told him everything, and the god would not listen and would only give them the strength to seek vengeance, but Khalil Lohars would.

Indeed, these things should be just the murmurs of innocent souls, as insignificant as the evening breeze in the cemetery, but he cannot turn a blind eye. A person should have empathy, and should sympathize with and help those who suffer innocently.

What's more, he taught these things to Conrad Coates, and education never advocates giving up halfway.

Once again, Khalil stood up from the chair. Something was happening, and just now, he felt it.

That thing was cunning, as cunning as ever. He did not carry out His plan in a sweeping way, but mixed small changes into a weekly communication across the galaxy.

Looking back now, I am afraid that every communication during those four years was adding fuel to this change. He took advantage of a father's last trace of compassion for his children - shameless, but He should be so shameless, because it was for them punishment.

After all, he is not the real God. Khalil thought sadly.

But what could He do with Magnus?
  The psychic powers he was so proud of in the past are now much less powerful than they once were, and are tightly controlled by the Emperor. Even if he could miraculously control the self-will of a Primarch on Terra, what kind of threat could Magnus pose?
  Khalil's expression gradually turned cold.

+He used stolen time to hide him.+
  The voice belonging to the Lord of Mankind came from the depths of the Webway, with obvious ruthlessness.

+Find him. +
  +What are you going to do with it? +
  +You can kill him if necessary. +
  +What about you? +
  +There is something waiting beyond the webway, there is it, I can sense it. My natural enemy is right here. +
  Khalil exhaled softly.

"Very good," he said.

A gap opened behind him, and the black flames flashed away. The pale ghosts emerged respectfully from it, raising their hands high and wearing the skeleton face for the god.

In the cold wind, his perception began to spread to every corner of Terra. Among the dark clouds, the face of the god is looming.

And the people knew nothing about it. The pilgrims remained pious, the soldiers adhered to their duties at their posts, Rogal Dorn and Malcador began to mobilize the army. Only one person was missing.

Magnus - The voice of the god faded in the fierce wind - where are you? ——
  where am i

Magnus looked at the scene in front of him blankly, his mind was exploding, and his thinking ability was challenged - he didn't understand that one second, he was still on the way to the throne room, and now, he Where?

However, deep in the heart of the original body, Magnus actually had an answer, but he did not want to admit it, nor did he dare to admit it.

The burning world around him and the city being bombed made him unwilling to know where this was. Every sleepless night in the past four years had an effect at this moment. He already knew what was causing trouble, but he didn't dare admit.

How can he defeat Him?
  Then the voice began to whisper softly in his ear.

"This is Prospero," He said with a chuckle. "A land of wolves, my dear Magnus."

True to what He said, the wolves of Fenris appeared in front of the Red King.

A killing spree.

　The update is completed. By the way, I would like to recommend a masterpiece from the Translation Court. Seedlings can be raised.
  　　
  　
  (End of this chapter)