40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 399 128. Terra ()

Malcador could hear that voice, that roar. He heard it too clearly.

That voice was a scream from ancient savage times, originating from the earliest murder in human history, between two men, a pair of brothers, sons of the same mother.

The killer's weapon was a spear, a rough wooden stick with a sharpened tip and a sharp flint. It's savage and primitive, but it's still capable of killing.

The killer stabbed his brother in the chest with the spear, and amid the splatter of blood and the bloody fight between the two, the first murder was born.

It has echoed throughout the Warp for tens of thousands of years since.

It should be unremarkable, because this is by no means the first killing in human history. Killing has already existed in the years before language was invented.

First they used fists and teeth, then sticks and stones. Primitive people wore animal skins and hunted animals with spears and stone axes to obtain food, expand their groups, and multiply.

So this wasn't the first killing, it wasn't even the first hateful killing, although the murderer did have hatred for his brother - so why was it so special?

Malcador knew the reason, and even knew the vicious nature it had been given in the subspace.

He stood calmly, his robes billowing, and spiritual energy burst out from his chest one after another, reaching some people's ears in the bone-chilling cold.

He temporarily became the cornerstone of the operation of Terra's vast bureaucracy, the only cornerstone, his presence, so that the machine could continue to function at this moment. But he didn't care.

He was thinking, to be precise, reflecting.

He was thinking that he had been planning for today for so long, but it still didn't seem to be enough.

But what's the reason? What makes the palm-printer have such an idea? You know, he and the Lord of Humanity have been working hard for decades to get to this day.

Human beings are a race that cannot adapt to the idea of ​​immortality. Some people can be immortal, but they still use the short-lived way to view the world. Macado happens to be one of them, and for him, decades are by no means the so-called dust that can be dissipated at the snap of a finger.

Every day he spent, he was preparing for today.

Agents across the galaxy can prove it, secret orders from the court of Terra can prove it, Robert Guilliman's successful formation of anti-psyker forces can prove it, and countless things. They can all prove it to him.

However, not enough.

not enough.

Still not enough, just not enough.

You will never be prepared enough to deal with them. In the end, one can only pile up sacrifices and use the blood of the same race to buy a bright future for the entire race.

After today, how many people on Terra will die and be sacrificed?

The Sealbearer asked himself this question in the wind and snow. He tried to get the answer, and he got it.

His vision was scattered at this moment, and in just a moment, thousands of different perspectives and pictures broke into his mind at the same time.

He saw the hive city residents who knew nothing about the situation, looking up at the gloomy sky cut by metal and cables on the dirty streets where sewage flowed.

Black snow fell from the sky and fell into a child's eyes.

She was wearing shabby clothes and a not-too-thick knitted hat, and she rubbed her eyes. Her father stood by, pushing her mother in a wheelchair, and listened to the sheriff's words with other frightened people.

The Sheriff, a middle-aged man with a straight mustache, had implant surgery to replace one of his eyes with a mechanical prosthesis. He was standing on two wooden boards, using a loudspeaker to speak to thousands or even tens of thousands of people.

He had received no notice from Malcador, nor had his superiors, nor his superiors' superiors, who were not of sufficient rank. But he remained calm and spoke in a very calm tone.

He told the people that the pillar of light was nothing to be concerned about, that it was just one of the Emperor's countless creations at work. The Emperor hoped that this winter would pass quickly, so he used an instrument to create the beam of light. The wind and snow would soon stop.

Macado could tell what he was really thinking. The Sheriff actually didn't know what he was talking about and was just doing his duty and maintaining law and order. The people were panicking, and he couldn't let this panic develop into something more terrifying, so he chose to lie.

He made up for it with white lies that he didn't even know were true or false.

There are millions of vigilantes like him, scattered across Terra, working hard to maintain order at the base of the empire. The number of people in panic is several times or even ten times that number.

The lowest levels of the vast bureaucracy that the Imperium of Mankind possesses are slowly collapsing.

Then, Malcador saw the pilgrims who were still kowtowing in the snow.

They still believe in the gods born from the books compiled by Lorgar Aurelion and recite the teachings. The largest team among them was praying at the outermost edge of the Terra Palace, forming a long queue on the vast snow.

The temperature of minus 40 degrees and still falling was the first enemy they had to face. These people found the thickest clothes they could put on, but they still could not resist the cold invasion.

The strong wind was like an icy blade, destroying their exposed bodies, and even their eyes seemed to be cut. They kept kowtowing towards the direction of the palace, where a dazzling beam of light reached straight into the sky.

Malcador detected their thoughts, and he saw the most real thoughts in the hearts of these ascetics. From the dying old man to the fanatical young man in his teens, from top to bottom, they all had only one thought.

If this is God's test, then we use death to prove our piety.

Our faith is pure, we will be the first martyrs so that the storm will stop

But this was still not the end. The palmer closed his eyes tightly and saw another group of running guards, palace guards.

They wore black armor, with power swords swinging at their waists. They were completely black from head to toe, except for the golden sky eagle shining on their chests. Their name is Lucifer's Black Guard, and the Sky Eagle is proof of their identity and one of the visible evidences of their glory in guarding the palace.

They ran wildly and gradually merged with the large army. Then this black spot stopped moving and seemed to merge into the ocean. Various armors and robes were mixed together, warriors stood side by side, and armored vehicles and hovercrafts roared past.

They rushed between the thrones, and the large door that could easily pass through even the Warhound Titan witnessed their arrival. The hall equipped with a huge number of instruments was extremely noisy.

Scientists and workers screamed as the mists escaping from the Webway claimed their minds, and few could resist. There is a twisted entity running out of it, and the demonic tide has descended in front of the throne. Why is this happening?

Could it be that all the advance troops have been wiped out?

Malcador continued to go deeper and finally saw the warriors who were the first to break into the webway. The answer was just the opposite. They were not completely wiped out. They were extremely brave and pushed forward in the maze-like webway. thousands of meters.

However, this is not enough to change the entire battle situation. They can go deep and leave a mess of bloody demon corpses behind them, but the demons don't care about this because they are everywhere.

The mist that escaped from a certain breach has completely filled the entire webway. Those who are late must pass through them before they can move forward. The vanguard have no way to retreat but to move forward.

The muzzle of the Titan has turned red, and the servants of the God of Machines are constantly praying to the Machine Soul to calm down its anger and stop temporarily, but the roar of the Machine Soul is shocking. The golden armor of the Imperial Guards was covered with foul-smelling blood, with red tassels floating in the air. The minced meat lay in piles at their feet, and the blood formed a river around them.

The Silent Sisters kill without saying a word, using explosives and swords to fight against the enemy in the oldest way of mankind. In the eyes of the silent sisters, only the will to destroy exists, which is incomparable and indescribable.

The Mechanicus Priests and their Skitarii chanted mechanical prayers loudly, and one after another they stabilized the front. Their unique creation demonstrated the beauty of machinery in the killings that far exceeded human power, and explained what it means to be a follower of Ohm's Messiah.

They do this so well that even a fighter servitor can shine with its own brilliance at a certain moment.

At least at this moment, they are the wrath of the God of All Machines, not a single number 01. They are a cluster, a cluster that only fights for killing. The same is true for their comrades. At this moment, there is no difference between the imperial army and the servitors.

They kill, they die, they fight one after another without any complaints.

Malcador's thoughts began to deepen until he reached a certain limit, not his limit, but the limit that the Webway allowed to peek into. Then, he finally saw it.

Even though it was only a brief glance, an insignificant moment, he still saw it. Just behind the curtain, they are staring at this place.

"The Burning Galaxy?"

Between the bloody feathers, a malicious eye looked at him.

"Do you really think we care about this? No, that's not the point. Even if ten thousand worlds burn at the same time, we don't care. Conquering is not the point, the point is here."

He chuckled.

"That's the point, Malcador," He said gently. "Our purpose remains the same. Now that you know it, how do you feel?"

Through the thin curtain, the palmer looked directly into that eye. He had no words. The only answer he could give was a contemptuous smile that slowly rose at the corner of his mouth.

Harsh laughter, low growls, calm sighs, and indistinguishable and interested hums came from the darkness.

They were watching him, the gods were gazing at him, and the human Malcador scorned it.

god?

There is no God in this world.

The palmer used his spiritual energy to move the thin curtain, forcing it to remember its duty. The eyes of the gods were forced to leave, but Malcador remained.

It was a small victory, like every demon slain before, a small victory for humanity. Malcador did not waste it, he seized the opportunity tightly, and his psychic energy shattered the thick fog like lightning.

This time, they failed to close immediately. The bolt of lightning took his mind and rushed deep into the webway, rushing towards the only sun.

"His Majesty!"

Malcador's voice rang in the ears of the Lord of Mankind. It was not a psychic communication, but the real voice of the old Seal Holder himself.

Decades of exhaustive thinking, exhaustion of agencies, ambitions, strategies, the past, tens of thousands of meetings aimed at the end of the world, deductions, countless unfinished chess games

At this moment, only this moment, they flashed in front of the person holding the seal.

What finally arrived was a picture.

The Emperor - His Majesty - was stabbed through the chest with a spear and exposed through his back.

His golden armor seemed useless, molten metal dripping around the wound, as if the armor itself was bleeding.

The person who engages in such bad habits has a face as dark as the master of mankind, with a messy beard that almost covers the lower half of his face, but this does not prevent him from showing a terrifying and sick smile.

His body was covered with ornaments made of various types of bones, and his eyes were sparkling, reflecting the Emperor's face, which was twisted in pain.

And Malcador knew that he was not human. This thing that looks like a primitive tribal savage is not a human being, it is a demon and a scream.

It was forged in the eternal storms of Chaos of the Warp - storms where time meant nothing, indeed where nothing mattered, storms of pain and malice.

Remove its own meaning, remove its own name.

Drachnion.

You don't have to know what the name means or how to interpret it, that's something that future generations of scholars will have to worry about.

You don't have to care what it looks like, because even if it looks exactly like the savage who murdered his brother, that's not what it really looks like.

All you need to know is that the Draconians are the enemy of Mankind, the enemy of the Emperor, and the end and destruction of the Imperium.

The Lord of Mankind can do almost anything, he can unify Terra, bring humanity back to the galaxy, he can become the only king of the world - but he can't resist the Draconian.

How absurd, how ridiculous, but neither he nor Malcador panicked.

The Emperor was even smiling.

"Now is the time, my friend," he said to Malcador, his eyes sparkling beyond measure. "Call him back."

The Seal Bearer carries out the orders of his Majesty, his Lord. Loyal, prompt, as always. Using him as the starting point, spiritual energy rushed to all parts of Terra. At this moment, countless people who had been prepared uttered a prayer with their common determination.

It's not a language, and it's hard to even tell how to pronounce it. Some roared it out, some recited it softly, some smiled, some cried, some collapsed, and some remained firm as usual.

The wind and snow stopped, thunder sounded, and black flames surged in the webway. Khalil Lohars emerged from the dark flames and grasped the spear.

　There is still one chapter left, ten thousand today.

　　

　

(End of this chapter)