Chapter 311: Aftermath…
The sun had risen. In the dazzling golden light, the wind stirred, carrying with it fine white ash.
No one rose. No one spoke.
Overhead, the sun silently shone upon all things. It cast its light across the land—equal and impartial.
Argel Tal breathed. He felt his limbs, he felt the scorched, foul air in the wind. Time stretched long and thin—until, at last, he slowly stood up.
He was the first of the Word Bearers to rise, his power armor creaking.
Argel Tal looked around in confusion. He saw the desolate, savage land. He saw the Perfect City reduced to ashes. He saw the vast, clear sky. He saw ash. He saw wreckage… He saw them, and saw that there was nothing else.
He turned his head. He saw their father—motionless. He saw the two upright spears, upon which the hounds bared their teeth in eternal warning to any mortal who dared approach.
Argel Tal began to walk. He walked toward their father—he had not seen him for a very long time. He dragged his feet slowly forward; the sand beneath them whispered softly, like the faint rustle of a blanket as someone turns in sleep.
It had all happened too suddenly. They were as though waking from a dream.
As Argel Tal walked, the Captain of the 34th Company, Saul, stood up. Then another. Then another… They rose one by one, dazedly feeling the weight of their own existence.
More and more of them stood. Their gray armor gleamed in the sunlight, like a rippling sea of steel-gray waves.
At last, Argel Tal reached the front of the formation—behind the three who still knelt. He saw Kor Phaeron, whom he had despised, sitting amid a great pool of blood and flesh, his arms hanging limp beside the twin spears.
He saw Erebus.
The most revered Chaplain in the entire Legion was… a heretic.
It's unbelievable.
The blasphemous filth that spilled from Erebus mouth had been like the dried fragments of viscera he spat forth—disgusting beyond measure.
Erebus's head was tilted high, the shriveled eyes of his corpse staring straight into the sun, like the eyes of a dead fish—yet far emptier. It was nothing but a husk; whatever soul had once dwelled within was gone.
Argel Tal swallowed reflexively. Suddenly, he realized he was standing in the very place where He had once stood—facing those who had knelt before Him. To stand behind the kneeling—it was… a feeling hard to describe.
When He had walked past those thousands of kneeling souls, what had He been thinking?
But the thought vanished as soon as it came.
Argel Tal drove it from his mind—he must not be disrespectful to the Primarch. He hastened his steps, coming to stand beside Logar.
Argel Tal opened his mouth. He looked upon Aurelian—his father.
Logar's expression was blank; dried trails of blood had crusted along his cheeks. He looked like a living statue—without thought, without feeling.
"…Father?"
The statue stirred faintly.
Argel Tal understood the Primarch's meaning and stepped forward to help him to his feet.
Logar stood.
The Primarch said nothing, showed nothing. He merely turned his head—first toward his fallen right side, toward Kor Phaeron.
The corpse's head hung low, nailed to the ground in an act of penance.
Kor Phaeron—his former foster father. In the last hours before his death, he had been calling Logar's name again and again.
Logar's lips trembled. His eyes had long since run dry. At last, he said nothing.
Then he looked toward Erebus… and at the moment his gaze met that corpse—twisted beyond recognition by its final struggle—it was as though his vision had been seared by white-hot iron.
He stared in disbelief at the mangled body, the echoes of that dark, hateful howl still ringing in his ears.
It reminded him of the darkness. The Primarch flinched—briefly, inwardly. The link between his thoughts and his flesh had grown clumsy; his mind's recoil never reached his body.
Upon the desolate ruins, two corpses were impaled upon the ground—left there as eternal markers.
No…
Logar forced his cracked lips to part. The motion tore the skin, and thin trickles of blood seeped out.
No… he needed to… needed to…
"Take them away."
Logar spoke.
At that, the Primarch's gaze finally turned toward the Word Bearer beside him—Argel Tal… yes, the name surfaced awkwardly in his mind.
His son obeyed without hesitation, though there was something faintly cautious about his movements—almost fearful. Was his son… afraid of him?
Logar's eyes had never once closed. They were wide open, bloodshot to the point of drowning the gold of his irises. In those eyes was reflected the scene of Argel Tal pulling free the black spear.
With a faint, itching hiss along the surface of the mind, the long shaft came loose—wet, heavy with flesh and blood.
Erebus's body toppled slowly, ever so slowly, to the ground, spilling its rotting innards with a stench that clawed at the air.
Argel Tal held the dark spear uncertainly. He turned his head toward Logar, as though asking what he should do next.
A twitch of a smile tugged at Logar's lips, though beneath his eyes the dried tracks of blood stood out starkly.
"We… we must repent."
. . .
"Mm."
Hades pinched a small square of Macragge pastry between two fingers. His mouth was already full—he struggled to swallow before speaking.
"They've pulled out the black spears. Shouldn't we go down and take a look? Or at least give the Word Bearers a few more instructions?"
Given that, at this very moment, the Perfect City was still burning, the Word Bearers were sunk in grief, the Ultramarines stood teetering on the edge of confusion—and the two who knew the full truth were sitting here in this little room, resting and eating Macragge sweets—Hades could not shake the sense of absurdity.
Still… what could he do? The Emperor Himself was resting. If He was at ease, what business did he have fretting?
He looked toward the Emperor.
The Emperor sat perfectly composed, holding a delicately patterned, gold-rimmed teacup.
He was "savoring" the tea—but somehow, the level in the cup never seemed to go down.
The Emperor cast a calm glance at Hades, took another sip, and said,
"Logar needs no further guidance. As a Primarch—my son—he will find repentance on his own."
Hades gave him a look that plainly said, I don't believe that for a second.
"I still suggest you say a few more words—or at least make sure his mind is stable before you leave him alone."
"I have chosen my messenger. That lady will not fail us, Hades. You are far too cautious."
Hades's face twisted into open exasperation. Too cautious? Anyone with a shred of sense would be cautious right now! If anything, the Emperor was too confident. Lowering the hand that held his pastry, he began to protest—
"Neoth, you might be a little too—"
"You should get used to the way he speaks, Hades. He doesn't mean it as it sounds."
The door to the little room opened. Malcador entered, looking utterly exhausted. Hades wordlessly withdrew his Black Domain and shifted aside on the large sofa to make room.
Malcador shot him a brief glance. Hades half-expected a sharp remark—but the old man said nothing. He simply hopped up and settled at the far end of the couch.
It turned out Guilliman's guest furniture was, indeed, remarkably comfortable.
The Emperor spoke.
"How fares Guilliman, Malcador?"
Malcador's deep, shadowed eyes met His.
"I insist that you should speak with him, my lord. He is lost—struggling to pull himself from that mire of doubt. I believe that if someone were to reach out to him now, it would make the task far easier."
The Emperor was silent.
Hades, meanwhile, poured Malcador a cup of tea and went back to eating pastries, watching the exchange with idle curiosity.
A night spent on high alert had worn him out—he'd spent the whole time listening for the whispers of the Warp, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.
"I believe you are more than capable of consoling him, Malcador."
The Emperor spoke slowly, but Malcador, holding his teacup, shook his head.
"My station forbids me from going further, my lord. There are words that only you can speak."
The Emperor's gaze drifted toward Hades.
"And what about him?"
Malcador slammed the arm of the sofa with a thud that made Hades flinch beside him.
"You cannot be serious, my lord. Hades may be eloquent—slick-tongued even—but we must tread carefully with his identity right now! It's not simply a question of whether Guilliman would heed his counsel—Hades standing before him at all would already force Guilliman to spend time and effort just to process the meaning of it!"
Malcador's voice softened again.
"Guilliman's nature is sound—he is, at heart, good. But he overthinks. He is a capable statesman, yet reality rarely tolerates those who are too rational. The world itself is irrational, my lord. You must reconsider this."
The Emperor paused for a moment, still looking at Hades.
"I, however, think Hades would be quite suitable… Let's play a little game, shall we? Hades—give me my little finger bone."
Hades wiped his hands with a long-suffering sigh. From around his neck, he drew a pendant and handed it to the Emperor.
"I propose that next time Malcador insults me, he at least waits until I'm not sitting right here."
"I would hope you'd also refrain from saying outrageous things, Hades."
Malcador sneered, and Hades immediately shot back,
"What did I even say? I hardly talk at all—and everything I say happens to be true—"
"Not as good as Macragge?"
Hades froze mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open. Then came the spluttering protests: That was the truth! You know it was! Admit it, old man—you're impossible!
In silence, the Emperor detached the small finger bone from its wire and placed it on the tea table before them.
"Whoever the fingertip points, that one shall go and enlighten Guilliman."
Malcador let out a great sigh, slapping his thigh in helpless resignation.
"You always do this, my lord. You cannot just—"
The Emperor blinked, and for once, a trace of amusement glimmered in His golden eyes. He turned toward Hades.
"What do you think of this idea, Hades?"
Hades's mouth opened soundlessly. Huh? Just like that? That's how we're deciding this?
He glanced at Malcador—who had apparently given up on words entirely—and hesitated.
"…All right, but let me spin it."
"Agreed."
The Emperor ceded the spot cheerfully.
"Two against one, Malcador—you lose."
He looked toward the old man, whose glare was sharp enough to strangle Hades on the spot.
Malcador had always thought of Hades as the voice of reason—so why was he now joining in this farce?
Shouldn't he be helping him talk sense into the Emperor?
Didn't he realize any game like this was doomed to end with the Emperor's victory—because that man had the strongest psychic powers?
And that psychic man was now sipping his tea contentedly, confidence radiating from every motion.
Hades seemed utterly unfazed by the murderous glare Malcador was shooting at him. He was fully absorbed in watching the little finger bone, his hand resting lightly atop it.
"Three… two… one—begin."
The bone began to spin across the tea table. The faint smile at the corner of the Emperor's lips dipped ever so slightly, but His expression still radiated quiet confidence—He was certain of victory.
Malcador said nothing. His face was solemn, eyes fixed on the Emperor. Around him, psychic sparks began to crackle and hiss, and a thin layer of frost crept over the surface of his teacup.
Hades appeared blissfully unaware of the gathering storm, his eyes bright with nervous excitement as he watched the bone spin. Its momentum began to slow.
"Malcador," Hades said suddenly,
"Next time, don't insult me to my face—or I won't help you again."
Malcador froze for a heartbeat—then instantly understood. He ground out a low growl of reluctant agreement through clenched teeth.
The next instant, that all-too-familiar and nauseating psychic pressure filled the room.
The Emperor's faint smile vanished completely. A golden glow shimmered in His eyes—time was short, and He was preparing to act—
Malcador's psychic aura surged up violently, slamming down upon the Emperor's probing will.
Their gazes locked. Malcador's lips curved into a thin, mocking smile.
The Emperor swept aside his psychic resistance like a hand brushing away dust, extending His will forward—
"Neoth, it's you."
The finger bone had stopped spinning. It pointed straight—unmistakably—at the Emperor.
Hades, beaming as if oblivious to the invisible struggle that had just taken place, tapped the bone cheerfully and looked up at Him.
The Emperor's mouth twitched. Then, without a word, He placed His teacup down hard on the table and rose to leave.
Hades and Malcador turned their heads to watch Him go.
When He was gone, Malcador exhaled weakly, the tension in his shoulders loosening.
"How did you do that, Hades? Your Black Domain can cut off psychic influence, yes—but it can't replace psychic force. Don't tell me you were just gambling."
Hades calmly coiled his necklace back around his neck.
"I'm a first-class Techmarine, Malcador."
He picked a pastry from the box and added, with a smug grin,
"Give me an object's shape, mass, surface friction, air resistance, and wind speed—and I can calculate exactly how to spin it. It's science, Malcador."
He took a bite.
Malcador felt a sharp twinge in his liver—a mix of irritation and disbelief—but as always, he found himself unable to argue with Hades.
In the end, he could only sit there, watching the Techmarine happily devour Macragge's finest pastries, utterly speechless.
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