He still remembered those Death Angels from the Eleventh Legion.
Those most ruthless war machines among the stars: for war, they were more meticulous and thorough than the Iron Hands; for life, they were more indifferent and cold than the Iron Warriors.
He still remembered them, the most ruthless and rational high-efficiency warriors under the Emperor, who most believed in logic, physical laws, and causality. He still remembered their figures, their actions, their faces, their every word and deed, decisive in killing.
He also remembered that, in the beginning, they were not like this.
Before the return of the [Purest] Primarch to the Legion, and before he brought his endlessly bloody and rigorous logic, how amiable, how rational, how friendly a force the Eleventh Legion once was!
Unfortunately, everything changed.
——————
He sighed, lamenting the fickleness of fate and the coldness of the world. In this lament, he clutched the documents in his hand, walking with his head down through the somewhat dirty and dilapidated corridor.
The Overseer at the end of the corridor opened the door for him, greeting him and calling his name.
He hurried past, tilting his head to greet the Overseer, and greeting those he was familiar with, just as he did every day before, just as in every serious, silent, oppressive, and dead-silent day in this world.
"Glory."
They answered, they spoke, and he could clearly confirm that he heard this word.
It seemed to be a clumsy slogan attempting to boost morale, or perhaps a specially set password, but in a trance, they seemed to have said nothing at all, as if those words were merely his illusion.
He shook his head, feeling his consciousness blur. Perhaps he shouldn't have stayed up late last night.
Pushing open the door, he walked in. It was an Internal Affairs Office that couldn't be more chaotic. All kinds of stamps, letters, and official hats were piled up into a small mountain. Everywhere, one could hear feigned authoritative voices repeatedly emphasizing countless trivial matters: hygiene, discipline, reports, forms, atmosphere...
"Glory."
He heard the sound again. Someone seemed to be constantly emphasizing this word beside his ear, as if the plump superiors had placed the theme of the next public event on the projector screen in front of them.
But this time, he seemed to hear a different sound. It wasn't the familiar sound of conversation, nor the sound of cars passing or cargo being loaded and unloaded from outside the wall. It also wasn't the sound of the high-and-mighty figures in the room arguing about topics. It was a sound he had never heard before.
It was like the most distant, most ethereal, yet most beautiful singing.
He liked to listen.
Rusto shook his head, clearing his mind again. He felt as if he was still dreaming, as if he was still in his tiny three-meter-square cubicle, lying on that hard, cold, and damp bed, curled up in his blanket, lost in a dream.
This wouldn't do; it wasn't time to rest yet, and he didn't want to be punished.
No, he couldn't be tired.
He walked with his head down through the utterly chaotic room, avoiding the hurried bigwigs who also carried stacks of documents or information in their hands, but those were priceless things, unlike what he held.
The only value of these things was to be delivered to his superior, and then casually tossed into the trash can, and his job was to deliver this trash.
He walked with his head down, still surrounded by all sorts of sounds. His superior came to his side and slammed a thick stack of documents into his face, his roar like a bloated, tattered air bladder forcibly torn open.
He didn't reply, just picked them up one by one, silently correcting all of them, though he knew he wouldn't receive any feedback.
The sounds continued.
Those low roars, those strict commands, those arrogant reprimands, those rumors emanating from every corner, and speculations and wild guesses about the front lines.
They said the alien fleet was actually very close, some said they were just beyond the Mandeville Point in this star system. Others said the war had already been raging for a long time on the planet next to them.
He didn't listen carefully, nor did he participate in any discussions. He was trapped in a dream-like state, numbly handling the tasks at hand until his work was taken over by the next person.
He walked down the street, wanting to return to the cubicle that could be called "home." The Overseer seemed to greet him, or said something, but he didn't listen or remember.
He looked up and saw the incredibly dim star emitting its light, proclaiming its sovereignty over this star system. And beneath those lights were stinking corpses, hung high by the roadside, with signs reading "Deserter" and "Rumor Spreader."
And "Glory."
He saw those words.
Beside these corpses, the broadcast repeatedly played inspiring slogans and songs, reiterating that they were the last line of defense against the xenos, stationed beyond the Sol Sector.
As if to better corroborate these views, at the very top of these broadcasts, endless shadows occupied the sky of this world. They said these were orbital space stations and defense arrays. He didn't understand what they were, and he had never seen them.
He, too, was a part of the defensive line.
But he had never felt that way.
He staggered home, neither eating nor seemingly drinking water. He just collapsed onto the bed, wanting to get a good night's sleep and have a real dream.
"Glory."
He heard the word again. But before he could react, he was already asleep.
——————
He woke up again, seemingly ten Terra Standard Hours later.
He had overslept, but no one seemed to notice him. No reprimanding letters were delivered to his bedside. Nor did serious-faced inspection personnel burst into his cubicle to drag him away.
He even felt a trace of relief.
He still chose not to eat. Perhaps before leaving, he casually gulped down some water, then walked onto the street, hurrying towards his workplace.
There were many more people on the street than yesterday. He saw some soldiers. They wore green military uniforms, which was uncommon, because in the past, soldiers always stayed in the barracks. He didn't know why they were on the street now.
They didn't seem to be on any mission, because they were walking back and forth, seemingly saying something, quickly and in low voices, as if feeding locusts wriggling their mouthparts, speaking with an instinctive attitude.
He turned the corner and arrived at his workplace. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the security personnel at the corner seemed to be absent today, but the Overseers were still there. Their pants and clothes seemed a bit dirty, with some dark red stains visible.
He didn't pass by, nor did he ask. He didn't even reply to their greetings. He sat in his chair and carried out his work. He felt a little clearer-headed, but the feeling of fatigue still lingered.
The people beside him continued to chat, whispering that another batch of troops had been withdrawn from the front. These troops wore green military uniforms, and they seemed to have been forcibly withdrawn, rather than being on normal rotation or rest.
He still didn't participate in the discussion. Instead, he focused on the waste paper in his hands. At certain times, brief gunshots and sounds of pushing and shoving came from outside the window. Some people ran to the window to look, and were then roughly pulled away, making the already messy room resemble a bombed chicken coop.
His superior's roar was unprecedented. He was like a walking volcano, spewing his anger in every corner of the office.
His superior was punching, roaring, and viciously cursing everyone. The documents and anything he could lay his hands on became weapons, clattering around the room.
He watched with cold eyes.
He lowered his head, silently completed his work, and then once again walked back to his cubicle. On the way, he saw the blood on the ground, and green and other colored fragments.
He looked up again, wanting to see the hanging dried corpses, but found that some were no longer visible.
"Glory."
He heard it again, this time with incredible clarity. He only felt himself sinking into another kind of exhaustion.
The sound continued, like a dull, oppressive thunderclap on a muggy summer afternoon, amidst endless dark clouds.
He felt something was wrong, a voice of self-preservation urging him to stay away. He lifted his foot, wanting to return to his room.
But at that moment, he heard some crude noises coming from the street corner. Two groups of people were fighting and shooting each other. One group was the green-uniformed figures he had seen during the day. They were confronting and fighting another group of soldiers, falling one after another, their blood flowing along the ground to his feet.
He should leave.
He thought so.
But in the end, he decided to take one last look.
He watched the blood, and at the end of the blood, the fallen corpses: their faces were equally pale, their pupils, even in death, were still wide open, staring straight at the sky. All these dead people had their mouths agape, their bodies piled up into a small hill, as if it were another emerging landmark in this steel city.
The soldiers who killed them seemed to have no interest in dealing with their bodies. They quickly left, leaving the corpses to form an ominous monument.
He felt a little strange, but in the next second, he no longer felt strange.
It was a normal thing. Why bother with those bodies?
He continued to watch them, those corpses: at this moment, their appearances seemed identical. He seemed to see their mouths slightly parted. Seemingly saying something.
He knew what they were saying.
"Glory."
This time, he was the one speaking.
——————
Glory.
Glory echoed in his mind.
He ate, he feasted. His appetite had never been this good.
He returned to his workstation once more, continuing to work. He even felt that the room had become less messy, perhaps because there weren't so many people anymore:
some had gone missing, and some hadn't shown up. Most of his whispering colleagues had disappeared, leaving only anxious messages circulating in the corners of the office.
Some said the xenos fleet had already passed the Mandeville Point, casting its shadow in the light of the star.
Other rumors indicated that there had been many riots among the front-line troops. Some officers were killed, and others were swept up into the rebels.
The rest were even more sensational. They said the Governor's Palace had been surrounded, even captured. In other areas outside their region, in every corner of this planet, war was raging.
His superior was still raging, still roaring. This fool seemed incapable of anything else. He barked orders, commanding a brutal Disciplinary Unit to arrest all those who spread rumors.
Thus, the room became empty, like a tomb.
He was hit in the face by a thick stack of documents again, but this time, he didn't bend down, nor did he respond. He sat there, dealing with his own matters until working hours ended.
He left without hesitation, leaving behind his superior's seemingly endless curses.
He walked along the road, looked up, and saw new corpses. These corpses had been working with him just an hour ago.
Bloody battles still seemed to be erupting at the end of the street, which had become a bizarre phenomenon: people walked by, seemingly accustomed to these bloodshed events.
But he was different.
He stood still, and this time, he watched with interest. When he saw the green-uniformed army win, he clapped and cheered softly.
"Glory."
He mumbled to himself.
He felt a surge of pride.
——————
Glory.
Glory surrounded him!
He had forgotten how he had returned to his room, how he had fallen asleep, and how he had woken up.
Following a daily routine, he arrived at his workstation once more. This time, he was the only one left in the room.
For the first time, he turned his head and looked out the window. He saw ominous smoke rising from the other side of the Hive City.
He strained his ears but only heard chaotic noises, sounds that did not belong to order and reason. They seemed to be spreading throughout this area, seemingly throughout the entire Hive City, the entire world.
He wanted to continue watching and listening, but a most violent noise interrupted his thoughts.
His superior came again, as usual. He walked over, raised another thick stack of documents, and a roar was already brewing in his throat.
But this time, he stood up.
He smiled.
He walked directly in front of him, then was surprised to find that he was so much taller than his superior. This scumbag could only be enveloped in his shadow.
For the first time, his superior took a step back, a panicked expression forming on his face. He began to utter disjointed words, seemingly instructing him to report to a department: it sounded like a cannon fodder unit's designation.
He no longer cared.
He just smiled.
Smiling at what he saw.
The Overseers came in.
They walked behind his superior, looking at him, with the same smile.
"Glory."
They said so, and he responded in kind.
Then, blood pierced that always scolding heart.
He realized that when this violent superior fell, he was no different from those cowardly maggots.
A pathetic scumbag.
He was destined not to embrace that glory.
He was destined not to welcome those great ones.
——————
Thinking this, he pushed open the door and looked up at the sky.
The shadows had dissipated. The space stations and void arrays that once prided themselves on protecting this world had been penetrated layer by layer by magnificent light without firing a single shot. Clearly, there were also people like him up there who understood glory.
And so, those great ones passed through these foolish obstacles and arrived in this world.
They brought true glory.
He felt tears welling up, and his eyes even stung a little. He could only stand there, staring at those great figures.
How many times had he been misled by wrong teachings, calling these great figures xenos, believing they wanted to take his life and precious things?
Only now did he understand what he had missed.
Look at these great ones. They were so tall, even taller than the Death Angels he had seen before. Their faces were enveloped in infinite light, and their black armor looked so solemn and majestic that he involuntarily knelt, kneeling before a great one who had descended from the sky and stood before him.
Glory.
He spoke thus.
He prayed thus.
And the great one remained silent.
After a long while, he felt a tingling, a stinging, an inexpressibly blissful feeling.
He only felt sweet air pouring into his throat, his blood seemed to be flowing backward, his neck seemed to hurt, but that no longer mattered.
He only felt endless bliss.
He only felt endless glory.
At this moment, he was certain that he was bathed in glory.
Just like this world.
Finally, he looked up.
He saw only one magnificent existence standing in the highest and most noble position, revered by all those great ones in the endless sky.
That existence shining with boundless light.
That sacred existence.
That unprecedented existence.
That unique existence in the galaxy.
That, truly, was the Emperor!
That must, truly, be the Emperor!
In his final moment, he thought so.
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