The final disciplinary action, personally overseen by Chapter Master Marius Calgar, was swiftly and clearly communicated.
Dorian and First Company Captain Cassius Venus, for openly chasing and brawling within the battleship and severely damaging public facilities—including but not limited to kicking in a sealed rest area door, knocking over tools and equipment in the hangar, and Cassius almost hitting a servo-skull with a thrown wrench—and especially with Captain Cassius, as the first company captain, displaying severely inappropriate behavior that undermined the discipline and image of an Astartes Brother and caused a detrimental impact on the battleship's internal order.
Upon adjudication, both were confined to the brig for deep self-reflection. No one was permitted to release them for any reason until the Chapter Master himself personally lifted the ban.
What vexed and even humiliated Cassius the most was that, whether for administrative convenience or some malicious prank (he strongly suspected the latter), he was assigned to the cell right next to Dorian's!
Although the thick alloy partition could prevent physical contact, its almost negligible soundproofing meant that even the slightest movement from next door was clearly audible. For an Astartes with heightened senses, this was practically equivalent to being face-to-face.
This time, Dorian was uncharacteristically well-behaved, or rather, he had been traumatized by the brutal sight of the Captain disassembling a door with his bare hands. He sat quietly in his small brig cell, not daring to even breathe loudly, much less engage in his usual "verbal harassment" of the Captain through the door.
After all, the experience of having two reinforced alloy doors torn apart by hand to get to him was too vivid; he certainly didn't want to relive that in the brig.
However, while Dorian was quiet, the impact of this incident spread like a virus throughout the fleet.
Through the "objective" records of the crew members, Tech-Priests, and the diligent blessed osseous unit present at the time, almost everyone on the Macragge's Honour, and indeed the entire Ultramarines fleet, quickly learned the "highlights" of this farce:
First Company Captain Cassius Venus, a Captain renowned for his bravery and temper, was first docked three months' worth of nutrient paste rations by his superiors for certain reasons (rumored to be for violently beating Dorian in the cabin area); then he audaciously attempted to steal Chapter Master Calgar's personal collection to make up for the deficit, only to be caught red-handed by the Honor Guard, losing face completely; finally, because his subordinate Dorian spread the news behind his back, Captain Cassius flew into a rage, staging a chase scene within the battleship, frantically pursuing his subordinate, and ultimately being picked up like a chicken by a Saturnine Terminator warrior and brought before the Chapter Master…
Various embellished versions circulated through communication channels and rest areas, and Captain Cassius's stern and dignified image suffered a devastating blow in this incident.
Although no one dared to say anything to his face, those occasional glances, filled with sympathy or suppressed laughter, were enough to make Cassius feel prickly all over.
Now, sitting in the cold brig, Cassius felt the fury in his chest, the desire to chew Dorian alive, not only hadn't subsided but burned even hotter due to the gossip from outside.
He could even imagine that extremely subtle expression of "helplessness" that might have appeared on Chapter Master Calgar's glacial face.
"Damn Dorian…" Cassius squeezed these words through gritted teeth, his Power Fist clenching with a grinding sound, wishing he could tear down the wall again right now.
He forced himself to calm down, trying to think of other things to distract himself. He picked up his personal data-slate, which he was allowed to bring into the brig, mostly containing company daily reports and training plans.
However, a newly received notification from the battleship's logistics management department instantly sent his slightly calmed blood pressure soaring again.
The notification clearly itemized the repair costs and fines incurred due to his damage to battleship facilities (restroom door, hangar tools, etc.) and disruption of order, with the final calculated result staring him in the face—deduction of two months' standard rations for Captain Cassius.
Another ration deduction!
Cassius felt his vision blacken and almost fainted. Why?! Why did every punishment ultimately land precisely on his poor logistical rations? First four months, now two months! That's half a year combined!
He felt like he might have to subsist on thin air and watch others eat nutrient paste for the next six months!
"Wretched Dorian! You'll be the death of me! No…" He rubbed his throbbing temples vigorously, planning in a very low voice, almost to himself, "I can't let this menace stay in the First Company anymore… I need to find a way, an opportunity, to transfer him to the Honor Guard! Let the Chapter Master personally discipline him! Yes! That's the plan! Otherwise, I won't die of anger, but I'll starve to death first!"
As this thought emerged, he actually found it somewhat feasible and… satisfying? Send Dorian to the Honor Guard, under the Chapter Master's nose every day, and see if he still dared to be so presumptuous!
Surely, with Dorian's talent for causing trouble, it wouldn't be long before he made the Chapter Master experience the same feelings he had now… However, Cassius underestimated Dorian's bestial hearing, especially in such a silent environment with virtually no soundproofing in the brig.
No sooner had he finished speaking than Dorian's loud voice, full of surprise and unconcealed excitement, came from next door:
"Captain! I knew it! You're the best to me! The Honor Guard! How impressive! Wearing the coolest armour, standing beside the Chapter Master! Hahahahaha! Thank you, Captain, for your cultivation!"
"…"
Cassius instantly froze, almost crushing the data-slate in his hand. He felt a rush of blood to his head, his vision blurred, his ears buzzed, and he nearly truly fainted.
This scoundrel! This idiot! How could he have heard?! And he actually took it seriously?! And "thank you for your cultivation"?! I'll cultivate your ghost!
"Dec-lan!" Cassius almost roared, springing up from his bunk and slamming his Power Fist against the cold alloy wall with a resounding "thud," making the entire brig seem to tremble.
"You dare say one more word! Today, either you die, or you perish!"
He was so enraged that he was incoherent, uttering logically confused threats.
Dorian next door was clearly startled by the roar and the wall-slamming, quiet for two seconds, then his voice, tinged with confusion and a hint of grievance, came through:
"Cap… Captain, aren't both of those… me dying?"
His tone was so earnest that this unconscious retort seemed even more devastating.
"Shut! Up! You fool!" Cassius felt like he was about to explode, he roared at the wall, his voice distorted by extreme anger, "When we get out! You just wait for me! I promise you'll have a day you'll never forget!!"
This time, the threat finally seemed to have an effect.
Next door instantly fell into a deathly silence. Dorian clearly heard the Captain's undisguised, almost solidifying killing intent in his words.
He had no doubt that if he dared to make another sound, the Captain might actually find a way to bypass the brig's restrictions and let him experience the "unforgettable" feeling ahead of time.
Cassius gasped for breath, listening to the complete silence from next door, then slumped back onto his bunk, feeling more exhausted than if he had just fought a fierce battle against a Great Daemon.
He looked up at the monotonous ceiling of the brig, only one thought swirling repeatedly in his mind:
'By the Emperor, how did I ever agree to let this idiot join the First Company…'
After dealing with the First Company Captain's troublesome "internal dispute," Chapter Master Marius Calgar did not rest.
He knew that something far more important and historically significant than punishing a subordinate awaited his witness.
Accompanied by the Honor Guard and 2nd Company Captain Cato Sicarius, Calgar boarded a thunderhawk gunship bound for the Dark Angels' flagship, the unyielding truth.
He was to be present to witness an event unprecedented in the Imperium of Man's ten-thousand-year history since the Horus Heresy—a renegade Legion, led by their Primarch, intending to return to the Imperium's fold.
The thunderhawk gunship docked smoothly with the massive hull of the unyielding truth.
Calgar and his retinue stepped onto this battleship, filled with the ancient aura of Caliban, and were immediately led to a core area.
They stepped into a hall that was set up with extreme grandeur. The style here was distinctly different from the utilitarianism favored by the Ultramarines or the tragic splendor of the Blood Angels, instead filled with Gothic solemnity and the weighty, knightly style of Caliban. Soaring vaulted ceilings, stained glass filtering the light of the nebula, ancient battle banners and frescoes depicting knights in combat hung on the walls, and the air was thick with the scent of incense and old parchment. It was like a temple of paladins, solemn and oppressive.
Chapter Master Dante of the Blood Angels and his Honor Guard had already arrived, standing silently on one side of the hall. Dante still wore his majestic angelic mask, his crimson cape draped, silent as a statue.
And on the high galleries around the hall, stood numerous warriors clad in deep green power armour, cloaked in robes adorned with mysterious symbols. They were the Lion Guard of Lion King, their helmets decorated with the winged emblem of Caliban, like silent sentinels. Their cold gazes swept over everyone in the hall, especially the 'guests' who were about to arrive, their posture filled with an undeniable majesty, as if bearing the secret-laden and guilt-ridden past of the entire First Legion, wary of any potential threats or changes.
Calgar's Honor Guard were politely but firmly guided to a waiting area adjacent to the hall; this was an inner sanctum of the Dark Angels, not permitting too many 'outsiders' to tread. Only Chapter Master Calgar and 2nd Company Captain Sicarius were allowed into the core area; they walked over to Dante's side, and the three stood shoulder to shoulder, waiting in silence.
Time passed minute by minute in the solemn atmosphere.
Finally, a heavy and rhythmic sound of footsteps came from outside the gigantic archway on the side of the hall. All eyes instantly focused there.
Escorted by numerous Deathwing warriors clad in terminator armour, the Master of the First Legion, Lion El'Jonson, strode into the hall.
He had changed into a more formal and majestic 'Lion' armour; the deep green armour was engraved with ancient Caliban proverbs and the Imperial Aquila, and the shoulder pads were shaped like roaring lions, full of power. His brilliant golden hair, like sunlight, cascaded over his shoulder pads, and his resolute face was etched with the marks of ten millennia of trials and campaigns. His hawk-like eyes swept across the room, carrying the wisdom of one who saw all and an undeniable authority.
Today, he, in the name of the Master of the First Legion, Lion El'Jonson, would exercise an ancient and weighty power—to decide whether to accept the return of a lost Legion.
Lion El'Jonson did not exchange pleasantries with anyone. He walked with steady steps, directly towards the end of the hall. There, stood a colossal, weathered golden statue of the Emperor, the Emperor's gaze seemingly fixed on everyone present.
The Lion King stopped beneath the Emperor's statue, slowly turned around, and faced the direction of the hall's entrance, like an ancient monarch awaiting fealty, waiting for the arrival of tonight's most important 'guests'.
The atmosphere was almost solidified.
A moment later, the shadows outside the archway seemed to deepen. Immediately after, three figures, as if peeled from the deepest night, entered this paladin's temple.
The leader was the night haunter, Konrad Curze. He still wore his pitch-black power armour, which fused Nostraman Gothic style with terrifying decorations, and his bat-like cape hung quietly behind him. His pale, handsome face, marked with profound traces of pain, was exposed. In his sunken eyes, the characteristic crimson glow seemed to have receded significantly, leaving only an almost hollow calm and... a subtle, hard-to-detect weariness.
Following him were the prince of crows Sevatarion, and the head of the Black Armour Guard, Zso Sahaal. Sevatarion's gaze from beneath his helmet complexly swept over the hostile and scrutinizing eyes around them. Sahar, meanwhile, was like the most silent shadow, vigilantly guarding his Primarch Father's rear flank.
Koz ignored the various gazes cast from both sides; his eyes pierced directly through the hall, firmly fixed on the Emperor's statue at the far end, and on the golden lion standing before it.
He walked forward step by step, his footsteps silent, yet seemingly treading on the heartbeat of every witness. Finally, he stopped a few paces from Lion El'Jonson.
No words, no excuses.
Under everyone's gaze, Konrad Curze, the night haunter who had once brought endless terror, slowly, yet with immense resolve, knelt on one knee before the statue of the Emperor, bowing his head, which had never bowed to anyone.
This genuflection was as heavy as a mountain, as if bearing ten millennia of betrayal, madness, and lostness.
Lion El'Jonson gazed at his brother kneeling before him, a flicker of extremely complex emotion in his eyes, but that emotion was quickly replaced by an iron will. He slowly raised his hand and took the enormous great sword named 'the lion's due/loyalty' from a Lion Guard beside him.
He gripped the hilt with both hands and gently rested the cold blade on Koz's left shoulder, which was covered by pitch-black armour.
The Lion King's deep and majestic voice, like an ancient bell, echoed throughout the paladin's temple:
"Konrad Curze."
"You and your Legion, ten millennia ago, committed the sin of betrayal, abandoning the light of the Emperor, and brought indelible trauma and loss to the Imperium of Man."
His words were like a judgment, every syllable striking upon history.
"However," Lion El'Jonson's tone shifted slightly, "now, you have chosen to return, to embark on this path of redemption. I, along with the two Chapter Masters present—Dante and Marius Calgar—have also personally witnessed your battle at Drathemiandas, and seen your resolve and... sincerity."
With that, he exerted a slight pressure with his wrist, and the sharp blade of the great sword carved a clear and deep scratch on Koz's shoulder plate, emitting a subtle but grating metallic sound. This was not harm, but a symbol, a remembrance of past transgressions.
"Now, in the name of the Master of the First Legion, Lion El'Jonson, representing the Imperium," Lion El'Jonson's voice suddenly rose, carrying a declarative weight, "I accept your... return, and that of the Night Lords Legion you lead!"
A profound silence fell upon the hall, so quiet that a pin drop could be heard.
"However," Lion El'Jonson's great sword lifted and then rested on Koz's right shoulder, "your return does not signify the end of forgiveness. For you to be accepted by the Imperium, accepted by humanity, and accepted by... the Emperor, you yourselves must prove it with a sufficiently long time and a sufficiently weighty 'sincerity'!
"From this day forward, you shall serve as the sharpest sword in the Imperium's hand, and also its most secret dagger, constantly slaying the Imperium's foes, cleansing the filth and treachery across the galaxy. Pave your path of atonement with the blood and skulls of your enemies, until... the Emperor, perhaps one day, forgives your past transgressions."
His gaze was almost palpable, pressing down on Koz's bowed head.
"Your movements and every action will be under surveillance. But at the same time, the Imperium will provide you with all necessary combat supplies and support. Once you are officially accepted throughout the Imperium, you may choose an unclaimed world as your new homeworld, and the Adeptus Mechanicus will, based on your performance, provide you with pure gene-seed to perpetuate your Legion."
Finally, Lion El'Jonson asked in a deep voice, the blade of the great sword again carving a second, symmetrical scratch on Koz's right shoulder plate, symbolizing responsibility and constraint:
"These conditions, can you, Konrad Curze, and your Night Lords Legion, accept?"
As his words fell, all pressure converged on the kneeling figure.
Koz slowly raised his head. There was no expression on his pale face, only in his sunken eyes, ten millennia of pain, madness, and a faint, nascent determination surged. He met Lion El'Jonson's scrutinizing gaze, his voice deep and hoarse, yet clearly audible throughout the hall:
"I accept."
He paused, then added, as if this was an oath long etched into his soul:
"The Night Lords... will atone for their sins."
The presence of an Aeldari female on the Ultramarines' flagship, the Macragge's Honour, was reported to the Ordo Xenos through a Kill Team. However, contrary to the expected severe questioning or coercive measures, the Ordo Xenos' reaction this time was unusually... restrained.
A top-secret memorandum from within the Ordo Xenos circulated among relevant personnel, its core message concise and clear: "Do not intervene for now; maintain observation."
The reason was none other than the former Grand Inquisitor's fate on Ultramar, which still hung over the Inquisition like a sword. That Grand Inquisitor, who had attempted to deal with the Ultramarines' "xenos problem" with heavy-handed tactics, was ultimately reduced to ashes under the watchful eyes of many, with an ancient dreadnought's melta gun pointed at his head. The Ultramarines Chapter and the Ultramar forces behind them had shown such a strong stance in handling the aftermath that the entire Inquisition clearly understood that in this sector, some rules were not unilaterally written by them.
The current Grand Inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos, Gorgon, when faced with a subordinate's request for instructions on the matter during an internal communication, simply replied calmly, "Chapter Master Calgar knows his limits; he will handle his own affairs. We do not need to overreact and needlessly create friction. Have that Deathwatch Kill Team rest up quickly and prepare for the next extermination mission."
With a casual dismissal, the matter was temporarily shelved. The Inquisition chose silence, a pragmatic decision based on power and past lessons, and also a degree of acquiescence and... compromise with Chapter Master Calgar, Lord of Ultramar.
As the war in the Drathemiandas system completely subsided, the vast Imperial fleet began to diverge.
Lion El'Jonson, burdened with the mission of reporting this major event to the High Lords of Terra, led the Dark Angels fleet, along with Dante and his Blood Angels, on the long journey back to Holy Terra. Their departure carried away the Primarch's majesty and the Blood Angels' tragic grandeur, also foreshadowing a political storm about Legions, loyalty, and atonement that was about to engulf Terra.
Meanwhile, Chapter Master Marius Calgar led the Ultramarines fleet, changing course and heading towards the blue starfield they had sworn to protect — Ultramar. There were worlds to rebuild, wounds to heal, and citizens awaiting their return home.
Finally, there was that special force operating beyond the bright borders of the Imperium — the Night Lords.
Konrad Curze had not followed the codex astartes laid down by Roboute Guilliman, which would have seen his reassembled Legion broken down into independent Chapters. He retained the ancient Legion structure, as if in stubborn continuation of the past, or perhaps a declaration of his unique path. Under his will, the Eighth Legion was reorganized, with three main "Chapters" under it, each "Chapter" comprising thirteen companies, a vast and rigorous structure, like a massive swarm of bats lurking in the shadows, awaiting the moment to sate their bloodlust.
The nightfall, the Eighth Legion's flagship, hung silently at the edge of the system, like a black leviathan cruising through the void. On the bridge, the lights were dim, with only the control panels and star charts flickering with a ghostly blue glow, illuminating the Primarch's pale and solemn face.
Sevatarion walked with light steps behind Konrad, bowing slightly.
"My lord, the fleet has assembled, and supplies have been received. What is our next move?"
Konrad's gaze remained fixed on the endless star sea ahead, a frontier of the unknown and a battlefield for atonement. His voice was cold, devoid of emotion, as if stating a fundamental law of the universe:
"Find the traitors, or the xenos. Tear them apart, and seize their supplies. It's that simple."
There were no complex strategic plans, no lofty slogans. Only the most direct, most brutal violence and plunder; this was the Night Lords' chosen, and permitted, method of atonement — to water the path to salvation with the blood and wails of their enemies.
Sevatarion was not surprised by his Primarch Father's blunt command; a cold arc even curved at the corner of his mouth. "Understood, my lord." He accepted the order, turned, and went to relay this distinctively Eighth Legion-style action plan to the other ships.
Konrad's gaze shifted from the star chart, inadvertently sweeping over a corner of the bridge. There, Koreni, having just finished her psychic training, was being pestered by the lively Otani, seemingly sharing some amusing story. The girls' whispers and soft laughter brought a discordant yet real vitality to the cold bridge. He glanced again at Sahar, who stood like his most loyal shadow, silent as a mountain, vigilant against any potential threats.
This brief scene stirred no ripples in his unfathomable eyes, yet it felt like some kind of anchor of existence. He slowly raised his hand and pressed the communication rune on the captain's command chair.
His voice was not loud, yet it resonated like a cold decree, clearly transmitted to the bridge of every warship in the Eighth Legion:
"Eighth Legion, depart."
Once the order was given, no more words were needed.
The vast Night Lords fleet, like a startled swarm of bats, collectively spewed ghostly blue exhaust flames from their engines, breaking from synchronous orbit and slowly accelerating into the deep darkness beyond the star system. Ship after ship, painted in deep blue and jet black, adorned with pale skulls and lightning patterns, shot forth like arrows from a bowstring, or like phantoms merging with the night, steadfastly heading towards an unknown distance filled with slaughter and plunder.
Finally, at the boundary between real space and the Warp, the colossal Warp engines were activated in sequence, tearing the fabric of reality. The entire fleet, like drops of ink falling into water, silently plunged into the bizarre and perilous Warp, vanishing from sight.
The Imperium's sword was unsheathed. It was not for glory, nor for faith, but for the most primal atonement and destruction, striking down all beings marked as "enemies" by the Imperium. The Night Bats' crusade had thus begun.
The Eye of Terror, this festering wound of real space, where Warp energy surged and boiled like pus. In the deepest reaches of this blasphemous domain, a colossal, ancient warship, exuding endless malice and destructive aura, hung like a lurking behemoth — the Vengeful Spirit.
This glorious Queen-class battleship, once belonging to the Sons of Horus Legion and now the flagship of the Black Legion, presented a sight somewhat inconsistent with its infamous reputation.
Inside the battleship, especially in the wide corridors and grand halls, countless Ork corpses lay scattered. These muscular, green-skinned savage creatures, even in death, seemed to retain a fanatical, warlike expression on their faces. Their crude weapons and explosives lay strewn across the floor, adding another layer of chaos and... absurdity to the already Chaos-decorated chambers.
Black Legion warriors in black power armour, covered in spikes and blasphemous runes, along with even larger Chaos Terminators, were grumbling as they cleared the bodies of these unwelcome guests. They roughly dragged away Ork remains with power claws or chainaxes, or simply blasted piles of corpses into fragments with Bolters for easier cleanup. The air was thick with the heavy scent of blood, the unique stench of Orks, and the acrid smell of Bolter gunpowder.
"These damned Ork scum! They never end!" A Chaos Terminator roared impatiently, crushing an Ork boy's head with his foot.
"They boarded from a hulk that looked like it was cobbled together from a junkyard... It's a miracle, really!" another warrior complained while scorching bloodstains with a flamer.
And on the Vengeful Spirit's grand bridge, adorned with twisted viewing ports and dark Mechanicus shrines, the atmosphere was even more heavy with an indescribable irritation.
A small-scale boarding action had just taken place here as well; scattered bullet marks and green bloodstains remained on the edges of the control panels. In the center of the bridge, on the highest command seat, sat a figure.
He was exceptionally tall, even surpassing a normal Chaos Terminator, clad in black terminator armour, forged in darkness, covered in spikes and the eight-pointed star of Chaos, exuding a suffocating sense of oppression and pure blasphemy. The monstrous daemon faces on his shoulder pads seemed to roar silently, and the massive power claw "Drach'nyen" rested casually on the armrest, its fingertips dripping with un-dried blood, whether of daemon or Ork, was unclear.
He was the Warmaster of Chaos, the Arch-Traitor — Abaddon.
This was the one who, after the failure of the Horus Heresy and the disintegration of the Legions, as the former First Company Captain of the Sons of Horus, had, through an iron fist, cunning, and an unparalleled desire for destruction, reassembled the remnants of the traitors, consolidating them into the mighty Black Legion, and launched one Black Crusade after another in vengeance against the Imperium of Man. Until the Thirteenth Black Crusade, which shook the galaxy, he personally shattered the Imperium's most important fortress world — Cadia, splitting the Imperium in two with a Warp rift, ushering in the unprecedented era of the "Great Rift."
He was the Imperium's nightmare, the symbol of Chaos, the embodiment of destruction.
Yet at this moment, this Warmaster of Chaos, who made countless worlds tremble, had encountered a small, perplexing, and extremely annoying problem.
He was meticulously planning the crucial Fourteenth Black Crusade, intending to inflict another fatal wound upon the tottering Imperium. But some damned bastard, whose brain had been licked by Nurglings (he suspected it was some gloating Tzeentch Greater Daemon, or perhaps even a Chaos God who wanted to see him fail), had spread a rumor in some corner of the galaxy — "Chaos Warmaster Abaddon is the strongest and most worthy 'big boss' in the entire galaxy!"
This rumor, like some of the most malicious WAAAGH!!! energy, was accurately transmitted into the mushroom-like heads of countless Orks across the galaxy.
As a result, recently, the Vengeful Spirit, and even some areas controlled by the Black Legion, inexplicably became "ultimate check-in points" in the eyes of the Orks.
Every day, Ork fleets would emerge from who-knows-what obscure corner, piloting what Abaddon considered to be a pile of junk barely held together and completely defying the laws of physics—their "spaceships"—and yelling, "Kill that big guy called Abaddon!" and "I wanna fight him!" before suicidally charging towards the Vengeful Spirit.
What was even more baffling to Abaddon was that these Ork junk ships not only actually flew, but they also seemed to navigate the Warp without needing Geller fields for protection, and inexplicably managed to evade most daemon attacks!
This was a double insult to the Chaos Gods and to physics!
These Orks completely disregarded the dignity of the Chaos Warmaster or the terror of the Black Legion; their minds were filled only with the purest desire for "a good fight."
Although these harassments posed no fatal threat to the Vengeful Spirit itself, they were like an endless, annoying swarm of flies, severely disrupting his strategic planning and... mood.
Abaddon's iconic, towering topknot seemed to droop slightly due to his master's irritation.
He looked at his subordinates bustling with cleanup on the bridge, and at the occasional debris of Ork ships, torn apart by the warship's gunfire, drifting outside the viewport, and let out a deep sigh, heavy with the scent of sulfur.
"Speed up the cleanup! Throw these green wastes into the reactor and burn them!" Abaddon's voice was like two rusty metals grinding together, filled with suppressed fury.
"All fleet commanders, raise your vigilance! Don't let these brainless Ork scum get close to my flagship again!"
He paused, his power claw clenching suddenly, knuckles cracking.
"And, the expedition plan must be accelerated! I have no time, nor patience, to continue playing with these inexplicable green fungi!"
The Chaos Warmaster's journey seemed to encounter some unexpected and strangely styled stumbling blocks.
Deep within the orderly Macragge's Honour, in Tech-Sergeant Eiras's clutter-filled corner, a low pressure now permeated the air.
Eiras sat cross-legged on her "bed" cobbled together from discarded parts and cushioning materials, cheeks puffed out, vigorously chewing on a standard energy bar so hard it could be used as a crowbar.
Her light pink short hair was a bit messy, and her large green eyes were full of "unhappiness."
This unhappiness stemmed from two major sources:
Firstly, Chapter Master Calgar had returned from that terrible planet, but she heard that Chapter Master Calgar needed rest, and Koreni was also very weak, so she couldn't sneak over with her pillow to snuggle into Koreni's bed and fall asleep smelling her pleasant scent like before.
This left her feeling empty inside.
Secondly, and more directly—her proud masterpiece, Elara's Storm, had just suffered its 803rd... failure.
Specifically, it had backfired again, blackening her small face and detonating a nearby spare power pack.
Fortunately, the blast wasn't powerful, only dislodging a beloved decorative gear, which she hadn't found yet.
"Darn it! The calculations were perfect!" she grumbled indignantly, refusing to admit her design had issues.
She, Eiras, was the best Tech-Sergeant on the Macragge's Honour!
The failure must be due to the materials!
Or... or the Emperor wasn't on duty today and didn't bless her!
She looked up, her gaze falling on the conspicuous World Eaters helmet atop the storage locker.
Scarlet paint, ferocious "rabbit ears," a shattered visor... she had studied it for days, and besides finding that the thing was indeed very hard, very sturdy, very big, and very heavy, she hadn't been able to decipher any useful technology.
The internal structure also seemed to be contaminated by some Warp power, making reverse engineering impossible.
"Useless junk!" she pouted.
"Might as well take it to the hangar and trade it with those 'Omnissiah'-chanting grease monkeys for a few packs of tasty synthetic jelly!" This thought brightened her mood slightly.
Her gaze then swept over her cluttered yet cozy little nook—the creaking "bed," the floor piled with shimmering metal parts and wires, the wall adorned with her own crooked mechanical blueprints...
These were all her favorite things, yet today, looking at them just made her inexplicably irritable.
"It's not because I failed again!" She vigorously shook her head, trying to shake off the frustration of failure.
"It's definitely not because Elara's Storm backfired again! I'm the best!"
To distract herself, her always-imaginative little mind began to wander uncontrollably.
'What if... what if Chapter Master Calgar and Koreni had a baby?' The thought immediately brightened her spirits.
'Chapter Master Calgar is so tall and handsome, and Koreni is so beautiful and gentle...' She cupped her face in her hands, stars appearing in her eyes.
'The little one born from them would definitely be even prettier! Or even more handsome! Maybe it would even have tiny pointed ears!'
But then, she thought of Calgar's exaggerated muscles and burly physique, and compared them to Koreni's slender and graceful figure...
'Uh...' Eiras's small face crumpled into a frown, and she shook her head vigorously, stopping this overly premature fantasy that might involve some knowledge she didn't fully understand yet.
'No more thinking about it! Let's think about how to improve my Elara's Storm instead!'
Meanwhile, on the command bridge at the top of the battleship.
Chapter Master Marius Calgar stood before the vast star map, his deep blue eyes fixed on the star system ahead, known as the Vespasthol region.
The massive Ultramarines fleet was adjusting its course, steadily advancing towards this area.
"Chapter Master," Captain of the Honor Guard Vitrius stood beside him, reporting calmly, "we are about to arrive at the Vespasthol patrol zone.
At that time, we will rendezvous with Decimus Felix, the Vespasthol Paragon stationed there, and his forces, to conduct routine patrol duties and inform him about Drathemiandas."
Calgar nodded slightly, indicating he understood.
Vitrius continued, "Additionally, according to the star map markings and previous reconnaissance reports, a moving Craftworld of the Aeldari is slowly traversing the edge of the Vespasthol star system.
This presents an opportunity to safely return the Aeldari children we have taken in to their people.
This action would also... reduce unnecessary attention from the Inquisition."
Returning the Aeldari children would resolve a concern and, to some extent, silence the Inquisition, an undoubtedly wise decision.
Calgar nodded, his voice steady: "Very well.
Make arrangements for initial contact with that Craftworld to state our intentions.
Maintain vigilance; the Aeldari's intentions are difficult to fathom."
"Understood," Vitrius replied, then hesitated slightly, adding, "Chapter Master, also... I recommend increasing the frequency of internal patrols and security checks on the battleship in the near future.
For some reason, I have a... not-so-good feeling."
Calgar turned to look at his experienced and intuitive Captain of the Honor Guard.
He was silent for a moment, and a barely perceptible hint of gravity flickered deep within his glacial eyes.
"Your feeling is not without basis, Vitrius," Calgar said slowly.
"I also vaguely sense that some undercurrent is stirring.
Implement your suggestion, strengthen internal security, especially in critical areas."
"Yes, Chapter Master!" Vitrius saluted, pounding his chest, and departed.
Calgar refocused his gaze on the star map, but the deep cosmic background seemed to transform into countless streams of complex data.
He picked up his data-slate, preparing to face the endless, mountainous piles of data-slates and reports.
However, the Lord of Ultramar's worries were not unfounded.
Deep within this massive, mobile fortress-like Macragge's Honour, concealed by countless passages, conduits, and shadows, an unknown threat had silently infiltrated.
An extremely blurred, distorted light-and-shadow, almost blending with its surroundings, was silently traversing the battleship's complex structures at a speed beyond normal human perception.
Beneath the shifting light, faint glimpses of blue-green power armour could be seen, its plates covered with dense, tough additional armor resembling dragon scales.
A high-tech stealth cloak perfectly concealed most of his movements; only when he moved extremely rapidly, or when subtle disturbances occurred in the surrounding energy field, would the ferocious, multi-headed serpent symbol on his shoulder plate—the Hydra—briefly appear, then vanish again into invisibility.
A perfect infiltration by an Astartes of unknown identity had begun.
No one knew his purpose; no one detected his presence.
The calm before the storm enveloped this glorious warship.
On the edge of the Ultramar sector within Imperial territory, a large smuggling fleet consisting of several modified cargo ships and a few old escort vessels was currently engulfed in a terrifying silence.
Their already weak armed guards had been completely slaughtered, their bodies scattered like broken dolls throughout the ship's compartments.
As for the unarmed crew members, who were only responsible for piloting and maintenance, they had fallen victim to a fate worse than death—they had become playthings for the raiders.
The raiders were not human, but a group of slender, lavishly dressed, yet blasphemous Dark Eldar Pirates.
Like venomous snakes in the shadows, they reveled in the fear and pain of their prey's dying moments, their sharp laughter and the victims' mournful wails intertwining in the communication channels, forming a chilling symphony.
Inside the cargo hold of the largest smuggling ship, a Dark Eldar Pirate was nonchalantly tallying the loot from their raid—mostly contraband tech-artifacts and rare minerals.
His face, as handsome and sculpted as it was twisted, bore a cruel pleasure.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he seemed to glimpse something flash by in the shadows behind him with extreme speed, so fast it was almost an illusion.
He whipped his head around, his sharp gaze sweeping over the mountains of cargo crates and the dim corners, but he found nothing.
Only the distant sounds of his companions torturing victims and their intermittent groans echoed in the cargo hold.
"Was it just my imagination…" he muttered, shaking his head, thinking he might be overly excited.
He refocused his attention on the data-slate in his hand.
However, the moment he turned back, his gaze leaving that shadow—a terrifying mask, pale, twisted, like a combination of flayed bat and human skull, unexpectedly filled his entire vision!
Behind its hollow eye sockets were two points of crimson light burning with cold killing intent.
The Dark Eldar Pirate's pupils contracted sharply, boundless fear instantly seizing his heart; he opened his mouth wide, but couldn't even utter a sound—
"Pfft!"
A Lightning Claw, covered in pitch-black power armour with ghostly blue arcs of electricity dancing on its fingertips, pierced precisely and swiftly through his lower jaw, through his skull, and out the top of his head, like a hot knife through butter!
The arcs of electricity instantly incinerated his brain tissue into a charred mess.
The Night Lords Warriors slowly straightened up, his movements fluid and silent.
He seemed to have performed a trivial task, even having the leisure to use the Lightning Claw to pick up the pirate's head, which still bore an expression of extreme terror, and hold it up to his bat-faced, bone-like visor.
With undisguised contempt and a playful, trophy-collecting air, he examined it for a moment.
Then, like discarding trash, he casually flung the body aside.
This was just the beginning.
Like phantoms, numerous Night Lords Warriors emerged from various shadowy corners of the cargo hold.
They exploited the Dark Eldar Pirates' scattered positions and their indulgence in the pleasure of torture, launching efficient and ruthless assassinations against these isolated or small groups of xenos.
Lightning Claws tore through slender necks, bolter rounds shattered ornate armor at close range, and the sounds of bone-cracking and the low hum of energy weapons replaced the previous screams.
By the time the pirates finally realized something was amiss and alarms shrieked in their internal channels, it was already too late.
"For Nostramo! Long live the night haunter!"
Accompanied by a deep, murderous war cry, Sevatarion, the prince of crows—now appointed Chapter Master of the Eighth Legion's First "Chapter" by Konrad—wielded his signature "crow's talons" power claw.
Like a king leading a flock of ravens in a dive, he burst forth from the main connecting passage with a squad of elite Night Lords Warriors.
Bolter rounds swept through like a storm of metal, tearing apart swathes of Dark Eldar Pirates attempting to rally and resist.
Sevatarion himself moved like a dancer of death, each swing of his power claw carrying a lethal elegance, severing any xenos who dared approach, along with their weapons.
The battle, or rather, the slaughter, was nearing its end within twenty minutes.
Control of this largest smuggling ship had already changed hands.
Some human crew members, hiding in corners and trembling, were found by the Night Lords Warriors from their hiding places.
However, when they saw the black armor adorned with pale skulls and lightning, especially the iconic bat-winged helmets of their rescuers, their fear did not lessen but intensified!
The fearsome reputation of the Night Lords, even ten millennia later in the Imperium, could still stop children from crying at night, their terror surpassing even that of the Dark Eldar Pirates they had just faced!
They huddled together, not daring to breathe, fearing that these legendary "Night Bats" would casually dispose of them as well.
However, to their surprise, these giants, exuding cold killing intent, merely confirmed their temporary safety and then ignored them.
The Warriors silently turned, continuing to clear the remaining resistance on the ship, checking every corner to ensure no one had escaped.
Their actions were efficient, ruthless, yet they seemed…not to turn their blades on these innocent mortals.
On the bridge of the nightfall, hidden in the nearby void shadows, Konrad Curze silently watched this one-sided hunt through the visual feed shared by his Warriors' helmets.
He watched his sons, like the most professional scavengers, efficiently cleanse the filth of the galaxy.
He slowly raised his hand and picked up the more grotesque, bat-faced helmet, which seemed to merge with the shadows, placed beside his command chair, and slowly put it on.
When the hollow eye sockets glowed crimson, his entire aura became deeper and colder, as if he had completely merged with the darkness.
He turned to Zso Sahaal, who stood like a shadow at his side, his voice, filtered through the helmet, carrying a cold calmness like grinding metal:
"Bring the Black Armour Guard; we will go and 'greet' those…pirates."
Although his tone betrayed no ripple of emotion, Sahar, who had followed him for a long time, could clearly feel the endless, abyssal cold killing intent contained beneath those calm words.
It was a hatred for xenos, a punishment for atrocities, or perhaps…a deeper, primal instinct of the night haunter stirring.
Sahar immediately pounded his fist against his chest, his armor plates clanking dully, his voice resolute:
"Your will be done, Primarch!"
Meanwhile, far away on Macragge, inside the brig of the Macragge's Honour, it was a different scene.
First Company Captain Cassius Venus felt his enhanced stomach protesting wildly.
He hadn't consumed any food for two days.
Although an Astartes Brother's metabolism far surpassed that of mortals, allowing him to endure prolonged hunger, the physiological emptiness and craving for energy still tormented his nerves.
He even found himself missing the nutrient paste he usually found bland and only consumed for basic sustenance.
What infuriated him most was that Dorian, the culprit next door, seemed completely unaffected!
That guy was audibly crunching on his standard-issue bread, the sound amplified countless times in the nearly soundproof brig, like an agonizing drone, constantly irritating Cassius's hungry nerves and his sanity on the verge of collapse.
"Damn it…" Cassius cursed under his breath, finally unable to resist, and hammered on the wall, yelling into the comms at the Chapter serf on duty outside: "Hey! Can you advance me some…some of my nutrient paste rations for the next six months?!"
Silence lingered on the other end of the comms for a moment, then came the serf's emotionless reply, strictly adhering to regulations: "I'm sorry, Captain Cassius.
According to Article 17 of the 'Logistics Management Regulations During Wartime and Disciplinary Action,' no form of ration may be advanced or loaned during a period of punishment.
Please comply with the rules."
"…" Cassius felt his vision darken again.
He slumped back powerlessly, feeling like he was about to be driven mad by this absurd situation and hunger.
He pounded the wall again with a loud thud, roaring at the next cell: "Dorian! Keep your eating noise down! Otherwise, the first thing I do when I get out is kill you!"
This murderous threat clearly worked.
The irritating chewing sounds from next door instantly ceased, replaced by a deathly silence.
Dorian was truly scared this time; the Captain's merciless punch from before was still fresh in his memory, and he certainly didn't want to experience being embedded in the wall again.
And the "fuse" that led to this entire chain reaction, Laya, the former secretary to the Planetary Governor, was not having an easy time either.
She had been assigned by Captain Cassius to assist Lieutenant Golden with some company paperwork and logistics coordination.
For her, who had once lived a pampered life in the Hive City's upper society, this was undoubtedly a formidable challenge.
The rigid and solemn atmosphere on the warship, the complex and lengthy procedures, and the taciturn Astartes Brothers, like giants of steel, all made her feel immense pressure and discomfort.
Her once sun-kissed, Golden wavy hair now seemed to have lost its vitality, simply tied back behind her head. Her originally bright and captivating blue eyes were now dim, shadowed by fatigue and a sense of displacement. She sat at the small desk assigned to her, staring blankly at the dense lists of supplies and personnel rosters on the data-slate, feeling utterly out of place in this world.
Lieutenant Golden noticed her predicament. This relatively gentle and smooth-talking veteran thought for a moment, then contacted Luna via internal comms.
"Luna, it's Golden. Would you mind bringing Eiras to the records processing room? We have a... new colleague here who seems to need a bit of 'vitality'."
Perhaps that always energetic, imaginative little one could help this lady from the mortal world relax a bit and adapt to life on the warship.
Inside the records processing room, the atmosphere was initially a bit heavy. Laya was frowning over a complex supply manifest, while Lieutenant Golden reviewed training reports on another data-slate. This continued until the door was pushed open with a whoosh, and a pink figure burst in like a small whirlwind.
"Lieutenant Golden! Were you looking for me?" Before Eiras could even steady herself, her sharp eyes had already spotted the synthetic bread on Golden's desk, meant as a temporary snack. She snatched it up with lightning speed, took a huge, unceremonious bite, and, with her cheeks puffed out, struggled to chew while asking indistinctly.
Golden looked at the energetic little one and smiled helplessly, long accustomed to her 'opportunistic' ways. He didn't fuss about the bread, but instead raised a hand and pointed to Laya, who was sitting not far away, looking at Eiras with some surprise.
"Eiras, this is Lady Laya. She's currently assisting our First Company with some administrative work. She's new to the warship and still adjusting to the environment here."
Eiras followed Golden's refer to direction, and her large green eyes instantly lit up!
Another pretty older sister!
Her Golden hair was like a waterfall woven from sunlight, and her blue eyes were like the purest sapphires. Although she looked a bit listless now, her inherent beauty was undeniable! Eiras instantly felt that the fragrant synthetic bread in her hand was no longer appealing. She quickly crammed the rest into her mouth, then, like a curious kitten, immediately scurried over to Laya. Standing on tiptoes, she almost pressed her face against Laya's, carefully scrutinizing this new "pretty human."
Laya was startled by Eiras's sudden close-up inspection, instinctively leaning back. She looked at the Eldar girl in front of her with pink short hair, large green eyes, and pointed ears, her surprise growing. Why would there be a Dark Eldar on an Astartes Brother's warship?
However, Eiras gave her no chance to ask. After completing her initial "appraisal," her small mouth immediately started chattering like a wound-up horn, launching into a torrent of self-introduction:
"Hello, pretty sister! My name is Eiras! I'm... I'm the best and smartest Tech-Sergeant of the Ultramarines, oh no, of the entire Imperium!" She puffed out her small chest, beaming with pride, even though this title was self-proclaimed. "You can call me Lady Eiras! Or just Eiras is fine too! I'm responsible for maintaining so many powerful weapons on the warship! Like my 'Elara's Storm'! Though it's been a bit moody lately... but it'll be fixed soon! I can also fix power armour! Even though last time I knocked a horn off Captain Cassius's shoulder guard... but that was an accident!..."
Her speech was extremely fast and packed with information, leaving Laya stunned and unable to get a word in.
Seeing Eiras launch into her "signature" speech again, Golden quickly waved her off, otherwise she would ramble from fantastical inventions to a strange space mouse she found in a pipe yesterday.
"Eiras," Golden's voice carried an undeniable gentleness, "Lady Laya is still very unfamiliar with the warship and needs time to adapt. After you finish your work today, if you still have energy, you can take her around some of the permitted areas on the warship and introduce her to the basic situation and... lifestyle here." He specifically emphasized "permitted areas" and "lifestyle," hinting that Eiras shouldn't take her to dangerous or strange places like the engine reactor chamber or weapon testing grounds.
Upon hearing this, Eiras's head bobbed like a pecking chick. Not only could she stay with the pretty older sister, but she could also take her on an "adventure" through the massive warship.
"No problem! Leave it to me! Lieutenant!" She patted her rather flat chest, promising confidently, "I will absolutely make Sister Laya familiar with this place very quickly! I know where the fun spots are, where to see the most beautiful nebulae, and I can even take her to the kitchen to see if we can find some tasty jelly!"
She was already planning her "tourist route" in her mind.
Golden looked at Eiras's excited expression, then at Laya's face, a mix of confusion, surprise, and a hint of curiosity. He secretly hoped that the little one's "vitality" would truly help this new lady, rather than scare her away.
Meanwhile, deep within the massive hull of the Macragge's Honour, in a seldom-used maintenance tunnel connected to a backup energy conduit, the air subtly twisted.
The infiltrating Alpha Legion warrior deactivated his optical camouflage field. His cerulean power armour fully materialized, the dragon-scale additional plating on its segments gleaming with a cold sheen under the dim emergency lights. Surprisingly, his armour bore none of the blasphemous runes, flesh mutations, or eight-pointed star symbols typically associated with Chaos traitors. Instead, this power armour maintained an unusual cleanliness, precision, and... sense of mystery, as if it had just rolled off a highly secure military production line. Only the faint Hydra emblem on his shoulder guard revealed his undeniable identity.
He knelt on the ground, holding a palm-sized data interface device glowing with a faint blue light, its other end connected to a low-level data exchange node within the warship. Using this inconspicuous interface, he silently intercepted and copied data fragments related to keywords such as "Night Lords," "Konrad Curze," "return," and "atonement" from recent internal warship communications.
His movements were extremely skilled and swift, clearly demonstrating his expertise. After completing the data collection, he disconnected and returned the device to a storage compartment on his leg. He then accessed the data, and data streams scrolled rapidly across his cerulean ocular lenses, performing a quick preliminary analysis.
"...Lion El'Jonson... witness... accept return... conditions... surveillance... supplies..." He murmured a few core information points, his voice, filtered through his helmet, carrying an inhuman coldness.
"Hmph... interesting development." He let out a soft snort, impossible to tell if it was mockery or merely a record. The Alpha Legion had an extraordinary thirst for intelligence, and any event that could disrupt the existing balance was a target of their attention. The return of the Night Lords was undoubtedly a colossal stone thrown into the deep waters of the galaxy.
With the preliminary analysis complete, he had no intention of lingering. After reconfirming the safety of his surroundings, he activated his stealth cloak. His cerulean form, like a drop of ink dissolving in water, quickly blurred, became transparent, and finally vanished completely into the dim passage, as if he had never been there. He came and went without a trace, completing a perfect intelligence theft and extraction.
The Alpha Legion.
This name, both within the Imperium and the forces of Chaos, represented the ultimate enigma. They were even more mysterious than the Dark Angels, burdened with their heavy secrets. No one had ever truly been able to define the Alpha Legion — were they completely renegade, or loyalists lurking in the shadows? Or, like the legend of their twin Primarchs, did one choose loyalty while the other embarked on the path of betrayal?
Ten millennia ago, it was said that the Alpha Legion's two Primarchs — Alpharius and Omegon — were slain in a duel with the Ultramarines Primarch, Roboute Guilliman. However, for the Alpha Legion, masters of disguise, deception, and infiltration, who could be one hundred percent certain that this "death" was not another meticulously planned ruse? Just like Konrad Curze, who was once believed by the outside world to have long perished, yet now reappeared with his Legion.
Did Alpharius and Omegon, like Koz, merely feign death, instead hiding in some corner of the galaxy, continuing to advance their complex and secret grand plan that no one could comprehend?
No one knows.
The only certainty is that the Alpha's gaze has never left the galactic chessboard. And this time, having acquired intelligence on the Night Lords' return, where, and in what manner, will they move their next piece on some future day?
The undercurrents, still surging silently.
Time quietly passed until a considerable period had elapsed since the uninvited guest's infiltration. Only then did Captain of the Honor Guard Vitrius, relying on his exceptional vigilance and almost instinctive familiarity with the ship's environment, detect an extremely faint, almost negligible, abnormal aura.
This aura did not belong to any Ultramarine. It was as subtle as a spider's silk, blending with the ship's massive energy flow and the life signs of thousands of crew members, making it difficult to pinpoint. Vitrius did not dare to delay. He immediately mobilized all surveillance records, machine spirit logs, and sensor data within the Macragge's Honour, personally leading a team of Tech-Priests to begin an uninterrupted, thorough investigation that lasted over a dozen hours.
They meticulously reviewed the footage frame by frame, analyzing every anomaly in energy fluctuation, as if combing through hair. Finally, they found a clue in the surveillance records of a narrow maintenance passage connecting to a backup energy pipeline, a place where personnel rarely ventured.
The record showed that just dozens of hours prior, a nearly transparent, distorted figure, blending perfectly with its surroundings, had flashed by. Its stealth was incredibly high; it not only perfectly evaded the sight of all fixed sentry posts and patrol teams, but even a Tech-Priest, who happened to pass by and was extremely sensitive to energy fluctuations, failed to detect its presence! Even more unsettling was that the ship's vast and sensitive machine spirit—the mechanical consciousness that sustained the entire vessel's operation—also reported no anomalies!
It was as if that presence was merely a ghost, bringing no physical impact.
An alarm blared in Vitrius's mind. Without a moment's delay, he immediately took this crucial surveillance footage and headed straight for the Chapter Master's office.
When Marius Calgar first heard Vitrius's preliminary report, he initially harbored a hint of doubt, wondering if it was a sensor malfunction or some unknown energy interference. However, when he personally saw the surveillance footage, which had been technically processed and slightly enhanced in contrast, his usual glacial calm was broken, replaced by a deep solemnity.
In the footage, the transparent figure moved like a phantom, fluid and swift, intimately familiar with the ship's internal structure, easily penetrating layers of defensive blind spots.
"Has he already left?" Calgar's voice was low, betraying no emotion, but those familiar with him could sense the undercurrent beneath his calm.
"Yes, Chapter Master," Vitrius confirmed, "Based on the faint decay of the residual aura, he should have left more than forty-eight hours ago. It was precisely because he left that the aura, which had been deliberately suppressed to the extreme, finally dissipated slightly, allowing us to catch a trace. The opponent... is a true master of infiltration. His motive is currently unknown. Is it to steal intelligence, or is it to... assassinate high-ranking Chapter personnel?"
Calgar's gaze remained fixed on the blurry figure on the screen. He quickly ruled out the possibility of an alien assassin; this style was more reminiscent of... His mind immediately recalled recent events that were significant enough to shake the highest echelons of the Imperium.
"It's very likely related to the Night Lords," Calgar said in a deep voice. Although the news of the Night Lords' return was strictly classified, it was no longer a secret within the Macragge's Honour, especially among the warriors who participated in the Drathemiandas campaign. It would not be difficult to inquire about related intelligence.
Without hesitation, Calgar immediately gave the order: "Honor Guard, effective immediately, all leave is canceled. Implement a ship-wide, twenty-four-hour, continuous patrol. Dispatch additional Terminator squads from the First Company to Key Points guard key areas such as all backup hangars, major pipeline junctions, the energy core, and ammunition depots. This matter is classified as top secret, known only to officers at the company level and above, to avoid unnecessary panic among the warriors and crew."
"Understood!" Vitrius thumped his chest with his right hand, accepting the order and preparing to withdraw to execute it.
But just as he reached the doorway, he seemed to remember something, turned back, and added, "Chapter Master, for your absolute safety, should we temporarily assign a team of elite warriors as your personal guard?"
Upon hearing this, Calgar slowly raised his head, and a cold, steel-like glint flashed in his sharp eyes. He waved his hand, his tone carrying a confidence born of absolute strength and an unquestionable authority:
"No need. Whatever he is, alien or traitor, these wretches who only dare to operate in the shadows cannot harm me."
Vitrius said no more. He had absolute faith in the Chapter Master's strength. He saluted again, turned, and quickly departed, his heavy footsteps echoing in the corridor as he began to deploy the dense defensive network.
After Vitrius left, Calgar immediately connected to the bridge's communication, ordering the communications officer to attempt to contact the heroic Decimus Felix, who was patrolling the Vespatol region. He also instructed them, under the premise of ensuring safety, to attempt initial contact with the nearby Eldar Craftworld, inform them that they were carrying their young, and express their intention to return them.
Having made all these arrangements, Calgar refocused his attention on the surveillance footage. He retrieved the raw data, slowed the playback speed to the extreme, and meticulously analyzed the transparent figure's movement contours, posture, and use of the surrounding environment, frame by frame.
His brow furrowed deeper and deeper. Although the image was blurry and the camouflage perfect, the faintly visible, superhuman physique, and the battle-hardened postures revealed in certain specific movements, all pointed to an undeniable conclusion—
This was the figure of an Astartes Brother wearing power armour!
This discovery made Calgar's expression even grimmer. An Astartes, possessing such superb infiltration skills, bypassing all the ship's defense systems and the sensitive machine spirit, his identity and purpose behind it were chilling to contemplate. Was it a fallen traitor legion? Or... those existences even more mysterious than traitors?
Meanwhile, in Gaius's personal cabin, the atmosphere was starkly different from the high alert of the ship's command, appearing serene and warm.
After several days of rest and with the aid of Gaius's own powerful regenerative abilities, Kolesa's soul wounds, while far from healed, had improved significantly in both mental state and physical condition. At least she was no longer too weak to move on her own. At this moment, she had changed into a long red dress meticulously crafted for her by a mortal Tech-Sergeant on the ship.
The dress was made of a tough yet smooth composite material, tailored to fit. Although the craftsmanship couldn't compare to the Eldar's exquisite weaving techniques, it was considered superior by human standards. Kolesa gently twirled in the center of the cabin, her skirt flaring up like a blooming red rose, outlining her slender and graceful figure.
Gaius sat on the bed, watching her with gentle eyes. His gaze swept over the fabric of the dress; with a warrior's familiarity with equipment, he quickly recognized that the material likely came from the Honor Guard's discarded cloaks, repurposed after treatment and dyeing. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, but he didn't point it out.
Kolesa elegantly performed a short, Eldar-style dance for him. Though the movements were not complex, they were filled with an ineffable sense of rhythm and beauty, like a sprite dancing under the moonlight. After the dance, she sat down beside Gaius, slightly breathless, her cheeks flushed with a healthy color.
She leaned against him, her slender fingers gently tracing the cold power armour interfaces on his body. Her gaze fell on his helmet, which was adorned with a laurel wreath, and she asked with some curiosity, "Gaius, why don't you wear a cloak like Captain Cassius or Chapter Master Calgar? It would look... more imposing."
Gaius looked down at her curious purple eyes and patiently explained, "Within the Ultramarines Chapter, and indeed most Adeptus Astartes Chapters that adhere to the Codex Astartes, hierarchy and etiquette are extremely strict. Each rank and position has its specific adornments, which are not merely for aesthetics, but symbols of honor, duty, and status."
He pointed to his bare shoulder pads and back: "Take the cloak, for example; it's not an adornment worn at will. According to Codex regulations and tradition, only the Chapter Master, Company Captains, members of the Chapter's Honor Guard, and the Company Champions are authorized to wear cloaks over their power armour."
Then, he pointed to his helmet, which was placed nearby: "Now look at the crests on the helmets. Horizontal plumes or decorations are typically the mark of a Captain. Vertical crests, on the other hand, symbolize a Company Champion. As for the Chapter Champion—the strongest warrior in the entire Chapter—his crest would be even more elaborate, and special feathers would be inserted to signify his supreme martial prowess."
His explanation was clear and detailed, as if he were recounting a living history and law of the Legion. Kolesa listened intently, beginning to understand that beneath the seemingly uniform armor of the Astartes Brothers lay such a rigorous and complex system of honor. Every adornment, every detail, spoke of a warrior's achievements and responsibilities.
For her, this was not only about understanding Gaius's world but also a part of comprehending why he was so disciplined and placed duty above all else.
Kolesa nestled against Gaius, her slender fingers unconsciously tracing his chest. Her gaze fell once more on Gaius's helmet, which lay beside him. On the brow of that master-crafted power armour helmet, a laurel wreath, crafted from adamantium, white jade, and rare gemstones, symbolizing victory and glory, was affixed. She recalled that Dorian's helmet also seemed to have a similar one, though its design was more rugged.
"What about this laurel wreath on your helmet?" she asked, raising her purple eyes with curiosity. "Brother Dorian seems to have one too. What does that represent?"
At the mention of the laurel wreath, Gaius's thoughts couldn't help but drift back to those years filled with smoke and glory. A glimmer of reminiscence flashed in his eyes, as if traversing time, returning to that Strike Cruiser belonging to the Imperial Fists. A solemn ceremony, a grave atmosphere, and the Imperial Fists Captain, clad in bright yellow armor, personally presented this helmet, adorned with the laurel wreath and bestowed by Primarch Roboute Guilliman himself, to him with great reverence. In that moment, he felt not only honor but also a heavy sense of responsibility and the recognition from the Primarch.
He pulled himself from his memories and continued to patiently explain to Kolesa, his voice steady and with a hint of subtle solemnity:
"The laurel wreath," he said, pointing to the adornment on his helmet, "is typically awarded to warriors who have performed exceptional deeds on the battlefield. For example, leading a company to a crucial victory, turning the tide of battle; or making immense personal sacrifices, even nearing death, to cover brothers or complete a mission."
His gaze deepened: "Warriors who receive the laurel wreath are invariably elites within the Chapter, tested and recognized for both their loyalty and valor. It is an affirmation of past achievements and an expectation for future endeavors." He paused, then added, "Dorian's was personally bestowed by Lord Guilliman before the Battle of Cadian Gate, in recognition of how he, in an extremely dangerous mission, single-handedly held off a large number of Genestealers, creating a decisive opportunity for his squad to withdraw, and almost sacrificing himself in the process."
Kolesa listened quietly; she could feel the blood and fire, sacrifice and loyalty that this seemingly simple laurel wreath embodied. It was not merely an ornament but a brand on a warrior's soul, a testament earned after countless brushes with death. She looked at Gaius, her eyes filled with understanding and a hint of pride.
A brief silence fell in the cabin, broken only by the faint hum of the ship's engines.
After a while, Gaius seemed to remember something, his tone becoming a little more formal. He gently patted Kolesa's back and said:
"Kolesa, there's something I need to tell you. According to bridge scans, a mobile Craftworld of your Eldar race has been detected operating near the Vespatol region, where we are headed."
Kolesa's body stiffened slightly, and she looked up at him.
Gaius continued, "The Chapter Master has decided that once we arrive and rendezvous with the local garrison, we will attempt to contact that Craftworld and safely return the Eldar children we have taken in to your people. This will prevent them from remaining here long-term and also... reduce some unnecessary attention."
He was, of course, referring to potential trouble from the Inquisition.
Kolesa listened, then was silent for a moment. Returning the children to their people was undoubtedly the best option, allowing them to grow up in a familiar cultural environment, away from human conflicts. She nodded, indicating understanding and agreement.
However, for some reason, an indescribable pang of sadness welled up in her heart. She wrapped her arms around Gaius even tighter, burying her face against his cold chest, tears silently falling and soaking his black bodysuit. These tears were not of opposition, but rather a release of complex emotions—was it reluctance to part with the children? A touch of melancholy for her own wandering fate? Or an attachment to this man who had given her shelter and warmth? Perhaps, a combination of all.
Gaius could feel her subtle trembling and the dampness on his tunic. He said nothing, simply held her in a firmer embrace, offering silent comfort and support.
However, neither Gaius and Kolesa, immersed in their tender moment, nor the Chapter's high command, fully on alert and searching for traces of the infiltrator, were aware that a more insidious, internal crisis was quietly brewing.
And the source of it all came from Eiras's corner, filled with "treasures."
The World Eaters helmet she had picked up from the ruins of the Drathemiandas battlefield, deeming it "big, heavy, and useless," had a far more complex origin than Eiras imagined. It was not the equipment of an ordinary World Eaters warrior, but belonged to a World Eaters Champion! Deep within its crimson armor, it was already steeped in the power and will of the Chaos God Khorne. Although the emission of this chaotic aura was relatively weak in the material universe, in the Warp, it was like a lighthouse in the night, continuously broadcasting the precise location of the Macragge's Honour to the blasphemous entities lurking in the sea of souls!
Normally, such a clear Warp beacon would have been acutely sensed and located for removal by the ship's Librarians. But coincidentally, Eiras's cluttered "workshop" was piled high with various discarded power cells, mechanical parts emitting different wavelengths, and the chaotic energy fields remaining from her failed creations. These miscellaneous energy signals and physical barriers, like thick snow, inadvertently covered and interfered with the helmet's chaotic fluctuations, which were already primarily focused on the Warp, making it "invisible" to the Librarians' psychic scans.
The crisis, like a lurking venomous snake, accumulated its toxicity unnoticed in the shadows, following the ship's course. And its possessor, Eiras, was completely unaware; she only occasionally glanced dismissively at the bulky object taking up space, pondering when she would have time to drag it to the hangar and trade it with the Tech-Priests for a few packets of her favorite synthetic fruit jelly.