Chapter 104: Taking and Eating, How Embarrassing
The next day, in the grand bridge hall of the Eternal Crusader, the sons of Dorn gathered.
Beneath the towering gothic arches, the cold metal walls reflected the faint light, creating a solemn atmosphere. High Marshal Helbrecht stood at one end of the long table, the sword-scar on his face still clearly visible, a silent testament to the previous day's fierce clash.
His gaze swept over Pedro Kantor and the Executioners' Chaplain, Thulsa Kane. Noticing that they each bore a faint sword-scar of their own, Helbrecht's lips quirked upwards in a meaningful smile.
"Did Lord Arthur pay you a visit as well?" he asked in a low voice, a hint of teasing in his tone.
The others nodded, a silent understanding passing between them. They all knew what a visit from Arthur meant: gene-seed for their Chapter's future, and some additional "gifts."
The Crimson Fists, due to their strict adherence to the Codex, might have a slightly lower gene-seed conversion rate in the future, but this did not dampen their expectations.
Pedro rubbed his face. His wound had not yet fully healed; he was clearly the last to be "visited" by Arthur. Arthur had not only brought a prophecy about the future, but also a batch of gene-seed left behind by battle-brothers who had gone to the Deathwatch, along with their combat records and the pauldrons and sacred ashes carefully preserved by the Sisters. These precious relics were, without a doubt, the highest praise for their loyalty and sacrifice.
Of course, the price was also obvious—every company captain and champion in the entire Chapter, including the Librarians, had been dragged out to spar with Arthur.
Taking so much and eating for free, how embarrassing...
At this thought, Pedro couldn't help but smile. Arthur's black armor and black sword, his superb dueling skills, and his completely emotionless combat style had left a deep impression.
The representatives of the Executioners and the Crimson Fists exchanged a meaningful look, a hint of inquiry in their eyes. They had both thought of the legendary figure from the Black Templars' history, Sigismund. However, meeting the High Marshal's gaze, Helbrecht decisively shook his head, shattering their speculation.
The biggest difference between the four active elders and everyone else was that you could see the dislocation caused by the passage of time on them, but not the sediment of age. The four elders were all exceptionally outstanding, the light of their humanity shining brightly, but they were likely not very old.
"It doesn't match," he said, his tone firm, clearly having anticipated their thoughts. Although Arthur was mysterious, his image did not match that of Sigismund. Moreover, a portrait of Sigismund hung high on the bridge; anyone could see the difference at a glance. As for Arthur's flawless, impenetrable style, it was more akin to that of the Dark Angels.
But Helbrecht knew what was important. The Dark Angels were a secretive lot, and many unexplained disappearances were related to them. Even the Black Templars did their best to avoid getting involved in that Chapter's secrets. This topic was clearly not suitable for a deep discussion here.
"Then, High Marshal..." Pedro said, pointing to the wound on his face, his tone probing.
"Yes. I lost," Helbrecht nodded without hesitation, not a hint of shame on his face, but rather a kind of frank pride. His answer made everyone present smile, and they secretly decided that they would never let the scars on their own faces heal.
"Let's not talk about this for now," Helbrecht said, waving his hand and bringing the topic back to the matter at hand. His expression became serious again, his gaze sweeping over every warrior present.
"Are the preparations complete?" His voice was low and powerful, as if to remind them that the horn of battle was about to sound again.
"Yes. The fleet has not suffered any losses. We can depart after a simple refit," Pedro replied, listing his arrangements in detail as if reading from a menu. "During this time, we have also screened the warriors of Pierdra, recruited a contingent of mortal troops and Astartes aspirants, and have collected the food production technology left by the elders. These..."
The other two factions listened intently. It was a full three minutes before Pedro finished his arrangements.
You Crimson Fists truly do not shame your blue paint.
Helbrecht shifted his gaze to the Executioners' Chaplain.
"Preparations are complete. We can depart in three days," Thulsa replied concisely.
That's more like it. What's the point of a son of Dorn talking so much? Just throw it to the Chaplain or the Marshal.
Helbrecht's gauntlet, which had been painted red, clapped Pedro on the shoulder. "Come, let's go to the Dawnlight."
It was rare to meet someone who could put up a good fight. After losing yesterday, he had to think of some new tricks and go for another round. He was the High Marshal. Why did he have to do everything himself? The most important thing was to sharpen his own blade and serve the Emperor at the critical moment.
"Yes, High Marshal!" Pedro quickly stood up. They had been wanting to go for a long time, but with the High Marshal here, and them being of the same lineage, they had to align their thinking first. He picked up his power fist, which had been painted black.
It was an interesting thing. Because the Crimson Fists' first Chapter Master, Alexis Polux, had openly supported the Ultramarines' Primarch, Roboute Guilliman, during the Second Founding, the Crimson Fists had been ostracized by the other Imperial Fists successors, and had instead become close with the Ultramarines. The Black Templars, on the other hand, after the Imperial Fists had been wiped out during the War of the Beast and the Chapter was rebuilt through the Last Wall protocol, had a falling out with the Fists Exemplar and the Imperial Fists, who were now primarily composed of Fists Exemplar, due to cultural conflicts and certain secret reasons. They had even directly withdrawn from the protocol.
However, the Black Templars' relationship with the other Imperial Fists successors was exceptionally good. In the future, when the Celestial Lions were targeted by the Inquisition, the Black Templars would openly stand up for them, protecting the surviving members.
And now for the interesting part: the Black Templars, the "social butterflies," and the Crimson Fists, the "social outcasts"—these two extremes within the Imperial Fists lineage—were so close they were practically inseparable. Whenever they fought side by side, the Crimson Fists would paint one hand black, and the Black Templars would paint one hand red, to commemorate their deep friendship.
Pedro looked down at his own black power fist, a slight smile on his lips, a fervent light in his eyes. He looked up at Helbrecht and nodded, indicating he was ready.
The surrounding warriors also rose, the sound of their metal armor clashing echoing in the empty hall, a prelude to the coming battle.
"Lord Romulus!"
Pedro, his face bearing a few new scars, called out from a distance to the two elders who were in conversation. His voice was loud and full of respect. Although the scars on his face had not yet healed, his expression was still resolute and full of vitality.
"Lord Dantioch," he said in a lower voice as he approached, a hint of reverence in his tone.
"Pedro." Dantioch smiled faintly and nodded. His gaze held a hint of approval; he seemed to have a high opinion of this young warrior. Compared to the other sons of Dorn, the Crimson Fists had indeed inherited a certain passion and impatience from Polux, a trait that was particularly evident in Pedro.
"Finished fighting?" Romulus asked with a smile, a teasing glint in his eye.
"Yes. I lasted a bit shorter than last time," Pedro replied with some annoyance, a hint of helplessness in his voice. "Lord Arthur is still improving."
He now truly believed that Arthur was not Sigismund. If Sigismund's combat skills had already reached the pinnacle of perfection, then Arthur was still climbing a mountain whose peak could not be seen. With every exchange, Pedro could feel Arthur's strength growing, as if he could never reach his limit. Oh, right, and there was another, unseen feeling, as if he himself was being gradually analyzed. Because after defeating an opponent, Arthur would systematically explain their flaws.
This had allowed them to benefit greatly from the duels. Although they were always losing, it was a joyful pain. However, Lord Arthur seemed to have other things to do recently. The time for dueling had become less and less, to the point where now, if any Chapter wanted to duel him, they had to have an internal tournament first.
"My Lord, I will return to the bridge now." Pedro, keenly sensing that the two were discussing some secret, had no intention of continuing the small talk and prepared to leave.
"Remember to pick up your things from the warehouse," Romulus reminded him, a hint of concern in his voice, afraid that these warriors would be too proud to accept.
"Yes, my Lord." Pedro didn't stand on ceremony. According to the Sharks, the elders were just finding all sorts of ways to give them stuff. As for where all this relic-class equipment came from, you shouldn't ask. Just taking it and using it to fight was the best way to repay the elders.
"Arthur is really popular," Romulus said, watching Pedro and his comrades depart. He then sighed softly. "I really hope these warriors can have a better ending." He didn't know how many more familiar faces would disappear in this new crusade.
He knew that every crusade meant farewells, meant that familiar faces might disappear forever on the battlefield. Even though the transmigrators could now guide the warriors' souls to the Golden Throne with 100% certainty, he still couldn't shake his anxiety about the future. He so desperately wanted these warriors to be able to see the world they were protecting get better and better, to become a part of the construction of the human world, to blend into the crowd, and to live out their lives in peace.
However, reality was always cruel. The fate of a warrior was often intertwined with the sword, and their neighbor was death.
Dantioch did not reply. Even he himself sometimes found it difficult to understand the thought processes of the four lords. Because they were too normal. Although they often spoke of idealistic things, what they did was always within their means. In them, Dantioch saw the ideal tolerance of the Lord of Angels, the pragmatism of the Lord of Ultramarines, the decisiveness of the Lion, and the curiosity of the Lord of Prospero to explore the unknown.
Yet they were not extreme. Neither radical nor fanatical, but existing in this world with a kind of moderate balance.
What surprised Dantioch even more was the friendship between the four lords, a friendship that allowed them to entrust their lives to each other. They trusted each other, supported each other, as if they could overcome any difficulty as long as they were together.
This kind of friendship was, in Dantioch's eyes, a miracle. He couldn't help but recall the Great Betrayal ten thousand years ago, the scenes of chaos and betrayal as vivid as if they had happened yesterday. If there had been a few more Primarchs like the four lords back then, perhaps everything would have been different.
As an observer, whether it was the actions of Lord Perturabo and the other traitors, or the stories between Lord Guilliman and Lord Lion, it all just made him feel tired. He hadn't really thought about it before, but now he had a comparison.
Just when Lord Arthur had jumped into the Warp Rift, which Primarch would have jumped in without a word, completely entrusting his life and death to his partners? The genius Primarchs always believed their own decisions were the best, and rarely chose to seek common ground.
Dantioch sighed inwardly, shook his head, and pushed those distant memories to the back of his mind.
"Where were we?" Romulus asked, having finished analyzing his opponent's data and re-sending the results to Arthur to continue his practical learning. He raised his head, a thoughtful look on his face. His gaze refocused on Dantioch, as if the brief distraction had not interrupted their discussion.
"Regarding the design of the embedded micro-motor production line," Dantioch replied calmly, a renewed focus in his tone. His mechanical fingers tapped lightly on a data-slate, the screen flickering with complex diagrams and data.
"We are still optimizing the material composition. Precision and structure are not under consideration," Romulus nodded and continued. "Send me a finished report after it's complete. Then there's the design of the miniaturized jump pack."
They had recently been designing a new suit of combat armor to adapt to the transmigrators' ever-increasing combat capabilities. The current reference was the modular design of the Mark X power armor. The plan was to use micro-motors to replace the traditional power pack, leaving the backpack entirely for maneuvering, a design that not only improved the armor's flexibility but also greatly enhanced the warriors' battlefield survivability, allowing them to move in three dimensions instead of two.
As for whether this technology would be classified as heretek, Romulus was not worried. As long as it looked fine on the outside and wasn't widely promoted, it wouldn't cause too much trouble. After all, there were plenty of colonies in the Imperium that secretly traded with xenos, and the Imperial Throne Gelt was even a hard currency in Commorragh. The meaning of that was self-evident. As long as you weren't caught by the Inquisition or the Arbites, these "little things" were of no consequence with the tacit approval of the Sector Governor.
"Good." Dantioch replied briefly, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. He was very well-suited to his duties. To be able to share his past experience and engage in work that made use of his talents was something he could not even have imagined in the past.
"Then I will take my leave," Romulus said, not wanting to disturb Dantioch any further.
"I will continue to share the technology we possess. I hope you can provide the necessary technical modifications. As for where the relevant technical information comes from, and the production of these creations, those are a secret," Romulus added, a hint of apology in his voice. "I personally cannot make the decision to share them with you."
"I understand," Dantioch nodded, showing his respect. He had no intention of prying. After all, if he could die and be reborn, and return to the galaxy he loved, what other miracle was impossible to explain?
(End of Chapter)