40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 600 118. Dark Expedition (Thirty-nine)

Calistarius slowly opened his eyes.

The first thing that came was pain, massive, indescribable pain that seemed to tear him apart alive.

It was as if every nerve in his body had been plucked out with a knife blade and then rubbed gently but delicately with a file. The same was true for his bones, and every time his heart beat, a shocking impact came from deep in his marrow.

It was as if countless sculptors were working inside with hammers, carving different patterns according to their respective artistic preferences.

The left arm is a flower, the right arm is a burning hell, the two thigh bones are rushing rivers, the rib plates on the left and right are the open mouths of a beast ready to devour its prey, and the skull is different, it is a bomb falling rapidly.

One thousandth of a second later, the bomb began to explode.

Calistarius screamed hoarsely.

What was the injury? What hit him? Was it the chain reaction caused by the demon boarding? Or was it because the nature of the ritual was changed, so he suffered the backlash that he shouldn't have suffered?

The Emperor.
Calistarius took a deep breath in agony.

His flesh was melting.

When reason returned, perception returned with it, so he could now perceive the incident clearly.

The ceremonial robe had long been burned to ashes, and the tough skin and flesh acquired through genetic modification had turned into melted blood under the constant burning of high temperatures, flowing all over the ground and hanging on his red and charred bones, dripping stickily.

All of this—all of it since he returned—made him feel mad, and his sanity was faltering, and he would soon go the way of his flesh.
He could hardly think of anything anymore, he had to go mad to get rid of the pain that was enough to drive an Astartes crazy. If he could still think, he would definitely recite the name of the Primarch.

But he couldn't.

Then a voice briefly transcended reality and reached his ears.

"Willpower—never forget one thing, Calistarius," the voice whispered to him softly. "You have conquered death."

In the midst of the unspeakable frenzy, Calistarius actually felt a sense of absurdity.

He couldn't understand where this emotion came from. Could it be that there was a part of him that hadn't suffered any pain and had retained its self and rationality? Could it respond to the words of others at this moment?
He instinctively dug deep into his heart, and then he actually found a small corner there, a stable safe room, which belonged only to Calistarius of the Blood Angels.
The young think tank gritted his teeth and went deeper into it, and began to search through it, trying to find anything that could help him at this moment.

He succeeded because there was nothing there.

A stable corner? It was nothing but a physiological self-deception, just a blank space, a small shelter temporarily constructed in the midst of terror and pain, to allow people to escape reality.

There was no escape. Calistarius took a deep, shuddering breath.

You can't run away from them, you have to face them. Either try to conquer your pain, just like you conquered death, or you will drown in them here.

Calistarius began to try to open his eyes. A burning pain came from near his eye sockets and quickly spread to his eyeballs, making him feel an urge to escape.

He ignored the urge and forced his eyes open. Immediately the cruel hell returned, fire shot up into the sky, and perception returned, the acrid air crackled with flames, almost like a chorus of bombs dropped by gunboats to Calistarius's ears.

Then he tried to clench his fist, but found that he could no longer feel his left hand.

The 'flower' had withered and now only bones were left. So he turned to look for support in his right arm.

This time, the index finger, middle finger and little finger responded to him. They closed together quickly and forcefully, clenched, and rubbed the ceramic steel that somehow escaped the disaster carefully.

Calistarius smiled with difficulty, his eyeballs rolling in his sockets. Logically, his eyes should be the first organ to be burned, but at this moment they are still there. Not only that, his vision is not affected.
In the flames, a huge rock suddenly flew up, carrying a strong wind, and crashed into the burning flames. Calistarius's right hand trembled, and his collapsed chest began to rise and fall rapidly.

He had regained some of his strength—or perhaps it was that the strength had never left him. It had been waiting for him to call upon it.

The most loyal soldiers, gathered in blood vessels and nerves, have already assembled and only need one order to send the whole army into action.
The blue light flashed again, and his deflated chest began to recover. The skin that was pushed up by the broken bones and the bloody parts began to recover rapidly in the blue light.

With his comprehensive knowledge of human physiology, Calistarius successfully rebuilt his chest system, and the injuries to his organs were completely restored under the influence of psychic energy.
It sounds so wonderful, but some doubts flashed through the young think tank's mind: Could I have done this so easily in the past?
His knowledge told him: No, it can't.

However, this was obviously not the best time to dwell on these matters. Calistarius began to heal himself, and after just a few minutes, he stood up from under the rubble.

Although he was still covered in blood, there were no longer any injuries on his body that could prevent him from moving, and even his melted flesh had returned.

The young Librarian had an illusion about them. He felt that they were all rotten meat, inferior substitutes that were glued to his hot bones through the medium of psychic energy.

But this is not the case. His body is still strong and can lead him out of the ceremony hall and do more things.
After crushing the flames, Calistarius soon arrived at the corridor inside the Red Tear. If it had not been destroyed, this place would be as beautiful as other places, but now, it was just a burning hell.

Corpses were scattered all over the ground, and the broken bodies of the crew members and their brothers were thrown randomly on both sides of the road, and some were even nailed to the wall. Most of them were headless bodies, and the heads disappeared strangely, as if the instigator had a special need for this.

Calistarius watched this scene in fury, and roared in impatience.
To be fair, he should remain calm. Making any noise rashly is not the best solution, but how can he remain calm in such a situation?

No, there was no way. At this moment, he had no means to stop the rage and could only let it attack his whole body.

However, he was not the only one here. His reckless behavior soon led to some not-so-good consequences. Several ferocious beasts discovered his presence among the corpses and rushed over, biting him with their bloody mouths wide open.

They were incredibly fast, but Calistarius was faster. He recognized them as the hounds of Khorne at a glance, and then kicked the first one that rushed forward the fastest, sending it flying back.

His original intention was to stop it, but without armor, this kick easily tilted the hound's head, and it flew out and crashed into the pile of corpses, flesh and blood exploded, blood mist rose, and the beast died completely. Calistarius felt confused again, but his fighting instincts had to react before he did. Thinking was thrown out of his mind, he raised his foot, just in time to predict when the second hound would bite him, and then fell heavily.
A dull sound was heard afterwards, and the hound was trampled to death alive. Its internal organs gushed out along its broken skin, leaving a winding trail on the ground.

Calistarius growled, and the release of violence made him feel briefly relieved. He began to charge, rushing in the opposite direction towards the third, fourth, and even more hounds.

He charged into their midst and began to kill with his bare hands, each blow faster and more ferocious than the one before.
Is this a good thing? He wasn't sure. He just felt as if he was breaking. The foundation of his existence as Calistarius, the beliefs he believed in in his past life, were all breaking down bit by bit.

He should have stopped to think about what this meant, but the increase in the number of enemies prevented him. The bloodletters of Khorne noticed what was happening here, so they turned their forces and rushed towards him.
Calistarius immediately realized that he had to leave, so he tore himself away from the violence and sprinted down the corridor.
-
Roboute Guilliman walks towards a mortal.

He lowered his head and looked at her carefully.

This person was wrapped in a white robe. She must have lived a pampered life. Her skin was delicate and there was no trace of labor on her fingers. Her face had also been adjusted many times, showing a kind of acquired beauty. Every corner contained subtle traces left by surgery.

He smiled, then stretched out his right hand and carelessly scratched her neck with his index finger. Blood gushed out, staining his hand red.
He crouched low. Soon, her memories flooded into his mind.

The daughter of the Governor, a prominent family, a forbidden lover, rich knowledge, and abuse of family power - looking at these things, Robert Guilliman smiled and looked at the others.

In this small corner of the banquet hall, they huddled together, keeping each other warm like animals, and were almost driven crazy. They were afraid of him, afraid that they would be the next food to be put on the table or eaten on the spot.

Others were not like that. They were not afraid of him. These unarmed warriors in blue armor were staring at him angrily, each of them missing some limbs.

Guilliman knew how they had lost their limbs - he had torn them off alive, of course, but what else? These were precious ingredients, and they could not be eaten all at once, otherwise if he missed the taste, where would he find them again?
He had just destroyed most of them with a conspiracy not long ago, and the artillery bombardment and subsequent ship crashes turned most of the food into completely inedible charcoal and dust.

These only sons of his who are left must be properly dealt with.

Guilliman looked at them blandly.

"monster!"

A young battle brother growled. Compared to the others, he had suffered more losses. Not only did he lose his left hand, but also part of his facial flesh was taken away, leaving hideous teeth marks on his cheekbones.

Watching this scene, the delicious feeling at that time suddenly surged back from the corner of his memory, and Robert Guilliman couldn't help but salivate. He suppressed his desire and shook his head slowly.

"Whatever you say, my son." He replied with a smile. "But you must feel the blood connection between us."

He raised his hands, baring his chest as if for an embrace, and he was right, every Ultramarines present could feel the blood connection with him.

It was an indescribable feeling, something that shouldn't exist, but it did. Realizing this almost drove them crazy, some of them gnashed their teeth, wishing they could rush up and kill him right now - or throw themselves into his arms and hug the Primarch.

"That is the truth," Guilliman slowly caught up with his words, his smile still there.

His golden hair was emitting a dazzling light in the golden splendor of the banquet hall. Although he had just committed such a bloody evil deed, there was no blood on his face. His blue eyes were extremely bright and clear.

From every angle, he was Robouti Guilliman, Primarch of the XIII Legion, Son of Macragge. However, the long table behind him was piled with corpses.

Every seat and every corner was filled with human remains. Hair, teeth, nails, and broken parts of power armor were thrown everywhere, emitting an incredible bloody smell. The ground was scarlet and the long carpet was completely soaked with them.

Roboute Guilliman lowered his hand.

"I--"

He nodded to them, taking in the anger, the fear, the madness.

"—your Primarch, I am Robouti Guilliman. I stand before you in the flesh, am I not? Can't you see how real my presence is?"

He took a step forward, smiled, and nodded to his chest.

"If you don't believe me, just touch it." He said gently. "See if this flesh and blood feels real. How about it? Do you want to give it a try, my pride?"

There was no response, only the sound of heavy breathing. A moment later, an Ultramarines stepped forward.

"I don't care what you are. I don't know what you want to do, but you won't succeed."

"Oh, really? Why?" Guilliman inquired, sighing to himself - the taste of an idealist.

He was almost proud of him.

Facing a powerful enemy and incomprehensible terror, he still stood up and delivered a speech to boost morale. Although he had no weapons and his right leg was missing, he still stood straight, which was enough to be included in the military posture standard for others to learn from.
It would be nice if you were on my side.

Roboute Guilliman looked at his son sadly, and suddenly, an idea came to him.
"Because we know what you are, and you are just—"

Guilliman didn't let him finish his words, he rushed over to him, dragged him out of the crowd, and walked towards the long table. He pinned him to the table, dislocated his jaw, then raised his left hand and drew a slow circle on his chest with his index finger.

A piece of steaming hot meat fell into his palm.

Guilliman looked at the battle-brother and for the first time saw fear in the latter's eyes.

"That's not necessary." He patted his head gently. "My son, you will soon know what I really am."

(End of this chapter)