Chapter 49 Script

【Mourning, bloodshed, and death.】

Morgan was whispering.

It's like a young mother whispering in the ear of a sleeping baby, or like an old teacher's last teachings to the departed students: this voice is gentle, but not mixed with any emotion; this voice is warm, but radiating

Facing the severe cold of death, this voice is real, yet as illusory as the moon in the water.

At least in Zahariel's opinion, Morgan's voice is so contradictory, weird and real.

Caliban patted his shoulder armor. Except for a decoration representing the First Legion, there was still nothing there. This made him inevitably disappointed, but this loss was fleeting: there were more serious things that needed him.

to face it.

Morgan continued to whisper. She poured out complex sentences somewhat carelessly. As she whispered, her fingers slowly traced the direction of the skyline.

It's not quiet there.

The Dark Angel's superhuman hearing can hear those extremely noisy sounds, which are countless noisy roars like wild beasts, rumbling sounds like waves, wails and curses like hell, and mixed with the infinite gloominess of strange horns.

It was an attack, an attack that had not yet caught their eyes. One of Ran Dan's overlords or a group of warriors was driving countless cannon fodder slaves, maybe tens of thousands, or maybe more, rushing towards them.

They rushed towards him, and Zahariel could even hear the endless land of the desert trembling involuntarily due to their attack. Countless stones and dust bounced randomly on the ground, telling an ominous omen.

Then, he saw Morgan pouring out the last character, as if he had finished reading a poem.

Then, he saw [fog].

Fog, it appeared at the end of the field of vision, at one end of the skyline. This invisible killer was not as slow as its companions. It paced from one end of the skyline to the other at a speed visible to the naked eye.

Like a gentleman walking in a hurry.

Zahariel suddenly felt a kind of tension, which was the physical instinct that Astartes would erupt when facing an unimaginable threat. And now, looking at the slowly moving wall of fog,

Every knuckle and brain cell of Zahariel was trembling and excited involuntarily, screaming loudly in preparation for battle.

The Dark Angel forcibly looked away and turned his gaze back to Morgan. He longed to see the exhaustion and panting from this psychic lady: but what he really saw was Morgan's fingers moving freely.

She was playing with her silver-white hair, seeming to be thinking about whether to trim her hair that was too long. She was like a daughter enjoying the afternoon sunshine in the garden, carefree in the mist and the fragrance of flowers and plants.

No worries.

【Is that all right, Lord Zahariel?】

She said, with a kind of triumphant joy and show off in her words, and this question made Zahariel's body tighten uncontrollably,

Caliban raised his head with great effort, listened again, and looked far into the distance again.

He knew what he should hear. He should hear an entire army of Randan's slaves advancing. He should hear the symphony of thousands of sword blades clashing with each other. He should hear the sound of tank tracks and cannon tires scratching the ground.

From the indentation, one should hear the dying struggles of thousands, even tens of thousands, of slaves.

Just now, he heard it.

Just a second before Morgan uttered the verse.

but now……

The roar of wild beasts.

Armor crushing.

The low tone of the horn.

A cry for death.

He heard it all and didn't hear it again.

…

It's so quiet...

Quiet as if nothing existed.

Zahariel broke into a cold sweat.

The Caliban company commander turned his head slightly stiffly, passing through the recruit company that was being briefly confused and shocked. His hidden gaze was cast at a remote corner of the team, where a group of misfits stood.

warrior.

They were three slightly tall Dark Angels. Their whole bodies were tightly wrapped in hoods and robes, leaving only the huge weird guns they were holding. However, through the superhuman perspective of Astartes, Zhan

Harrel could still vaguely see the dense engravings and medals of honor on the shoulder pads of these mysterious men.

Caliban turned his head, remembering the conversation he had experienced before.

——————

"I am responsible for supervising the mortal psyker, the new recruit."

"You don't need to know the specific matters, just act as usual."

"But first, we have to pass a practical test to see if she is really, as stated in the letter from the Thousand Sons Legion, a real or controllable psyker comparable to an alpha level."

"You are responsible for this matter, recruit. I will be responsible for supervision and records, as well as some last resort measures."

"Remember, everything that happens here, whether it is important or not, whether it is successful or not, whether it makes you feel resistant and negative, or even allows you to put these ideas into practice, it will lead directly to [heroine]

Lion】himself.”

——————

Zahariel closed his eyes.

Although he is still just a [new recruit], he already knows some of the rules in the legion.

Why Morgan?

Because in the Sabis system, for some reasons that he has no right to know yet, the Dark Angels Legion needs a powerful psyker, preferably at the alpha level.

Why not Ahriman?

Because he is a Thousand Sons, one of the most trusted figures of the Primarch of the Fifteenth Legion. If he is lost in the Sabis galaxy and in the Dark Angel's plan, there will be some trouble.

[Lion] I always hate trouble that does not bring any benefit.

That's all.

"alpha..."

In the communication between only two people, Zahariel could hear the low-pitched affirmation of the Terran veteran hidden under the hood. What was strange was that he actually heard the words from the iceberg-like words.

The fearful trill.

As a psyker who has yet to develop his potential, Zahariel can actually understand the veterans' fears.

Mortals without much psychic talent cannot understand what [alpha] means in the spiritual realm.

Damn it, he had always thought it was a clerical error made by the Thousand Sons Legion. After all, it was basically impossible for an alpha with such good self-control to exist.

There was a sound from the communicator, and Zahariel could hear the veterans hidden behind the scenes wearing something, perhaps a bracelet equipped with a mechanism, because he heard the sound of steel buttons tightening, one after another.

As a psyker, every time the voice sounded, Zahariel felt that his psychic energy was being suppressed by a layer, as if a whole mountain was constantly squeezing his spine.

He couldn't help but bend down, suffering from the suppression of this instinct, but he was not alone: ​​the lady who had been graceful and luxurious just now was now even more miserable than he was.

Then, he heard the sound of adjusting the angle, and the mental burden on him was significantly reduced. In contrast, the mortal lady next to him obviously stooped her body.

Zahariel couldn't help but frown, and then he heard the voice coming from the communicator.

"Be patient, this is a necessary step."

"Your temporary mission has ended, recruit. Next, we will take away this psyker. You and your people only need to hold on to this camp."

"Good luck."

——————

Zahariel's face was stiff. He turned his head guiltily and looked at Morgan.

This silver-haired lady, whose ability and attitude are admirable, is already a bit thin, and her finger bones and wrist bones are obviously protruding. Compared to the Astartes, she is like a large doll, which even makes people feel uncomfortable.

I think it's too exquisite to appear on the battlefield.

At this time, this already thin lady began to sweat involuntarily, and large drops of sweat began to leave her forehead, staining the corners of her hair, blurring her eyebrows, and her originally comfortable breathing became dull.

Confused and heavy.

But this face that was suppressed for no reason, this weak, innocent, pale face that should have been sad and resentful, still showed an extremely forced smile when it looked at Zahariel.

【Is this a necessary precaution? Your Excellency?】

She raised the corners of her mouth, raised her brows slightly, and showed a soothing smile almost at all costs, but this seemed to immediately exhaust her energy.

Zahariel watched her lower her head, beads of sweat falling continuously from the tips of her hair. Before those veterans came here, it dyed the ground into a dim, irregular circle.

Caliban raised his hand. He wanted to say something, but the coating on his tongue was bitter: Thinking of the oppression he just felt, and then thinking about two such oppressions piled up on a mortal body, he

I feel like any words I say are feeble.

[No problem, Your Excellency...]

In the end, it was the suppressed lady who comforted him.
To be continued...