40K: When evil spirits appear

Chapter 68 Trading Posts

"Trading Station KI-82, this is the Cunha, we request landing."

"Received, Cunha, security scan passed. Please dock in area C-21. If you require inspection or maintenance, please contact our technicians and maintenance team later."

The communication ended, and the merchant ship sailed into the not-so-crowded dock, gliding over a large area of ​​black metal and silver magnetic tracks, and came to a steady stop in its assigned area.

The Cunha was an ancient ship, lacking the ability to travel in subspace and capable of carrying a small crew. This transformation resulted in thick outer armor, powerful engines, and a huge cargo hold. Its exact design date is unknown, but it is likely a model that humanity had long since abandoned in the iterative design of ships over the years.

However, ships like this are not uncommon at the KI-82 trading post. This small trading post, located on the edge of the hazy star field, has always been peaceful. Merchants do not need to worry about encountering pirates or alien threats. In fact, as long as they run short-distance trade, they are basically guaranteed to make a profit.

Edmund was a regular here, and many trade representatives of noble families stationed here would specifically seek him out to buy locally produced fruits from Kunia.

Each world within the Empire possesses its own unique customs and traditions; things commonplace on one planet might be priceless elsewhere. Edmund recognized this early on and quickly established himself as a specialist fruit merchant at the KI-82 trading post.

Even at the banquets of the great nobles, delicious alien fruit is something to be proud of.

It was for this reason that he was stopped by two men who rushed over as soon as he stepped off the merchant ship. They were dressed in religious-style black robes, barefoot on the rough dock floor, with strange bald hairstyles; one old and one young, they stood out conspicuously. They placed an order for two hundred tons of fruit with Edmund in a strangely accented High Gothic language, and then hurried away.

go with.

The two men who followed Edmund out both stared at their backs, and the one who was as tall as a loader servant asked a question.

"Do you know them, Edmund?"

The captain turned around, bowed with his hand on his chest, and replied, "I've done business with them a few times. They come from a world where asceticism is a tradition. Their attire is a bit strange, but they are very trustworthy."

Eoran slowly nodded, pulled up the hood of his black cloak to cover his face, with only a few strands of white hair falling from his ears.

Such attire was commonplace in the chaotic trading post, and since his face was not visible, his height was not an issue—there were at least thousands of enhanced humans and loader servants throughout the empire who were taller than him.

Especially the former. In the forty-first millennium, there were many fools who were willing to spend a lot of money and endure a lifetime of taking rejection drugs in exchange for a body that looked very dignified... There were so many of these people that even the famous sages of the Cult of Mechanics would not refuse such business.

Of course, many people simply go to the black market and find a seemingly skilled illegal doctor, which is much cheaper.

"I see." Aiolan nodded slightly. "Also, is it just my imagination? I feel like you seem to be more...

There's more freedom on Cunha.

Edmund gave an awkward laugh upon hearing this, but still answered him honestly: "You're right, sir... I probably spend far more time at the trading post than at home."

"Then, go ahead and do your work. Remember to contact us via communications if anything happens." Aeolan smiled slightly beneath his hood. "I'd like to stroll around this trading post with my guards. Do you have any recommendations?"

"Well...

'

"Please feel free to speak."

The captain swallowed hard and replied cautiously, "Sir, if I may be so bold, this is not a good place. You may be very disappointed."

"Why? Do you think I'm looking for a place to sip fine wine from a wine glass while listening to ancient Terra music? Don't misunderstand me because of my appearance, Edmund. I'm not the kind of person who indulges in pleasure. Now tell me your recommendation; time waits for no one."

The captain thought for a moment and finally gave a name.

"Breath of Lava?" Eoran murmured. "What kind of tavern would have a name like that?"

Before him stood an extravagantly designed tavern, radiating heat and the smell of alcohol, even with the door closed.

The place was bustling with noise.

He lowered his head and looked at his "guard".

Of course, in reality, their status in the eyes of others is probably reversed.

Wearing leather boots, trousers, a white undershirt, and a lace-trimmed animal-skin vest and armored jacket, complete with a cloak, gloves, and a finely crafted longsword at his waist, Ald was the one who needed protection. As for Eoran? His height and hooded cloak alone were enough to confirm he was a superhuman bodyguard.

Eoran suddenly chuckled softly.

"I said... young master." He raised his hand and placed it on Ald's shoulder. "Shall we go in and take a look?"

Old frowned and looked up at him.

He didn't say a word, but Eoran spontaneously raised his hands.

"I apologize," he said suddenly, his tone sincere. "But should we go in and take a look?"

Ald turned his gaze back to the tavern door, took a step, and his voice reached Eoran's ears at the same time.

"Your curiosity about the world is as intense as that of a child who has never traveled far from home."

"Am I not?" Eoran retorted without changing his expression.

Old didn't answer, but simply pushed open the door, and the scene behind it... well, let's just say it was either the past or...

In the future, as long as humanity still exists and does not collectively ascend to become some kind of higher-dimensional being, the scene inside such bars will forever remain the same: a bustling dance floor, not-so-private booths, waiters weaving through the crowd, and music with its rapid drumbeats.

Old heard a soft gasp behind him.

Without turning his head, he asked, "Don't you have any memories of such a scene?"

Aeolan understood what he meant, and after thinking for a moment, he leaned close to his ear and replied, "His memories after getting that sword became very blurry; I can barely see anything. I think that's good, since I don't want to remember those things anyway."

His tone wasn't gloomy, but his words still made Ald look up at him. From this angle, he could see Eoran's violet eyes, made even more ethereal by the bar's colorful lights; they were clear and bright, belonging to a heart still untainted by dust.

Seeing Ald's gaze, he smiled slightly inside his hood and then mouthed a question.

What's wrong?

"It's nothing," Old said.

He walked to the long bar, pieced together from some kind of animal bone, and ordered two shots of strong liquor from the bartender. However, perhaps due to the influence of his clothes, which had once belonged to Iltarin, several people, both men and women, approached him and struck up conversations. Ald dealt with them all flawlessly, then tilted his head back and downed the liquor in his glass.

Judging from the label on the bottle the bartender presented, he was drinking one of the countless types of amosaic available in the empire—not particularly palatable, but very strong. To give an example of a robust, middle-aged man who drinks regularly, it's likely that after two drinks...

After three cups, this person will become drunk.

"Two more," Ald said to the bartender. "Both for my guard; he loves amosaic."

The bartender, whose hands were both prosthetic, nodded and generously brought out two large glasses, indicating that this was a discount for new customers and would be free. About a bottle and a half of amosaic disappeared from the bottle. Eoran silently gave the bartender a gesture of thanks, but his right hand under the bar gently nudged Ald's shoulder before he raised his glass and began to drink.

Taking this opportunity, the bartender spoke again: "Sir, is this your first time visiting our trading post?"

"How did you know?" Old asked with a surprise completely out of character for him.

The bartender grinned and replied, "Regulars rarely dress like you... Please don't misunderstand, I just mean that your attire could give some brainless thugs the wrong impression. Bullets don't have eyes; if they choose to take the risk, wouldn't you be an innocent victim?"

The bartender smiled arrogantly at the young nobleman in his eyes, then raised his hand and pointed to the tall bodyguard behind him.

"Do you see him?" the nobleman shouted. "Don't even mention a few thugs, even a hundred thugs wouldn't be able to harm him in the slightest!"

The bartender's smile lost some of its friendliness, but instead became even brighter. He nodded repeatedly in agreement, then moved on to other customers, pouring them drinks and taking their orders. Meanwhile, the guard had finished all his drinks. He lowered his head again and spoke into the nobleman's ear, but his breath carried no trace of alcohol.

"Did you overact? You scared him away."

"How can you lure out more fools if you don't play one?"

The guard frowned and asked, "Why are we doing this? I just want to see these things I've never seen before."

"Look to the left," the nobleman said softly, suddenly changing the subject to something seemingly unrelated to their current conversation. "Do you see it? That skull?"

Following his direction, the guard looked over.

Among the numerous collectibles hanging in the upper left corner of the bar, a human skull rests quietly at its edge. It's inconspicuous; after all, such skull decorations are commonplace throughout the Empire, and believers even consider it a great honor to be chosen after death to be placed in the church as a servant skull to continue serving humanity.

But the guard immediately noticed the problem the nobleman hadn't pointed out: on the pale, clean forehead of that skull, two sharp bat wings had been delicately and lightly carved. Without his superior eyesight, it would have been impossible to spot this detail in such chaotic lighting and environment.

The guard took a deep, deep breath and bent down again.

"How likely is it that this is just a coincidence?" he asked in a low voice.

"I don't know," the nobleman replied. "My knowledge of them is probably less than yours, not more; I've only gleaned fragments from books and documents..."

'

Upon hearing this, the guard remained silent for a moment.

When he spoke again, his voice was no longer feigned; it sounded serious and earnest, containing rationality, wisdom, and an undeniable sense of worry.

"Based on the information we have, KI-82 has shown no abnormalities over the years; it's just an ordinary trading post. If they were really here, given their past practices, this place would probably have become a living hell by now... But even if this is just a coincidence, we must investigate."

"Do you know them well?"

“No, not before I saw that hidden emblem,” the guard said with unusual calm. “But after that? I remembered many things, such as just how eager they were to commit unnecessary cruelty and torture, and to claim it was justice.”

The nobleman heard him clench his fist.

"But the truth is, they're just a bunch of madmen endowed with immense power," the guard said, his voice filled with disgust. "Their genetic father was absolutely right; his legion is now nothing but scum and thugs."

The nobleman nodded slightly, his gaze drifting to the edge of the dance floor. From the very beginning, he had sensed a scrutinizing gaze emanating from there. The instigator had tried to conceal themselves, but his senses were far too acute, especially regarding such gazes filled with considerable malice...

He took a throne coin from his pocket, placed it under his wine glass, and then turned and left.

"What's the name of their genetic father?" he asked as he walked.

"Didn't you read books about them before?"

"There wasn't a single name written on it."

Fugrim let out a sigh, a sigh filled with complex emotions.

"Conrad Coates," he said softly. "A pathetic madman."

They pushed open the door, left the bar, and deliberately walked with an unsteady gait in front of many eyes outside.

The nobleman's performance was exceptionally realistic; he was practically a living, breathing playboy from a wealthy family. With a strange smile on his face, he staggered toward a small alleyway on the side of the bar located in the middle of the trading post, muttering words that were difficult for ordinary people to understand... His guards faithfully followed him in, and the two of them did not reappear for a long time.

A moment later, a group of people cautiously followed them inside.

Late that night, their bodies were discovered. Fourteen men in total, armed with various firearms, had all died without firing a single shot, and even their causes of death were similar and horrific: their throats had been struck by some force, leaving them caved in. They lay scattered on the ground, many of them still smiling before they died.

This story quickly spread and became one of the countless ghost stories circulating in the trading post.

As for the truth, no one knows.

The killer who committed this crime had arrived at the lowest level of the trading post two hours before their bodies were discovered, and knocked on the door of a warehouse with its doors tightly shut.

A few seconds later, the peephole on the iron gate was pulled open, and a pair of impatient eyes glared at the newcomer, who growled.

"No customers today!"

"We are not guests," Old said.

He punched through the thick alloy door.

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