40K: When evil spirits appear

Chapter 69 Old Acquaintances

The gunfire inside the warehouse continued for a while, then quickly subsided, leaving only low, painful screams.

Old picked up the one among them who was deliberately left unharmed and gently placed him on a chair.

The man was about thirty years old. One of his legs had been replaced with a reinforced prosthetic limb. He had long hair, a deathly pale complexion, and a large radiation scar on his left cheek. His limbs were longer than normal, and combined with his overly gloomy skin, Ald could easily deduce that he had once been a Void Child.

This is one of the most common births within the Imperium. Many never see true land in their entire lives; they are born on a ship or space station and die before that, with very few meeting a peaceful end. There is widespread discrimination against them throughout the Imperium, as the State Church once hunted them, believing that the Void Children are more susceptible to the corruption and taint of Chaos than ordinary people.

Although this was eventually proven to be nonsense, the seeds of doubt had already been sown.

Therefore, it is not surprising to see a Void Child mingling with a gang in the trading post.

The only problem was that there was no fear on his face, even though just a minute earlier Old had punched through their door and swiftly taken down the others inside the warehouse, whether they had drawn their weapons or not.

In fact, the only expression on his face at that moment was one of equanimity in the face of death.

Ald watched him quietly for a moment, then looked away and said to Aiolan, "I'm afraid he won't say anything."

The Primarch's face contorted for a moment at this conclusion, but in the end, he simply sighed, "I don't want to torture him."

"Why don't you speak Gothic?!" the Void Child suddenly roared, glaring at them. "Two scumbags who can't stand the light of day!"

Olde turned his attention back to him, then gently extended his right hand and placed it on his shoulder.

“That’s the language of my homeland,” he switched back to Low Gothic. “You don’t seem afraid.”

The Child of the Void sneered, raising his chin contemptuously, and deliberately switched to High Gothic to reply, "Why should I be afraid of two rats? You think you can run rampant here just because you've had a few enhancement surgeries? You'll regret it. When he finds out, you won't be leaving here alive!"

he.

Alder turned his head and met Eoran's gaze.

The latter frowned and asked softly, "Who is this 'him' you're talking about?"

The Child of the Void paused for a moment, then suddenly burst into wild laughter.

"You...you don't even know whose territory this is? By the throne, I almost pity you! He will make you live in nightmares!"

Eoran came before him, removed his hood, and his face caused the Void Child's laughter to vanish in an instant.

He leaned down, bringing his face close to the pale, damaged one's eyes, making sure the other could see his own, and then slowly asked again.

"who is he?"

The Void Child's lips trembled slightly; he was lost in a profound bewilderment. He had probably never seen anyone like Eoran in his life, and a certain impulse welled up from the depths of his heart, urging him to submit... However, after a period of stalemate, he managed to overcome this impulse through sheer willpower.

He turned his head away, closed his eyes, and whispered, "I won't tell you. The only thing you can get from me is my life."

"Well, I'm sorry," Aolan said.

It's unclear where the strength came from, but the woman managed to stand up and grab a short-barreled automatic gun.

"Go to hell!" she roared in despair.

Gunfire flashed, and the few remaining bullets were quickly expended, leaving only the hollow clicks of gunfire. The woman was incredulous to find that the two men who had attacked them were still standing calmly in the same spot. The only difference was that the man dressed as a nobleman now held a magnificent rapier, the bullets having been cleaved in two and dangling at his feet.

With a soft click, he sheathed his sword, then came to her and took the automatic gun.

"He's not dead," Old said. "Don't be impulsive."

The woman stared at him blankly, then smiled blankly after a moment, and suddenly began to curse.

She spoke in what sounded like some kind of dialect, a hissing, erratic language. Upon hearing it, Aolan suddenly stepped forward, closing the distance between them and casting his shadow over her. The woman paid no heed, continuing her curses; even if one couldn't understand her, one could sense the burning rage within her...

However, just moments later, Eollan gave a soft sigh as a sign that he too began to speak the language, his tone almost like a dream, as if he had just woken up from a dream.

The woman froze, looked up at him in disbelief, and uttered a few bewildered syllables. Aiolan responded calmly, and they began to converse.

Alder stood to the side without interrupting, his left hand resting on the hilt of the sword, stroking its surface.

It seemed content with this state of being ready to be drawn at any moment, and thus a burst of joy emanated from its slight warmth.

Ald responded by tapping it with his index finger without making a sound, glancing around.

This warehouse was clearly used for black market transactions, filled with all sorts of contraband that could never be bought through official channels, but there were no hallucinogens or anything like that, not even a single tobacco stick in sight. The only thing that would probably catch the attention of the Ministry of Justice was a batch of military ration cans.

He walked over, picked up one of them, examined it closely, then took off his right glove, poked a hole in the surface with his fingers, pulled out a piece of solid dry ration, and began to eat it. The crunching sound of chewing began to spread throughout the warehouse. The victims, who had recovered slightly, looked at each other, none daring to make a move.

They didn't understand what the situation was like.

As Ald ate, he calmly observed them, recalling the words of their leader when he interrogated the thugs in the alley who had attempted to kill and rob.

"Those people are all insane!" the leader cried. "They forbid the sale of drugs and guns, they're more lawless than the Ministry of Justice! What kind of gang in a trading post operates like this? Why are you going to them?"

"Are they maintaining order?" Old asked.

"What else?!" the leader shouted.

"Then why did you attack us?" Old asked again.

The leader tried not to answer the question, but Ald's bloodied fist made him abandon the idea.

Finally, he stammered, "Because you look rich, and you're white... I... I just want to finish this job and get on the ship. Do you think they can chase after me and kill me?"

Perhaps they can't, Ald thought. But I can.

He withdrew his gaze; there was no need to watch any longer. The people in the warehouse were not like those thugs; they still possessed humanity, and a rich one at that. He picked up a second piece of solid dry rations, bit off half, and continued chewing, when a sudden thought struck him.

It was a chilling coldness that was hard to ignore, and although it posed no real threat to him, this skill of stealth was something he lacked...

This gave him a better grasp of the identity of the mysterious visitor.

He pretended not to notice, but quickened his chewing, swallowing the bland dry rations in a few bites. Then he took out the last piece, stuffed it into his mouth, and looked at Aiolan not far away. From the slightly altered lines of the cloak behind the latter, he understood that Aiolan didn't need him to remind him of anything.

So he gripped the can tightly with one hand, crushed it into a thin slice in an instant, and then flicked his wrist, sending the newly made murder weapon flying into the darkness of the warehouse.

A third of a second later, there was a soft sound, followed by a hoarse sound altered by the breathing grille.

This is truly unexpected.

The speaker slowly emerged from the darkness, wearing a mishmash of power armor, the parts pieced together but all painted a somber blue. He wore a pale, bone-faced helmet and held a well-maintained, yet still quite old, chainsaw sword.

This is undoubtedly an Astartes.

Eoran turned to look at him.

Astartes began to take a deep breath.

A few seconds later, he spoke, addressing those who felt they had found a pillar of support the moment he appeared: "Get out of here, you bunch of burdens."

"My lord!" someone called out.

"Get out," he said firmly, then turned to Eoran. "I have some business to attend to here."

There was no further argument, and just half a minute later, only the three of them remained in the warehouse.

Astartes spoke first, breaking the silence, his voice unusually tinged with a hint of amusement: "I really didn't expect to meet you here..."

'

Eoran removed his hood, frowned, and asked, "Do you know me?"

"Of course!" Astartes spread his arms wide and bowed dramatically in a courtly gesture. "Who wouldn't recognize the renowned Phoenix Chermos? Ah, or should I say, the traitor who murdered his brothers? No, no, let's use that title, traitor."

Eoran showed no reaction to his taunts, simply replying calmly, "A remnant of the Eighth Legion who teaches Nostramor to others and cowers in remote trading posts playing the role of protector of the underworld dares to call me a traitor? Do I need to remind you what you did under Conrad Coz's leadership?"

"At least he didn't make us do to him what you made your son do to you."

Eoran was silent for a moment, then quickly covered his forehead as if he had just experienced a severe headache, his teeth grinding together for a while before he finally calmed down.

"...A good response." Forgrim spoke again. "I think I know who you are."

“I’d rather you never guessed,” Astartes replied, raising his chainsaw sword. With a roar, its blade began to spin rapidly. “But I’d rather you’d never been to this peaceful place. Do you know how much effort I’ve put into bringing peace to it? It’s against my nature…”

'

He roared, his right foot stepping forward in a charging stance, while his left hand suddenly shot up. A chill beyond reason surged from the tip of his fingertips, transforming into a bone-chilling cold that lunged at Ald. The latter could have easily dodged, but he did nothing, simply standing there, letting the thick frost freeze his feet, his mouth still chewing.

Astartes had vanished from the spot.

No, perhaps that's not the right way to describe it, because he didn't leave by speed; what he just did was more like stepping into darkness or a blind spot. The next moment, his figure suddenly appeared from Aoran's right, psionic flames coiling around the chainsaw sword in his hand, and several bolts of lightning burst forth from his left hand, striking towards Aoran.

The Primarch frowned, took a few steps back to avoid the lightning, then grabbed his billowing cloak and ripped it off. The black cloth billowed, whipped by the biting wind from the blade, but Astartes remained unfazed, resolutely, precisely, and ruthlessly thrusting his chainsword. This strike was exquisite, a perfect embodiment of his masterful skill.

In the end, however, it all came to nothing.

Before it could actually pierce anything, Eoran swung his hand and grabbed Astartes' right wrist.

"I have no intention of disrupting the peace here," he said.

"Lies!" Astartes growled disdainfully. "You are already beyond redemption!"

He released his grip, letting the chainsaw sword fall, but a blinding flash of fire suddenly erupted from his right palm.

Eoran spun around to dodge the seemingly casual but actually meticulously planned attack. His silver hair flew wildly, but his purple eyes remained devoid of any anger. He calmly swung his left fist, sending the still-weak Astartes flying through the air and crashing into a pile of cans not far away.

The clanging of metal echoed continuously. Ald frowned, then strode confidently away from the thick ice, bent down to pick up a can that was rolling toward him, and opened it.

Creak, creak, creak, creak...

"Listen carefully, Iago Severalion," Fugrim said slowly. "I am no longer who I once was. Now come out, I have many questions for you."

There was no response from the pile of cans. Eoran frowned and waited a while longer, but still didn't hear a single word.

He paused for a moment, his face flushing with annoyance and embarrassment, but in the end, it gave way to a helpless smile.

He looked at Olde, who shook his head.

"He's long gone," Ald said, his words slightly slurred as he continued chewing his dry rations. "Before you even called out his name."

Eoran let out a sigh of relief, walked towards him, and immediately began to complain, raising his hands exaggeratedly.

"Then why didn't you remind me?"

"I thought you knew."

"All I know is that you didn't help at all! You were just eating! What's so good about this lousy dry food?"

Olde extended his left hand toward him.

"I'm not eating!" Aolan replied irritably. "We have to find him right now!"

"I don't think it's necessary," Old said.

"What?"

"If he's not an idiot..." He swallowed the dry rations in his mouth. "He'll come looking for us himself."

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