Chapter 167: Winged Saint Guilliman? Too Heretical!

The lights of the Crimson Grand Hall burned bright, and a magnificent carpet woven by the hands of the Seraphim lay before its entrance, golden threads shimmering with ever-changing intricate patterns.

Robed blood-slaves stood on either side of the gate, singing ancient hymns in moving voices—hymns that praised Saint Guilliman, extolled the Emperor's divinity, or mourned the glory of the old Legions.

These were the shared memories of Saint Guilliman's descendants.

Astartes from different chapters passed through the gate, clad in power armor forged from ceramite, each as solid and noble as stone wrought by divine hands.

The Loyal Angels, long dwelling on starships without a homeworld, set foot upon Baal's soil; their chapter master, Froduak, whispered with the chapter master of the Glorious Angels.

Goren, chapter master of the Holy Angels, spoke with the Tombwardens of the ancient Blood-Eagle Oath; the Penitent Angels' abbot, clad in black armor, watched silently.

Jo Er, chapter master of the Blood Knights, stood alone, holding spiced wine infused with blood—but Dante noticed he had not removed his helm to taste it.

Bloodwings and Crimson Blades chatted of bloodlust, black rage, and the Codex; nearby, the Flesh Eaters seemed displeased with the Crimson Blades' constant talk of Guilliman; the Carnivores appeared to share their sentiment.

Red Knights, heavy with melancholy, sipped spiced wine alongside the white-haired Red Wings.

Dante stood outside, watching the scene within the Crimson Grand Hall.

So many Seraphim chapters gathered as one.

With the exception of a few, all descendants bearing the Angel's blood had come to Baal.

The Crimson Angels would not come to aid—they had formalized their slaughter and severed all ties with the parent chapter.

The Spear of Atlantis acted in isolation and eccentricity, rarely communicating with other chapters; clearly, they had ignored the plea for aid.

The Wailers remained unlucky; to protect countless Imperial worlds, they repeatedly faced the Kraken Hive Fleet head-on and were now nearly annihilated, unable to support Baal—Dante prayed Saint Guilliman would shield them.

Even among those who had arrived, countless differences remained.

Dante had seen it more than once: warriors from different chapters gasped at each other's distinctions; ten thousand years of separation had bred differences even within the same bloodline.

Some chapters had succumbed to the Black-Red Curse, others resisted stubbornly, some grew cynical, others remained calm and composed.

These warriors wore power armor interwoven with red, black, white, gold—externally and internally, they were all different.

BOOM!!!

Suddenly, sparks flew from the brazier beside Dante, warm firelight bathing his golden armor and every Seraphim's power armor within the Grand Hall.

Gold softened, red blurred, black stirred, white turned crimson. The colors intertwined, and they no longer seemed so different.

Yes, we are still bound by blood.

Dante could not help but think—and hope—

Time had changed much: temperament, character, customs, history—all were distinct, yet none could alter the blood of Saint Guilliman.

Beneath different traditions and arcane rites, beneath armor painted in varied hues—we are still brothers and kin, and this planet beneath our feet remains the ancestral home of every child of Saint Guilliman.

Now, the children of Saint Guilliman have returned home.

They will defend Baal with their own blood, even if they have never set foot upon this hot soil.

And Dante would use everything he had to unite them, ensuring every drop of blood spilled would be for Baal.

He stepped into the Crimson Grand Hall; the blood-slaves raised their voices in song.

"Dante! Lord of Angels! Dante! Lord of Baal! Dante! Lord of the Firstborn!"

"Dante! Dante! Dante!"

Nearly every child of Saint Guilliman turned their gaze to Dante; most were kind, filled with reverence—a thousand years of service had made him a legend.

Yet beneath Saint Guilliman's golden mask, Dante's aged face twitched slightly; this worship filled him with guilt and embarrassment—he felt unworthy of it.

Even without experience in such situations, he had faced the adoration of so many Astartes—and who had written these songs? Why had no one told him?

Lord of Angels? Lord of Baal? Were they trying to equate him with the Archangel?

In an instant, he realized how wise it had been for Mephiston to flee to the desert and hunt the gene-thieves before the Crimson Council began.

In Baal's crimson desert, hot sand hissed against Logens's fiber robe; grains even slipped inside, lodging between the chitinous plates beneath the fabric.

It made Logens uncomfortable—he lifted his robe and rubbed the sand out.

"By the winged sheath of Saint Guilliman!"

Nearby, Karl-Jian, dragging a fire-scorpion corpse, turned with irritation:

"Can you hurry up? We still need to reach the Winged Keep!"

"Lord Mind-Mephiston has sent word: Four-Clawed Dante summons us—summons every devout child of Winged Saint Guilliman."

"The Great Living Saint, Saint Guilliel, is about to descend!"

Logens, watching Karl-Jian's impatience, lowered his head—he hated his brother.

Though they shared the same parents, Karl-Jian was superior: his genetic sequence was not only his own, but had been altered by the Chapter's Blood Mutationists.

"That group that hunted us had a Dante too," Logens muttered.

He meant the heretics who had pursued them—but under Lord Mind-Mephiston's leadership, they had easily escaped into the desert and hidden within the Winged Keep. "They are gene-thieves," Karl-Jian made an exorcism gesture. "Their genes are corrupted by blasphemy. Their Saint Guilliman does not have wings—he has bird wings!"

"Bird wings! A pair of bird wings! How heretical!"

"Their Dante has no four claws; their Mephiston lacks the specialized brain tissue of a Lord; their Living Saint is Saint Guillino with bird wings—not the Great Saint Guilliel!"

Karl-Jian's voice dripped with revulsion.

"But they won't last long!" Karl-Jian emphasized. "Four-Clawed Dante is convening the Purple-Red Grand Council, summoning every child of Winged Saint Guilliman."

"The Living Saint Saint Guilliel will soon descend, and soon after, the winged Saint Guilliman's eggs shall fall from the sky, leading the children of the Winged Keep to crush those impostors and blasphemers."

Logens nodded, half-understanding.

He knew he and Karl-Jian hunted fire-scorpions to prepare for the Purple-Red Grand Council.

Every child of Winged Saint Guilliman with purple blood would gather at the Winged Keep; they would need vast quantities of food.

Thus, Lord Mind-Mephiston, through a vast psychic network, issued orders: all children must gather enough food en route.

"It's your turn to drag it."

Karl-Jian dropped the rope tied to the fire-scorpion and offered it to Logens.

"Hurry up—rumor says Four-Clawed Dante will personally select a group of elite warriors and grant them his own gene-seed."

!. ead

"I don't want to fall behind. Try harder—you might earn a gene-seed from the Blood Mutationists."

Logens took the rope with a scowl, slinging it over his shoulder.

"By the winged Saint Guilliman, maybe we're the gene-thieves, not them," Logens muttered as he took the rope.

"Filth!" Karl-Jian kicked Logens, enraged by his blasphemy. "That's vile talk! If you speak so sacrilegiously, I might kill you right here!"

"Remember—we are the sacred descendants of Winged Saint Guilliman. Our blood flows with the blood of Winged Saint Guilliman. Everyone else on this planet is blasphemous heresy—base gene-thieves!"

"Those bastards carry not the sacred winged blood, but the blasphemous bird-winged blood."

Logens lowered his head, silent, trudging forward, dragging the blood-scorpion. Suddenly, he saw a faint figure standing in the desert ahead.

The figure wore a linen fiber robe, shielding against the wind and sand, walking step by step toward Logens and Karl-Jian.

Karl-Jian let out a low growl; chitinous claws emerged from beneath his robe.

"Four-Clawed Dante, Lord Mind-Mephiston, Saint Guilliel, Blood Mutationists, Winged Keep—you've got the whole set."

A mocking voice came from beyond the sandstorm; the figure held a cane, and in his left hand seemed to grasp something small, approaching them.

"Who are you?" Karl-Jian growled.

"Me?" The figure stepped into view.

A man wearing a cowboy hat, short hair, linen robe, and glasses.

One hand held a cane; the other held a tiny man seated on a chair, wearing a hat and holding a trumpet.

He smiled faintly, gently tapping the hat of the tiny figure.

Ding—

The tiny figure chimed, slowly lifting the trumpet and shouting: "Ready. Action!!"

The man's body shuddered slightly; his face broke into a sincere, warm smile:

"I am the Chosen of Saint Shell-Doraemon, known as Carnivore Gun Daxiong."

"Guided by Saint Shell-Doraemon, I have come to aid the children of Winged Saint Guilliman through their trials."

The next chapter may be ten minutes late—I haven't finished revising it.

(End of Chapter)