Chapter 180: Dad? How Could You Be Like Leman Russ and Guilliman?

At night, the Crimson Scar hung behind the towers of Angelus Keep.

The lights within the towers flickered; only the low hum of servitors and the monotonous sound of Dante writing documents echoed in the room.

Dante wore no power armor, only a simple linen robe that exposed his augmented, muscular frame.

At this moment, he resembled the marble statues crafted by ancient Terra's Greek sculptors—a perfect embodiment of the Ma Lei form, even the exposed black neural interfaces upon his body failing to mar its beauty.

But Dante knew that without the Saint Guilliman mask, his face revealed its age and weariness.

Few Astartes lived as long as he did.

Many believed Astartes were immortal, never dying of time, only falling in endless war.

Yet time had indeed left its marks upon Dante's face; beneath his somewhat dry golden hair, his countenance bore exhaustion and decay.

On Dante's desk lay a small mirror, so he could see his own face.

Gazing into the mirror, Dante was startled to detect a trace of his long-dead father's likeness—the prematurely aged salt merchant.

Most Astartes, after their transformation, severed all ties to their former families and never contacted them again.

But Dante never forgot his father, whom he had abandoned when he left alone to undergo the Trials and become an Angel.

He never returned to see him—not before his death, nor after. Dante himself did not know if he could not return, or simply would not.

He had always carried guilt for this; now, seeing his own face mirror the same aging as his father's, the guilt deepened.

But he must bury this guilt at the deepest core of his heart.

Dante was Chapter Master of the Blood Angels, the Emperor's wrathful servant, noble, pure, and excellent. The Emperor protected Mankind, and Dante was how the Emperor protected them.

More matters awaited his judgment and resolution.

That Lictor. Dante recalled the Lictor that had suddenly appeared before the Crimson Grand Council.

Undoubtedly, it was the Lictor pursued by Mephiston.

He had clearly succeeded—but the appearance of that door, pink-tinged crimson, unsettled Dante.

Undoubtedly, that door belonged to the Saint Doraemon—a being from the Warp, nearly divine.

Dante knew only fragments from Mephiston's words.

He learned that the Doraemon, in some way, occupied threefold positions within the Warp; if successful, He would become stronger than the Four Chaos Gods.

The Doraemon had shown hostility toward the Tyranids and goodwill toward the Blood Angels.

So far, aside from having unclean hands, the Doraemon had shown no other harm—hopefully the Chapter Master of the Crimson Blades would not forever dwell on that sacred relic.

Dante selected from the Blood Angels' collection a similarly exquisite power sword and gifted it to Chapter Master Kaon of the Crimson Blades, to compensate for his loss.

And as for the Saint Doraemon—did He have any connection to the prophecy of the Archangel's resurrection?

Had Mephiston reached an accord with Him? Or had Mephiston fallen—corrupted by the Doraemon?

A Warp entity, a psyker too deeply immersed in the Warp—could this be tied to the Primarch's return?

Dante could not help but worry, raising a hand to rub his brow.

And that door—how could it appear directly within the Crimson Grand Hall?

The Eldar Webway required specific portals; Chaos sorcerers needed passage through the Warp; neither could achieve this so easily.

Did that door have no limitations? No need for coordinates or maps?

Dante's brow twitched slightly.

Mephiston? Had Mephiston given the Doraemon the internal map of Angelus Keep?

Now Dante could not help but suspect Mephiston more deeply.

If so, might that wooden door appear directly before Dante himself?

This made Dante frown, yet he could think of no way to counter it.

"Must we wait for the other to act?"

Dante lowered his hand from his brow and murmured softly:

"Since the other has allied with Mephiston, he will surely come to visit me."

This thought filled Dante with greater weariness.

The only good news was that, despite unexpected turns, the current situation had not yet fully deviated from his plan.

Tomorrow, in the arena of Angelus Keep, battles would be fought; the children of Saint Guilliman would resolve all disputes through combat, settling all conflicts, after which all Angelic offspring would become one.

Dante sighed, weariness surging over him again; he unconsciously leaned back in his chair.

And his face was fully reflected in the mirror upon the desk.

That rare, aged Astartes face—golden hair, handsome—was the gift of Saint Guilliman's gene-seed.

Dante recalled the visions he had seen within the blood casket during his transformation.

He had seen Saint Guilliman's entire life.

Thinking of it, his weariness deepened; he truly did not wish to remember what he had seen.

Father, how could you be like Leman Russ and Guilliman? You were foolish.

Dante could not help but sigh, wondering if any other Chapter brothers had seen these things.

Or had they, like Dante, chosen silence?

Dante continued to gaze at his reflection, again detecting faint traces of his father's genes upon his aged face.

Those traces were nearly indistinct—almost invisible—but strangely, as Dante stared, the likeness to his father grew clearer.

Dante's face seemed gradually to transform into that of his biological father, Areias, the salt merchant of Barren II.

"Look!" The Areias in the mirror raised his finger high, pointing toward the night sky.

The massive primary star of Barren swept across the night sky of Barren II—a vast, immense world, its landscapes faintly visible, shimmering in shades of red.

The boy stood beside Areias, following his father's finger toward the primary star, eyes wide.

Along the equator, upon the equator of the primary star of Barren, a beam of light could be faintly seen.

"Axe Angelus Keep!!"

The boy's heart pounded as he gazed upon that sacred sight and cried out loudly.

"Exactly right!"

The boy's father, Areias, smiled and said:

"That is the great fortress where the Angels of Light and Sacred Blood dwell—transcendent, free of mortal worries, chosen as the Emperor's heirs, granted great power and glory."

"They are the Emperor's wrathful servants—noble, pure, excellent!"

The father leaned close to the boy's ear and whispered of the Angels: "The priests tell us the Emperor protects Mankind, and the Angels are how He protects us."

"They are chosen from among the Barren folk—perhaps some were once from our tribe—but they are no longer our kin; they have been granted eternal life. Our burdens of living no longer belong to them."

The father gently embraced the boy, who stared wide-eyed at the stars above and the primary star of Barren.

He even forgot to be afraid.

The boy's mother was in the rover giving birth; only the midwife accompanied her.

The father said his mother was a strong woman who would safely bring his younger brother into the world, just as she had once brought Louis—Dante himself—into this world.

The boy was perceptive; he understood his father was not comforting him, but comforting himself.

"I hope one day I can go there," the boy turned his head from his father's embrace and whispered: "Maybe one day I can become an Angel?"

The seriousness in the boy's voice unsettled Areias; he had never intended to encourage such ambition in his child.

"Most will die in the attempt," Areias warned, holding his child tightly: "Fewer still survive the Trials of the Angelic Descent City."

"Almost everyone fails," the boy repeated. "But some succeed?"

The boy sensed this—someone always became an Angel; why not him?

The father held the boy tighter; tonight he feared losing his wife, and now he did not wish to fear losing his son.

"Father?" The boy turned his head in confusion: "After I have a brother, will you still love me like this?"

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Areias burst into laughter, hugging the boy tightly, making him wince.

"Love is a bottomless well, my child."

He said:

"If you feel jealous—oh, you will, because new life demands more nourishment."

"Then remember."

The father leaned close to Louis Dante's ear and whispered softly:

"You are the eldest. We have shared this time together—it will always be yours."

"No matter what happens, I will love you deeply, little one. Because I am forever your father."

A tear slipped from the corner of Commander Dante's eye; he remembered that day, forever remembered.

His mother died in childbirth; Dante and his father buried her and the stillborn child in the salt flats.

Then, Areias changed.

He still possessed vast knowledge and remained kind to Dante, but he never again spoke of Angels or miracles, never recounted those ancient, sacred tales; he told Dante only how to survive and mine salt.

Sand from the desert blew up; rovers stood among it, grains scraping Dante's cheeks.

He watched one rover, listening to the sounds within.

"You cannot go," Areias breathed, holding his breath: "I will not allow it. You are my only kin—who shall I leave everything to?"

Now Dante understood the pain in those words, but the young Louis Dante, then, could not.

"Remarry. Have more children," the young Dante, still a boy, said in a childish voice to his father: "Dad, I must go."

"No, I am too old."

"If you're going to talk about marrying and having children, that Marina woman is good—she's your age, and she pays attention to you. You could live here together, with you."

"No! If I stay here, perhaps I can help Marina. But if I become an angel, I can help everyone."

"Perhaps? You'll die! You're not strong enough! You're not special enough!"

Outside the vehicle, Dante could barely endure the argument inside; he nearly wanted to burst in and harshly scold his younger self, then proudly tell his father: now he was an angel.

He knew he would steal a desert motorcycle that night, abandon his father, and head alone to the trial—but.

Dante rushed to the door of the Wanderer, yet gently pushed it open, gazing into the narrow interior of the vehicle, forcing his voice to soften.

"Look, Dad," Dante whispered to his father, "I'm an angel now."

Dante felt tears well in his eyes, yet the figure before him was not his biological father,

but a noble warrior with vast wings, his face filled with compassion, fiery golden hair, and bathed in white light as he gazed gently upon Dante.

"Louis. Louis Dante Bar the Second."

A soft whisper echoed in Dante's ear,

"Mission. Returned. Sorry."

Dante saw the figure within the white light slowly unfold its wings, as if speaking to him.

"My Lord?!" Dante nearly cried out—he recognized the figure before him, yet—

The figure's wings slowly unfolded, a faint blue light spilling forth, nearly merging with the winged form in white light.

Dante's expression froze. Blue wings? Blue? The Lord of All Changes??

He suddenly realized he was within a vision and a dream; the pale blue light shattered before him, and the scene gradually sharpened.

The sound of a wooden door creaking open suddenly rang out.

Dante instantly raised his head, snapping his gaze forward,

inside his room, before him, a wooden door tinged red with pink had appeared without warning.

Technically, Master Dante knew the old history of the Second Empire. Lo, I wonder if Guilliman knows of this.

(End of Chapter)