Chapter 183: My Chapter

In a twisted starship suspended above Terra, the searing light of a star bathed the throne before it.

Upon the throne sat a twisted shadow of darkness, its form still faintly human, yet dominated by writhing, profane energies within its massive bulk.

It let out a shrill roar, cursing the blinding light of the star and denouncing the source from which it came.

Before the shadow stood a human like a mummy, a wraith-like figure radiating blinding light from its withered flesh, its eyes burning fiercely like a cold black star.

Before the mummy stood an angel clad in polished golden armor, its white wings slowly unfolding to shield the mummy from the shadow's fury.

Dante had seen this scene countless times—the vision that seemed both prophecy and relic of the past.

It was said to be the vision Saint Guilliman once witnessed, symbolizing his hope for the Emperor, falling beneath Horus's claws.

Yet Dante often felt this prophecy had not yet fully come to pass—that one day he too would stand as that angel, falling before some dark entity for the Emperor and humanity.

This thought often amused Dante; he knew it was the part of his soul, the child of the salt-seller, whispering—this child yearned to be a hero, to offer a great sacrifice at life's end.

You yearn to sacrifice like the Archangel—what could be more arrogant? The Chief Librarian of the Flesh Tearers seemed to echo in Dante's ear.

He shook his head, knowing the dream was about to end—

Yet the vision rippled suddenly, and a fourth force emerged between the mummy, the angel, and the shadow.

Dante heard the Machine Spirits chanting praises, heard the rustling of the swarm devouring food.

He saw countless Necrons singing emotional songs, their glowing eyes brimming with emotions accumulated over millions of years; the Silent King and countless Imperial Hierarchs bowed their heads, worshipping the sacred figure.

He saw a black abyss—an realm alien to reality—where countless demons dissolved, the rustling of the swarm echoed within, and round pastries multiplied like stars; the swarm devoured them, expanded, and the realm dissolved the new swarm into a serpent biting its own tail.

Then the visions Dante saw gradually settled into a blue, round figure.

The figure extended its round hands toward both the mummy and the shadow.

Dante heard only the roars of the Dark Gods, saw only a half-moon pouch flipping through the air before falling into a deep well.

Darkness. Then endless darkness.

Dante clutched his head, his fingers brushing his skin, loosened by age.

It took him a second to realize he lay in his bedroom in the Angel's Keep, not aboard the starship hovering above Terra.

Another dream. Dante often dreamed of standing aboard that starship above Terra, witnessing the battle between the mummy, the angel, and the shadow.

But this dream had changed—Dante saw Doraemon.

He recognized the blue figure—it was the Doraemon he had seen last night, that Zhou Yun.

Doraemon extended his hand toward the mummy and the shadow. Was this some hint or metaphor?

If the mummy symbolized the Emperor, and the shadow symbolized Horus or the Dark Gods, did this mean Doraemon would one day stand as enemy to both?

Why did the angel ignore it? Why did the Necrons chant? What was that serpent of ever-multiplying pastries, the swarm, and the black void?

And that final white half-moon pouch—what did the deep well it fell into signify?

Was this a portent that the holy Doraemon would ultimately fail, never achieving his goal?

Dante was poor at interpreting omens. Perhaps he should tell Murphiston?

The moment the thought arose, he crushed it—Murphiston had clearly sided with the holy Doraemon.

He could not tell him. Dante slowly rose from bed.

After Zhou Yun left last night, Dante had tidied his documents, and, finding rare free time, had fallen into deep sleep. It was his first proper rest in days.

Dante glanced at the clock beside his bed—he had slept about three hours. It was not enough to lift his weariness; he was truly old.

Chief Saint Blood Priest Kaboro had warned him not to enter the Blood Coffin—his current state made it perilous.

Dante looked at his muscles and skin. The Emperor had granted immortality to His sons, and that immortality flowed through the Blood Father's genes into every Astartes.

His body still brimmed with strength, his nerves still agile, his mind as swift as ever—but Dante felt aging. Perhaps not merely physical—his soul, too, might be aging.

Dante recalled the vision from his dream, searching for finer details.

Aside from the blue figure's appearance, Dante had also noticed—the Emperor's Sword, blazing fiercely at the mummy's knee, had vanished. Was this also a bad omen?

Dante could not say, could not understand. He dismissed the thought and sighed.

Today held many tasks, many thoughts to ponder. In the Arena of the Angel's Well, the warriors of Saint Guilliman would settle all disputes through combat—Dante must hurry there.

He opened his mouth to call for Arfaio, his century-old blood-slave. But he remembered—it was pointless. Arfaio was gone.

A mortal's youth to decay had become so swift in Dante's eyes, as if it had vanished in an instant.

He sighed, pulled on his robe himself—the robe embroidered with angelic motifs, woven by a brother of his battle-brothers. Dante knew many Space Marine chapters lived as ascetics.

Yet the Blood Angels still remembered the Blood Father's teachings; beyond warrior skills, many Blood Angels knew art, poetry, cooking, craftsmanship, and winemaking. Some even cultivated gardens within the Angel's Keep.

These arts helped the children of Saint Guilliman suppress their Crimson Hunger and Black Rage. Sadly, Dante himself knew none of these crafts.

If war ever ended across the galaxy, Dante would be among the most difficult to reemploy. A bitter smile crossed his lips.

There probably would never be such a day.

Suddenly, Dante heard a blood-choked roar—coming from the tower directly opposite his bedroom window.

The Tower of the Lost—those Blood Angels consumed by Crimson Hunger, their forms nearly alien, were imprisoned there.

They had awakened. Dante walked to the window, gazing at the distant Tower of the Lost.

The spire was razor-sharp, piercing the heavens, nearly touching the crimson rift above, like a fang drinking blood.

The crimson screams continued. Dante opened a bottle of unadulterated red wine, drank a cup, then strode from his chamber, passed through the black ebony door, stepped across the ruby mosaic, and followed the corridors of the Angel's Keep toward the Angel's Well.

As he reached the tower's exterior, the crimson screams from the Tower of the Lost grew clearer.

The prisoners, the ghouls, the brothers—screaming, craving blood.

Their howls often heralded war.

The Tyranids were near. Very near. Time left for Dante was scarce.

The question before Dante now: resolve the disputes among his battle-brothers through combat in the Angel's Well.

It was simple—little chance of surprise. Dueling to settle disputes was common.

Dante could also spare some thought for Doraemon during this time.

That entity from the Warp wished to reach the Archangel's tomb, hinting he would use the Archangel's corpse to resurrect him.

Dante's mind still echoed with the words from last night; his inner balance was slowly tipping toward belief.

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Yet the rationality of the Chapter Master still controlled Dante, reminding him that even if he trusted Doraemon, he must still prepare defenses.

But how?

"No! This is our Chapter's sacred relic! Absolutely not!"

Before reaching the Angel's Well, Dante heard a commotion.

He frowned—formal duels had not yet begun.

Dante strode quickly into the Angel's Well.

The Angel's Well was carved from the shaft of a dead volcano—a circular pit, usually a small lake, now drained to reveal the sunken combat arena and the sand at its base.

Around the pit were concentric hexagonal tables, behind which sat over ten thousand seats.

The Angel's Well was an ancient structure from the Legion era, preserved to this day, fully capable of accommodating the twenty thousand Astartes now arrived on Baal.

Dante hurried down from the upper tiers; the warriors around him turned their gazes toward him.

Dante gave them a slight nod, then looked into the combat pit.

He saw a Space Marine clad in metallic blue power armor standing in the pit.

Opposite him stood Elvin, Company Master of the Precision Angels, reluctantly handing his precision power axe to the blue-armored Marine.

"This is our Chapter's sacred relic!" Elvin's voice trembled with dread.

"Which Chapter are you from?" the blue-armored Marine asked. "A bet's a bet. You don't want others to know your Chapter cheated, do you?"

"We're the Precision Angels! Can't you pick something else? I'll give you two other power axes—just not the Chapter relic!"

"Precision Angels? You won't need it anyway! Hand it over!"

"Huh? Ah!"

Next chapter in a few minutes—still not finished.

(End of Chapter)