Chapter 490: Steel Decays. Stone Remains. Brass Rusts. Courage Endures

Titus could not remember why he stood on this vast desert of yellow sand.

Rolling dunes of sand blew from beyond the horizon, stinging his face with searing heat.

On this land of nothing but scorching sand, many truths had grown hazy.

Perhaps he was here for a mission, perhaps he had fallen here by accident, perhaps he had fallen victim to some enemy of the Emperor's scheme.

Or perhaps.

"I will watch you, traitor."

"The Chapter has abandoned you, traitor."

"You are corrupted, traitor."

Voices echoed beside Titus, and through the rolling heat he glimpsed several figures standing near him.

He saw Leandros, the recruit who had reported him to the Inquisition—now a priest, staring at Titus with suspicion.

He saw Inquisitor Slax, clutching cruel instruments of torture, sneering as he watched Titus.

He saw Chapter Master Karlaag, coldly regarding him, as if spitting on him, ignoring him, abandoning him.

Angry?

A voice stirred within Titus's heart, burning like wildfire through his soul.

They repaid your loyalty with suspicion, they answered your devotion with abandonment.

Warrior, you should be angry. You should kill.

Say: Blood for the Blood God, Skulls for the Skull Throne.

"I am Demetrian Titus, former Second Company Captain of the Ultramarines, son of Roboute Guilliman, Captain of the Doraemon Chapter of the Ultramarines, loyal to the Emperor, loyal to Mankind, loyal to the Primarch."

Titus suddenly recalled the teachings of Saint Doraemon, who had once described this very situation and told Titus how to respond.

"I am Demetrian Titus!" Titus emphasized this fact.

He heard a furious roar—frustrated, agitated, restless.

The desert grew hotter, the sand coarser, the hot winds fiercer.

All of it wore down Titus; once-solid truths began peeling away from him, bit by bit.

It wanted only his anger. If he refused its gift, it would leave him nothing but rage.

Everything else would vanish in the wind and sand.

"I am Demetrian Titus!" Titus emphasized this fact, then stepped forward into the desert. He did not know how to escape, but a path would come—if he began to move.

The monotonous desert stretched endlessly beneath his feet, growing hotter with every step. As far as he could see, Titus saw nothing. No—

He saw Leandros, Inquisitor Slax, and Chapter Master Karlaag. They watched him always, fixed upon him.

"We will watch you, traitor." Their voices echoed in Titus's ears.

Titus ignored them. He would keep moving.

Step by step, step by step, day by day, year by year—he advanced, seeking an escape.

The blood-red sun hung low on the horizon. Sand never ceased blowing. Time blurred. Years stretched thin.

The sand battered his body, slowly erasing his existence.

His power armor began to fade; its markings wore smooth, indistinct.

The medals that once marked his honor cracked, then, in some century's day, turned to dust and slipped through his fingers.

The three still watched him, but he could no longer clearly recall their names.

"We will always watch you, traitor." Cold voices spoke, laced with suspicion, distrust, revulsion.

Their gaze, their voices, and the blinding heat around him all fused together, stoking the fire of rage within him.

Kill them. Release your fury.

Blood for the Blood God, Skulls for the Skull Throne.

The voice rose again, urging, tempting, guiding him.

"No." His throat croaked: "I am—"

"I am Demetrian Titus." He emphasized this truth. He could not forget it. Time continued to pass, slowly, imperceptibly.

The sun did not move. The scene before him repeated endlessly. Only the erosion of his power armor proved time's passage.

In the later years of some century, as the desert blazed crimson beneath the sun, when he had nearly forgotten all, when his very existence was nearly erased by sand,

his power armor, long ground into pitted ruin, shattered. He staggered from its wreckage, sand cascading over his muscular frame—painful, painful, painfully so.

The three still stood there—but their power armor had been stripped away, their flesh dried by the heat, leaving only three withered skulls resting in the sand, staring at him.

"We will always watch you, traitor." Cold voices spoke.

He faintly remembered he had something important to do—for the Emperor, for Mankind—he should have been fighting.

But why did he linger here? Century after century.

Why did he remain still here? Century after century.

Why? Why was he trapped here?

Kill. His voice spoke: Swing your blade, slay them. Do not let them bind you from reaching the battlefield.

Then, blood for—blood for—

He raised his chainsword gently, gazing at the three withered skulls.

"Who are you?" A voice, thick with blood and malice, spoke from the chainsword in his hand—its blade reflected a figure clad in silver-and-red power armor: "Whose anger is yours?"

". am Demetrian Titus."

"My anger belongs to the Emperor, to Mankind, to Saint Doraemon."

"I am Titus!!!" A roar of fury burst from his mouth.

The Thing let out an enraged growl. Fire burned. His chainsword turned to ash. The silver-and-red warrior vanished.

But before disappearing, the silver-and-red warrior laughed wildly, mocking the Thing, roaring defiance at it.

"I am Jorr, I am Blood Knight. My fury belongs to Sanguinius and the Emperor." The silver-and-red warrior roared—and vanished.

The warrior's roar jolted his spirit. In a daze, he saw a low wall.

For the first time in countless centuries, the desert's scene had changed.

He stood naked, lost, and ignorant. All that remained of him had been worn away by the sand—only his inner fury, the three skulls still watching him, and—

"I am Titus." He repeated it.

Then he stood before the wall—a barrier of red sandstone, covered in markings.

Blueprints, schematics, plans, one escape attempt after another, the dull scars of blades carving into stone.

Clearly, someone else had once been trapped here in this desert, tormented and corrupted by the Thing.

That man was unyielding. That man was defiant. He had tried to escape again and again, leaving behind every mark on this wall.

He could no longer understand the designs, the plans, the schematics.

Even if he could, it mattered little—each attempt had been rejected by the one who carved them.

In the end, he understood only two short phrases carved at the very top of the wall.

"Steel decays. Stone remains."

"Brass rusts. Courage endures."

He whispered them, then—

"I am Titus."

The Blood God let out a furious, humiliated growl.

(End of Chapter)