Chapter 555: Blood Ravens: This Is My Long-Lost Father!

Fifty-seven Astartes walked through the corridors of the Red Tear, flanked by three Dreadnoughts.

No Chapter Master, not even a Company Captain; the Librarians were all dead, the Chaplains slain—only the Dreadnoughts remained to lead the Chapter's final fifty-seven warriors.

Their power armor was riddled with pits and cracks from insect bites and acid corrosion; their original paint had nearly peeled away, faint traces of bright yellow still visible—but their shoulder plates had clearly been repainted, the Chapter symbol bold and clear.

It was a red heart weeping tears.

The same mark adorned their Chapter banner, held high by the Dreadnought leading the column, using his single arm.

What passed for a banner was little more than a tangle of ragged strips, a grotesque remnant, a shredded ruin torn apart by insect claws and fangs, dyed brown by battlefield mud, insect pus, and Astartes blood, loosely wrapped around the pole to keep it from scattering in the wind.

Atop the pole stood a bright yellow Astartes helmet, its head slightly bowed, scarred and stained with blood; a single streak of dried blood ran beneath its left eye, as if weeping—like a reflection of the Astartes standing behind it.

The weary, suffering warriors passed among the Sons of Sanguinius, like an endless rain of tears.

They hunched, broken, nearly annihilated; they had not answered Dante's call to Baal.

Yet not a single Son of Sanguinius showed them even a hint of disrespect.

Sons of Sanguinius in red, gold, yellow, and black stood along both sides of the corridor, offering the Eagle Salute to these warriors.

They were the Mourning, they were.

"A true band of Sons of Sanguinius," said Captain Seth of the Flesh Tearers, gazing at them with near-admiration: "Their suffering befits the holy blood they carry."

The Mourning were born of a cursed founding: arrogant, incompetent Mechanicum members altered the gene-seed of multiple Chapters, attempting to "repair" perceived genetic flaws.

Thus, the Mourning lacked Black Rage and Blood Hunger—they never bore the burdens others of Sanguinius endured.

Initially reviled, mocked, and denied as Sons of Sanguinius by many Chapters, they ultimately proved their worth through character; even without the hammer of Blood Hunger or Black Rage, their virtue remained as noble as Sanguinius himself.

Yet lacking Blood Hunger and Black Rage did not mean they were without flaws; the cursed founding produced Chapters with defects, often worse than the original ones.

The Mourning were most peculiar: their flaw was not physical, but of a more arcane nature—they were said to possess abysmal luck.

But Seth did not believe such nonsense—luck or no luck—

BOOM!!!!!!

A thunderous explosion suddenly rocked the Red Tear.

The Dreadnought leading the Mourning, already missing an arm, lost balance and collapsed to the floor, the banner crashing down with a thud.

It would have been harmless—but another explosion erupted, shaking the ship violently and dislodging the helmet atop the banner; it rolled across the deck, away from them.

The Dreadnought scrambled to his feet and hurried after it.

But Dreadnoughts were slow; the ship's tremors hampered his movement—he could not catch the yellow helmet.

Fortunately, at that moment, a dark red figure moved faster than seemed possible for an Astartes, braving the ship's shaking and closing the distance in the blink of an eye.

He reached out with practiced ease and seized the helmet.

The Astartes in dark red power armor studied the helmet in his hand, as if appraising its history.

Blood Ravens. The surrounding Sons of Sanguinius recognized the Chapter; nearly all stepped back, creating distance from the Blood Ravens.

Their gazes grew strange—why were the Blood Ravens aboard the Red Tear? Wasn't this a gathering of Sons of Sanguinius?

The Blood Raven hesitated for a few heartbeats, then stepped forward, handed the helmet to the Mourning, and returned to the crowd.

Seth paid no mind to this. He cut into the comms, growling: "What happened?"

He refused to believe anyone dared attack the Red Tear—there were over twenty thousand Sons of Sanguinius gathered here, countless ships, and Sanguinius himself present—

"What do you mean a torpedo was ignited by a crewman's discarded lho cigarette?"

"What do you mean the torpedo's explosion triggered a chain detonation?"

"Was the crewman interrogated? Did Mephiston personally read his mind? Was it truly an accident?"

"What's the damage? No major losses? Good."

Seth disconnected the comm, bewildered.

Was it really just coincidence?

He had suspected a conspiracy—but now it seemed the only damage caused was making the already unlucky Mourning even more unlucky.

Shit. Seth's face twisted. Could it really be the Mourning's cursed luck?

He recalled how some Chapter Masters had once suggested barring the Mourning from meeting Sanguinius, fearing they might bring danger upon him.

At the time, Seth had raged and cursed them all. But now, their concern didn't seem so baseless.

A cigarette igniting a torpedo was clearly absurd.

Seth felt a chill run down his scalp—but honestly, he wouldn't stand up and oppose the Mourning meeting Sanguinius over such a phantom.

Though many called Seth a furious madman, he had his own moral code—and it forbade him from blocking worthy Sons of Sanguinius from meeting their gene-father.

Second, it was Sanguinius's own wish to see the Mourning—his will. No one could oppose it unless Roboute Guilliman suddenly emerged, the Emperor manifested, or Saint Dora the Miracle Cat woke up.

Though the moment had been awkward, the Mourning seemed unfazed—as if such misfortune were beneath notice.

They swiftly regained composure and formation; the incident left no mark on their spirit. They passed through the ranks of Sons of Sanguinius and marched toward the bridge doors where the Primarch awaited.

"Noble, holy, perfect Sons of Sanguinius! The Mourning, born of the Twenty-First Founding!" proclaimed the Chapter servants in booming voices, sweeping incense over the warriors' armor, blessing them with twenty-two sacred prayers.

The Red Tear's bridge doors slowly opened amid the thunderous hymns; within the bright light, Sanguinius's form shimmered. The Mourning trembled, barely standing, forcing their steps forward into the bridge.

But at that moment, the Chapter servants, who had been preparing to depart, suddenly noticed another Chapter following behind the Mourning—dark red in color, their insignia so subtle they could be mistaken for Blood Angels if not carefully observed,