Ahriman and Morghan from the Thousand Sons Legion were the seventh batch of guests Luther entertained today, and barring any unforeseen circumstances, this should be the last batch.
The Calibanite operated the expensive clock on his desk, an artwork crafted from gears, glass, and metal wire. Countless operations and pushes determined the pattern of its hands' movement, making the time it displayed almost perfectly consistent with that of humanity's home world.
By Holy Terra's standards, only about eight standard hours had passed today, and his last rest was roughly thirty-two standard hours ago. Yet, despite this, Luther felt little fatigue. His muscles and mind remained in a relatively relaxed and vibrant state, causing the aging knight to marvel at the wonders of genetic modification surgery.
Occasionally, however, he would also wonder what it felt like for those knights who had undergone complete genetic modification, who had endured the legendary nineteen surgeries: Nemiel, Zahariel, Cypher, and the others... They were once his brothers, his warriors, and his knights.
They were the legion that had followed his footsteps into the hunting grounds. Once upon a time, he had stood at the very front of them all, their leader. But now, they were on the battlefield, on the front lines, wielding unimaginable, magnificent bodies and power. Those knights who had once followed him were now participating in the most majestic war endeavor in the galaxy, earning merits and honors that would be sung for ten thousand years.
As for death? That was merely an inevitable moment, like the last cup of wine at a banquet, like the setting sun gradually devoured by the deep forest. Death meant nothing to any Calibanite. When first donning armor, what knight would guarantee a long life? When riding out to war again, what warrior could guarantee this wouldn't be their last journey? With a surging heart, gripping their steel gun tightly, charging fearlessly forward, dying with fragrance—life was simply that. Whether it was the Luther of the past or the Luther of the present, this was what he believed.
But times had changed.
Luther lowered his head. Before him lay stacks of files, all unoriginal: requests for reinforcements, requests for survival supplies, requests for temporary withdrawal, requests for ammunition replenishment, or requests for fire support from patrol fleets.
—
Knight Luther might have disappeared. He thought.
—
Luther's gaze swiftly scanned through these largely identical documents. Some he didn't need to concern himself with, such as the deployment of fleets and legions; that was a power reserved for war commanders. His responsibility lay in more mundane matters: supply, transport, and storage.
Just like that, another document was singled out: the 23rd Kranos Regiment of the Imperial Army requested new supplies and ammunition. This mixed legion, fully manned at 1.28 million, was independently garrisoned on a semi-permanent fortress world at the edge of the front line.
They were among the first units deployed in this Rangdan Xenocides war, and had suffered nearly devastating losses in the grueling battle on the Forge World of Xana. If capable, they also hoped for new troops to take over their defensive lines. The 23rd Regiment had not had rotation for two years. The Chief of Staff and the Liaison Officer repeatedly used terms like [low morale] and [heavy losses] in their reports.
Luther's gaze swept over these terms casually, without lingering, for every Imperial Army auxiliary force was like this; reports of [heavy losses] and [requests for reinforcement] were ceaselessly pouring in. He opened the star chart, located the 23rd Regiment's position, weighed the importance of their front line, and then penned his reply: no reinforcements, but up to 50% of the requested supplies could be granted, with an additional base amount to be replenished upon the arrival of the next batch of supplies.
As the document was sent, Luther's gaze and thoughts did not linger. He quickly immersed himself in the next task: requests for supplies, requests for reinforcements, requests for everything this damned war needed.
...
When he finally looked up again, Luther felt a slight, throbbing pain in his upper spine. He glanced at the clock; nearly ten Terran standard hours had passed. Perhaps he could rest for a bit.
Thinking this, Luther's gaze turned to the other side of his desk, where a stack of letters lay. They were from Nemiel, from Cypher, from every comrade who had fought on the front lines. Luther stretched his fingers, feeling a slight numbness at the fingertips. He moved them a few times, then opened the first letter. The letter wasn't long, but it exuded the scent of gunpowder and iron, making the Calibanite take a deep breath. He liked it.
Nemiel's simple greeting asked about the condition of his cousin, Zahariel. In the letter, he still used the old title: [Knight-Commander Luther], which made the corners of the reader's mouth curve into a smile. At the end of the letter, Nemiel casually mentioned the war's situation: factories and foundries destroyed and ravaged on the Forge World, comrades fallen amidst the steel, or new generals rising in the endless slaughter, countless blood and flames burning on the battlefield, far more than this small piece of paper could contain.
Although the section mentioning the war consisted of only a few simple, veiled sentences, Luther read it again and again, as if it were some intoxicating masterpiece. Finally, the Calibanite leaned back in his chair, still clutching the letter. For a moment, he even wanted to preserve this letter, to read it many more times in the future. But he couldn't. All information concerning the war on the front lines had to be kept strictly confidential. No file backups were permitted. After reading, they had to be destroyed. And this order came from [The Lion]. No one dared to openly defy [The Lion].
Luther's heart struggled for a brief moment, but this struggle was not intense; almost instantly, obedience and fear took precedence. Looking at the burning letter, Luther could only sigh. He turned his head, looking behind him, at the paintings that held past glories: he saw the day Jonson was brought back by him,
the day he personally armored his adopted son, the day Jonson began to grow, becoming more authoritative, more... terrifying. He still remembered those days: the child brought back from the deep forest, embodying Luther's longing for his lost children. He watched the child grow, learn, watched him transform into a great warrior like a legendary son of god, from a savage child by his side to a trusted, great knight.
[The Lion] grew so fast that almost no one noticed when he became so powerful, so majestic, so invincible. Luther hadn't even noticed when he surpassed himself in height. When [The Lion] began to don his armor and wield his weapons, his shadow enveloped everyone. Luther also hadn't noticed when he had already stood in front of him, becoming the new leader and hope for everyone: no one cheered for Luther anymore; everyone only shouted the name of [The Lion]. Luther also simply hadn't realized when he began to fear [The Lion]'s every move, viewing him as a leader, rather than his child and kin. Luther even began to... hate him.
—
He hated [The Lion]. Perhaps that was it.
—
The letter was completely burned. Its last wisp of paper curled and blackened as the heat intensified, finally vanishing into the crimson flames. Luther stared at it all; he could only sigh. Then, he picked up the second letter, a letter from Cypher.
The words within were inevitably somewhat vague, even containing some secret codes and references only understood by Calibanite Knights. But Luther could still discern traces of war from his description. All of this did not hinder him from searching for them as much as possible. Reading, re-reading, sighing with emotion, then burning, and then picking up the next letter...
Luther wanted to laugh, a bitter laugh. His former comrades, his former brothers, even his former subordinates, they were wantonly enjoying the madness, pain, and honor brought by war. They were living as living, breathing warriors.
Only he, only Luther, like a stamp, every day, every hour, every minute, had to deal with documents and correspondence. He even wondered if he had truly once been a knight. If he had, then he was clearly undergoing an unimaginable torture. For a knight, no war, no honor, no days worth charging, fighting, and bleeding for, that was torture, a living torture. But he could not defy any of it. After all, this was an order from [The Lion]. [The Lion] hated defiance.
After burning the last letter, Luther closed his eyes. He even wanted to sleep for a while. Then, he heard a knock on the door.
—
The eighth visitor was an old Dark Angels veteran. Luther saw the markings of [Ravenwing] and [Deathwing] on his shoulder guard, and even an honor medal from the Terran Unification Wars. In his hand, he held a paper document.
"Emergency document, Logistics Master." Luther stood up, took a few steps forward, and with a smile, solemnly took the document. Everything was fluid and smooth; he had done it countless times before. But this time, after a silent thought, Luther smiled and added a sentence. "You can also call me Knight.
I think I'm more used to that title." This sentence clearly made the Dark Angel pause. He neither nodded nor denied, but merely lowered his head slightly, his eyeballs shifting downwards, revealing large patches of white, then stared down at the short old man in front of him. He didn't say a word. But his gaze said everything.
Luther was still smiling, but this time, his smile had already stiffened uncontrollably, because he had seen such a gaze before. He would never forget it. He remembered that time, he remembered it clearly. He remembered when [The Lion] returned to his legion, how he had brought himself along, as if bringing a squire.
He remembered [The Lion] standing in front of all the Dark Angels, patting his shoulder like a king, telling everyone that this old man, who couldn't even undergo gene therapy, was his most trusted right-hand man. He remembered that no Dark Angel spoke. They neither resisted nor agreed. They just stood there quietly, watching him.
It was that gaze. He would never forget it!
—
But Luther was still smiling. He could only smile.
—
Knight Luther might have disappeared. Because of [The Lion].
—
The Dark Angel remained silent. He made no further gesture, simply turned and closed the door. When the sound of iron boots treading on the ground gradually faded, Luther could finally—he had almost forgotten—stop his damned smile. The document was casually tossed onto the desk. Luther leaned back in his chair, watching the lingering dust motes drifting in mid-air. They were weak, sluggish, with nowhere to escape. He raised his head, wanting to see the paintings, but he couldn't see them at all. He had no choice but to force his neck, with great effort.
Sometimes, life was truly awful. Luther couldn't help but think this when the blond [Lion] came into his view.
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