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"[Sorrow, bloodshed, and death.]"
Morgan whispered.
It was like a young mother's soft words in the ear of her sleeping infant, or an aged teacher's final admonition to a departing student: the voice was gentle, yet devoid of emotion; it was warm, yet it emanated the chill of death; it was real, yet as illusory as the moon in water.
At least, to Zahariel, Morgan's voice was precisely this contradictory, strange, and real.
The Calibanite patted his shoulder guard, which, apart from an insignia representing the First Legion, was currently bare. This left him feeling inevitably disappointed, but the feeling was fleeting: there were more serious matters for him to face.
Morgan continued to whisper, casually enunciating complex phrases. As she whispered, her finger slowly traced the direction of the horizon.
It was not quiet there.
The superhuman hearing of the Dark Angels could pick up the exceedingly chaotic sounds: the noisy roars like countless beasts, the rumbling thud like a tide, the wailing and cursing like hell, interspersed with the infinitely somber sound of a strange horn.
It was an assault, an assault not yet visible to their eyes. A Ran-Dan overlord or a squad of warriors was driving innumerable cannon fodder slaves—perhaps thousands, tens of thousands, or even more—who were wildly charging towards them. Zahariel could even hear the boundless desert trembling involuntarily from their charge, countless pebbles and dust bouncing erratically on the ground, foretelling an ominous sign.
Then, he saw Morgan utter the last character, as if finishing a poem.
Next, he saw [the Mist].
The mist appeared at the end of his vision, at one end of the horizon. This invisible slayer was not slow like its companions; it paced from one end of the horizon to the other at a visible speed, like a hurried gentleman.
Zahariel suddenly felt a tension, the physical instinct that an Astartes would exhibit when facing an unimaginable threat. Now, looking at that slowly moving wall of mist, every knuckle and every brain cell of Zahariel's trembled and vibrated involuntarily, screaming readiness for battle.
The Dark Angel forcibly tore his gaze away, refocusing on Morgan. He longed to see fatigue and gasps from this psychic lady, but what he actually saw was Morgan's fingers casually playing with her silvery hair, as if contemplating whether to trim her overly long tips. She was like a young lady enjoying the afternoon sun in a garden, carefree amidst the swirling mist and faint fragrance of flowers.
"[Is that sufficient, Lord Zahariel?]"
She spoke, her words carrying a triumphant joy and boastfulness, and this question made Zahariel's body involuntarily contract.
The Calibanite laboriously lifted his head, listening once again, gazing far into the distance once more.
He knew what he should be hearing. He should be hearing an entire army of Ran-Dan slaves advancing, should be hearing the symphony of thousands of blades clashing, should be hearing the tracks of tanks and the tires of cannons pressing across the earth, should be hearing the death throes of thousands, even tens of thousands, of slaves.
Just a moment ago, he had heard it.
The second before Morgan uttered her poetic lines.
But now...
The roars of beasts.
The grinding of armor.
The low hum of horns.
The wails of those seeking death.
He heard none of it anymore.
...
So quiet...
Quiet as if nothing had ever existed.
Zahariel's cold sweat dripped.
The Calibanite captain stiffly turned his head slightly, his veiled gaze sweeping past the new recruit company, which was covered in brief confusion and shock, towards a secluded corner of the formation. There stood a group of incongruous warriors.
These were three slightly taller Dark Angels, their bodies entirely shrouded in hoods and robes, leaving only their wielded, massive, bizarre firearms visible. But through the superhuman vision of an Astartes, Zahariel could still vaguely make out the dense honor markings and medals on the shoulder guards of these mysterious figures.
The Calibanite turned his head, remembering a previous conversation.
"I am responsible for overseeing that mortal psyker, recruit."
"You do not need to know the specific details. Everything shall proceed as normal."
"But first, we must confirm through practical testing whether she truly is, as the Thousand Sons Legion's missive stated, a genuine, or alpha-level capable, controllable psyker."
"You are responsible for this matter, recruit. I will be responsible for supervision and record-keeping, as well as some unavoidable measures."
"Remember, everything that transpires here, whether important or not, whether successful or not, whether it causes you to resist or deny it, even to the point of putting those thoughts into practice—it will go directly to [the Lion] himself."
Zahariel closed his eyes.
Although he was still just a [recruit], he already knew most of the Legion's rules.
Why Morgan?
Because in the Sabis system, for reasons he was not yet privy to, the Dark Angels Legion required a powerful psyker, preferably alpha-level.
Why not Ahriman?
Because he was a Thousand Son, one of the gene-primarch's most trusted individuals in the Fifteenth Legion. If he were to be lost in the Sabis system, lost in the Dark Angels' plan, it would cause some trouble. And [the Lion] always disliked trouble that brought no benefit.
That was all.
"Alpha..."
In a communication between only two people, Zahariel could hear the whispered affirmation from the Terra veteran hidden beneath the hood. Oddly enough, he detected a tremor of apprehension in that iceberg-like voice.
As a psyker who had not yet developed his full potential, Zahariel could actually understand the veteran's apprehension.
Those mortals with little psychic talent could not comprehend what [alpha] truly meant in the realm of the mind.
Damn it, he had always thought it was a clerical error by the Thousand Sons Legion. After all, an alpha with such good self-control was basically impossible.
A sound came from the communicator. Zahariel could hear the veterans hidden behind the scenes putting on something, perhaps bracelets with mechanisms, because he heard the sound of steel buttons clicking shut, again and again.
As a psyker, with each click, Zahariel felt his psychic power being forcibly suppressed by one layer, as if an entire mountain was constantly pressing down on his spine.
He involuntarily bent over, painfully enduring this instinctive suppression, and he was not alone: the lady who had just been so graceful was now even more miserable than him.
Then, he heard the sound of adjustment, and the mental burden on him significantly decreased. In contrast, the mortal lady beside him visibly hunched over.
Zahariel's brow involuntarily furrowed, and then he heard a voice from the communicator.
"Calm down. This is a necessary step."
"Your temporary mission is over, recruit. Next, we will take this psyker. You and your men only need to defend this camp."
"Good luck."
Zahariel's face was rigid. He turned his head somewhat guiltily towards Morgan.
This silver-haired lady, whose ability and demeanor were quite admirable, was already somewhat frail. Her finger bones and wrist bones protruded noticeably. Compared to an Astartes, she was like a large doll, even seeming too exquisite to appear on a battlefield.
And at this moment, this already fragile lady began to sweat involuntarily, large drops of perspiration streaming from her forehead, dampening her hairline and blurring her brows and eyes. Her previously comfortable breathing became frantic and heavy.
But even this face, unjustly suppressed, this weak, innocent, pale face that should have been filled with sorrow and resentment, still managed to force a smile when she looked at Zahariel.
"[Is this a necessary precaution, Lord?]"
She curved her lips, raising her eyebrows slightly, almost desperately trying to offer a reassuring smile, but this seemed to immediately exhaust her strength.
Zahariel watched her lower her head, beads of sweat continuously falling from her hair tips, staining the ground in a dull, irregular circle even before the veterans arrived.
The Calibanite raised his hand. He wanted to say something, but his tongue tasted bitter: recalling the suppression he had just felt, and then imagining two such suppressions piled upon a mortal, he felt that any words of his would be pale and powerless.
"[It's nothing, Lord...]"
In the end, it was the bitterly suppressed lady who offered him comfort.
"[I've long since adapted. I should have adapted, it's just that in the freedom of the Thousand Sons Legion...]"
She seemed to want to say more, but the veterans had already stepped forward and taken her away. A Stormbird was parked on a distant clearing, waiting for them.
Zahariel stood rooted to the spot. He looked up, just watching, watching the Stormbird ascend, move away, and finally disappear completely into the sky.
Sometimes, perhaps their methods really were excessive.
For a moment, Zahariel thought so.
Morgan opened her eyes.
She was somewhat displeased, somewhat... angry.
The last time she felt such emotions was when she was woken by that fellow called Erebus. And now, the shackles on her wrists and ankles intensified this feeling.
She still kept her head down, because at least two Dark Angels veterans were in the cabin. Morgan could feel their muzzles aimed at her. The guns and ammunition emitted an ominous aura for a psyker.
She controlled her sweat glands, producing the amount of sweat a frail woman should under these circumstances, just like her performance in front of Zahariel. These tasks were so simple that they even bored her.
So, Morgan closed her eyes again and began to think.
She was somewhat unsure about the Dark Angels' sudden change in attitude, while her psychic senses could acutely perceive everything around her, both physical and mental.
So, she naturally began to sift through the memories and thoughts of those Dark Angels.
Oh, those specialized instruments, firearms, and bullets certainly had a suppressive effect on her: this suppression was roughly like the impact of scooping a ladle of water on an entire ocean.
Morgan took about three seconds to process all of this: rummaging through memories, filtering content, and then piecing them together, reading and analyzing. This took two seconds.
And the last second was her laughter after reading.
Morgan laughed, not a joyful laugh, but a mixture of sarcasm and anger.
In this world, in the Sabis system, the Dark Angels were orchestrating a grand play, a play whose script and actors could change at any moment.
But Morgan wasn't very fond of her role in this play. She decided to make some changes.
In the realm of the mind, Morgan stroked her chin, her perceptions transcending the barriers of space, searching for opportunities in the boundless desert.
Soon, she found it:
A [Legion].
A [Demon Lord].
A squad of [Warriors].
And a [Pass].
With just a little control, they could even appear in one scene quite logically.
Morgan thought, while almost casually invading the pilot's subconscious.
[A Narrow Encounter].
[One Man Guards the Pass].
Oh, and the classic [Hero Saves the Beauty].
She loved it, loved it with a profound vulgarity.
Morgan, while teasing herself, casually cut the scenes of several Dark Angels veterans from her script.
A correction here: The Ran-Dan's celestial-level battleship is called the [Battle Moon], not the [War Satellite].
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