Few knew that the banquet hall of the 'Night Haunter' had actually been converted from three adjacent rooms. Of course, this did not meet any standards, and the captains had argued for a long time in many meetings whether it was worth doing so.
Fell had always voted against it.
At that time, he still didn't think that a banquet hall could bring any benefit to the 'Night Haunter' and the Eighth Legion. This view was completely disproven after one joint operation with the Ultramarines.
Since then, Fell Jarost had started voting "for."
Thus, the only banquet hall on the 'Night Haunter' came into being. Even if walls had to be demolished and electrical wiring and pipes moved, at least they now had a banquet hall.
And now…
Sitting at the long table, Fell meticulously wiped his left gauntlet with a piece of cloth soaked in gun oil.
He had executed so many people tonight that there was too much blood on his armor.
Usually, such simple work was assigned to servitors. Although some liked to take care of their armor themselves, doing it in the banquet hall was still strange.
But what else could Fell do?
Immediately after the trial, the warriors of the Eighth Legion returned to the 'Night Haunter' without delay.
There was not a word in their Primarch's order about staying on Nostramo. And why did they return to the banquet hall?
Of course, because the banquet had not officially ended yet.
"Are you really not going to eat some nutrient paste, Captain?"
"I don't really want to talk to you right now, Adephiman."
"Why?"
His former adjutant lazily lifted a metal spoon. The thick nutrient paste, completely coating the spoon, steamed, entering into a chemical reaction.
He's doing this on purpose, Fell thought with annoyance.
Everyone knew that if nutrient paste was not eaten within thirty seconds of contact with metal, it would harden on the spoon due to high temperature and subsequent reactions, becoming part of it.
"Better not waste food in front of me," Fell said dully. "The cooks' labor should not be in vain."
"I know, Captain, but you didn't want to talk to me?"
Adephiman grinned and ate a portion of the paste. As he chewed, a dull clunking sound came from his mouth.
"After this, I'll definitely throw you in a cage," Fell said threateningly, clenching his left hand. The oil-covered gauntlet gleamed; there was not a drop of blood on it anymore.
"In the Third Company, no one can beat me in a cage, Captain," Adephiman chuckled quietly. "You haven't forgotten that, former Captain of the Third Company? Or has retirement made you forget what you shouldn't have?"
Fell, with a grim face, picked up the oiled cloth and threw it in Adephiman's face.
He did it so decisively and quickly that Adephiman was stunned for a few seconds. And when he, enraged, tore the cloth from his face, his captain was already calmly eating nutrient paste from a bowl.
"…Childish revenge," the adjutant of the Third Company said coldly.
"No more childish than yours," Fell replied with a smirk. "You've been teasing me for the past two days about my retirement, Adephiman. Do you think you're not acting childishly yourself?"
"I know you're not happy about this, like the others… but other adjutants don't go this far, Adephiman. The Primarch is already going to discuss this with us at a meeting tomorrow, so don't…"
"I must, Captain."
The adjutant of the Third Company of the Eighth Legion clenched his spoon and slowly spoke in the hum of the banquet hall: "If it weren't for you, I would have died thirteen years ago. If it weren't for you, seventy-three brothers who were with us in that bunker would have died. You saved us, Fell Jarost, and that's why you became our captain."
"Therefore, if you decide to retire silently, the remaining forty-one veterans of the Third Company will unhesitatingly lead the recruits and rebel against you. Before every battle, we will ask your opinion, and if you do not give an order, we will not attack."
"Nonsense!" Fell roared. "War is not a game! And the Primarch has already said that he will not allow us to retire!"
"This is due to the Primarch's mercy and wisdom," Adephiman said quietly. "Because he knows what will happen… Captain, yesterday you betrayed us. I hope you don't forget that."
Fell froze. He had never thought he would hear the word "betrayed" from his adjutant.
At that moment, he felt as if struck by lightning. He turned and looked at those sitting at the long table—the warriors of the Third Company sat behind him, but no one met his gaze.
Neither veterans nor recruits.
All—as soon as he looked at them—averted their eyes.
"I…" Fell's lips trembled. "I did not betray."
"Perhaps, but you forgot that you once saved us all," his adjutant said seriously. "And now, Captain, you had better hurry. The paste is getting cold, and besides, the Primarch has arrived."
He wasn't lying.
Fell suppressed his feelings and began to eat the paste quickly, turning at the same time to find their Primarch in the now quiet banquet hall.
His eyesight had always been excellent, so he quickly spotted his lord.
…
Konrad Curze didn't remember how he reached the doors of the banquet hall—his thoughts were in turmoil. He only got here by instinct and memory, nothing more.
Kariel's words had almost crushed him, and the worst part was that he couldn't even bring himself to be angry at him.
As before, he knew Kariel was right.
At this thought, he frowned with annoyance. Although it lasted only a moment, Konrad Curze firmly remembered this burst of anger at himself.
Kariel is right, he told himself. You shouldn't have gone to him for approval; you should have met with your Legion first.
Pursing his lips, he pushed the door and entered the banquet hall.
The previously noisy hall instantly fell silent. Twenty thousand pairs of eyes, some bright, some dark, turned to their Primarch. Konrad Curze smiled slightly, instantly hiding all his feelings in an imaginary box.
He would deal with them when he was alone, but not now.
Now, he was the lord of the Eighth Legion.
"I want to thank you."
He did not use a voice amplifier and, standing at the entrance, spoke loudly:
"You have done what I could not. My Legion, tonight you have dispersed many heavy clouds that constantly hung over Nostramo."
He paused, looked around, meeting the gaze of everyone looking at him.
"Thank you," he said sincerely.
No one answered, only silence. The judges of the Eighth Legion looked confused and sat on pins and needles.
Some hands holding bowls of paste trembled. Others, who were drinking tasteless beer, suddenly froze, forgetting to swallow it.
The air filters installed in the hall worked quietly, filling the room with fresh air with a light aroma, but for some reason, the main atmosphere now was a strange awkwardness.
And this awkwardness extended to Konrad Curze.
He stood motionless at the entrance, waiting for some reaction.
But his sons, who had just been looking him in the eye, now, as if by an invisible command, all lowered their heads, as if they had their own communication channel, from which Konrad Curze was excluded.
After a long time, a voice rang out. A man with high cheekbones and a stern face stood up—it was Captain of the First Company, Vancliff, the one who had dared to dissuwade their Primarch from participating in this trial.
"You shouldn't thank us."
He said this with deliberate formality.
"As the gene-father Primarch of the Eighth Legion, you rightfully lead us."
"Besides, the trial of Nostramo is part of our duties. The Eighth Legion was recreated by the Emperor and taken from Terra as a judge of sin. Therefore, you should not thank us. Your gratitude…"
He took a deep breath.
"…is tormenting for us."
Konrad Curze heard someone gasp in fear.
And Vancliff continued, the skin on his cheeks trembling, but he did not stop.
"You cannot thank us," he said seriously and insistently. "Unless we have done something beyond your expectations."
Konrad Curze did not answer immediately. He thought, and this thought came so aptly, so timely. A moment later, he gave a bitter smile.
"What am I doing? I was just lectured by Kariel, and now by my own captain…"
"You are right, Vancliff," Konrad Curze nodded. "I really shouldn't have thanked you, and I apologize for it. But it seems you are not very willing to accept my apologies right now."
He smiled calmly, and there was bitterness in his smile.
Up to this point, Vancliff had much to say, but seeing the complex expression on the Primarch's face, he forgot all his words.
Worse, his adjutant from the opposite side of the table began to make a throat-slitting gesture at him.
Vancliff decided to pretend he saw nothing.
"Then let's continue the banquet," Konrad Curze said. "I want to celebrate, celebrate for you, and you should also rejoice that you did an excellent job today. You should also celebrate. So let the banquet begin again!"
With these words, he entered the hall, raised his right hand, took someone else's bottle of beer from the nearest table, tilted his head back, and began to drink this unfamiliar liquid.
The warrior from whom he took the beer straightened up excitedly, as if he had received the greatest honor.
As for his brothers…
Well, the grinding of teeth was not so noticeable amidst the joyful shouts, was it?
…
Kariel sighed softly.
"I can't teach you anything, Siani," he said. "My mastery of hand-to-hand combat is based on knowledge of human anatomy. This dangerous technique is not suitable for sparring."
"But on that day, you won one thousand two hundred and thirty-three consecutive victories."
Kariel remained silent, not saying that yesterday he had fought relying solely on reaction and strength. Saying it out loud would be too insulting.
"And I am Siani of Terra!"
The warrior opposite him proudly puffed out his chest. Although he was covered in bruises, his voice was loud:
"I must learn your technique! Kariel Lohars!"
"Alright."
"Ha!"
Siani laughed briefly and rushed forward again. Kariel sighed, forcing himself to suppress the instinctive urge to counterattack. He allowed Siani to take six steps before putting him on the floor again.
He acted with extreme caution, but Siani and the spectators below did not think so.
"Excellent!" Siani shouted, lying on the floor, wincing in pain. "Six steps! I'm making progress!"
"Siani! Siani! Siani!" the Astartes of the Eighth Legion below picked up. "Siani of Terra! Siani of Terra!"
Lying on the floor, the young warrior laughed joyfully. Kariel also smiled, but barely noticeably.
He shook his right hand and mentally smirked at himself.
"Mastered acting skills in just one day? What a hypocrite you are, Kariel Lohars…"
"So, how was it?" Siani asked, getting up and wincing in pain. "Did I exceed your expectations? How does my progress compare to yesterday?"
Kariel didn't answer, just shook his head with a slight smirk.
Siani took this silence as a refusal. He frowned and said seriously, "I know that in a real fight, I wouldn't last a second. But at least I've made progress in pure technique?"
"Of course, Siani," Kariel said. "Although I know nothing about technique, you have indeed made progress."
He was not lying; it was the truth. Although there was a share of his own indulgence in those six steps Siani took approaching him, that strange, intuitive gait could not be explained by indulgence alone.
If someone else had been in his place, Siani would have suddenly disappeared from the opponent's field of vision. In hand-to-hand combat, such an advantage was enormous.
"What do you mean 'know nothing'…"
Siani shook his head with a smile and leaned against the black steel cage of the ring. The cold metal soothed his aching skin a little.
The young man spoke again, seriously and insistently: "I really came to you to learn, Kariel, so please stop being so modest. Technique and strength complement each other, and I am very grateful that you are willing to restrain your strength and fight me using only technique."
"But I really didn't use any technique."
Siani smiled helplessly. He raised his right hand and made a quick strike. His hand blurred for a moment in the air, and the straight punch suddenly turned into a dangerous throat grab.
He withdrew his hand.
"And this is not called technique?" Siani of Terra asked, his eyes wide open.
"This is…" Kariel froze.
For a moment, he didn't know what to object.
Isn't this technique? From his point of view, of course not. But looking at it through Siani's eyes, he immediately understood how deadly that familiar move was to him.
him.
However, he had a counter-argument.
"What if your opponent is in power armor?" Karyel asked. "You don't expect to break armor with your fists, do you?"
Siani laughed, a very cheerful sound.
"I'm not living in a dream world, Karyel. I'll gradually study all your hand-to-hand combat techniques, and then I'll move on to weapons," he winked with a smile. "You won't refuse me, will you?"
'I'd be glad to,' Karyel thought, shaking his head in annoyance.
"I won't refuse," he said seriously. "But I can't promise how long I'll be able to teach you."
"Huh?" Siani lowered his raised hands in astonishment. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing, Siani," Karyel said flippantly. "Are you still going to... learn?"
"Of course!" Siani of Terra frowned. "But what did that phrase mean? You're not planning to stay with us?"
"I don't have any position in the Eighth Legion. You are currently on Nostramo, so I can still walk around the 'Night Haunter' by the grace of Konrad Curze, but I won't brazenly stay."
Karyel shook his head with a slight smirk.
"You are a legion, and I, a non-military man, will remain here. Wouldn't that be too ridiculous?"
Siani fell silent, and the Astartes under the ring also fell silent. A moment later, he nodded.
"It really is," Siani of Terra said quietly.
***
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