Seranaphy slowly unscrewed the cap of the liquor bottle.
A sharp, clear scent of alcohol instantly filled the air. 192-proof vodka—just smelling it was enough to make a normal man's throat tighten.
He turned his head to look at [Paradox Player Not a War Criminal].
"Your achievements are truly astounding." His voice was low, but carried genuine admiration. "I toast to you."
[Paradox Player Not a War Criminal] smiled and unscrewed his own bottle. He looked at Seranaphy, a bright gleam in his eyes.
"Still remember the rules I taught you back then?"
Seranaphy was momentarily taken aback. Then, he smiled. It was a smile filled with nostalgia and warmth.
"Of course." He raised the bottle, locking eyes with [Paradox Player Not a War Criminal].
"Three glasses before the meal."
"One glass for the past, to bid farewell to suffering."
"One glass for the present, to celebrate our reunion."
"One glass for the future, to bless our hope."
[Paradox Player Not a War Criminal] nodded, his smile growing wider. "Let's do it, then."
He raised his bottle and gently clinked it against Seranaphy's. The crisp sound of glass ringing out echoed through the carriage.
"Three swigs equals three glasses." His voice was calm, but carried a ritualistic solemnity. "Down it in three."
Seranaphy nodded.
They both tipped the bottles back at the same time.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
By the time the bottles came back down, they were completely empty. A faint flush of crimson simultaneously spread across both of their faces.
192-proof vodka—even Astartes physiology couldn't completely shrug off that kind of kick.
[Paradox Player Not a War Criminal] lowered his bottle, his gaze accidentally sweeping past Seranaphy's waist.
Clipped there was a battered, broken figurine of a Blood Angel. Its paint job was chipped and faded, the faceplate was shattered, and an eerie green tint oozed from a wound carved into its chest.
Pasted just beneath the figurine was a tiny slip of paper.
[Paradox Player Not a War Criminal]'s eyes lingered on the slip for a second, quickly skimming the text scrawled across it:
"Brother Angel, thank you for protecting Aurelian back then. My father was incredibly honored to have fought by your side. I made this miniature based on his descriptions, and I hope you like it."
"I have already applied to join the Dawn Defense Force. I'm going to follow your example and resolutely fight any heretics that threaten humanity."
— Eli Horn
[Paradox Player Not a War Criminal] fell silent.
He looked up at Seranaphy. The Blood Angels Champion had his head bowed, gently stroking the battered figurine. Hands that had slaughtered countless heretics on the battlefield were now moving as tenderly as if caressing a newborn.
"Feeling a little touched?" [Paradox Player Not a War Criminal] asked softly, his voice so quiet that only Seranaphy could hear it.
Seranaphy didn't answer. He just kept stroking the model, lightly tracing his fingertips over the painted battle damage. After a long pause, he finally spoke. His voice was hoarse, thick with an indescribably complex emotion.
"The soldiers who fought alongside us back then..." He paused, his gaze still glued to the miniature. "What happened to them?"
[Paradox Player Not a War Criminal] stayed silent for two seconds. Then, he answered, his tone flat and matter-of-fact. "A large majority of them eventually succumbed to their wounds."
He looked out the window at the endless orchards, his gaze growing distant. "Even though the Crimson Dawn did everything in our power to treat them, some of that Warp corruption seeped straight to the bone. Our medical tech at the time just couldn't purge it completely. In the end, they still..." He trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.
Seranaphy fell silent.
Of course he knew the fate of those soldiers. He had taken hits during that battle too, but an Astartes' physiology was lightyears beyond a mortal's; the corruption had barely affected him. But those ordinary PDF troopers of the Crimson Dawn... their baseline bodies simply couldn't withstand that level of taint.
"And most of them were in the prime of their lives," [Paradox Player Not a War Criminal] continued. "They were all so young when they went into that meat-grinder. Some had just gotten married, with newborns waiting at home. Some hadn't even had the chance to marry yet, with their parents still hoping they'd walk through the front door again. Some..."
He took a deep breath, stopping himself from going any further.
Seranaphy's fingers gently rubbed against the miniature. His voice grew incredibly raspy. "But if it's so dangerous... why..."
He looked up, a deep confusion swirling in his eyes as he met [Paradox Player Not a War Criminal]'s gaze. "Why would their children still resolutely choose to enlist?"
[Paradox Player Not a War Criminal] looked at the absolute bewilderment in the Space Marine's eyes. He let out a slow chuckle. It was a smile bursting with immense pride.
"Because they have seen the dawn of Aurelian." His voice was calm, yet rang with undeniable conviction. "In their eyes, their fathers died protecting that dawn. Their fathers are heroes."
"And neither Aurelian nor the Crimson Dawn... has ever mistreated their descendants. Their fathers' names are carved into the monoliths at the Crimson Dawn Garden of Heroes. Immortalized as legendary heroes. Honoured and remembered by millions of Aurelian's citizens forever."
"As for their children... they receive the absolute best upbringing. They are given the freedom to choose their own paths in life. Whether they want to follow in their fathers' footsteps and enlist, or become teachers, engineers, or orchard farmers—the choice is entirely theirs. From survivor pensions and fully funded education to comprehensive social benefits..."
His voice rose a notch. "The Crimson Dawn has never turned its back on a single citizen of Aurelian."
He stared at Seranaphy, his eyes burning bright. "That is why their children are willing to enlist. They view sacrifice as true glory. Because they actually reap tangible, life-changing benefits from that glory. It's not just some hollow, empty slogan."
Seranaphy fell dead silent.
He clutched the battered miniature, his right hand gripping it just a fraction tighter. His mind flashed back to the endless campaigns of the Great Crusade, to the countless Imperial Auxilia troopers who had bled out right beside him. Those mortal soldiers whose names were completely forgotten the moment they hit the dirt. Those disposable consumables who had still screamed for the Emperor with their dying breaths.
Their ultimate sacrifice bought them nothing but a cold casualty report and a hollow statement about "dying in service to the Emperor." Their deaths were like weeds being trampled into the mud. Barely a ripple. Nobody remembered them. There were no pensions. No glory, no memorial services. Forget about carving their names into stone monuments to be honored. They were just statistics, ink on a casualty ledger handed up to high command.
Never mind the distant past—just look at the battle for the City of the Holy Anthem. Over seven hundred thousand Imperial Auxilia and two hundred thousand Solar Auxilia had been wiped out. But who the hell remembered a single one of their names?
And it wasn't just the mortal troops. Even them, the mighty Adeptus Astartes. Once they died... their value dropped to absolute zero. And if they were unlucky enough to barely survive while possessing valuable combat experience... they'd just be shoved into a Dreadnought sarcophagus to keep grinding away for the Imperium of Man until the end of time.
Seranaphy's fingers tightened. He suddenly remembered the maxims parroted throughout the Blood Angels Legion.
We are angels.
We fight for the Emperor.
Our sacrifice is the ultimate glory.
Seranaphy looked up, peering out the window. Outside, the endless orchards were still bursting with life. The farmers were still working the land, the children were still playing, and young couples were still cuddling on the benches.
If I were to fall in battle one day, what would I get? A verbal commendation? A standard-issue casualty notice stamped with the Imperial Aquila? Then I'd just be forgotten in a sea of billions, reduced to yet another disposable pawn silently sacrificed for the grand Imperium.
Seranaphy didn't dare follow that train of thought any further. Ever since he was a child, he had been drilled with one single, overriding ideology: fighting for the Imperium of Man was the greatest honor imaginable.
But now...
He really didn't dare dig any deeper. Because he knew the answer would utterly shatter the convictions he had spent his entire life defending.
He slowly lowered his head, staring at the miniature in his hands. His lips parted as if he wanted to argue back, to say something. But in the end, he just let out a soft sigh. It was a sigh heavy with confusion, profound realization, and a faint, indescribable trace of... envy.
[Paradox Player Not a War Criminal] watched him, clearly reading the storm of emotions in the Space Marine's eyes. He reached out with his mechanical arm and rested it gently on Seranaphy's gauntlet. The gesture was light, but carried a profoundly reassuring weight.
"Don't overthink it." His voice was calm, carrying the warm reassurance of an older brother. "If there ever comes a day when you truly feel lost..." He paused, locking eyes with Seranaphy. "You can always come back to Aurelian. You'll always have a home here."
Seranaphy was completely taken aback. He looked down at this mortal, a man easily a full head and a half shorter than him. He saw the raw sincerity in his eyes. He saw the warm, welcoming smile resting on his lips.
His lips moved, wanting to say something in return. But ultimately, he just offered a slow, slight nod.
He didn't speak. Instead, his gaze drifted back out the window.
Outside, the mag-lev train was rapidly accelerating away from the Aru Plantation. The boundless sea of fruit trees was shrinking into the distance. Yet those perfectly straight rows of trees, the vibrant green fruits, and the people happily working the land... were permanently etched into his mind.