[Grief, bloodshed, and death.] 】

Morgan was whispering.

Like a young mother's whisper in the ear of a sleeping baby, like the last lesson of an old teacher to a distant student: the voice is soft, but not mixed with any emotion; The sound was warm, yet it exuded the bitter cold of death, it was real, but it was as illusory as the moon in the water.

At least for Zahariel, Morgan's voice is so contradictory, quirky and true.

The Caliban patted his shoulderplate, which had nothing but a decoration representing the First Legion, and he was inevitably disappointed, but the loss was fleeting: there was something more serious for him to face.

Morgan continued to whisper, her somewhat nonchalantly pouring out complex sentences, her fingers slowly tracing the direction of the skyline as she whispered.

It's not quiet there.

The superhuman hearing of the Dark Angel could hear the cacophony of the utterances, the noisy hiss of a myriad beasts, the rumbling of a tidal wave, the wailing and spitting of hell, and the infinite gloom of a strange horn.

It was an attack, an attack that had not yet caught their sights, and one of Randan's overlords or a band of warriors was driving away countless cannon fodder slaves, perhaps thousands, or even more, who were rushing towards them, and Zaharel could even hear the vast expanse of the desert trembling involuntarily at their assault, countless stones and sand bouncing on the ground, telling ominous omens.

Then he saw Morgan pour out the last character to the ground, as if he had finished reading a poem.

Then he saw the fog.

The fog, it appeared at the end of the horizon, at one end of the skyline, the invisible slayer was not as slow as its companions, it paced from one end of the skyline to the other at a speed visible to the naked eye, like a gentleman in a hurry.

Zaharel suddenly felt a nervousness that Astarte would burst out of when faced with an unimaginable threat, and now, looking at the slowly moving wall of fog, every knuckle and every brain cell of Zaharel involuntarily trembled and excited, screaming loudly about his readiness for battle.

The Dark Angel forcibly looked away from him, and turned his gaze back to Morgan, who longed to see the weariness and respite from the psionic lady: but what he really saw was Morgan's fingers playing with the silver-white hair, as if he was thinking about trimming the ends of her hair that was too long, and she was like a daughter enjoying the afternoon sun in the garden, carefree in the mist and the faint fragrance of flowers.

[Yes, Lord Zaharel. 】

She spoke, with a kind of triumphant joy and ostentation in her words, and this question made Zahariel's body tighten uncontrollably,

The Calibans looked up with great effort, listened again, looked into the distance again.

He knew what he was supposed to hear, he should have heard an entire army of Randan's slaves advancing, he should have heard the symphony of thousands of blades clashing against each other, he should have heard the indentations of tank tracks and cannon tires cutting across the earth, he should have heard the dying throes of thousands, if not tens of thousands, of slaves.

Just now, he heard it.

Just a second before Morgan spat out the verses.

But now......

The neighing of the beast.

The crushing of armor.

The muffle of the horn.

A wail for death.

He heard it all and didn't hear it again.

……

It's so quiet......

It's quiet like nothing has ever existed.

Zahariel's cold sweat remained.

The Caliban company commander turned his head slightly stiffly, and as he passed through the company of recruits, who were being covered in momentary confusion and shock, his vague gaze cast into the remote corner of the line, where stood a group of misfits.

It was three slightly taller dark angels, their whole bodies tightly wrapped in hoods and robes, leaving only the huge strange guns they were wielding, but through Astarte's superhuman perspective, Zaharel could still faintly see the dense seal of honor and medals on the shoulder armor of these mysterious men.

The Caliban turned his head, and he remembered the conversation he had had.

——————

"I'm in charge of overseeing that mortal psyker, recruit."

"You don't need to know the specifics, just do it as usual."

"But first, we'll have to test whether she's really a real, or alpha-level controllable psyker, as the letter from the Thousand Sons says."

"You're in charge of this, recruit, and I'll be in charge of monitoring and documenting, as well as a few more compelling means."

"Remember, everything that happens here, whether it's important or not, whether it's successful or not, whether it makes you feel resisted and denied, or even makes you put these ideas into practice, it will go straight to [the lion] himself."

——————

Zaharel closed his eyes.

Even though he was only a recruit, he already knew some of the rules of the legion.

Why Morgan?

Because in the Sabis system, for some reason that he doesn't have the right to know, the Dark Angel Legion needs a powerful psyker, preferably alpha-level.

Why not Ahriman?

Because it was a thousand sons, one of the most trusted figures of the fifteenth legion's genetic primordials, if he was to be lost in the Sabis system, in the plans of the Dark Angels, it would cause a little trouble, and the [Lion] has always hated trouble that would not bring benefits.

That's all.

“alpha……”

In the communication between only two people, Zaharel could hear the whispered affirmation of the Terra veteran hidden under his hood, and strangely enough, he could hear the tremor of fear in the words that were like icebergs.

As a psyker who had not yet developed his potential, Zaharel could understand the veteran's fears.

Mortals who don't have much psionic talent can't understand what alpha means in the spiritual realm.

Damn, he had always thought it was a clerical error on the part of the Thousand Sons Legion, after all, it was basically impossible for an alpha with such good self-control to exist.

There was a noise over the communicator, and Zaharel could hear the veterans behind the scenes wearing something, perhaps a bracelet with a mechanism attached, as he heard the sound of steel buttons snapping, and ratching.

As a psyker, Zaharel felt his psionic energy being suppressed with every sound of that voice, as if an entire mountain was constantly squeezing his backbone.

He could not help bending down, suffering from the suppression of this instinct, and he was not alone: the lady who had just been graceful and luxurious was now even more miserable than he was.

Then, he heard the sound of the angle, and the mental burden on him was significantly reduced, and in contrast, the mortal lady next to him visibly slumped up her body.

Zahariel's brow furrowed, and then he heard a voice coming from the communicator.

"Rest easy, this is a necessary step."

"Your temporary mission is over, recruit, next, we will take this psyker, you and your people just need to hold this camp."

"Good luck."

——————

Zaharel's face stiffened, and he turned his head to look at Morgan with some guilt.

The silver-haired lady, whose abilities and attitude were admirable, were already a little thin, her phalanges and wrist bones protruding visibly, and she resembled a large doll compared to Astarte, and even made people feel too delicate to appear on the battlefield.

At this time, the already thin lady began to sweat involuntarily, and large drops of sweat began to leave on her forehead, wetting the corners of her hair, blurring her eyebrows, and her originally comfortable breathing became flustered and heavy.

But it was this face that had been suppressed for no reason, this frail, innocent face that should have been sad and resentful, and still showed an extremely reluctant smile when it looked at Zahariel.

Is this a necessary precaution? Excellency? 】

She curled the corners of her mouth, raising her brow slightly, and almost sparing herself with a soothing smile, but it seemed to drain her strength immediately.

Zahariel watched as she hung her head, beads of sweat falling from the tips of her hair, staining the ground a dull, irregular circle before the veterans arrived.

The Caliban raised his hand, he wanted to say something, but his tongue was bitter: thinking of the oppression he had just felt, and the thought of two such oppressions piled up on a mortal, he felt that any of his words were feeble.

[No problem, Your Excellency ......]

In the end, it was the lady who was bitterly suppressed who comforted him.

[I've long since adapted, what I should have adapted to was just in the freedom of the Thousand Sons Army......]

She seemed to want to say more, but the veterans had already stepped forward and taken her away, and a storm bird was perched in the distant clearing, waiting for them.

Zaharel stood still, he looked up, just watching, watching the stormbird rise into the air, move away, and finally disappear into the air entirely.

Sometimes, maybe they've gone too far.

For a moment, Zaharel thought.

——————

Morgan opened his eyes.

She was a little dissatisfied, a little ...... Wrath.

The last time she felt this was when she was woken up by the guy named Erebus, and now, the shackles on her wrists and ankles had made it worse.

She still hung her head as at least two veterans of the Dark Angels were in the cabin, and Morgan could feel their guns aimed at her, the guns and ammunition giving off an unpleasant aura for psykers.

She controlled her sweat glands and flowed the sweat that a skinny woman should have shed in such a situation, like her performance in front of Zaharel, that the items were so simple that she even found them boring.

So, Morgan closed his eyes again and began to think about it.

She was a little unsure of the Dark Angel's sudden change of attitude, and her psionic senses were keenly aware of everything around her, both physical and mental.

So, as a matter of course, she looked through the memories and thoughts of those dark angels.

Oh, and the special instruments, guns, and bullets certainly had a suppressive effect on her: almost like scooping up a scoop of water on the entire ocean.

It took Morgan about three seconds to process it all: rummaging through memories, sifting through content, and then stringing it all together, reading and analyzing, all in two seconds.

And at the last second, it was the laughter of her after reading.

Morgan smiled, not a smile of joy, but some mixture of sarcasm and anger.

——————

In this world, in the Sabis system, the Dark Angel is planning a big drama, a big drama that will change the script and the actors at any time.

However, Morgan didn't really like her role in the scene, and she decided to make some changes.

In the realm of spirits, Morgan Mo rubs her chin as her quest transcends the barriers of space, searching for opportunities in the vast desert.

Soon, she found:

A Legion.

A Demon King.

A team of Warriors.

There is also a [Pass].

With a little control, they can even appear in a scene that makes sense.

Morgan thought, almost carelessly invading the driver's subconscious.

——————

[Narrow road encounter].

[One husband is a pass].

Oh, and the classic [Heroes Save Beauty].

She likes it, and she likes it very vulgarly.

Morgan teased himself as he casually crossed out several Dark Angel veterans from his script.