The engine of the Tridesia let out a violent roar, and in the dark vacuum, it silently disappeared. But the sudden brightness of the tail can still be seen through the porthole, like the brightness of a star.

The flames of light splattered, and a fleet led by the Tridesia slowly departed without any intention of stopping. On the bridge, Carlil flipped through the battle reports, remembering more data and experience.

Of course he doesn't like to do it, actually, he's not good at it either, but he has to.

The predecessors planted trees, and the descendants enjoyed the shade. It has been this way since ancient times. He was to record all the experiences that Nightblades had gained in exchange for blood, and when they returned to Nostramo, they would take root in the hearts of another batch of new blood.

One day, they will grow into towering trees that will shield the new blood from enemy blades and cannon fire.

But yes, the Eighth Legion just left, and there was no reason for them to stay near Lycaius, did they?

In fact, they didn't even make sense of the reason for coming. Naturally, Carlil would not tell him what he was here for, and besides, there were some things that would have changed if he had interfered.

Conrad Coetzes will take care of everything on his own, what is the value of relationships?

Continuing to think, Carlil didn't look through the battle report anymore. He tapped his finger lightly on the datapad in his hand, and the turbulent flow swiped, and its screen was instantly plunged into darkness. He put it down and turned around.

A gray-haired man was standing behind him, holding a complex instrument in his hands.

"Can you change to a more serious stance?" The narrator, Bellos, asked.

"I can't." Carlil said. "That's the most serious pose I can take."

"But you look like you're just standing casually."

"Yes."

"Is this serious?"

Carlil nodded, "Look at my expression, Mr. Bellos, don't I look serious right now?" ”

The corners of the narrator's mouth twitched, and he seemed to have an urge to smile, but he forced it back. He clicked the shutter, took one last shot, and lowered the camera, which fell to the force of gravity, bound to his chest by a rope.

The narrator, dressed in a brown leather waistcoat, bowed his head and found a brown paper book from the satchel at his waist, and a very plain, even slightly paintless fountain pen. Immediately afterward, he quickly opened the vellum paper and made a gesture that he wanted to interview.

Shaking his head helplessly, Kalil turned and gestured to Captain Gisbir Hasir and his crew, who were silently watching.

The old captain immediately understood, and the loud roar resounded throughout the bridge again: "Lazy bones, move your ass, and give me your legs!" Adjust engine output, confirm course, destination Nostramo, return! ”

The crew answered Gisbiel with a chorus of shouts.

"So, what do you want to ask, Mr. Bellos?" With his hands on his chest, Caryl leaned back and leaned back against the desk. "According to the rules, I will know everything to the extent that military discipline allows."

"Okay, okay." The narrator nodded repeatedly. "So, the first question, how does it feel to climb the God Emperor Phantom Dream?"

"Oops."

Bellos's hand that was about to start his pen paused, he raised his head, and there was an indescribable look boiling in his eyes under the gold-rimmed glasses: "I'm sorry, my hearing seems to have a problem just now, can you say it again?" ”

"Great." Carlil replied with a blank face. "Every time I climb aboard the majestic cathedral, full of gold and splendor of art and religious details, I am refreshed, open-minded and happy. I didn't board her much, but every time it was an unforgettable experience. ”

"Do you really want me to write that?"

"Just kidding - but are you really going to write it down?"

Bellos nodded: "Only a few people in the Empire have the honor of boarding the Emperor Phantom Dream, and if possible, of course I would like to depict her in detail and unveil her mystery for the general public, so that they can also walk on this Emperor's flagship in their imaginations." ”

Resisting the urge to sigh, Carlil spent about thirty minutes talking about the decoration of the Imperiale, and the sights that could be called landmarks.

Bellos nodded, and his hand quickly jotted it down in the vellum. There was a portable recording device on the collar of his waistcoat, and the indicator light flashed incessantly.

Carlil guessed that he would probably listen to the conversation during the rest of the night, making changes on the vellum.

Well, that's pretty much it. I've said all I can, Mr. Bellos. Do you still have questions? ”

"Yes." The narrator looked up again. "It's said you have a room on the Imperial Dream, is that true?"

“.”

"Is this true, Instructor Carlil?"

"Yes." The instructor of the Eighth Legion said with a blank face. "Yes, I have a private room up there. It is located on a vast area and even has an enclosed balcony for stargazing and a small garden. ”

"So luxurious?" Bellos couldn't have been more visibly taken aback. "So, how did you get it? I mean, is there any legend behind this that can be recorded? ”

"The question you asked doesn't seem to have anything to do with the Great Expedition, Mr. Belloth"

The narrator raised his right hand, blushing and temporarily turning off the recording device on his collar. As Carlil watched his movements, he suddenly felt a very strong urge to sigh.

Fortunately, he held back. Met Bellos's expectant eyes, he spoke slowly.

"Nope." Carlil said categorically. "There's no legend, it's just a simple room, and a lot of people have their own rooms on the Emperor's Dream, don't they? Not much more than me. ”

"But I can't interview them either." The narrator spreads his hands. "Who else can I ask but you?"

Carlil finally sighed.

"Ask something else." He said, with a hint of warning in his tone, but his expression was extremely helpless.

He even rubbed his eyebrows.

"You can ask questions about the war, or maybe some culture in the Legion asks about that, Bellos."

The narrator did not linger any further, and wisely and sensibly turned on the recording device again: "So, do you have any story to offer me about Captain Yago Sevitalyon? ”

Carlil raised an eyebrow.

"Oh." He nodded, and spoke slowly. "Yes, there are many. What type would you like to hear? ”

——

Conrad Coetzes has read many books.

Time passed, silently and silently slipped away from human perception. To this day, he has read many books. He was no longer the ghost of Nostramo, relying only on instinct and the innate knowledge in his head.

He knew the saying of homesickness, but he didn't expect that this statement would happen to him one day.

It's a real headache.

The Lord of the Night pursed his lips and slashed his pale fingers maliciously across the metal dummy in front of him. The terrifying sound of metal grinding sounded, and the training ground, which had been full of people, fell silent.

The commander of the third company, Fer Zaloster, coughed behind him, his voice was soft, hissing in Nostramo.

"Protoplasm. That's not quite right. ”

"What?" Coates asked without looking back. "What's not appropriate, mourning bird?"

The director of the think tank tilted his head, his throat rolling up and down. There was a hidden laugh behind him, and without looking back, he could guess who was laughing at him—no one dared to do so except his lieutenant, Adbiman Basley.

"I mean—"

Fair, who had a few new scars on his face, kept his calm tone and spoke. He didn't intend to lose his temper in front of the original body at this time, he had a way to clean up his lieutenant afterwards.

"—this metal target isn't meant to be used by you to test your strength."

Coates chuckled visibly, but didn't say anything. He sank his shoulders, bent down, his right hand clenched, his fingers quietly closed, and pierced the air as if he were holding a knife.

The Nightblades in the training ground didn't pay any attention to the place - at least not directly.

"So." As he swung his non-existent blade at an imaginary enemy in the air, the Lord of the Night spoke softly. "Is the statistic complete?"

"It's done, Primordial."

"Have we regained it, how many worlds have we conquered?"

"Forty-six." Fair said. "If you count the quelling of rebellions, and those worlds that surrendered before fighting, then, it is one hundred and two."

"That sounds like a lot." The Lord of the Night sneered and stopped.

The lines of his back were clearly visible under the black tights, and Fell could only shudder as he looked at his original back.

Each muscle is purposefully arranged in advance, perfectly defined and distributed, but together it brings a sense of sharpness that is not human. Staring at them, a scene suddenly appeared in front of Fair's eyes.

It was his original body standing on a pile of corpses in armor, and it happened not so long ago. The Lord of Midnight infiltrated a reluctant city at dawn, and at dawn, the Nightblades entered the fortress without any problems.

And the corrupt lord and all his subordinates had gathered in the largest square in the city. Conrad Coz trampled on their bones, his armor covered in blood, surrounded by civilians on their knees.

Despite this, the blood-stained face of the original body was calm, as if it had only done a trivial thing.

However, compared to the entire galaxy, it can only be said to be a drop in the bucket." Coetzes commented in a tone of indifference that was not very common, and quickly changed his tone after that.

He turned, his expression softening for some time.

"I'd love to claim a medal for each of you." The Lord of the Night said with a smile. "It's a number I'm proud of, and it's enough to make anyone proud. It's a pity we don't have a medal to take, Phil. ”

"And we don't care." The commander of the third company shrugged. "Honor is essentially just a bondage."

Coates snorted lightly and pointed his finger at Fair's armor: "But if I really apply for honor, you'd better not play any bitter drama for me that I don't want to take, Fell." Otherwise, I'll kick you into the hunting team and let you bring new blood yourself. ”

“.”

Phil Zaloster wisely chose to remain silent, and his original form paced softly, seemingly slowly, but in fact swiftly past him, slipping into the darkness in a dignified manner.

Phil and his lieutenant watched the movements of the original body and were silent for a moment, and then two blue lights suddenly lit up in the eyes of the third company commander.

"Adebeeman."

"Using psionic energy? You're so brazen. ”

"Huh." Fell sneered, raised his fist, and the blue light in his eyes went out. "I'm just using it to determine if the original is really gone, come on, go into the cage."

His adjutant shrugged nonchalantly: "Okay, come on." ”

Standing beside them, Conrad Cozs smiled silently before actually leaving.

He practiced this skill every day and never let up. But it had nothing to do with the trick he had learned from Carlil in the first place, and now it was more of an instinct carved deep into his bones.

Like some monsters who are born with a penchant for darkness, Conrad Coz captures the most secret and dark corners with precision in every location. With this skill, he hurried back to his office unnoticed.

Next, he spent a few minutes recording the names of people who bumped into him on the road and didn't notice him, and their names were written down on a dashboard.

It may seem paradoxical, but there is something like a 'monthly review' inside the Nightblade, in which stealth and anti-stealth training take the lion's share. Those who fail too often, or fail too many times, will have to stay on the bridge while others pour out of their nests and carry out their missions.

After doing this, he put the datapad aside, and a sudden sense of unreality came to his heart - in just a few years, he had completely integrated into the place, as if he was born to lead such an army, and he was born to get along with the Nightblades

Coetzes narrowed his eyes and threw the useless thought away. He picked up another datapad and wrote the order, the words "Primitive" glittering in solemn font at the beginning.

Nightfall will soon return to Nostramo, and his orders will be delivered directly to the surface the moment Nightfall is anchored in orbit. The visit of a primordial is a great event for any world. What's more, the person who came this time was Vogrim.

He lowered his head and reached out and pressed his chest down. Between the clothes and the chest, there is a pendant that is radiating a warm temperature. Conrad Coetzes smiled and continued to get into his work.

The update is complete, and tomorrow will be 10,000 more.

(End of chapter)