Numbers, everything will be classified as numbers.

Roger Dorn pinched the grains of sand, counted them, and watched as the breeze blew away in the palm of his hand. The dull red was lost and returned to nothingness, not to fall somewhere on the ground.

He knows.

He stood up and looked at the sky.

There was a dazzling ray of sunlight that was falling, falling on his armor and skin, tormenting him for a long and eternal time. But what was in the sky was not the sun, but a blood-red eye.

Dorne stared straight at it, silently counting to five seconds, then looked away and began walking.

He knew what He wanted to do, but he wouldn't do it.

In the name of the dead Horus Lupecar, he would not have done it.

He strode across the endless red sand, the thing still chattering in his ear. He has been there from the very beginning

He was there when Dorne learned that Horus was dead, heard of Angeland's severed arm, saw Fogham's madness, and realized that he was about to send countless men on a path to death.

Carlil Lohals warned him, Machado warned him, even the Emperor took the time to warn him - and Dorne took every suggestion to heart.

"You can ignore Him, He's just a parasite," Carlil Lohals said. ”

"He can't win against you, but you still need to be vigilant because He will do anything," Machado said. ”

The emperor said, "My son, just keep yourself." ”

Their advice was all very useful.

"You can't win me." Dorne spoke. "You're just a parasite, you want to devour me and replace it with something else, but you won't succeed."

He spoke, but it wasn't a speech, it was a proclamation.

He walked across the sand dunes and slid down the sloping edge. That thing was still talking, chattering, He wasn't tired, so He could keep talking. Dorne ignored Him until it was getting late.

It may be absurd to say, but there is a cycle of day and night, albeit in a modest way.

He looked up at the sky, the gentle blood-red light still lingering on the horizon, the real blood-colored remnant sun still staring at him, but the night had come. The night of countless stars pressed it hard, casting a crisp shade.

The night was falling and the stars were twinkling, and Dorne watched them until he had to leave.

He walked up to a large red stone and drew the short sword at his waist, it was made of rare pure gold and terracotta steel, sharp and hard. And now it's just a ridiculous handle with a small piece of metal.

He looked up at the red stone.

From here to the end of the red sand, they are the walls and the cages of him. They were the things He used to trap him here, but Dorne was good at taking advantage of everything.

The Invita are like that, and if they want to survive in the bitter cold, they must be tenacious, tenacious, and good at uniting and using all people and tools.

He raised his dagger and aimed it at the stone, and began to write something.

Not the thing, to be exact, but the name - for a primordial, it's easy to remember the name. But here, it's hard to keep in mind.

So, in the third or fourth century, Dorne began to write these names to make sure he would not forget. In the beginning, he wrote battle plans and the books he had read, and now, he writes names.

He had seen the names on the list. The names he remembered, the names of the dead, and their introductions.

Horus Lupecar. The genetic protogenotype of the Shadowmoon Wolf, my brother.

The commander of the Terra First Steps, Malak Castillo. A proud and strict commander, he has been in the army for thirty-one years.

From the very beginning, Dorne did not write down the numbers. He knew it wasn't necessary, because the thing outside the stone walls was looking and listening, and he wouldn't let him succeed in writing down how many names he had written.

After all, if this behavior can be quantified by time, then he can measure time by prescribing how many times a day and how many times a year.

His purpose was to confuse him, to confuse him, to bring him to his knees. Dorne knew about it and foresaw the means he might use, so he didn't write down numbers and didn't keep them down.

He just wrote.

He kept ticking down the names in his memory one by one, and faces that were either brave or calm crossed his eyes. He didn't know if they were still alive, or even if he was alive or not, he just wrote.

So He was furious.

Dorn laughed at this.

"I know." He said as he wrote. "You don't like me turning the walls of a prison cell into a monument, but what can you do?"

There was a roar outside the wall.

Written by Dorn, Erasmand Astus, a warrior of the 128th Company of the Imperial Fist. I haven't met him, but I've sent him to the edge of the solar system, and he may die, but one day, he may find me too.

"I don't know what you are, but it seems to me that you are just a law of the universe, and because of some coincidence, you have self-awareness. But you're still just a regularity, you can coax, plead, order, whatever you want, but I'll get out of here eventually. ”

The roar outside the walls gradually subsided, replaced by a kind of persuasion. He said, you don't have to be so stubborn, I don't interfere with your will, I just want to give you strength, give you the strength to put an end to all this.

Dorn wrote, Boleyn Red, one of the dumb guards chosen by Makado. I knew him twenty-two years ago, he is now on the front line, I don't know what he is doing, whether he dies in battle or not, but I wish him invincibility.

"End what?" Dorn asked.

All. He answered.

"I don't want all this, I just want humanity to win."

Dorn said, and then he wrote down the last name, the last name he remembered.

Carlil Lohals. My brother's adoptive father, the noble, the hero destined to be unknown in history, died before the turn of night and dawn. I remember him, and all of them.

The blood-red outside the wall roared.

You're done! He laughed out loud. Seven centuries and you've run out of options!

Dorne raised his hand and wrote Horus Lupecar's name on the wall.

My brother, the genetic prototype of the Shadow Moon Wolf, the Son of the First Return, the First Son of the Dead, we are glorified by his rebellion.

The roar outside the wall stopped.

"I could write it again, another seven centuries."

Dorn spoke calmly and slowly.

"I'll keep writing, and if the blade runs out, I'll still have the grip. If I run out of grips, I'll change the sawsaw blades. Its serrations also contain pure gold, each of which takes at least two centuries of wear. Count for me, you won't have anything to do anyway. ”

"And if the serrations run out, I still have fingers. I have ten fingers, and I have pure gold and terracotta steel in my hand armor, with which I can write for twenty centuries. ”

"If the nails are worn out, I'll write with my teeth down. If my teeth run out, I still have my finger bones, and if my finger bones are broken, I still have my forehead, my arms, and everything. ”

"I'll keep writing until you lose this battle. When I leave, I will spit on you, and I will erect a monument for you where you have failed, to declare to all that you have fallen at the hands of Roger Dorn. I took a victory from you, do you understand? ”

There was an explosion from outside the wall.

Dorne smiled, he knew what He was going to do, it was part of the plan. Provoke Him, make Him lose His mind, and bring about change within the Red Sands. From the moment he came in, he began to conceive this plan, which he completed in seven centuries.

And he was angry, and his opponent, who was well foreseen, was not so difficult to deal with.

Then the change came.

Fierce winds, earth-shattering shouts, and thunderous war drums. Someone is roaring, someone is killing, someone is covering the wound of a bullet and slowly falling. The demons were laughing wildly, and every laugh sounded mad and befitting of who they were.

The wind died down, and the thing outside the wall, the blood-red thing, revealed its blade.

You want to provoke me, you succeeded, but what do you get, Roger Dorne?

"Victory." Dorn said, turning his head slowly.

He saw burning trenches, and corpses, as if they were innumerable.

Everywhere, one piled on top of the other, dead in different forms. All the killings that have ever occurred in human history can be found here as a perfect specimen.

Dorn unmoved, unsheathed his dagger and began to observe the corpses. After a few seconds, he concluded that they were Astarte, and that it was Astarte he had not seen.

Each one is an unfamiliar livery, and each one has an unfamiliar logo. So, what about their faces?

Dorne bowed his head in understanding.

He saw his own reflection.

They died for you. Blood Red said. You made them die, and it made no sense for them to die. Your legion spreads across the galaxy, and every twenty-five years, your legion sends them a summons order to return to Terra to die.

They have what they have to defend, they have homes, and you let them leave everything behind. Keep me off, Roger Dorne. Because the next time you succeed, I will bring you the souls of those who died because of it, and you can listen to their curses.

Dorn was silent.

After a few seconds, he asked, "So, this order was given?" And how did the giver know? ”

Bloodred didn't answer, he suddenly realized something, he roared like crazy, something laughing at him. Something with Him, feathery.

Dorne exhaled a cloudy breath.

He walked over to the nearest corpse, got down on one knee, straightened the corpse's head, removed his helmet, and stared at the face. After a while, he began to observe the helmet.

At this moment, a tiny stain on the inside of the eyepiece caught his attention, and Dorne hesitated for a moment, unsure whether he wanted to desecrate the dead's equipment, but he reached in and felt it, only to pull on a small metal object.

He removed it, and saw a twisted piece of metal.

Dorne slowly spread it out, and then he saw names, countless names.

Roger Dorn smiled.

"I said you'd lose." He told Bloodred. "You will be defeated."

It's too late, I won't write the remaining two chapters, and I'm going to sleep ()

(End of chapter)