Zell reads a lot, but don't get me wrong, he only reads to get answers to some questions. It was only because these questions were often not explained in detail from other mouths that he turned to books.

If anyone could solve all the problems he raised in just a few words, Zell would have read only the specialized works of Bellos von Sharp.

However, such a person did not exist, so Zell gradually read all the books on the Night Soul. However, after that, his problems increased a lot.

It is true that the knowledge in the book solves many problems, but unfortunately problems often breed more problems

Just now, looking at the man walking in front of him, Zell's mind couldn't help but wander to some distance that even he couldn't predict.

The Nightfall's library contains many memoirs, some of which were recorded by the narrator himself, such as the twenty-five works of Bellos von Sharp, which was considered banned by Yago Sevitaleon, and some of which were written by the author himself.

These memoirs often contain only the details of one or two wars, not so much a book as a detailed report of the war that has been written a little longer. They are very different in style and provide a very different reading experience depending on the character of the writer.

Some are frivolous, some are detailed, some are unemotional and metaphorical, and some are extremely gorgeous, as if they were composing poetry. If there is anything they have in common, it is probably only two names.

One is Conrad Coetzes, and the other is Carlil Lohals.

The former has many titles, the Lord of the Night, the Lord of the Blades, the King of the Assassins, the Reciter, or the slightly ridiculous Gargoyle Collector

The latter, on the other hand, is addressed by a single word to the authors who have long since died.

Instructor.

But why? What did he do and what did he teach to make the heroes of the Great Expedition respect him so much?

Zell cut off his thoughts for a moment, throwing these complex thoughts into a corner of his mind, and instead began to focus on what was really important at the moment.

It was late evening, and Litatra had not yet recovered from the grief of the war, and the city was filled with cries. In the flames, the bodies of the dead that had not yet been collected were piled up and burned.

They will not be given a chance to be buried in peace, and death will be treated equally, whether you are a thug who has done evil in life or a rich man who likes to enjoy yourself, it makes no difference at this moment, and you will eventually become a handful of ashes in the fire.

There are many reasons why people are not allowed to receive the ashes of their relatives, and none of them know about it, except that they are told, 'This is the Emperor's will', and of course the Emperor has not given any will in this regard, it is just a common choice made by those who have a basic understanding of Chaos.

In order to avoid a greater catastrophe, they can only add more suffering to the innocent.

Zell's keen senses captured them for him, like a vast network of different organs joining together to encompass everything around him.

Silently and silently, he walked behind Carlil Lohals, stepping into the deepest recess of the ruins. They didn't stop until it was completely dark.

At this time, there was silence all around, and the wreckage of the shantytown lay next to the charred personnel carriers, the remains of which had not yet had time to be cleared. The tortured bodies of soldiers and civilians were still waiting on the walls or on the ground, enjoying the bleak moonlight.

Zell was keenly aware of what was wrong at this moment—there were no unjust souls.

In his experience, at the scene of such a massacre, there must be countless unjust souls waiting to confide their grievances in him. However, there was nothing here, and the only thing that was quiet in the ruins was the whining of the wind, like the cry of the city.

"This is it." Carlil said.

His voice seemed a little hoarser than it had been before, and Zell looked at him for more explanation, only to see a pair of eyes that were dimmer than the darkness.

"Would you mind doing me a favor, Zel?" Carlil retracted his gaze and asked. He gestured to where he was standing, which looked like a mound of dirt.

Zell twitched his nose and sniffed the air, but didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. He didn't believe that things were really that simple, and even came up with the idea of wearing a helmet and using the analysis function.

But instead of doing so, he walked straight over, pulled out the brawler knife from his waist, and began to dig through the mound with it.

Doing so reminded him of a few solo infiltration missions, and in all fairness, killing someone with a combat dagger and digging through the ground with it were exactly the same feeling, and there was no difference. It's nothing more than stabbing, spinning the wrist, with bloody flesh.

"Bell ——!"

The sound of gold and iron colliding suddenly sounded, and quickly spread to the surrounding ruins, forming a small noise that seemed to be real and illusory.

Zell frowned, drawing his short knife from the deep pit he had dug out, but he didn't see any damage on the tip of the blade. So he stretched out his left hand, went deep into the pit, grabbed something with his fingers, and pulled it outward.

In the flying dust, a bone face, reflecting the moonlight, appeared before their eyes.

Zell was silent for a while, and then handed the mask out of his hand, but his movements became a little cautious for some reason. Compared to him, the person who reached out to take the mask was not very gentle, and even a little rough.

He frowned, took it in his hand, rubbed his fingers against the thin, blade-like edge of the mask, and the blood immediately flowed down the lines of it, and in a few moments it covered the entire mask, turning the white color into scarlet.

Zell looked at him for some reason, but got only a calm look.

"Let me do the rest." Carlil said.

Zell got up, got out of the way, and watched as he half-knelt in front of the mound, leaning down and dipping his left hand into the hole. A burst of golden light suddenly bloomed, dazzling, and to Zell, it was like a mortal looking directly at the sun on a sunny day at noon.

The paladin's eyes narrowed uncontrollably due to the defects caused by the genetic seed, and there was even a brief double vision in front of him, accompanied by tears and a sharp stinging pain.

He covered his eyes and began to blink quickly to counteract the pain, a shock in his heart - even if he did look directly at the sun, he could not be stimulated to this extent.

What the hell is that light?

He had no way of knowing the answer.

Karil slowly stood up, holding the stone in his fleshy palm. Strange to say, his blood did not leave any trace on it, and without exception, they all fell to the ground, like a drizzle of cattle in the wilderness on a spring day.

He looked down at the stone, to be precise, at the stain of bright red blood in the center of it.

It was the last mark left on the world by countless sons of Aurelian, who had sworn to reclaim the name of the Father of Genes, and they had done it, but they themselves would never see it again.

Alright then, Lorja Aurelian, I hope you're worth it. Carlil thought.

——

Machado gripped his scepter tightly, and psionic light streamed through his body, illuminating his body almost transparently. Things like bones, nerves, and internal organs are clearly visible in blue light, as if they are being examined through a medical device.

The reality is, of course, far from that.

Perturabo withdrew his gaze, clasped his hands, and looked at a porthole.

Through it, he was able to gaze out into the outside world.

The dim glow of the sun danced across the retina, and a series of pitch-black levitating fortresses surrounded it and the shattered Terra kept firm watch in the icy vacuum.

Invisible and ancient chains are intertwined between these fortresses, forming a 'cordon' of subspace that will be met by any demon who tries to leap over them to reach the solar system.

Perturabo was one of its designers, not one.

But he wasn't proud of it, never.

In fact, it's been a long time since he's been proud of anything he's done, and in his opinion, he's never done well enough.

It was a sick psychology that stemmed from his disgust at his own incompetence and stupidity. If you dig deeper, it will probably be mixed with some self-punishing self-destructive psychology.

He knew all this.

Ten thousand years, even if it is only half asleep and half awake, is enough for a person to completely dismantle himself and put it back together several times, not to mention that the Lord of Steel has never 'dreamed', he has been staying in this cruel and clear real world, facing everything.

He accepted challenges, he accepted tests, he accepted suffering and the torture that came with it, staggering forward, holding his ground, watching generations of illustrious steel melt in flames

He still stood here, never backing down, never falling.

"It's over." Machado said suddenly, in a dull tone, as if sleepwalking.

Perturabo turned his head and read in his too-youthful face the utter obvious exhaustion, which was understandable.

The soul of the Palm Seal has long since decayed, he has been in the samsaric hell of samsara for too long, and the huge amount of work has long since turned into punishment and weighed on his strong mind. From this point of view, it is nothing short of a miracle that he is still able to maintain himself.

"He's back?" Peturabo asked.

Calm and cautious, he asked the question without expectation.

Macardo coughed and lowered his head, affirming in a hoarse voice. Blood trickled down his nose and fell to the ground, shattering.

"Yes, he's out of trouble, and our plan has succeeded."

Perturabo frowned, showing no emotion, calm and calm. He strode over to Machado and lifted him up from his chair, the wrinkles between his brows as deep as a knife's edge.

"You've never been so weak before." He said with a hint of accusation. "Tell me, Machado, what caused you to act so weak."

"I'm just getting old and, I refuse to accept the word weak."

"You are an eternal."

"Won't the Eternals grow old?" Machado looked up and asked. "What's more, eternal life is just an illusory concept, and we can still be killed by something. Nothing is immortal in the world we live in, not even you. ”

"I never said I wanted to be immortal." Peturabo said calmly. "I've never been so vulgar."

The Palm Printer shook his head, falling silent for a moment. Conversations like this have taken place between them at least tens of thousands of times.

In the first few decades, when the Sealbearer was still alive with his humanity, he would engage in philosophical debates with Perturabo and Roger Dorn, or play a game of king-killing with them in his spare time.

However, as time went on, the number of visits to them began to decrease as well. The word "deep dwelling" is not even worthy of being used to describe him, and Makado has gone beyond the meaning of the word to move towards a higher realm.

He thinks about an infinite number of things, deals with an infinite number of disasters and wars. Even with the help of St. Giles, he could not get out of this quagmire, but the archangel himself who reached out to him fell into it with him.

"So, what's next?" Peturabo asked, and he volunteered to break the silence.

"I don't know how many people are behind this plan of yours, and I don't want to know what form he is in now, I just want to know what we should do next. Chaos isn't going to just watch us bring him back to the solar system—"

"—Who said we were going to bring him back to the solar system?" Makado asked rhetorically.

The blue light flickered in the air, and a star map appeared in front of them.

Above the solar system, Medusa and Caliban, who are connected together, are facing a green spot of light. To the east, Fenris and Baal were engulfed by the subspace storm and were attacked again.

Things were calm with Chemos, Chogoris, and Nocturne, but further east, the entire Extreme Universe would be in darkness.

Regardless of the Five Hundred Worlds, Nukeria and Nostramo, even some of the smaller worlds that were on the edge centuries ago are now in darkness.

As far as the eye can see, only the Storm Star Domain and the Taiping Star Domain are still stable in the entire empire, but after all, they border the solar system, and the poison brought by the perennial anti-chaos war has already made this place full of dangers.

Staring at the star map, Perturabo's frowning brows loosened a little.

"I see." He nodded. "The soldiers are coming, the water is coming, but what is the situation now? I don't believe he still has that kind of power. ”

"An old hunter is still a hunter." Makado said. "What's more, he won't be alone."

(End of chapter)