Chapter 296: Still Too Young

(*Your actions are getting more and more confusing. Is playing house so interesting? Looking at your previous behavior, there is no meaning except that you may have a unique liking for the thin blood of my hypocritical and empty brother.)

"Hush."

A soft voice, facing people in two worlds.

"Who is playing tricks there! Come out and face me! Heretic!"

As he shouted, Ptolemyon's gray eyes were trying their best to enlarge its black pupils so that its owner could vigilantly observe every corner of this cell.

This is not an easy task, because this place - like most of the space of all the ships of the Night Lords or one of their cousins, there is no light. The eyes and power armor helmets inherited from their fathers by the genetically modified warriors allow them to see without the help of light.

And if there is no genetic gift from the Night Haunter or the Shadow Crow, then the only thing that can be relied on is the possible starlight that leaks through a gap or a porthole, or the slaves living at the bottom of this city-like void ship, who will avoid their masters and use some dark lanterns that are tightly covered except for the front.

Obviously, the gene chain that Ptolemyon's organ development relies on does not belong to any of the above, so he can't see the pitch-black darkness even if he tries to open his eyes.

Ptolemy's eyes try their best to collect visual signals and use all his other senses at the same time, but when he suddenly turns around to attack or touch the dark figure he has imagined for the countless times, he begins to be thankful that the sound insulation of the cabin is not that good, and he can still hear the sound of the engine and the operation of the equipment in the distance.

Ptolemy even thought he heard a few attempts to knock on the wall to send out a coded signal, which gave him a little hope in the darkness: perhaps some of his comrades survived and were in a nearby cell.

Although when he tried to knock back, the other side always fell silent and then started again.

A trace of emotion that he had once abandoned but now sprouted in his heart began to spread along his mind, the ancient and ultimate instinctive fear of complete darkness of mankind.

A sentence he had read before, but forgot which page of an ancient divination scroll he saw it on, emerged in his mind in this darkness:

When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks at you.

First is light.

With light.

Everything can be observed.

Everything that is observed begins to be defined.

So a little light suddenly appeared here.

A huge creature slowly and inconceivably emerged from the junction of light and shadow, like the final reconciliation of the contradictions of light and shadow: he had white skin that was more heartbreaking than the bones under the moonlight, and long hair that was darker than the night. They dragged to the ground like a cloak, and another part was casually tied up and tied into a messy crown shape behind his head. The power he radiated outward was full of the desire to destroy everything, but because of his own existence, it was retracted, like a bird with folded black wings.

This huge creature looked deadly and visibly destitute, but at the same time it was noble and beautiful.

When he began to approach, the champion of the Origin Chapter realized - with shame and resentment, he had just held his breath for a while because of the sacred feeling brought to him by this creature.

Obviously at this place and time, it was difficult for people to believe that he was a sacred creature with such an appearance, so the Astartes immediately chanted the names of the Emperor and Guilliman loudly, and began to look around for something that could be held in his hands as a weapon.

Unfortunately, he was destined to be disappointed. There was nothing here, except for him and the existence that suddenly appeared on the other side.

When it took another step forward, Ptolemyon's hair stood up when he realized the height difference between the other party and himself. He knew that it... no... he... could only be a demigod. Although mortals in this era only knew that the Emperor had nine sacred descendants and they had nine evil enemies, the extremely long-standing Origin Chapter would not make mistakes in their records, and the Astartes knew more detailed information.

His reaction was clear: shouting a war cry, the Astartes' eyes were full of noble anger and a spirit of facing death. He threw away his fear, clenched his fists, and charged at the enemy's Primarch of the Thirteenth Legion.

——————

"Hmm, very spirited, but fortunately you met me. You must know that a knight should not die unarmed."

After making a joke, Ramizane reached out and touched the other party, attracting a fierce but missed hook.

The moment his cold fingertips touched Ptolemyon's warm skin, the company champion shuddered, feeling a small part of himself leaving him.

He attacked again with more anger and more land, but could only hit the void.

And Ramizane and Curze began to review all the major events related to the champion's past and future in their minds.

"As I expected, although Malcador is very powerful, he still couldn't think of the possibility of such a change in details, and completely eliminated it in advance. As the saying goes, a wise man thinks a thousand times."

(*You...how on earth did you think of...how did you notice this?! No one has ever noticed this before. It's incredible. Are there just a bunch of fools in this galaxy that is destined to be silent?!)

"So you study hard and read more so that you can better connect the prophecy and divination content to interpret the required information when needed, or complete the metaphorical choice you have been given - this is what 'you' should master the most Learn your skills, Conrad.”

(*……!)

"This way I feel more at ease. I originally thought we needed more government slaves... talents in internal affairs and diplomacy. Letting any original Night Lord on this ship do diplomacy would be the stupidest thing I have ever done. one."

(*Markarian can do the job.)

"Correction, Markarian can still do it before entering Dauntless. I only trust Fulgrim in Dauntless diplomacy."

(*...?! Wait, Fulgrim? Dauntless? Are you saying that room really belongs to Fulgrim?!)

"Oh, that's another story."

He turned his eyes to the Chapter Company Champion of Origin who still did not give up his attack.

"Hello," he said politely, "Ptolemion Saralon. There are some elders here who have something to say that you should listen to."

"I have no friendly relations with the hateful source of heresy, the fallen seed."

"What a pity. It seems that you have no friendship with your other ninety-eight brothers."

(*There is no sense of decency in your speech.)

That weak light illuminated the flash of confusion on the loyalist's face. It was obvious that if it was just his own life or - well - there were not many people, he would choose to refuse without hesitation, but Ninety Eight people meant the entire company. The third company originally had one position that had not been filled in time before the start of this battle.

etc! How does he know our total number? !

Ptolemion stared at the other person's face like a withered alabaster statue in horror, and quickly calmed down.

"What do you want to say? Demon, I listen. After listening, you should accept the sanction from the throne!"

"Of course, of course. First, I have a proposal..."

(*Sigh, this little guy is still too young.)