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Chapter 183: Green with Envy
🕑 Added 2025-09-26 10:44:00 +0000 UTCChapter 183: Green with Envy
While order was being restored in one part of the ruins, the rhythmic crackle of bolter fire still echoed from the quarantine zone. On a high plateau, isolated by the power of the World Spirit, the final purification ritual was underway.
A Greater Daemon of Slaanesh, which had once possessed an Imperial noble, sat slumped in a pool of its own ichor, its bloated human face twisted into a comical, weeping mask. Its bejeweled fingers scrabbled uselessly at the ground as Arthur deftly looped an adamantium chain around its neck and hoisted it up a flagpole like a side of cured meat.
As the corpulent body swung grotesquely in the morning breeze, the distorted veil of reality around it began to mend. Legions of battle-automata advanced in perfect, synchronized strides.
A hundred meters away, Cypher fought amidst a swarm of daemons and heretics, his eyes staring absently into the distance.
Zahariel approached him like a ghost. He first made a series of hand-signals from afar. Seeing no reaction, he unhesitatingly raised his boltgun and aimed it at his comrade's helmet.
—CRACK!
"?"
The knight's movements didn't falter in the slightest. He simply tilted his head casually. His master-crafted power sword flashed from its scabbard at a precise angle, neatly bisecting the incoming bolt round. The two halves of the shell screamed past his pauldrons and detonated with perfect accuracy on two lurking Daemonettes behind him, blasting them into showers of foul pus.
It's really him, Zahariel thought, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. He sidestepped a spray of daemonic viscera, his voice coming through their private channel.
"Cypher. This is a battlefield," he reminded him.
"I am aware." The Knight-Adjutant's power sword carved a perfect arc, bisecting a cultist that lunged at him.
"But your mind is not focused," Zahariel said, coordinating the advance of the automata legion. "That is fatal in war."
CRACKLE~
The scenery around them shattered like a broken mirror as a Slaaneshi sorcery engulfed several of the automata. Zahariel raised a hand, signalling a Spirit-Forged Dreadnought to fill the gap in the line. Though he still harboured a deep-seated prejudice against the xenos, their talent for combat was undeniable.
With the kill-zone stabilized, Zahariel continued, "I think you should pay a visit to the Pentaculum Wing after the battle." Those Librarians, whose traditions could be traced back to the ancient techno-barbarian sorcerers of Terra, were getting bolder by the day, armed with the Prince's methods for isolating the Warp and the tutelage of the Aeldari. Their repertoire of psychic techniques was growing ever more esoteric.
"That won't be necessary," Cypher's voice suddenly rose an octave. He spun, his sword cleaving through a cultist attempting a sneak attack. His gaze drifted involuntarily toward the distant figures in gold and red, then snapped back as if he'd received an electric shock.
If the brothers of the Pentaculum Wing knew what I was thinking right now, my life would surely be over.
"You envy the Blood Angels," Zahariel stated, his voice low and certain, a subtle probe beneath the words. Ever since he'd realized he was the only one in their little group who had actually been with the Lion during the boarding of Caliban, he had made a point of honing his powers of observation. His comrades had layers upon layers of intrigue; sometimes it was impossible to keep up.
"..."
Cypher met his words with silence, but his grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles turning white. His sword-strikes grew fiercer. With a shriek of displaced air, a mutant charging him was hewn in two, its foul blood spattering his armour only to be instantly vaporized into acrid steam by the power field.
"I thought so," Zahariel nodded, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. He sidestepped an incoming claw, brought his boltgun up, and with a single roar, blew a daemon's head to fragments.
He often felt that dealing with people was far more complex than dealing with machines. A machine that wouldn't work simply wouldn't work. But with a person, you never knew what they were hiding in their hearts, or how to "fix" them.
"You know our position is a sensitive one," Zahariel reminded him. "Certain operations we are responsible for cannot be brought into the light." The Prince had made the current state of the Imperium perfectly clear to them. Until they had an overwhelming advantage and could take The Rock in a single, decisive stroke, they could not afford to be too conspicuous. Besides, the fewer who knew of the war against Chaos, the better. While annihilating all witnesses was a familiar procedure for them, and the risk of corruption and rebellion from direct exposure to Chaos was a very real one, maintaining secrecy from the outset and nipping any negative influence in the bud was the standard of the First Legion.
"I know," Cypher said, his power sword neatly piercing a cultist's throat, the disruption field on the blade stifling the scream before it could begin.
"The Prince has also been very clear about certain matters," Zahariel pressed.
"I know," Cypher's voice took on a hint of resignation, of a man cornered. "And it is for that very reason that I am merely envious, not complaining or resisting as I once might have."
The Blood Angels had fought across hundreds of leagues, moving through the Tyranid swarm as if it were nothing. The swarm, still reeling from the orbital bombardment and harassed by trained Librarians, could barely resist them and was simply waiting to die.
The Lamenters had defended life, holding out against an impossible siege until reinforcements arrived. They deserved the reverence of every soul they had sheltered.
They all stood in the sunlight, basking in honour, receiving the adoration of countless souls.
And the Dark Angels?
They fought and bled on the same battlefields, wove intelligence networks in the shadows, and developed new wargear in their laboratories. The people saved by the Blood Angels would never know how many potential Chaos threats were strangled in their cradles by the Dark Angels. Just as they would never know how much of the "clean" ground beneath their feet was once soaked in the blood of warriors whose names could never be recorded.
They shouldered heavier duties than other Legions, and their contributions were never less, yet they were forever consigned to the shadows, their deeds deliberately obscured.
"You haven't changed at all," Zahariel said, looking at Cypher's smoke-wreathed silhouette. He knew what lay beneath that envy: the simple, pure desire of a warrior for glory.
As Terran-born Dark Angels, they had always harboured a certain resentment for their constant involvement in thankless, clandestine wars. Because before they were given these dirty jobs, the Dark Angels had held the honour of being the first Space Marine Legion, created by the Emperor's own hand, his personal guard. They had participated in the Unification of Terra from the very beginning, paving the way for the Great Crusade to liberate humanity from the rule of xenos and false gods. Their victories were the stuff of legend. In the eyes of countless people, they were the finest of all Space Marines. Wherever they went, they were radiant with glory, for they were the First Legion.
But all of that vanished when the Lion returned.
They were torn from the Emperor's side, moved from the brightest stage to the darkest corner. They carried out the filthiest missions in the shadows—missions that could have no name, operations that must have no witnesses, sacrifices that could never be sung of—all while watching other Legions receive flowers and praise.
Their Primarch was always silent, assuming his deeds were seen by the Master of Mankind, and in turn, he drove his sons to be just like him. All of them.
And why?
Because loyalty is its own reward.
This was the greatest point of conflict between the Terran-born Dark Angels and the Lion. They had been the Emperor's sword and shield; now they were the Lion's hidden dagger. And to top it all off, the Lion hadn't even secured the title of Warmaster. The legionaries had a lot of opinions about their Primarch.
Your loyalty is its own reward, but ours needs to be rewarded! We need glory! It's all we have left.
Cypher's gaze fell once more upon Arthur, who, having dealt with the Greater Daemon, had joined Ramesses in the psychic domain of the World Spirit. The fundamental difference between Arthur and the Lion was that Arthur understood that people were different. He would never impose his own harsh standards on others. Arthur would kneel down, patiently explain the reasons for his commands, and look at you with those soul-piercing eyes until all suspicion and doubt melted away.
So he could not resent Arthur.
If they had not met the Prince, they might still be wandering the galactic fringe, losing sleep over whether they could trust their own brothers. They certainly wouldn't be here now, openly sharpening their blades, preparing for the day they would wash away the shame of the First Legion with fire and sword.
A flicker of resentment crossed Cypher's eyes, but he sighed and said, "Perhaps I am simply too greedy."
"If you ask me, the first thing Karna should do is get those Lamenters to repaint their armour. That yellow is terribly unlucky."
Standing in the nexus of the psychic domain, providing a safe anchor for his comrades, Arthur ignored the bait and simply said, "Hurry up."
"What's wrong?" Ramesses asked, looking puzzled as he pulled some of his focus away from his communion with the World Spirit. "The battle's only half over. They can pop the amasec, but we can't."
Arthur shook his head. "It's not that. Something's come up."
