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Chapter 181: I Will See You Survive
🕑 Added 2025-09-26 10:43:06 +0000 UTCChapter 181: I Will See You Survive
Perhaps humanity had lost its courage.
In the long shadow of its past traumas, beset on all sides by the Ruinous Powers, humanity had surrendered too much for the sake of mere survival. It had become a beast locked in a cage of madness, tearing not only at its enemies, but at its own flesh. Its claws were sunk deep, yet it could no longer tell if the blood that flowed was from its enemy's breast or its own.
On a macro scale, it fought to protect the species. On a micro scale, the individual citizen was enslaved until death. The masters in their high spires looked down upon the ant-like masses, expending the lives of others and their own with equal, unfeeling calculation.
Vast. Decaying. Hopeless.
The rusted cogs of the machine still turned, screaming their protest, yet no one would stop to offer a single drop of oil. The Imperium had gone from saving its people to simply fighting fires, trapped in a cycle of fighting for the sake of fighting, with no end in sight and no line it would not cross.
Was such a humanity still worth saving?
Or rather, could such a humanity still bear the weight of its ancestors' dreams for the future?
Whenever he had walked on new worlds, leading the Ecclesiarchy and the Blood Angels in their sermons and witnessing the state of the Imperium, Karna would often lock himself in the quarters reserved for the Dawnbreakers.
The perfect smile would collapse. The gentle, languid posture would give way to agitated pacing and frustrated complaints.
He was resentful. He was furious. He was filled with sorrow.
Even the warriors who had followed them, who had reclaimed countless worlds and faced death without fear, did not dare to take that final, crucial step on their own.
And so, he felt lost.
Fortunately, he had companions who shared his ideals, and the power he was born with held the potential to remake worlds. Leaning on the faith they shared, they could support one another and continue onward, striving to find something familiar, to find their place, in this dark galaxy.
The Dawnbreakers admired the loyalist Space Marines. They were brave, they had sacrificed so much for the Imperium. They were warriors, and one could not ask more of them. They admired the Archmagos Cawl for his adherence to his promises, Inquisitor Aglaia for her outlook on life, the Battle-Sisters for their devotion.
The environment aboard the Dawnlight was proof that humanity could do better, that it possessed the capacity to change for the better.
But that change had been brought by them, the outsiders. Their fates, if not for the accident of their arrival, would never have intersected.
Karna often wondered if, without them, the galaxy was doomed to simply rot away. Even with its countless heroes rising and falling, they would all eventually be swallowed by this ocean of decay. Humanity no longer had the luxury of striving for something better; it expended all its energy simply to exist.
And now, standing before him, was a group of people who had found that path on their own.
It was the most magnificent rebellion of idealism.
Blood-soaked Astartes, scarred Astra Militarum, and ragged civilians. The dried blood on their bodies formed mottled patterns, a different kind of medal bestowed by war.
Someone will carry on. Someone will lead the others to survival.
In a corner, a young boy was curled up on the ground, fast asleep, his filthy hands still clutching a demolition charge.
Karna's gaze fell upon them, upon all the brave souls who, under his passive psychic benediction, had finally found a moment of peaceful sleep. The emergency lights swept over their exhausted faces, casting a filigree of shadows on the broken earth. He saw their feet, worn raw from forced marches; their cheeks, still twitching from overdoses of combat-stims; their bodies, covered in the brutal wounds of war.
They had given their all.
They were the men and women who made up the whole of humanity.
And in them, Karna saw unwavering courage and unbreakable devotion. Most importantly, he saw the conviction that burned in their hearts. He saw the spark of humanity.
He saw, with perfect clarity, that humanity had never truly lost the things it cherished most. He saw that hope was not a lie in this universe. Even without him and his brothers, there would have been those who chose this path, even if it meant sacrificing their own lives.
Even in the deepest, most poisoned soil, a white flower could bloom, and in blooming, it could pull its roots free from the mire and break through the walls of darkness.
It was just that this cruel galaxy was like a vampire's nest. It could laugh in the face of all manner of filth and cold darkness. But the moment it encountered love and light, it would recoil in agony and seek only to destroy it.
The data-screens on the command console flashed with crimson light, illuminating a tactical map teeming with enemy markers.
I will not suffer this to happen.
"Greetings. I am Karna."
Karna extended his hand and grasped Phoros's gauntlet.
As long as I have breath in my body, as long as my bones have strength, I will not suffer this light to be extinguished.
His near-perfect face shone with an earnest, reverent light, as if he were gazing upon the last candle of hope in the darkness. The firelight danced on his pale golden lashes, gilding his features with a divine radiance.
I will see you survive.
"Sanguinius's finest children."
The first rays of dawn pierced the darkness, striking Phoros's faceplate. The sounds of battle were receding, replaced by the rising, cathartic sobs of those who had survived against all odds.
It felt like an eternity in a single glance.
Time seemed to freeze, and only the shifting light wove the two figures together. A nearby Blood Angel, wearing the jagged red tear of the Flesh Tearers, gripped his weapon nervously.
"My Lord."
The single word was heavy with an ocean of unspoken emotion, trembling in the air.
Phoros felt his tear ducts burn. His transhuman nerves were sending him a signal he thought he'd forgotten: the signal of 'weakness'. With a single look, the trauma of war, the pressure of his ill fortune, the self-loathing for his powerlessness against a cruel reality—all of it found its release.
A trickle of fresh blood slid from a gap in his damaged pauldron, running down his arm and spattering on the shell-pocked ground.
Someone understood them. Someone supported them.
In the distance, a few wounded Lamenters struggled to straighten their backs, their blood-stained knuckles unconsciously tracing the oath-runes carved into their weapons. Their lonely legion, which had walked a path nearly all others had abandoned, had finally found its champion.
"Your orders, my Lord," Phoros's voice came through his damaged respirator grille, distorted by a harsh, electronic static.
The blood-drenched Angel of Death had spoken. He tightened his grip, the joints of his armour hissing softly. There were no pleasantries, no hysterical cries. The comms channel was filled only with the steady, controlled breathing of warriors.
This was a battlefield, and they were soldiers.
The war was not over.
The Lamenters could not rest.
"Reinforcements have arrived, but countless souls are still trapped in this catastrophe," Karna said, his gaze shifting to the ruins behind him. He stepped aside, and a chunk of shattered ferrocrete tumbled from the edge of his cloak. In the distance, the roar of departing shuttles was fading, but on the ground, a blood-stained hand reached weakly from beneath a pile of rubble.
Some had found new life aboard the transports, but many more were still struggling in despair.
"Now, prepare yourselves. Go to the sides of those who need you. I imagine no one here has more experience in that than you."
"Yes, my Lord."
An unprecedented feeling of satisfaction swelled in Phoros's chest. He looked ahead. The winged banner of the Angel stood unfurled. Beside the Great Angel, fully-armed warriors stood in immaculate ranks. They were taller, more elite. With a single glance, Phoros could feel the fire in their blood, and the Black Rage that burned within it. The curse that, in his own Chapter, would spread like wildfire from brother to brother at the slightest provocation, was here so clear, yet so contained. Their consciousness was whole. The curse that had plagued them for so long was, in this one's presence, simply... gone.
"Link to the tactical command-net. Commander Romulus will provide you with support. After the battle, I would like to invite you to the victory celebration." Karna's fingers danced across a data-slate, a blue web of tactical networks appearing in the air.
His open admiration for the Lamenters made the other sons of Sanguinius nearby look on with a mixture of envy and resentment. Several Flesh Tearers unconsciously adjusted their stances, their master-crafted armour clicking softly. The Seraph, Karna, often taught them, leading by example, but they had always been afraid of change, afraid of making a mistake. Gabriel Seth looked down at his dust-covered gauntlet, his knuckles clenching and unclenching. They believed they could never be like the Angel. An Angel should be perfect, beautiful. How could they compare?
But now they saw them. Battle-brothers, no different from themselves, standing so close to the Seraph's grace.
Phoros saluted, then led his men and the civilians back towards the ruins. He had no desire to compete with his brothers for the glory of victory. He had already received the only order he ever wanted.
Go and save lives.
Sarpedon, Captain of the Crimson Paladins, watched Phoros depart, a strange light in his eyes. He now understood. In the First Sphere of Baal, he knew who should bear the duties of the Crimson Paladins. The Paladins were the protectors of the Primarch, the guardians of his sanctum, the shield of the sons of Sanguinius. They were the Keepers.
"Sarpedon, you will go as well. Take the Paladins and assist them," Karna added.
Sarpedon nodded without hesitation. Then, Karna turned.
The Lamenters were an example. The Dawnbreakers did not need to treat the Astartes as a pure instrument of war, forever separate from the mortals they protected. In the future, there would be many Astartes. Some would fight on the battlefield, others would serve in government, still others would pursue research. They were the elite, chosen from the best of humanity. They were also the good sons of their mothers and fathers. These warriors should not be severed from the people.
They were human.
"Come with me, my Angels. Let us do our duty." Karna raised his spear, its wicked tip glowing with an inner fire. His gaze pierced the viewport, staring at the overwhelming tide of the Tyranid swarm as it began to regroup. Billions of chitinous creatures seethed across the land, a suffocating weight. The twisted shadows of claw and carapace were reflected in the depths of his eyes.
The problems of this universe were not so simple. One could not simply choose a side and cut away the rest, pretending the problem didn't exist, playing the ostrich like the Imperium of Man. Victory in war alone could not end the suffering that plagued humanity. But preaching peace and love was not enough either; some supernatural, destructive power would simply sweep in and halt all progress. The two must be combined. Warp and reality. Since they could no longer be torn apart, they must advance together.
War.
Karna closed his eyes. The Dawnbreakers were not naive. They knew that every act of defiance against fate meant more bloodshed, more sacrifice. War could only reach its end through sacrifice.
"Yes, my Angel!" Gabriel Seth took a deep breath. The air was thick with the lingering stench of rust and burnt ozone. They were the Angel's fury. They would destroy anything according to his will.
"...Come." Karna's face still wore a triumphant smile, but in his eyes was a weariness only his closest companions could see. A pack of uneducated, illiterate Flesh Tearers could fight and kill, but turning a Chapter into a force with a core ideal? That was a long road ahead.
But there was still hope.
"Let us be the tip of the spear," he said, leveling his weapon at the surging tide outside. The light from its blade flashed across the faceplates of his warriors, like the sealing of an oath. In that moment, the breathing of every warrior synchronized, becoming one body, one will.
"For the Blood of Sanguinius!"
Squish!
The sound of a blade tearing through chitin was sharp in the smoky air. A Tyranid was bisected, its limbs and acidic fluids flying everywhere. The crimson Astartes were a torrent of lava, the roar of their melta-weapons and the shriek of their power weapons weaving a symphony of death as they carved a path of fire through the swarm.
He saw an ethereal shape, a radiant angel, its form shrouded in a hazy golden light, the shadow of its wings passing over the broken streets.
'Is this a dream?'
In the ruins, a boy stared blankly at the vision. The swarm was being butchered, torn apart. The pain the xenos had inflicted upon his people was being repaid in kind. Bolters blew malformed heads to bloody mist, power swords cleaved bloated bodies in two. The flames of vengeance raged across every inch of the land.
He felt a surge of excitement, which pulled at the wound in his stomach. The sharp pain ripped him from the premonition.
'Am I... going to die?'
The vision faded, replaced by blurring sight. His cracked lips, a result of blood loss, trembled, his breath a white mist in the cold air. The cold reality was telling him that he was dying. The boy's trembling fingers clawed weakly at the rubble, his nails filling with dirt and dried blood.
He wanted so badly to live.
His visions had led his brothers and sisters to a safe place, but the one time his gift had never failed him, it had shown him his own death at the very moment of boarding the transport. The memory was so clear—the flashing warning lights at the shuttle's ramp, the hot blast of the engines, the twisted faces of people scrambling to get aboard. A heavy plasma bolt had locked onto him, bringing only annihilation.
His turn in the line had been next. He remembered needing only to take one more step to board the shuttle that represented survival. But the vision told him he would die.
So he gave up his chance. He pushed the crying girl next to him up the ramp, shoved his way out of the crowd, and walked alone to a secluded spot. The last thing he saw was the sight of the Emperor's Angels fighting and dying. He wanted to live, but he wanted more people to live even more.
'Will Levi remember me? Will Lady Aglaia be proud of me?' the boy wondered, his body trembling, his cold fingertips digging into the rubble. Then, he remembered the vision in his mind—the figure bathed in golden light, seeming to reach out to him.
How he wished that vision were real. He wanted to live. He had given up his chance to live, but he so desperately wanted to live.
Regret, acceptance, pride—a complex storm of emotions raged in his heart, a tangle of thorns that made his chest ache. To await death in isolation is a terrifying thing, and he was, after all, not even sixteen years old. He felt he had only acted on a rush of emotion, inspired by the sacrifice of the Emperor's Angels.
"Quickly! There's another one."
Urgent voices echoed through the ruins. Dozens of rescue team members ran through the rubble, their auspex scanners set to life-sign mode. Heavy boots crunched on debris, and the beams of tactical lights crisscrossed in the dust.
"Here. Found one."
The thermal imaging quickly locked onto a human form. An armed squad moved to surround the location in a fan formation. Rubble was pushed aside, loose stones tumbling down with a cascade of sound that was loud in the dead silence.
The boy breathed heavily. He saw a blurry black shape approaching. He swallowed, his throat as dry as sandpaper, the taste of blood filling his mouth.
Is it a hallucination?
So death isn't so bad... Will the Emperor's Angels come for me?
A bright light outlined a figure, its tall form becoming clearer. A stone fell, striking his exposed, cracked skin. The small pain brought a sliver of clarity to his fading consciousness.
"..."
The boy's body went rigid, and he began to tremble uncontrollably.
"Give me your hand, child."
A great stone was heaved aside, propping up a broken pillar. The blood-drenched Angel extended a hand.
"I will see you survive."
