Chapter 49: Let's Call Her the Dawnlight

Chapter 49: Let's Call Her the Dawnlight

"May I be permitted to examine him?"

To alleviate any suspicion, Cawl added, "I am a Magos Dominus from Mars. I have had contact with the gene-seed tithes of every Chapter. You need not worry that I will leak any secrets."

To maintain a degree of control over the Space Marines and to preserve the legacy of each Chapter, allowing them a chance to rebuild after a catastrophic loss, nearly every Chapter periodically paid a gene-seed tithe to Mars.

This made Romulus look at the Black Templar Chaplain in surprise. To talk about the tithe in front of another Chapter is one thing, but to say it in front of the Black Templars? Do these over-procreating crusaders actually pay their taxes?

The Chaplain, thinking the elder was seeking confirmation, replied, "The Black Templars also pay the gene-seed tithe." Although the Black Templars had never paid much attention to the Codex Astartes and frequently caused the ships of the Munitorum and the Arbites to get "lost in the Warp," their relationship with other Imperial departments was actually quite good. They were one of the more socially adept of Dorn's sons. So they did pay their gene-seed tithe. The quantity, however, might be a bit questionable.

"Thank you." Romulus's brain instantly processed this new information, and his confusion was resolved.

"As you wish," the wounded son of Dorn spoke up. His voice was as hard as his face; even as the movement pulled at his wound, his breathing did not waver.

Cawl didn't stand on ceremony. He immediately began to clean the wound. He sprayed a disinfectant, extended a delicate medical forceps, and gripped the shattered fragments of the splintershard. These projectiles, laced with deadly toxins, also inflicted a pain that exceeded the neural threshold of even a Space Marine.

PLUCK—

The forceps pulled out a fragment, along with a large number of nerves that had adhered to it.

The son of Dorn did not flinch. Aside from the muscles around the wound sagging due to the severed nerves, his stone-like face showed no expression.

This was followed by disinfection and cleansing, the application of synth-flesh, and a full blood dialysis.

Marshal Orlando noticed the glowing splintershards in the surgical tray and, seeing the warrior's unflinching expression, felt a surge of respect.

What an indomitable warrior!

The sons of Dorn were renowned for their self-control and tolerance for pain. In times of peace, they often wore a device known as a "Pain Glove" to train themselves. But even among the Black Templars, brothers Orlando considered to be exceptionally tough and outstanding, it was difficult to suppress the physiological reaction to the agony of a splinter weapon.

With warriors like these, how could they not win victory for the God-Emperor?!

As a fellow son of Dorn, Orlando felt a swell of pride. Morale rose once again.

Romulus smiled. His objective had been achieved.

"The acid has effectively neutralized the toxin of the splinter weapon," Cawl stated after completing the procedure.

The listening Marshal Orlando's face instantly changed. The pride that had been frozen on his features for a moment shattered into disbelief. The gears in his rock-like head finally turned.

The son of Dorn silently put his helmet back on and stood up.

"Thank you for your treatment, Archmagos," Romulus said.

"Preserving such a warrior for the Omnissiah is my sacred duty," the Archmagos replied in a low voice, then dragged his massive body away. The servitors would automatically come to clean up the blood.

"Then we shall take our leave," Romulus said politely, everything having concluded. He departed with the Carcharodons. This time, there were no more interruptions.

In the empty plaza, only the two Black Templars were left, staring at each other.

"Did you hear what the Archmagos just said?" Marshal Orlando's stoic expression finally broke. No wonder. No wonder these elders are so resilient. A son of Dorn rarely speculates; he only accepts something as true when he has definitive proof.

"Marshal!" the Chaplain's voice was filled with barely suppressed excitement. He reached out and snatched a splintershard from a servitor's collection basket, carefully examining the corrosion marks on it.

"That elder... he possesses the Betcher's Gland."

If the Archmagos's examination was correct, and his own Astartes senses hadn't deceived him, then there was only one possible answer.

The warrior who had just stood before them was a true son of Dorn. A true Imperial Fist!

Tyrant-class Cruiser

In the launch bay, the Stormbird's ramp slowly lowered. Romulus and Ramesses walked down together.

The Tyrant-class, due to the extra set of main weapon batteries on its flanks compared to its sister-class, the Lunar-class, looked slightly less bulky. As such, its structure was not geared towards close-quarters ramming. Compared to the Imperial Navy, this type of ship, which had no need for an armored prow and had a large capacity for modification, was more popular with the Adeptus Mechanicus.

Before the Stormbird, the cruiser's captain stood waiting with her officers for the Angels' arrival.

'Why does it feel like the ship is afraid? Or is it excited?' the captain thought to herself. The moment Romulus's boots touched the deck, the captain, who had a long-standing connection with the ship's Machine Spirit, sensed something was amiss. But she quickly suppressed her doubts.

"Honored Lords. Acting Captain Aurora von Karlox, at your service," she said, stepping forward and deliberately ignoring the other Angels of Death who were disembarking and dispersing to the various decks.

"Greetings, Captain Aurora. I am Romulus, Kill-team Leader of the Deathwatch."

"Allow me to invite you to the bridge and present the ship's officers to you."

Romulus gave a polite nod. He observed his surroundings through a dozen pairs of eyes, listening to Aurora's report as he led his team towards the bridge lift, guided by the ship's menials.

"The name of this ship," Romulus asked, as they walked down a corridor that overlooked the ship's lower decks, after Captain Aurora had introduced every officer present.

"She belongs to you now," Captain Aurora replied deferentially, clearly having been briefed.

"Understood."

Romulus felt the ship's condition was acceptable. It was clean, tidy, and lacked any gaudy religious decorations. The fact that all the officers were present meant the captain had sufficient authority. Even the tech-thralls on the lower decks were organized in an orderly fashion. His senses picked up only cold, concise commands, not the sound of whips on flesh. Although the work shifts on the rosters still seemed abstractly long, it had a faint shadow of a more civilized age.

"Papa!"

A cry, filled with sorrow, interrupted his thoughts.

Romulus turned his head. His superhuman senses had picked up the faint sound. He stopped and walked to the edge of the corridor, looking down at a transport area on the ship's lower level. One of his drone-marines, acting as his eyes and ears, was nearby.

"Papa!"

It was a little girl, pushing her way against the tide of people.

"Papa, let's go home. Papa."

The little girl was calling out to a servitor. But she was quickly swallowed up by the crowd of workers.

The Space Marine "struggled" to push through the crowd and picked up the little girl, who now had several boot prints on her clothes.

"Thank you," the little girl said. She didn't know what an Angel of the Emperor was. After a word of thanks, she struggled to stand up from his wide embrace.

"Papa, Mama misses you," she continued to call out.

But the servitor just continued on with its heavy steps, carrying its cargo onto a transport lift and disappearing from their sight.

"..."

Leaning on the viewport railing, Romulus remained silent for a long time.

Captain Aurora waited patiently. She keenly sensed that the atmosphere had become strange.

"Where were we?"

"The ship's name, my Lord."

"Let's call her the Dawnlight," Romulus replied. It was one of the names they had discussed in private, representing the dawn of the transmigrators' new journey. It also represented their faint hope of bringing a new dawn to the dark galaxy.

Their existence should not just be about winning a single war.

flickerflicker

The lights of the lift flickered twice, as if in response.