345: Chapter 347 Three Hundred and Fifteen People! The Return of the Lord of Lamenters

The lights in the temporary barracks were very dim.

Only a single emergency lighting lamp was embedded in the metal wall, casting a dim, yellowish glow.

Malakim Phoros sat on a steel folding bed.

The bed let out a continuous metal groan under his weight.

tartaros pattern terminator armor.

This brand-new suit of armor encased his entire body, its deep grey plate armor glinting coldly in the gloom.

The heavy plate armor of the upper body borrowed from the structure of a contemptor dreadnought, with shoulder pauldrons so wide they almost filled the entire horizontal space of the room.

Yet the joints of the armor were flexible, unlike typical Terminators.

Phoros moved his right arm slightly.

The response of the servo-motors was almost instantaneous.

This level of precision was completely different from the clunky Cataphractii patterns in his memory.

He looked down at his breastplate.

There were no insignia on it.

It was empty.

Waiting to be engraved with its affiliation.

Cyrus stood before him.

He had been standing the whole time.

The Fourth Company Captain had begun his report as soon as Phoros finished changing into the armor.

It had been nearly two hours now.

His voice was steady.

But every so often, there would be a brief pause.

Those pauses weren't for organizing his words.

They were for controlling his emotions.

"After Badab, the Minotaurs finally called off their pursuit,"

Cyrus said.

"We counted the survivors."

"Three hundred and seven men."

"Including the severely wounded."

Phoros did not speak.

"The verdict of the High Lords of Terra arrived three months later. A Penitent Crusade. A hundred years of ascetic border guarding. We were exiled to the eastern fringes of the Imperium, where no distress signals would receive a response."

"Penitence."

Phoros spoke.

His voice was very low, as if squeezed from deep within his chest.

"The Imperium wants us to seek penitence."

"For what sin are we atoning?"

Cyrus did not answer that question.

Because both he and Phoros knew the answer.

The Lamenters had refused to fire upon innocent Knights Errant at Badab.

That was their 'sin'.

"Continue,"

Phoros said.

Cyrus continued.

He spoke of their encounters with the Tyranids during the Penitent Crusade.

The endless swarms.

The Chapter nearly being swallowed whole.

World after world being gnawed to nothing by the Tyranids.

He spoke of how the engines of the mother of tears nearly melted down during the third Warp jump.

He spoke of how the maintenance Servitors of the silent prayer worked for seventy-two consecutive hours to repair cracks in the hull.

He spoke of how he, as the Master of the Fleet, counted exactly how many brothers remained after every battle.

Three hundred and seven.

Two hundred and ninety-one.

Two hundred and seventy-eight.

Every number was a reduction.

Behind every subtracted number was a body in yellow armor.

Phoros closed his eyes.

His hands rested on his knees.

The knuckle joints of the Tartaros Pattern armor made a slight grinding sound.

"And then."

Cyrus's voice changed.

It was no longer heavy.

Instead, it carried something he was deliberately suppressing.

"And then we met Zhang Yuan."

Phoros opened his eyes.

"Varak Hive City. A Hive City world on the eastern fringe of the Imperium."

Cyrus said.

"Our fleet had taken heavy damage and encountered the opening of the Great Rift. We were forced into a blind jump out of the Warp and arrived at Varak Hive City, where we met the Hive Lord Zhang Yuan."

"A Hive Governor?"

"Yes. But he is no ordinary Hive Governor."

Cyrus took a deep breath.

The next words he spoke syllable by syllable.

"Chapter Master."

"The soul of the gene-father resides within him."

The barracks remained silent for a long time.

So long that even the lights seemed to dim by a shade.

The Terminator gauntlets on Phoros's knees suddenly tightened. The steel bed frame let out an overburdened groan under his strength, clear finger indentations being squeezed into it. The monitors implanted in his body silently recorded an abnormal spike in his heart rate.

He did not look up immediately. Only after several seconds did he slowly ask, word by word, "A Warp hallucination? Or... a trick of Tzeentch?"

"Neither." Cyrus met his gaze, his eyes incredibly firm. "It is resonance, Chapter Master. Every brother's gene-seed is responding to him. Moreover... the Emperor's Custodes and the Sisters of Silence are by his side. This matter has the tacit approval of the Regent himself."

"More than once."

"When he first channeled the power of the gene-father before me, I felt it."

"That—"

Cyrus paused.

He wanted to find the right word.

But language was too impoverished for that experience.

"That resonance from the depths of the bloodline. Chapter Master, you know I would not lie about this."

"Every Lamenter felt it."

"Our blood boiled in that moment."

"It was the scent of our father."

Phoros stood up.

The folding bed bounced.

He walked to the small window of the barracks.

Outside was the port area. In the distance, the silhouette of the doomsday loomed on the horizon.

He was silent for a long time.

"And the Emperor?"

He asked.

"What role does the Emperor play in this?"

Cyrus walked up behind Phoros.

"The Emperor entrusted the soul fragments of the gene-father to Zhang Yuan."

"The mission is—to resurrect the gene-father."

Phoros's hand pressed against the window frame.

The steel frame silently dented under the power of the Terminator gauntlet.

"Resurrection."

He repeated the word.

His lips trembled almost imperceptibly.

"The Emperor wants to resurrect Father."

"Yes."

Cyrus knelt on one knee behind him.

"Chapter Master. The entire Chapter has re-sworn its oath of fealty. To the gene-father, and to Commander Zhang Yuan."

"Zhang Yuan provided us with brand-new Mark VII power armor. Ten suits of tartaros pattern terminator armor. The one you are wearing is one of them."

"Varak Hive City has been designated as our recruitment world. The first batch of recruits has completed gene-seed implantation; fifteen successfully survived."

Phoros did not turn around.

He looked out the window at the hundred-and-thirteen-meter-tall emperor-class titan.

He looked at the Astra Militarum soldiers in grey powered combat suits in the distant port area.

He looked at the plasma exhaust of the battlecruisers hovering in the sky.

"Three hundred men."

He finally spoke.

"Fifteen recruits."

"Three hundred and fifteen men."

His voice was very soft.

There were no tears.

The Lamenters had lost too much.

Cursed Sons of the Twenty-First Founding.

Traitors of Badab.

Outcasts of the Penitent Crusade.

Survivors of the Tyranid meat grinder.

Their tears had run dry long ago.

"We are still here,"

Phoros said.

He turned around.

Looking at Cyrus kneeling on the ground.

"And we have welcomed Father back."

He took a step forward.

Bowing his head.

The shadow of the terminator armor loomed over Cyrus.

"That is enough."

Cyrus looked up.

Old tear stains and new tears crossed on his face.

He squeezed out the next part of his report.

"There is one more thing."

"Commander Zhang Yuan hopes—"

"That you will accept the Primaris transformation."

"Just as we have."

Primaris Space Marines.

Phoros knew the meaning of that term.

The new generation of Space Marine transformation technology implemented by Roboute Guilliman after his awakening.

Taller. Stronger. More durable.

For the older generation of Astartes, accepting the Primaris transformation meant one thing.

Admitting their old selves weren't good enough.

For the Lamenters.

For the Lamenters who had endured from the Cursed Founding to this day.

It perhaps meant even more.

Phoros was silent for three seconds.

Then he nodded.

The movement was crisp and decisive.

"Fine."

No hesitation.

No further questions.

No bargaining.

"If this is Father's will,"

He said.

"Then I have no reason to refuse."

Cyrus's lip trembled.

He wanted to say something—like "this isn't just for Father, it's to make you stronger" or similar additions.

But he held back.

Because Phoros's answer already said everything.

A man who had drifted in Warp storms for who knows how many years.

A man who returned to find only three hundred of his brothers left.

A man who was told the soul of his gene-father was residing in a mortal.

He did not question.

He did not rage.

He did not break down.

He only said "Fine."

This was Malakim Phoros.

The Lord of the Lamenters.

A man who had been tempered by curses all his life.

He had long ago learned one thing—

Not to waste time on a past that cannot be changed.

"Arrange the time,"

Phoros said to Cyrus.

"After the transformation, I want to see him."

"See Zhang Yuan."

"And—"

His gaze moved past Cyrus's shoulder, looking at the yellow figures lined up neatly outside the barracks.

Those Lamenter warriors were still kneeling outside.

Waiting for him.

"Tell our brothers to stand up."

Phoros walked toward the door.

The steps of the terminator armor on the metal floor were steady and unshakable.

"Tell them—"

"The Lord of the Lamenters has returned."

"The tears haven't all been shed."

"The war must go on."

The door to the barracks opened.

The pale grey light of Parmenio flooded in.

Over three hundred warriors in yellow armor were kneeling on one knee in the open space outside.

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Tears were painted on all their helmets.

Some were old, with most of the paint peeled away.

Some were new, the white paint not yet fully dry.

Phoros stood at the door.

He looked at them.

He looked at them one by one.

He recognized some faces—the veterans who had followed him since before Badab.

He also saw some unfamiliar faces—the new blood who had joined after he went missing.

And a few exceptionally young ones—the fifteen recruits from Varak Hive City.

They didn't look like warriors yet.

But they wore the same armor as their brothers.

Knelt in the same position.

Bowed their heads in the same way.

Phoros took a deep breath of Parmenio's air.

Cold.

Carrying the scent of disinfectant and metal.

And a hint of almost imperceptible rot.

That was drifting from the Hekaton Plains.

The scent of Nurgle.

He spoke.

His voice was not loud.

But every Lamenter heard him.

"I owe you an apology."

More than three hundred heads lifted an inch simultaneously.

"Badab—was my decision."

"The Penitent Crusade—was my consequence."

"You endured it all for me."

"While I could do nothing in the storms of the Warp."

"This was my failure."

His voice did not tremble.

It was as steady as an alloy foundation driven into the planet's core.

"But I am back."

"I stand here."

"Wearing armor I did not earn myself."

He looked down at the tartaros pattern terminator armor he wore.

"This was given by Commander Zhang Yuan."

"Just like the Mark VII on your bodies."

"Just like our recruitment world."

"Just like Father's soul."

"He gave it all."

"So—"

Phoros's gaze swept from left to right.

Sweeping over every Lamenter.

Missing none.

"I acknowledge your oaths of fealty."

"From this day forth—this is my oath."

"Every tear of the Lamenters."

"Shall be shed only to protect those we cherish."

"Rise."

Over three hundred Lamenters stood up simultaneously.

In perfect unison.

The yellow armor formed a phalanx under the pale grey sky.

No cheering.

No slogans.

Only the synchronized thud of metal boots striking the ground.

That sound carried far.

So far it could be heard in the Northeast Wing Landing Zone.

So far that inside the cockpit of the doomsday, the laho stick Tychus had scrounged from the Astra Militarum almost fell out of his mouth.

"Hey," Tychus said into the comms. "What are those golden boys doing out there? A parade?"

No one answered him.

He shrugged.

And continued smoking his laho stick.