To Sevatar, Fujimaru Ritsuka's idea of "gearing up" was… confusing.
Not because he misunderstood the term, but because her equipment looked utterly uncombative by his standards.
Her outfit was… distinctly un-Imperial. So un-Imperial that Sevatar couldn't even guess the function of most components. First, the defense rating seemed negligible: her torso—the most vulnerable area—was only covered by form-fitting black reinforced fabric. Her arms lacked armor entirely, with neural interfaces and minimal external augmentations barely concealed beneath aesthetic panels. Only her legs bore any significant plating, though even that seemed too lightweight for pure protection. From the brief glimpse he caught as she walked, he suspected some kind of jet-assisted mechanism was hidden beneath.
The design prioritized extreme weight reduction at the cost of everything else—including durability. Such simplicity was something the Mechanicus would never approve (unless mass-produced). But then again, the Storm's Edge was equally un-Imperial. Had Imperial war tech shifted this drastically in ten millennia? Even so, where was the Aquila?
"This is the Ortinaus-type Spiritron Dress." Ritsuka, as if reading his mind, explained before he could ask. "A prototype developed by Chaldea Security. The underlying tech differs from Imperial standards, so the aesthetic gap makes sense."
She paused, then added: "Chaldea Security is a newly established branch under the Astronomican—too recent to be well-known. Also, I'm not a psyker and can't read minds. I just guessed because your face is very expressive."
Sevatar reflexively touched his face. Was I making expressions?
"Subtle, but yes." Ritsuka preempted again. "Don't overthink it. I can tell because I'm unilaterally familiar with you."
Sevatar burned to ask how she was "unilaterally familiar" with him—but survival instincts warned against digging deeper.
The ship's ramp lowered, revealing Jestael's endless plains once more. The night was clear, but Sevatar's eyes pierced the dark effortlessly, spotting the freight station two kilometers away.
He still didn't understand how this ship had appeared so close without detection. From the hull thickness and lack of void-seals, he guessed it was strictly an atmospheric craft.
As captain—and the more carefree of the two—Ritsuka bounded down the ramp first, practically skipping. Sevatar moved to follow, but paranoia made him glance around, ensuring no midnight specter lurked to drag him back. The steps, clearly designed for mortals, were too narrow for his bulk, forcing him to descend awkwardly.
Ritsuka waited at the bottom, arms crossed.
"You're acting weird," she said. "I get that you've got questions, but your weirdness is making me feel weird… Just ask. I'll answer what I can."
Under normal circumstances, Sevatar might've suspected this was a prelude to an execution. But curiosity overrode survival instincts.
"Why do you speak to Curze so… naturally?" he ventured.
A diplomatic rephrasing of "What's your relationship with my Primarch?" But Ritsuka's scrunched-up face showed she saw right through it.
"Ugh—you asked him this already, didn't you?"
Sevatar's slight pout was answer enough.
Ten minutes prior, he had asked. Curze, after deliberation, gave an… intriguing reply:
"My father bestowed many titles upon her, but you seek something else." The Primarch's voice had been theatrically solemn. "To me, she is my jailer. And I—both her warden and her prisoner."
"I don't know what Konrad told you," Ritsuka said firmly, "but I promise it's nothing like that!"
"...You're certain, despite not knowing his words?"
"He's never had normal relationships—of course he'd describe it weirdly. I bet he made it sound hierarchical." She huffed, starting toward the freight station. "To me, we're just colleagues forced into the same mission by higher orders. Not even a clear chain of command—but he definitely thinks there is."
Sevatar sighed, following. "He does. He called you his 'jailer.'"
"That's mild compared to what I expected." She sniffed. "Still mad, though."
Two kilometers wasn't far. Curze had crossed it in minutes earlier. But with Ritsuka's leisurely stroll, it'd take half an hour. At least the empty plains hid their suspicious silhouettes.
After fifty meters of silence—and sixty-three of Sevatar's restrained steps—he finally broke:
"...So what is all this?"**
A broad question, but Ritsuka didn't ask for specifics. "The Emperor assigned us a covert op. We needed troops, so we're… salvaging Night Lords. During intel gathering, we noticed disappearances in First City spike every thirty Terran years. Suspected a warband's periodic raids, so we came to investigate—and found you instead."
"...What a coincidence." Sevatar's tone was self-deprecating.
"Or something meddling." She shrugged, clearly not taking her own words seriously. "I've always had weird luck. Randomly stumbling upon a Great Crusade-era celebrity isn't even that strange."
"Celebrity? More like infamy."* He grimaced. "Night Lords never cared for honor. I've spent years trying to shed my past."
"...You can't just shed something like that."
"Tell that to my past, which just knocked on my door at midnight." He forced a shrug. "Though I'd expected a different 'past' to come calling."
He clenched his jaw, schooling his expression. Before he'd resolved to stay, Curze had shared a prophecy:
"If you saw what I see, what would you choose?" The Primarch's mental state had seemed precarious, but not alarmingly so. "I see you return. I see you die. I see the Dark Angels' battle barge over this world. I see Jestael burning. None survive, yet the destruction comes too late—the true calamity spills from this wound, flooding the galaxy… But the galaxy already bleeds from countless such cuts."
The vivid, fragmented visions unsettled Sevatar. He knew his gene-sire's foresight—or curse—never erred. And his own premonitions overlapped, confirming their accuracy.
Though he'd already decided to stay and fight the Dark Angels to the death, Curze's words gnawed at him. Not enough to change his mind, but enough to wonder: What is the 'true calamity'?
To lighten the mood, he asked: "So you're investigating the 'Chaos warband' behind the disappearances? Bold, but they're likely off-world now."
"Not a warband." Ritsuka's voice darkened. "Somnus reviewed all government records in two hours. Concluded Governor Jesmin DeVille is behind the disappearances."
"...Custodians do that now?" Sevatar raised a brow. "The governor's well-liked. What's the evidence?"
Ritsuka was silent for a moment. "...Because Governor Jesmin DeVille is a good person."*
Sevatar almost laughed—but the judgment came from a Custodian. However little he respected those gilded enforcers, he couldn't deny their competence.
"...Explain."
"In her century as governor, records are meticulous. Somnus found files on every disappearance—names, basic details. Mostly elderly or weak civilians. Compensation amounts and payout dates. The government handled it too well. The efficiency was… unnatural."*
Sevatar saw no issue. Even without living here, this painted DeVille as exceptionally benevolent. Most Imperial rulers treated their subjects as expendable. Few cared for commoners' welfare.
But DeVille did. She couldn't stop the disappearances, but at least she remembered—
Wait.
Under Imperial law, "accident compensation" typically covered industrial mishaps. Would an agri-world's policies extend to abductions?
"That's why I said the problem is that Governor DeVille is a good person,"* Ritsuka murmured. "Even while sacrificing her people, her conscience forced her to amend local laws—adding a 'compensation clause' tailored specifically for these disappearances. Ninety years ago, when they started."*
She took a sharp breath.
"Konrad foresaw something terrible. So I need to find out what's happening here."
"Titles? Who cares!"[1]
[1] The readers...?