"Fool."
Rogal Dorn's voice was as hard as granite. He stared at the dark screen as if inspecting a fatal structural flaw.
"He abandoned his duty and turned his back on the Legion; that is betrayal. He calls that 'justice'? No, that is merely a coward's suicide. For a warrior to die on the battlefield is glory; to die by giving up the fight is a disgrace."
"Rogal is right, but more importantly, this is a complete waste."
Guilliman's brow furrowed.
"A Captain, one of the Imperium's most precious assets, reduced to a feedback loop existing only for self-punishment. Absurd! This is utterly absurd!"
"Do not say that, brothers."
Sanguinius's face was etched with pain.
"I do not see a soldier or a weapon. I see a lost child who has walked in the dark for so long that he can no longer tell which way is which. When he found that all paths were dead ends, he simply lay down where he was and made it his grave."
The Great Angel's voice was soft yet firm: "By what right do we judge him? None of us have spent time in the night he walked through."
"Well said, Angel."
Russ slammed an empty goblet onto the table.
"That Little Raven, he was blind from the very beginning! He never saw the Sun, so he could only circle within different shadows. We fight for glory, but him? He just wanted to find a quick way out for himself. That's not fighting; that's wailing. There's not a shred of honor in it!"
On Vulkan's obsidian face, those red eyes were dim and lusterless.
"He hates himself... he hates what he created, hates the crimes he committed. My hands are for creating and protecting... but he only wanted to use his hands to destroy everything. This... is too tragic..."
"But he found a path."
Jaghatai Khan's voice was like a gale across the plains.
"A path that belongs neither to the Father nor to the Warmaster. A path that belongs only to himself."
He scanned his brothers: "We are all racing along paths set by others. But he saw through the lies at the end of every road, so he stopped walking. To choose a real death that belongs only to oneself amidst all those lies also requires courage."
Corax's figure loomed in and out of the shadows.
"He and I are two sides of a mirror. We both understand the utility of fear. But I use fear to liberate slaves, so that one day fear will no longer be needed. He, however, made everyone live in fear forever. He did not become a liberator; he became the architect of his own cage."
"He was just tired."
Mortarion's voice sounded as if it came from a grave.
"Struggle is painful, hope is false; only rot and stillness are Eternity. He understood this earlier than any of you. He found peace, a peace that took me a long time to attain."
Perturabo let out a disdainful snort.
"A coward's logic. When the system fails, he doesn't think to fix it; he just smashes the main terminal. I hate Dorn, so I use stronger fortresses to defeat him. But him? He just flips the table and quits. Worthless."
"He didn't just quit."
Magnus's voice was filled with wisdom and sorrow.
"He saw beyond the chessboard. He realized that whether black or white, every piece ultimately serves the player. So he simply upended the board and threw himself into the Fire like any other pawn."
"He wanted to follow the Father with loyalty, but ended up bringing sin upon himself. He didn't find 'justice'; he merely found the only way to stop the pain amidst endless suffering."
In the Eighth Legion's sector, the atmosphere was as frozen as the eternal night of Nostramo.
"Did I... hear that right?" a young warrior muttered. "Did he just say... he wanted to be a 'bringer of justice'?"
Another veteran gave a dry laugh: "Justice? Hearing that word from the First Captain's mouth is more ridiculous than hearing the Word Bearers praise the Emperor."
"But he doesn't look like he's joking," a third man said grimly. "That kind of exhaustion... I've never seen it on his face before."
Sheng clenched his fists tightly: "I always thought he wore the gloves because he botched a mission and angered the Primarch. Now I understand. He wasn't wearing them for the Primarch; he was wearing them for himself."
This realization was like a thunderbolt cracking open the Night Lords' mental defenses.
"So... he's always thought this way?" the young warrior asked, bewildered. "He hates what we do?"
"No," Sheng shook his head. "He doesn't hate us. He hates himself. He hates that he loathes all of this, yet performs it better than anyone. He wasn't a natural-born villain; he was the one among us who wanted to be a good man the most. This is the Universe's worst joke."
In the Emperor's Children's sector, Saul Tarvitz sighed softly.
"A soul crushed by duty," he said to his companions, who wore expressions of contempt. "When orders run contrary to one's conscience, someone is bound to break first. He is simply the first to shatter so completely."
Within the ranks of the Imperial Fists, Sigismund remained expressionless.
"When he headbutted me, I thought it was impatience. Now it seems he simply despises everything, including himself. A warrior who does not respect his own duty is merely a weapon destined for the scrap heap."
In the Ultramarines' camp, Aeonid Thiel was analyzing.
"This is a classic case of psychological collapse. The Eighth Legion's combat doctrine has fundamental flaws; it consumes the souls of its warriors."
In a corner of the Iron Warriors, Barabas Dantioch gave a low, resonant hum.
"Spurned by his creator, tormented by his mission... I understand. When a fortress rots from within, even the sturdiest walls are meaningless. His soul was a fortress besieged for too long, and in the end, he chose to detonate the final charge."