Chapter 284 "Dragon."
Former Storm Diviner Denison Mede just spent his fifty-eighth birthday in Temple City.
Four hundred and seventy years have passed since their ancestors' colonial fleets broke out of the warp and crash-landed on the world they called Dalchana.
Now that he has lived to this age, he is called an old man. Now, he is sitting up from the sofa that has been used as a bed since the birth of his son Reval, trying to blink away The tears that flowed from his eyes were sore, and the dust accumulated in his joints made him feel as if the seams of his bones were being cut by thousands of tiny razors when he tried to stand up.
People who live on this endless planet, except for the tiny gravels that can get into any place on the human body, will eventually become like this, including but not limited to infections caused by the skin being worn away, eye damage, etc. Dry, watery eyes, sore eyes that grind the cornea, problems that accumulate in the ear canal and make it hard to hear, black lung disease that gets dust inhaled into the lungs and eventually turns it into black, and joint problems.
In short, he had every reason to complain, but he didn't. He just gritted his sore back molars and tried to stand up.
Like the previous generations of colonists who lived in the southern district of Temple City, their residences were made from the few military landers and decommissioned military ship materials from the beginning, except for the Regent. The sturdiest dwelling besides shelter.
Therefore, the people who live here must also bear corresponding responsibilities. After Reval inherited his job as a storm diviner, Dennison picked up the old and worn-out laser gun and joined other volunteer watchmen. , go out every hard gray winter or shoot the looters right inside the city.
He heard someone banging hard on the cannon flank armor plates that had served as the door to his home for centuries, and at the same time a voice rang out that he recognized as the man responsible for No. 55, the end of South 43rd Street to the South Block. The voice of patrolling watchman Rom Chayzeko.
"What is it? Rom?"
"Get up! You old guy with bad ears," the Watcher said, holding his equally ancient laser gun, with a rare urgency in his voice, "Didn't you hear the alarm? Come with me to the shelter."
Denison saw through the crack in the door that residents in the dusty bunkers and armored plates were constantly pouring onto the muddy and narrow streets, and people were hurriedly walking towards the shelter.
The old man smiled, revealing his blackened and shrinking gums, and shook his head, "The gray winter will indeed be early this year, but not so early. Rom, is it wrong? Reval told I still have at least a few weeks or maybe a month, and the wandering marauders won't show up so early."
"It's not Gray Winter! It's someone else, you old guy! You have to come from outside... Hey! I just received an order for everyone to gather in the shelter temporarily. I don’t know how to tell you, come and see the sky!”
“Who is it?” The old man was shocked. His expression was in contrast to the panic of the other party, "Who would know that we are here? Who would land here to see us?"
"How do I know? You'd better hurry up!"
After saying this, Rom ran away with the crowd. Dennison saw his hand wrapped in cloth holding a child with him. Run together towards the shelter.
Denison leaned against his door and thought for a while, then went into the house to wrap himself up. When he came out, he still had his laser gun in his hand, and then slowly used it to hurt him. The painful legs moved in the opposite direction of the crowd, which was the direction of the Grand Regent's residence.
The roar of the beast came suddenly and threateningly from the gray sandstorm sky.
People screamed and huddled in the street. The thin parents used their bodies to try to cover their even skinnier children.
"Dragon." Someone said in a low voice and fearfully.
But Denison was different, he was the Technician, or as they called him in older centuries ago, the Master of the Oracles, whose ancestors once served on the bridge decks of the glorious Pilgrim Ships He knows more about the winged, fire-breathing thing in the sky that makes a sound like a roaring beast than most of the residents here.
That's not a roar, that's the sound of a powerful engine.
That wasn't a dragon either, that was a flying machine, a gunship, a real flying vehicle capable of withstanding the force of the sandstorms that had prevented their fragile civilian aircraft from flying over Dalchana for centuries.
The gunboat seemed to glance at the crowd on the ground, or something similar, then raised its head and flew towards the atmosphere.
The old man clenched his smooth old gun, endured the severe pain in his legs and finger joints, and started running. If there was any superior here who needed Denison Meder to fulfill his duty as a Watcher, he would damn well have done it instead of running and hiding.
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“Now.” I was not particularly surprised but still disappointed to find that there really was no trace of anything from these Midnight Lords. Non-human products can be used to cover the back. Lamizane slowly exhaled a long breath, and then, surrounded by members of the war gang headed by Talos, he condescended to board the Prophet's personal Thunderhawk "Dark End".
His eyes lit up at the pilot who greeted them outside the cockpit.
"Thank God there is finally a person here wearing decent clothes!" (*Our primarch's body is the most exquisite thing in the world, why do you care so much about the world's eyes? There is nothing wrong with wearing flesh and blood.)
< br>Septimus knew at the first sight of the god-like visitor that his fate would not be decided by him, let alone by his master, because the slave pilot who had served his master for many years saw it for the first time. It seems that these demon demigods are so eager to please a certain existence, like a group of small beasts surrounding the master's feet, but there is no chirping - the Night Lords are silent even when they attack, with almost no war cry.
But what he didn't expect was that the other party had no interest in "skinning half of his skin alive first and flexing his fingers" or "opening his brains first and listening to the screams". Instead, he just took a look at him. He was only asked to hand over all the clothes he had on except his underwear.
So now -
The ash-blonde slave is holding his arms, wearing only gloves, underwear, socks and shoes, standing in the corner shivering from the cold.
The adults of the Eighth Legion, who had watched in stunned silence as they had successfully defeated their other brothers and boarded the Thunder Eagle, were fist-bumping each other - because the tallest, skeletal Death-like adult had asked them to do so.
"Uh, why are you still fighting for seats? Didn't you say that there are battleships on the track... How old are you... You want a duel, right? If you want to duel, just fight hand to hand, don't cause additional casualties, this place is so ugly "(*...)
When the adult said this, his master Talos lowered his noble head in shame. (*Soul Hunter... is a more suitable title for my heir. Pharmacist is not his strong point.)
"My Lord...!"
Septimus heard His master looked at the giant, and spoke the ancient honorific with complex and rich emotions, and the dead language was recited from his throat like poetry.
His masters'... masters? But that's not... that's not already... The slave blinked his only remaining eye in silence and shock, and the other half of the biochemical prosthetic eye circle shrank slightly.
"Please allow me to do it for you first..."
Then he saw the adult shaking his head, picking up the clothes he had just taken off, shaking them, and glanced at the He awkwardly picked up the dirt on his toes, then tore off a few strips of cloth from them. First, he tied up the long black hair and rolled it back, completely revealing his skeleton-like face in the dark cabin. Pale face.
Septimus thought he would be frightened.
But he didn't.
What he saw was the skull face of a helpless but gentle god. The pale skin was painted with an alabaster color. Inlaid on it was a pair of extremely deep black eyes, as black as a starless night, but What he saw was - he didn't know how to describe it, but Septimus' human intuition immediately understood one thing:
Some major change was about to happen.
For a moment the slave thought of many things and one person.
The mark of the Eighth Legion on his body felt a burning itch.
May that change be good.
The next moment, noisy and shrill alarm signals came from everyone's communicators.
(End of this chapter)