Chapter 434: Where Did You Come From, Where Are You Going, What Are You Doing

Bang!

The roar of an explosive bolt tore through the air, and the annoying clamor came to an abrupt halt.

Squelch!

All that remained was blood-soaked sand, mingled with shredded flesh, dust, and tattered fabric—indistinguishable from one another, a gruesome sight to behold.

Not far away, Janka sat slumped on the ground, covered in blood. Her face was blank with shock, her wide eyes staring straight ahead, her mouth slightly open in an “O” shape, as if she had yet to recover from the tremendous blow.

The other surviving members of the Madrigal resistance force scrambled backward in a desperate retreat, looking utterly disheveled. Their gazes, filled with fear, flickered between the Astartes and the Spartan warriors.

Their eyes remained locked onto a severed head as it tumbled down, rolling along the sand, shifting its position. A long, black, disheveled ponytail half-covered its face, strands of hair soaked in bloodied sand.

It came to a stop in a shallow depression in the sand, lying still, its dull eyes staring forward at the stunned resistance survivors, the scene both eerie and unsettling.

Its murky pupils seemed to hold remnants of resentment, as if still condemning them for their cooperation with the United Nations Space Command, denouncing their actions as a betrayal of Madrigal’s liberation cause.

“Kwan…”

“They killed…”

“Shut up!”

Hearing her comrade behind her blurt out reckless words, Janka immediately snapped to attention, cutting them off with a harsh rebuke. Then, with trembling legs, she forced herself to stand, displaying a sharpness entirely contrary to the stereotypes of her race.

“Kwan was killed by the alien scum! Got it?!”

Those who had survived the Covenant’s brutal assault were at least somewhat quick-witted—good at hiding, good at biding their time, ’resourceful’ in a way. Well… in a sense, they could be considered lucky survivors.

Perhaps due to their limited access to information, their narrow perspective, or their lack of education, they sometimes appeared ignorant. But they were not stupid—if anything, they were cunning.

At Janka’s words, the remaining survivors immediately nodded vigorously, their heads bobbing like pecking chicks, signaling their understanding.

Only after shutting down her loose-lipped comrade did Janka finally dare to shift her gaze toward the UNSC forces, who seemed to be watching the spectacle with amusement. She didn’t even dare to breathe too loudly. With deliberate care, she reached over and tore a large piece of cloth from a fallen comrade’s body, gently draping it over the severed head.

“Hah…”

Catching a glimpse of the towering giant lowering his weapon from the corner of her eye, Janka finally exhaled in relief. Her body gave out, and she collapsed backward, gasping for breath.

’I survived.’

At the same time, Janka couldn’t help but resent Kwan Ha. She had nearly gotten everyone left in the base killed along with her.

Even if you bear a grudge, you could keep it inside, couldn’t you? On the surface, you could pretend to give up on independence—it’s not like you had to give it up forever. As long as you’re alive, there are always more chances. Couldn’t she read the situation? Why be so stubborn at a time like this? Why insist on saying something so reckless?

Click.

“At least someone here has a brain.”

A moment ago, if that man had spoken one more word, every last one of these resistance survivors would have died.

The painful memory of her mother’s death at the hands of the U.N.S.C., the reality of her father’s death in battle, and the possible collapse of the goal instilled in her since childhood—this series of blows had completely shattered the emotional stability of a girl not yet mature enough to think independently. Losing control, acting recklessly, or making foolish decisions was not uncommon.

From a social sympathy perspective, her reaction was understandable.

But understanding was one thing—the Astartes were not ones to indulge such behavior.

If we had actually been responsible, that would be one thing. But the fact remains that we were not the ones who lured them here. And yet, you try to pin the blame on us? The Astartes were not about to tolerate such an unjust accusation.

Not to mention the only reason you’re alive right now is because we arrived in time to save you. If not, you would all be dead. And let’s be clear—you’re not Imperial citizens. Rescuing you wasn’t an obligation; it was merely a convenience.

But repaying kindness with betrayal, turning on your saviors? That is simply seeking death.

If we could save you, we could just as easily kill you.

Lowering his bolt pistol, wisps of smoke still curling from its muzzle, the Night Lords officer disengaged the weapon’s ready-to-fire mode and waved his hand indifferently. “Withdraw.”

Bzzzt—shoom!

The spatial teleportation modules within their power armor activated instantly, enveloping them in a web of crackling arcs of energy. The effect spread outward, linking each Astartes into a single network, extending even to the four Spartans and their Sangheili (Elite) prisoners at the center of the formation.

In the next instant—a flash of violet light.

All that remained in the stunned eyes of Janka and the surviving resistance fighters was the broken remains of the drilling station and a field of corpses.

…

Riiip—

Inside the warship.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Blinding streaks of violet light surged through the hyperspace teleportation combat hall, and in a blink, dozens of fully armed Astartes warriors materialized onto the circular deck.

The Night Lords officer straightened up, waved a hand, and addressed a staff member holding a data slate: “We have guests. Prepare the specialties of our Empire.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Oh, and one more thing.” Glancing at the listless Sangheili prisoners, he added, “Prepare a ’first-class suite.’ Hmm, place these xenos next to the interrogation chamber… those alien apes should still be alive, right? Give them a little ’pre-dinner appetizer’…”

Turning away, the Night Lords officer spread his arms. “Brothers of the Second and Twelfth Legions, how about leaving the alien prisoners to us?”

“Take them, take them.”

Eagerly removing his helmet, the leading World Eater shook his head and slung his chain-axe over his shoulder, motioning for his comrades to follow him toward the combat hall’s exit.

“If you ask me, we should just bring out the Mind Reaper interrogation chair—extract their memories directly. If they won’t talk, we carve them up. Why complicate things?” He sighed. “You Night Lords and your obsession with torture… I’ll never understand it.”

“I heard General Esdeath is quite the expert in that field…”

“You’ve seen her in action? Or is that just a rumor?”

“Never seen her myself. But a friend of mine serves in the Imperial Capital’s Honor Guard—he says General Esdeath often visits the city’s prison for ’artistic inspiration.’”

…

The World Eaters gradually disappeared down the corridor, but with their enhanced superhuman hearing, the Astartes still caught every word of their grumbling.

Not that the World Eaters were making any effort to hide it.

The Night Lords merely chuckled at the remark, unfazed. A little hobby—so what? The raven mocking the pig for being black. If anything, they found the World Eaters’ tendency to behead first and ask no questions completely devoid of artistic sense. Brutes, the lot of them.

“Alright then, they’re yours. Just don’t get too carried away—remember to submit a proper interrogation report.”

“As for these four—you were the one who invited them, so they’re your responsibility. Any merits will be yours, but any failures will be yours as well.”

Giving the Night Lords officer a solid knock on the shoulder plate, the Judicators of the Second Legion finished their business and began to depart.

Raising a hand in an ’OK’ gesture, the Night Lords officer signaled to the naval personnel in the hangar bay, indicating for them to take the alien prisoners away.

Then, turning his gaze toward the Master Chief and his team, who were surveying the hangar’s interior layout, he said, “Follow me.”

The Master Chief gave a silent nod and promptly followed in step with the Night Lord.

“Do you need us to retrieve your dropship?”

“No need. It’s on autopilot—it’ll follow behind your warship.”

“Oh? Is that so…?” The Night Lords officer mused before continuing, “A soldier who has sworn an oath to fight for humanity… I’m curious—why are you so certain we are the good guys? That we are not rebels, not space pirates? You agreed to come with us so readily.”

“Aren’t you afraid of dying?”

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk—

As they strode down the long corridor, the Night Lords officer, his helmet hooked onto his wrist, spoke as he walked. “To be honest, I thought getting you aboard would require some force. But to think it was this easy… That, I did not expect.”

“You are human.”

“Rebels do not possess such advanced weaponry and equipment.”

“You have shown no hostility toward us—at least not so far.”

“Doctor Halsey ordered me to lead Silver Team in establishing contact with you.”

The Master Chief delivered his reasoning without the slightest hesitation, his explanation concise and to the point.

Stopping in his tracks, the Night Lords officer cast his gaze downward, looking upon the Master Chief—a man standing at approximately 2.1 meters tall, clad in dark green light-powered armor (which, in comparison to the Astartes’ heavy power armor, was considerably less bulky). With measured words, he said, “You are an outstanding soldier.”

“I find myself increasingly tempted to recruit you into the Legion. If only we could one day stand together beneath the radiant light of the God-Emperor…”

With that, he resumed walking.

—The corridor was long.

Even for a Moon-Class cruiser, which had been specifically engineered for specialized operations, the Imperial doctrine of ’bigger is better’ dictated that grand-scale construction was paramount. Thus, the corridor stretched eight meters high or more, ensuring smooth passage for all standard units within the Imperium.

To the left of the deck, directly below the warship’s bridge, was a repurposed banquet hall. Even before arrival, the lively atmosphere within could be felt from afar.

As the doors swung open, what lay before them was an opulent, palace-like dining hall.

Guided by the philosophy that “humans are iron, and food is steel”—a testament to the importance of sustenance—all dining halls aboard the warship were designed to be exceptionally spacious and lavish. Even after accounting for the meals of the entire ship’s crew, there remained a surplus of provisions.

Along one side of the hall, a series of towering, grandiose arched windows framed the interior. Beyond them, the vast expanse of space stretched endlessly.

On the opposite side stood a massive stained-glass mural, embedded with countless gems. Designed to be symmetrical to the arched viewports, it reflected the cosmic scenery beyond the glass, while also depicting epic reliefs, sculpted by countless master artisans.

Under the glow of the chandeliers, its grandeur became even more pronounced.

Without magnificence, there can be no authority. This was one of the Imperium’s preferred methods of peaceful conquest. It followed the same principle as state banquets, where every aspect—the dining environment, the cuisine—was meticulously curated to the peak of luxury.

Inside the hall, glasses clinked, and the clear division between enhanced warriors and ordinary humans was apparent. Behind the kitchen windows, exotic meats from massive alien creatures sizzled, releasing tantalizing aromas into the air.

And without a doubt, the one clad in green armor was the Master Chief. Though he still wore his helmet, the subtle movements of his limbs betrayed that his composure was not absolute.

As for the new guests, the Astartes and auxiliary troops remained indifferent—neither offering excessive courtesy, nor showing unnecessary disdain or hostility.

The Night Lords officer extended a hand in invitation. “This way, please… Hmm? 117, you’re still not taking off your helmet?”

“Are you planning to eat first, then talk? Or talk first, then eat?”

“Talk first.”

“Very well.” Finding an empty seat, the Night Lords officer interlocked his fingers and sat down. Activating his internal comms channel, he issued a request. “Command, requesting authorization to lift the signal suppression for Dining Hall A-2.”

After speaking, he looked at the four soldiers seated across from him, their postures rigid and upright. Gesturing politely, he added, “I sincerely hope that we will not become enemies, but allies.”

“Understood.”

Nodding slightly, the Master Chief turned his gaze toward Spartan-028, who was equipped with a communications backpack.

“Communications with Command have been restored… Doctor Halsey is online, Master Chief.”

“Acknowledged. Requesting permission to activate projection.”

“Go ahead.”

The next moment—

Bzzz—

A thin beam of 3D projection light shot out from the Master Chief’s helmet, scanning downward as it rapidly assembled a digital construct. Within seconds, the lifelike image of a full-sized Caucasian woman materialized.

It was none other than Doctor Catherine Elizabeth Halsey, Director of the UNSC Spartan Operations Division.

“Ah, greetings, unknown augmented warrior.”

From her laboratory on Reach, Halsey leaned forward against the main control console, her eyes betraying an undeniable hunger for knowledge.

“Greetings, lady of Reach.”

Hearing the black-armored giant’s formal salutation, Halsey wasted no time in voicing her question.

“You are not part of the UNSC, are you?”

Earlier, after dealing with the bureaucratic entanglements of the United Nations Space Command, Halsey had used her classified access to search every available UNSC database—research facilities, production sites—for any record of Spartan-II supersoldiers being manufactured.

There were none.

Not only that—none of the known sites even had the capability to produce warriors of this scale and advancement.

Which led Halsey to a startling hypothesis:

“These super-augmented warriors, each standing over 2.7 meters tall, are not a product of human civilization…

“More precisely, they are not a product of the Unified Earth Government.”

The moment this thought surfaced, it took root in her mind, growing rapidly—and refused to be dismissed.

To obtain firsthand information and to prevent bureaucrats from interfering, Halsey deliberately concealed the matter from Admiral Parangosky, using an unfinished “Smart” AI to block the Security Council’s access to this information.

Halsey was a highly controlling individual, but she was also deeply ambitious. To satisfy her greed—or rather, her insatiable thirst for knowledge—she was willing to act in ways that could only be described as borderline madness.

In the past, to ensure the success of the Spartan-II program, she required a large number of six-year-old children as test subjects. Yet, the program’s fatality rate was alarmingly high. It was obvious that the vast majority of parents would never voluntarily submit their children to such a deadly experiment.

Thus, Halsey and the UNSC’s overseeing officials made their choice—

Kidnapping.

That’s right, you heard correctly. The government itself sanctioned child abductions, completely abandoning any pretense of morality.

The Master Chief, John-117, was one such abducted child.

As for whether Halsey was purely evil, whether she was an irredeemable villain—it wasn’t so simple. She was merely “gray.”

“Where do you come from?”

“We hail from the void beyond.”

“Why have you come?”

“We come for the will of Our Empress.”

“…”

That was it?

That told her absolutely nothing. Not a single piece of substantive information.

Halsey paused for a moment. “What exactly is your objective?”

At her words, the Night Lords officer let out a hearty laugh.

“Madam, very soon—you will know.”

“I believe that when the time comes, you will cooperate.”

“To make this world a better place… as our offering.”

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