Chapter 293 Memories Waiting to Be Told

It took Iskandar Khayon only about ten minutes to locate the auxiliary army of the Night Demon Court on the surface of Olympia.

In the higher level of etheric mind, he could feel those cold and fanatical souls, like black flames, using religious enthusiasm to fill the thirst of the broken opening deep in the soul.

That dark fire burned in the secluded place on the outskirts of Lokos, as if it was going to swallow the current dusk into a dark eternal midnight.

Well, things have become a little obvious. This mortal army does not look like a pure human.

However, Khayon believes in the judgment of Perturabo, the master of the Iron Warriors. Perturabo is not infallible, but at least he will not ignore such an obvious hidden danger.

If the fourth primarch agrees to invite this team to his beloved home planet, then this abnormal problem must be tolerable.

He said goodbye to Telemanon, told the captain of the Iron Warriors who led his team where he was going, and wore a crimson cotton robe for daily use rather than wartime, put the battle axe Veride on his waist as usual, and walked to the location of the auxiliary army.

He had no time to appreciate the construction level of the capital kingdom of Olympia, Lokos, which was different from Tizca but still far exceeded the average level of the galaxy. He just wanted to know what the potion was about.

He stopped a few hundred meters away from the temporary barracks built by the Night Ghost King's Court, staring at the dark Gothic spire that seemed to have risen from the ground overnight at the purple-orange horizon at sunset, hesitated for a moment, and stopped temporarily.

What should he say later?

In this way, he prepared a draft for himself in his mind, are you a gatekeeper? Hello, the army of the Eighth Legion, I want to ask who of you watched the equestrian competition between Astartes this morning? Okay, can I ask him to come and talk to me?

"What are you doing here, Space Marine?" A familiar yet strange female voice sounded in his ears. He had only heard this voice once before, but he had remembered it deeply.

He turned around calmly and lowered his head, satisfied that he showed the calmness that an Astartes warrior should have.

"Nefertari," Khayon said, noticing that Nefertari still had her wings close to her back, "Hello. I want to ask who of you watched the equestrian competition between Astartes this morning?"

A dozen hooded, dark-skinned, snow-white-haired sons of the Muses looked at each other. They should be on the same road as Khayon and were preparing to return to their camp.

Khayon suddenly realized that he had not heard the sound of these creatures approaching at all. They were too quiet - living up to the reputation of the Night Ghost.

"We are all here." The female warrior's thin blue-gray lips opened and closed, and gently touched each other when she made a closed mouth sound. "What do you want to know?"

"How did you recognize that potion? Is it really based on smell?"

"The fearless mood and the pride that makes one forget everything are typical of taking drugs." Nefertari said.

"This sounds like the normal state of the Emperor's children."

The female warrior smiled, "No, the world becomes colorful and restless in front of him. He is more dizzy than ever, desperate, but he has no consciousness in his heart, thinking that everything is normal. Even the most arrogant warriors will not fall into this state for no reason. We can distinguish the details of these deep emotions and see them at a glance."

"Are you familiar with it?"

"You don't belong to our night." Nefertari hinted tactfully, reminding Khayon that he asked too many questions. It seems that just like the Iron Warriors, every legion has its own secrets.

Sometimes, a scholar's thirst for knowledge will drive Khayon to do extraordinary things. Even their Primarchs cannot completely restrain this instinct and can only try their best to adjust it. This is one of the reasons why Magnus makes some ridiculous mistakes from time to time.

"Did you make it?" Khayon asked.

Nefertari looked at him. "No," she said.

"Then do you know who is capable of making this alchemical potion?" He paused, "Is it possible that it is someone in the Eighth Legion? Or an apothecary of the Emperor's Children?"

"Under unknown conditions, everything is possible."

The Son of the Muse gave an ambiguous answer, but Khayon would not ignore the contempt that flashed across the thin face of the female warrior when he mentioned the latter possibility.

"We are the Scourge, the Nightmare, but we are not masters of flesh and blood." She said.

Interesting metaphor. Khayon thought. But he still didn't get a definite answer.

"I want to visit your camp," he continued, "for my battle brother. He can't take that potion himself, even for honor."

"If you insist," the female warrior agreed indifferently. Her reaction was unexpected, and Khayon immediately realized that there was probably nothing special about this camp built on the ground that was worthy of suspicion. They did not bring their secrets to the land of Olympia.

"Forget it," the scholar said regretfully, extinguishing the curiosity that surged in his heart. It seemed that he could not get any useful information from the son of the Muse.

Some secrets are best not touched. There is such a motto in Magnus: Even if you think you know everything and can do everything, no matter how perfect the scholar is, you cannot master all the knowledge in his hands. The sand of Tizca will definitely leak through the cracks in the palm.

"Will I be able to contact you later?" he asked, feeling that something was wrong with his words, and added: "For the matter of Telemanon."

"Contact?" Nefertari repeated, looking at him strangely, "Unfortunately, you are a psychic, my lord, and the latest regulations announced in my hometown are restrictions on psychic powers."

"However, in Olympia, if you really need it, contact us through the data board. The communication key of the Son of Muse..."

The female warrior reached into her cloak and searched for what she needed from her waist bag. Suddenly, her movements stopped. This woman who had never been in awe of anything from beginning to end frowned her snow-white eyebrows for the first time, and her dark night eyes radiated with anger.

"A thief touched my things," she said to another warrior of the same kind beside her, her accent almost far away from the scope of Gothic, "My hair rope."

"Lost?" her companion asked.

"No, just touched, but it can't be limited to touching..." Nefertari gritted her teeth, "Just a while ago."

Hair, or skin fragments. She thought of this immediately. In Gomor, this is a common material, used in divination, curses, cloning, and other conspiracies.

"Perhaps I can help you." Khayon cleared his throat. This is a good entry point. "Tracking some recent traces is within my ability."

Nefertari stared at him, and Khayon nodded to her, patiently waiting for her response.

"Okay," finally, she relented. She bought these hair ropes in Olympia, and psykers could not trace the secrets of the past.

She walked over, handed the hair rope to Khayon's outstretched palm, and then quickly withdrew her hand.

"Thank you, my lord."

This time the honorific finally sounded sincere. Khayon thought. The small spell gathered in his hands.

Everything has memory. Memory exists in the aura of all objects. Memory is waiting to be discovered. Memory is waiting for a confession.

In the afternoon, it was in Nefertari's tool kit. Like the gene primarchs of the Night King's Court, all of them have the habit of carrying tool kits with them.

It waited in the darkness. The sons of the Muses spoke vaguely and distantly, chatting about trivial matters in Gothic. It heard.

It spent a midday with the aroma of food. Nefertari thought the cuisine of Olympia was too bland. This was an irrelevant message.

In the morning, it was kept on a wooden rack outside the venue with the entire tool kit. It hung there for a long time. Only the Astartes were around, and no one came near.

Then, the light shone in. Like a pale blade inserted into the dark silk. It was taken out and dipped into a quick-drying liquid, and something was extracted. It was put back.

Khayon focused his attention on this moment of light. He focused and watched with bated breath. Then, he saw it.

A servitor, undoubtedly from the Astartes fleet. White armor, featureless gray cloth. Its presence would not arouse any suspicion. It faithfully completed the orders of its master. Who is its master?

Khayon became more focused. The flickering light intertwined before his eyes. This made his eyes sting, and the last glimmer of the psychic spell was leaving quickly, and his power began to fade.

The spell was about to reach the upper limit of the use set by the gene primarch. This is protection, but also limitation.

Khayon cleared all distracting thoughts and tried his best to explore the truth under the cloth wrapped around the servitor. Finally, he caught the last clue - a ray of purple light.

He opened his eyes suddenly.

"It seems that Telemanon is right," he whispered, "I need to see Fabius Bile. Yes... A servitor belonging to the Emperor's Children has touched your things, and the reason is unknown. I will go back and report this to the Primarch Perturabo, you..."

"Contact my king immediately." Nefertari said to her companions, and then she looked at Khayon deeply: "Thank you, Master Space Marine."

"Iskander Khayon." Khayon said, saying goodbye to the children of the muses.

His mind was so full of his newfound evidence that long after he had walked away, he suddenly remembered that his name was actually pronounced "Sekhandu Kain", but few people cared about that.

Next time, he thought.