NOVEL WEB Chapter 19: Alen
Joe was sharp—almost unnervingly so. He handled their verbal attacks with the calm precision of a seasoned diplomat. When the questions became pointed and even outright insulting, his anger flared, but he never lost control. Instead, he channeled that anger, answering in a measured tone that neither escalated nor conceded. Elizabeth began to doubt her assumptions. Was this man truly a Space Marine? His calm demeanor and sharp tongue seemed more suited to an ambassador than a warrior.
Frustrated, Elizabeth abandoned the careful script and stormed into the interrogation room. She tried threats first, but they fell flat. Joe didn't flinch at the name of the Ordo Malleus, something that would have sent even the most cunning demons into panic. His blank expression, as if she had mentioned some minor clerical office, only deepened her irritation. Demons, no matter how well-disguised, couldn't fake such nonchalance.
And the tests—oh, the tests were maddeningly clear. No trace of Chaos corruption marred his body. The purity of his physical condition was almost unsettling. He had no psychic abilities, no hint of taint. The data painted a picture of someone as unblemished as a newborn child.
The only thing "unusual" about Joe was his striking appearance, with skin far too well-maintained for someone who had been in stasis for millennia. There was no evidence to suggest Chaos corruption. In any other case, this would have been enough. A single word from the tribunal would have sealed the fate of the accused. But Joe wasn't just anyone.
Messages from various Space Marine unit had started pouring in shortly after Joe's awakening. Even the Blood Angels, a chapter known for its history of struggles with the Black Rage, sent inquiries. The messages were short, often just asking about Joe's condition. It was clear these chapters considered him a figure of significant importance—a hero of old, now returned.
Even more unusual was the High Lords Association's note, indicating they, too, were watching the proceedings closely. And then there was the God-Emperor Himself. Joe's body had been personally inspected by the Emperor—a fact that elevated his status to an almost untouchable level.
Elizabeth didn't have the luxury of too many thoughts or doubts. Yet, what lingered, gnawing at her, was an inexplicable disgust she couldn't shake. It wasn't logical; it didn't stem from anything tangible. It was her intuition, that elusive "sixth sense" women often spoke of. To Elizabeth, this gut feeling was more than a vague premonition—it was a compass, one she trusted deeply. Time and again, her instincts had guided her correctly, and now, they pointed to one man: Joe. Something about him felt wrong, hidden beneath his seemingly perfect surface.
The interrogation continued, a drawn-out, mind-numbing process. Most of the questions were standard, dull inquiries. But Joe's responses, or rather, his lack of knowledge, made things far more complicated than Elizabeth had anticipated. He wasn't being evasive; it was clear he genuinely didn't understand many of the questions being asked. His bewilderment stemmed from one simple fact: Joe had been asleep for nine thousand years.
Nine millennia.
That was longer than entire civilizations had existed, let alone thrived. To Lee, everything about the modern world was foreign, every question requiring an explanation of its own.
"Who's Kayvaan?" he asked at one point, tilting his head like a curious child.
Elizabeth pinched the bridge of her nose, exhausted. It wasn't deliberate obstruction; Joe's ignorance was genuine. Still, the back-and-forth was infuriating. Every question she asked seemed to boomerang back with another question from him. By the third day, Elizabeth had had enough.
She closed the case with a hastily written label: Pure. Yet, things were far from over for Joe. Passing the initial review meant undergoing a medical examination, followed by a six-month isolation period at a designated Earth-based church. It was more a symbolic ritual than a practical one—a way for the Empire to monitor its "heroes."
In truth, the ruling class didn't want the heroes of the Sanctum to awaken. For the Empire's leaders, these figures were far easier to manage as revered legends lying in gilded coffins, admired but dormant. A living hero? That was a complication no one wanted. After all, heroes often became more trouble than they were worth.
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Darius stood outside the old wooden door, taking deep breaths to calm his nerves. His heart pounded, and for the eighth time that day, he adjusted his clothing. Today was monumental, and he was determined to look the part.
The suit he wore had been tailored specifically for this occasion—a retro-style outfit of dark blue and black, exuding both elegance and maturity. At sixteen, Darius knew his age might work against him, so every detail mattered. He wanted to command respect, even if his youthful face betrayed him.
After a silent countdown in his head—'One, two, three!'—Darius pushed the door open with determination. But before he could take a step inside, a calm but firm voice cut through the air.
"Don't you know how to knock?"
Startled, Darius flushed with embarrassment. He quickly retreated, closing the door behind him, and knocked politely. Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Come in," the voice said, less stern this time.
Darius stepped into the room. It was small, plain, and sparsely furnished, just like every other side chamber in the ancient church. No grand decor or lavish displays. Instead, it was bathed in simplicity.
Sitting on an old rattan chair was a black-haired young man, his figure framed by the sunlight pouring through an open window behind him. The golden light seemed to embrace him, giving him an almost ethereal glow. He sat with his eyes closed, his expression serene, as if savoring the warmth of the sun.
It was a peaceful, unassuming sight—one that completely defied Joe's expectations. This wasn't the towering, battle-scarred warrior he had imagined. In Darius's mind, Kayvaan Shrike was supposed to be three meters tall, muscles rippling beneath scars earned on countless battlefields, with a menacing aura of pure danger. Darius had even pictured a river of blood and corpses beneath Darius's feet. But this… this was almost disappointing.
Gathering his courage, Darius asked hesitantly, "Excuse me, are you Mr. Kayvaan Shrike?"
The man opened his eyes, and Darius found himself staring into a gaze that was anything but intimidating. Instead, Kayvaan's eyes radiated a quiet warmth, as gentle and inviting as the sunlight streaming into the room. His face, too, was striking—not rugged, but beautiful in a way that felt almost otherworldly.
"Yes," Kayvaan replied, his voice calm and measured. "You've found the right person. I am Kayvaan Shrike, but just Kayvaan will do. And you are?"
Darius bowed slightly out of respect. "My name is Darius Alen Shadowglin. I'm the only descendant of Alen."
"Alen?" Joe's expression softened further. "Ah, little Alen. I see the resemblance. You've inherited his face and expressions—young and full of determination. Tell me, is he still alive?"