Blood Sacrifice

Soon, the engine roar echoed across the corpse-strewn battlefield.

Freddy drove the Assault Bike, followed by two Neophytes. From another direction, another brother also rode an Assault Bike with two Neophytes coming to support.

Rumble rumble rumble rumble...

The engine roar was unceasing. Six Assault Bikes crushed countless corpses under their tires as they rapidly closed in around the Chaos Spawn.

With Lord Peter and Anthony providing fire harassment, Freddy grabbed the Chainsword strapped to his leg and steered his steel steed in a sweep past the left side of the Chaos Spawn.

After passing the Chaos Spawn, Freddy's Chainsword buzzed, now stained with light blue blood. In that single instant, he lopped off three of the heads from the lower half of the Chaos Spawn's body.

Another Astartes Bike Sergeant swung his Chain Axe, repeatedly darting past to hack at the Chaos Spawn's legs. They controlled their pace well—neither slow enough for the Spawn's tentacles or psychic powers to catch them, nor fast enough to trigger the Psionic Shield.

The remaining four Neophytes circled the Chaos Spawn on their bikes, speeding up and slowing down, weaving left and right. As they moved, they fired Bolter Pistols or used the Assault Bikes' twin-linked Bolters to shoot at the Chaos Spawn. Their goal wasn't to kill but to harass—and if they happened to catch the Psionic Shield down, even better.

Thus, the Neophytes provided cover while the Veterans dealt damage. As long as nothing went wrong, these six Assault Bikes could bleed the Chaos Spawn dry.

The remaining heads on the Chaos Spawn howled in agony, thrashing in impotent rage, to no effect. One bald head with deep blue skin had its eyes flare with light.

Bang! A psychic blast struck the side of a Neophyte's Assault Bike. The Neophyte was thrown from the bike, tumbling across the ground with several heavy rolls.

Seeing this, the two Veterans pressed their attack, weaving back and forth to continue carving into the Chaos Spawn. The other three Neophytes intensified their fire, bombarding relentlessly. In the distance, Peter, Anthony, and the tank laid down suppressing fire.

If an ordinary person had gone through such a crash—flipping through the air, slamming hard into the ground, and rolling several times—they'd likely be dead from multiple fractures. Fortunately, this Neophyte had already undergone most of the surgical modifications. He landed on one shoulder first, and now that shoulder and arm were completely shattered.

But he stood up from the pile of corpses. The pre-loaded injection needles inside his Scout Armor pierced his skin, delivering painkillers and stimulants.

Dragging his broken arm, ignoring his lost Bolter Pistol, the Neophyte ran straight for his bike. With the time his teammates bought him, he righted the bike, jumped on, and gunned the throttle, roaring back into motion.

On the tank in the distance, Peter breathed a sigh of relief. That Neophyte was safe.

By now, the two Veterans had gravely wounded the Chaos Spawn. As its Psionic Shield dropped, a hail of Bolter rounds and Laser Cannon fire blasted it into a pulp of gore.

But then, a sudden change occurred. The sound of animal horns rang out across the battlefield.

The Khorne Cultists, who had barely appeared on the battlefield until now, finally arrived. A force of about fifty or sixty thousand, they marched on foot into the field, still wielding crude bone or stone weapons.

At their head was a burly man two meters tall, with a thick beard, bare chest, and a bearskin hat. It was less a hat and more a bear cloak—he kept the claws and fangs, draping the entire pelt over himself.

Like all the cultists, his face was painted with a red cross. The chieftain reached out, grabbed an animal liver offered by a subordinate, and tore into it with loud chewing.

After finishing the liver, he raised his voice and shouted.

"In the endless flames of war and the roar of blood, We call upon You, Khorne, glory of the Blood God, In the abyss of chaos, You are the master of war, In the feast of slaughter, You are the symbol of victory. The Eightfold Path guides us to the road of glory, Let us find strength in Your wrath, Find direction in Your fury, find eternity in Your war. The falling of skulls is our highest tribute to You, Every swing of the axe is an endless hymn to You, Every charge is our deepest worship of You, Every victory is our sincerest sacrifice to You. May Your wrath burn forever, may Your war never end, May we find our destiny in Your glory, Until the last drop of blood, until the last roar!"

Tens of thousands of cultists shouted in unison.

"Blood for the Blood God, skulls for the Skull Throne!!!"

Including Freddy, the six bikers couldn't help but laugh at the sight. He exchanged a glance with the other Veteran biker:

"Look at that—dogs barking."

"Hahahaha!"

The other Veteran laughed.

"Let's charge in and butcher them. You four Neophytes—who's taking his head? I want his skull for a bowl."

With that, Freddy gunned the throttle. His Assault Bike shot toward the arriving Khorne Cultists, the other five bikes following close behind.

Valentino, a Neophyte, floored the throttle. This was clearly a test for them. Whoever took the chieftain's head would be one step closer to becoming a future Sergeant—he had that much ambition.

All six bikes tore into the Khorne Cultists like wolves among sheep, mercilessly crushing them. Valentino, at the front, had a clear target: the enemy chieftain.

He'd already planned it out. One swing, take the head, earn glory. In the future, when he became a Sergeant, he'd lead a bike squad racing across the battlefield.

His other combat course grades over the years had been mediocre at best. Only in ground vehicle operation did he excel—especially bikes. He loved the feeling of riding a motorcycle across the open plains in simulation training.

In his right hand, he held a Monomolecular Combat Blade, extending it out from the bike to about head height. He didn't even need to swing—the enemy would run into the blade themselves.

A trail of blood dripped behind him.

Finally, as Valentino's assault brought him before the enemy leader, he swung his long blade in a horizontal slash, directly decapitating the Khorne Cultist chieftain—who wore red cross paint and a bear-skin cloak—displaying his head to all. The opponent didn't even have time to draw the two axes from his back before his head hit the ground.

With Valentino's strike severing the chieftain's head, the number of lives lost on this battlefield reached exactly eighty-eight thousand eight hundred and eighty-eight, for "the Eightfold Path guides us to the road of glory."

A bloody Warp energy pulsed through the air, watered by the blood of countless warriors. Now the chieftain had become the 88,888th fallen soldier.

In truth, the Khorne Cultists had been conducting a ritual all along—only their ritual was battle itself. Whether Khorne Cultists, Tzeentch Cultists, or Peter's people, it was the same.

Because.

"The Blood God asks not from whence the blood flows, only that it flows."