Peiluode squeezed himself tightly into the fire cabinet at the corner of the corridor, his back pressed against the cold metal wall, and skillfully changed the magazine on his Bolter.
Gunshots, roars, and the sound of metal tearing outside surged in like a tide, making the fire cabinet hum. But he didn't even lift his eyelids, his fingers stroking the magazines with machine-like precision.
As a seasoned veteran who had spent fifteen years in the Astra Militarum and three years in the Navy's boarding force, he knew all too well how to survive in this hell on earth.
Charging forward? That's something new recruits and idiots do.
True veterans always hide in the safest corner, waiting until both sides are exhausted and out of ammunition before going out to fire a couple more shots and collect some loot.
If you're lucky, you might even earn some merit in battle.
Three years ago, he gritted his teeth and enlisted in the Navy in order to escape the endless trenches of the Astra Militarum.
Back then, naval propaganda posters were plastered Hive City the streets and alleys of the capital, proclaiming "Independent bathroom, ten times the pay, and unlimited eggs and bacon every day."
He thought he had finally climbed from hell into heaven.
He did have a few good days.
They have stewed meat to eat every day, clean water to drink, and their own single cabin.
It wasn't until he first saw the casualty report of the boarding action—three thousand men went out, and three hundred returned.
He then realized that those generous benefits were never given away for free.
That was money to buy one's life.
Moreover, the prices are clearly marked, and there is no deception of the young or old.
He still remembers the scene of his first naval battle.
At that time, he had been transferred to the Martyr's Blade less than three months earlier when the alarm sounded and the battle was about to begin.
He thought he was finally going to fight on the front lines, gripped his Bolter tightly, and even felt a little excited.
The captain then gave the order: armed sailors were to take control of all passes and checkpoints and remain in place.
He stood in the passageway with the other veterans, listening to the vibrations and muffled thuds coming from the gun deck, unable to do anything.
There were no enemies to fight, no cover to hide behind, and they didn't even know which direction to fire.
His life or death depended entirely on the skill and tactics of the gunnery deck crew, on whether the captain's orders were correct, on the warship's Void Shield, and on whether the heavy armor could withstand a fatal blow.
It doesn't depend on him at all.
That agonizing wait to die is more maddening than charging into battle.
He would rather move artillery shells than stand there like a target and wait for fate to decide his fate.
During that boarding raid, three thousand men went out, but only a few hundred returned.
He watched the Boarding Torpedo slide out of the ship's hold, watched the enemy ship explode, and watched the shattered debris drift into space.
Most of those sailors never returned.
The so-called retreat plan is practically non-existent.
From then on, he would wake up in a fright every night.
In his dream, he was trapped in a narrow passage with nowhere to escape, surrounded by enemies on all sides, and he didn't even have the courage to fire a gun.
He regretted it.
He thought of the old Commissar of the Astra Militarum.
Before leaving, the Commissar looked at him, his eyes filled with pity, not anger.
" Peiluode, you'll regret this. The Navy's whip is ten times harsher than the Astra Militarum's."
At that time, he still thought the Commissar was jealous of him.
Now he realized that the Commissar commissar was right.
The navy's discipline is indeed ten times harsher. A yawn results in twenty lashes, gambling money is simply thrown into the void, and stealing a bottle of wine will land you in solitary confinement for three days.
He recalled the recruit from last month who was tied to the bulkhead and beaten to death by his teammates simply for yawning while on duty.
Peiluode regretted it. He regretted being greedy for the Navy's meager pay and eggs and bacon, and he regretted leaving the Astra Militarum, a place where at least he could still be a seasoned veteran.
But there's no going back.
People always have to pay the price for their choices.
His price was that, from that day on, all his courage vanished.
"Bang!"
A loud bang came from the end of the passage, and the entire ship shook violently.
The overhead light flickered a few times, emitting a buzzing sound.
Peiluode heard inhuman screams and the terrified cries of Imperial soldiers. "Mutants! They sent mutants as cannon fodder! They crawled out of the torpedoes!"
Peiluode pursed his lips, shrank further behind the fire cabinet, and hugged the Bolter even tighter.
So what if they're mutants? He's seen Chaos Cultist, he's slain Orks, he's encountered Dark Aeldari Corsair —it's not like I'm the one who's going to die.
Most of these mutants were cannon fodder recruited from the Underhive; they were willing to do anything for a full meal.
Just then, a series of hurried footsteps came from the other end of the passage.
Peiluode immediately held his breath, pressed his eyes against the crack in the fire cabinet door, and peered out.
He saw it.
A monster covered in dark purple skin was moving rapidly along the bulkhead like a gecko.
Its skin occasionally has a purplish tinge, and it has a bony crown on its forehead.
Below them were mutants whose mutations were not as severe, except that they had an extra arm compared to ordinary people. In their left hand they held a heavy Boarding Shield, and in their right hand they gripped a Chainsword.
Peiluode's heart skipped a beat, and he immediately ran in the opposite direction.
One of the mutants merely glanced at him.
Those were eyes devoid of any emotion, filled only with fanaticism and resolve.
It didn't even stop; it just kept rushing towards the bridge.
Peiluode was certain that the other party had discovered him, but simply didn't want to waste time on him.
Peiluode slumped to the ground, his back soaked in cold sweat.
"Escape—we've escaped a disaster."
Just then, the ship's intercom suddenly blared. It was Earl Octavius's voice, tinged with barely concealed anger. "Hold the enemy back at all costs!"
"Otherwise, you'll be buried along with your ships!"
Peiluode spat, "Bullshit! Sending us to our deaths? You make it sound so easy!"
"No, I'll definitely die if I stay here any longer. Where can I hide? --- I've got it! The hangar!"
"There are several Arvus Lighter there; if things really come to a standstill, we can use them to escape."
Although Peiluode didn't like the simple design of the shuttle, the Arvus Lighter still had an undeniable charm.
At least its boxy shape—which might even keep enemy fire away from its notoriously plain armor—is something that makes it worthwhile.
Even a treacherous traitor shouldn't harm such a brave ship, right?
Without the slightest hesitation, Peiluode pushed open the fire cabinet door and turned to run towards Hangar 3. What was battle, honor, or the God-Emperor compared to his own life?
Why should a lowly soldier like myself stay behind to die?
He ran around corner after corner, dodging zones of fire.
Relying on the intuition of a 15-year veteran, he deliberately chose to take the most secluded and narrowest passages.
On the way, he encountered several soldiers who, like him, wanted to escape, but he ignored them and quickened his pace.
First come, first served.
If you're too late, there won't be any seats left on the shuttle.
As he rounded a corner, he brushed past the monster.
The monster was covered in blood, its left arm blown off by a bomb and hanging limply at its side, green blood dripping down its arm.
But it did not stop in its tracks, and the flames in its eyes burned brighter than any cannonball.
They stared at each other for a second, separated by a distance of more than ten meters.
Then the monster turned around, dragging its severed leg, and slowly crawled towards the bridge.
Peiluode paused for a second, then continued running towards the hangar.
He didn't dare turn around.
Inside the Boarding Torpedo, fifty people were crammed together, barely able to breathe properly.
Inside the torpedo was complete darkness, with only the low-frequency vibrations of the engine and the heavy breathing of his comrades beside him.
No one spoke; everyone knew this might be their last breath.
Zeke curled up against the bulkhead, his sharp claws unconsciously scraping against the cold metal.
He chose the heaviest Boarding Shield and a sharp Chainsword. On the inside of the shield, a line of crooked words was engraved with claws. "Death is the way home." Those were the last words his mother left him before she died.
As the fourth-generation hybrid with the highest genetic purity, the Intercessor told him that his destiny was to serve his genes—
He died because of his father.
To die for his master was the highest honor he could receive.
His only fear was dying a meaningless death.
"Thirty seconds until impact!" The Servo-Skull's voice came through the loudspeaker, cold and devoid of any emotion.
Zeke gripped the Lasgun tightly with his third hand.
A violent tremor followed, as if the torpedo had been slammed onto a steel plate by a giant hand. Zeke felt as if his internal organs had shifted, and a metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
The hatch of the Boarding Torpedo exploded outwards.
Hell has descended.
Zeke was the first to charge out of the torpedo.
A barrage of bullets and Laser came hurtling towards them.
He raised his Boarding Shield, blocking a blast that grazed his ear.
The immense impact from the shield caused him to stumble and nearly fall.
Behind him followed Servitor sent by Kallen, its optical lens flashing red, precisely calculating the shortest route for each passage.
"Turn left, third passage." The Servitor's electronic voice was devoid of any emotion.
Zeke looked around.
In the narrow passage, the bodies were piled up to knee height.
Broken limbs and entrails hung from the bulkheads, and dark red blood pooled in streams on the floor, making a creaking sound with every step.
The air was thick with the smells of blood, gunpowder, and burnt meat.
There was no one in charge, and no one to coordinate.
Everyone was instinctively shooting, slashing, and screaming.
Zeke saw half of a believer's body embedded in the wall not far away.
That was the unfortunate guy whose teleportation failed. His lower body had become one with the metal wall, with only his upper body exposed. His eyes were wide open, and blood bubbles were still coming out of his mouth.
This is also why Zeke preferred to board Boarding Torpedo; at least he could die a quick death.
Upon seeing Zeke, the other person extended a trembling hand and uttered a weak cry for help.
Zeke didn't stop, or even slow down.
The mission comes first.
He charged forward, stepping over the corpses scattered on the ground.
With each flash of the Lasgun, a Coalition soldier fell.
His comrade's claws ripped open a soldier's throat, and his Chainsword severed another soldier's arm.
Zeke felt neither pain nor fatigue.
A coalition soldier charged at him, brandishing Meltagun.
A scorching beam of light grazed his cheek, burning a charred hole in the bulkhead.
Zeke dodged to the side, then pounced, his claws digging deep into Zeke's chest.
Green blood sprayed all over his face.
He licked the blood from the corner of his mouth and continued charging forward.
More and more coalition soldiers surrounded them.
More and more of his companions fell beside him.
The battle was extremely fierce; of the several thousand-strong suicide squad, less than a hundred men remained.
But no one backed down.
Like a pack of tireless beasts, they roared and charged, tearing open one breach after another in the Allied forces' defenses with their own flesh and blood.
Zeke's left arm was hit by a blast, exposing the bone.
He felt no pain; he simply bit off the drooping flesh with his teeth and tossed it to the ground.
His chest was slashed open by the Chainsword, leaving a deep gash that exposed bone; blood flowed everywhere.
He tore off a piece of cloth, wrapped it haphazardly, and continued charging forward.
His eyes grew brighter and brighter, burning with a fervent flame.
It'll be soon.
We're almost at the bridge.
The passage narrowed, and the battle grew increasingly fierce.
Every inch of the ground was covered with corpses.
There were allied forces and Genestealers; some were shattered into pieces, and some were still convulsing.
Zeke's feet stomped on the sticky, bloody flesh, each step producing a teeth-grinding crunch.
He had lost count of how many times he had changed magazines.
The Lasgun's barrel was red-hot, Chainsword's chain had long since broken; it was now just a heavy piece of iron.
He sheathed his sword, picked up a coalition Bolter from the ground, and continued charging forward.
One by one, his companions fell down around him.
They were either hit by explosives, cut down by Chainsword, or burned to a crisp by Meltagun.
No one looked back.
No one stopped.
They charged forward, stepping over the still-struggling wounded soldiers.
Sometimes Zeke couldn't tell whether the people beneath his feet were enemies or his own, because at this distance, once flesh and blood were torn apart, they all looked pretty much the same.
After turning a corner, he saw the entrance to the bridge passage.
There was a heavy alloy door, with sandbags and metal fences piled up in front of it, and a dozen Heavy Bolter sticking out their dark muzzles from behind the bunker.
"This is the last line of defense," the Servitor's voice rang in his ears. "Charge through; the bridge is just ahead."
Zeke glanced back at the people standing behind him; there were fewer than thirty of them.
Everyone is wounded, everyone is bleeding, but in everyone's eyes burns a resolute and fervent belief.
He didn't speak, but simply raised the Bolter in his hand.
"For the sake of the Intercessor."
He was the first to rush out.
From the passage behind them came a cacophony of footsteps and roars.
The Heavy Bolter fired.
Bullets swept through the passage like a metallic storm, and Zeke felt a dozen more bullet holes appear on his shield. The immense impact forced him to exert all his strength for every step he took.
His left arm was broken, so he could only use his shoulder to support the shield and advance while firing his gun.
Another companion fell beside him.
One, two, three.
Green blood splattered in the tunnel, mixing with the red of the Allied forces, and under the lights, it turned into an eerie dark purple.
"Boom!"
A Melta bomb exploded near Zeke.
The blast wave knocked him to the ground, his shield flying out of his hand and crashing into the pile of corpses in front of him.
He struggled to his feet, a piercing pain shooting through his right leg. The bone had snapped off just above his knee, with only a layer of skin and flesh still holding it to his body. Green blood trickled down his trouser leg, leaving a long trail on the ground.
Zeke glanced down, his face expressionless.
He drew his military dagger from his waist, the sound of the blade slicing through flesh exceptionally clear amidst the chaos of the battlefield.
Without screams or trembling, he cleanly and decisively severed the cumbersome piece of flesh, casually tossing the severed leg into the pile of corpses behind him.
Then, using his remaining right arm to support himself on the ground, he slowly dragged his body toward the bridge.
With each step he took, a dark green trail of blood was left on the ground.
Ahead, two companions finally reached the cover.
One man hacked down the machine gunner with Chainsword, while another grabbed Melta Bomb and lunged into a pile of sandbags.
The explosion was deafening.
The bunker was blown open, creating a breach.
Zeke climbed through the gap.
Behind him was a road paved with corpses.
Genestealers.
The Allied Forces.
The bodies were mangled and bloody, making it impossible to tell who was who.
But he didn't turn around to look.
All he knew was that he had to move forward.
Zeke finally climbed to the alloy door of the bridge.
The heavy blast door was tightly shut, and from behind it came the shouts and gunshots of Octavius's guards.
The last three companions dragged their mutilated bodies to his side, each clutching a Melta Bomb.
They had long since run out of ammunition, and their weapons were all broken in two.
But they had one last trick up their sleeve.
Zeke glanced back.
In the passageway behind me, corpses were piled up like mountains, green and red blood mixed together, forming thick scabs on the floor.
He smiled and stuck the Melta Bomb in his hand onto the alloy door.
The other three people followed suit.
" The Intercessor said that our blood should be shed on the enemy's bridge," Zeke said softly.
"For a great cause!" Three voices responded simultaneously.
He pressed the detonator.
Four Melta Bomb exploded simultaneously, instantly melting the half-meter-thick alloy door with temperatures of thousands of degrees Celsius.
The shockwave from the explosion threw Zeke away, causing him to slam heavily against the opposite bulkhead, spitting out a mouthful of green blood.
But he did not die.
He struggled to his feet and pulled the blue-glowing Teleport Beacon from his pocket.
This was the last thing Priest Kallen gave them.
The guards on the bridge rushed out, and explosives rained down on him.
Zeke's chest was blown open, and his green internal organs spilled out onto the ground.
But he still smiled and, with his last ounce of strength, pressed the beacon's activation button.
The blue light instantly enveloped the entire passageway.
He glanced down at the fragments of the shield hanging on his chest and smiled.
Immediately afterwards, Zeke's head drooped.
The next second, a blue beam of teleportation light lit up in the tunnel.
A Space Marine resembling Mark IV Power Armour emerged, carrying Boarding Shield, followed closely by Fu Haoran, who wore black Force Feedback Power Armor.
Behind them were the members of the assault team.
"Clean up the rest of them," Fu Haoran ordered.
The Stormtroopers soldiers immediately dispersed, formed combat formations, and advanced toward the bridge.
The roar of Bolter rose and fell, and the stubborn guards fell one after another.
Three minutes later, the last guard was blown apart by a bomb.
The bridge fell completely silent.
Fu Haoran walked to Zeke's body, squatted down, and gently closed his still wide-open eyes.
Although the other party is a Genestealers, his loyalty is beyond question.
Fu Haoran picked up the dog tag and, without turning around, said to Ronan, "Write down his name, Zeke."
"His place should be on the Hall of Fame of Schola Progenium."
Genestealer guards the nation's gates; Xenomorph dies for the country.
"Yes, sir."
Fu Haoran walked to the main control console and pressed the button for the ship-wide broadcast.
His voice echoed throughout every corner of the cruiser, "I am Fu Haoran."
" The Ambition-class Cruiser, Oath of Courage, is now mine."
Lay down your weapons and cease resistance.
7
I'm giving you a chance to live.