Chapter 748

He pulled the trigger, and the Bolter gave him a steady kick. Fire bloomed from the muzzle, while he perfectly absorbed the recoil. A bolt shell flew over the blood-soaked ruins and struck a Hormagaunt in the dark that had strayed from the main swarm.

It died, its ugly head blown to pieces. But it meant nothing—so thought Volturno, captain of the Lamenters' Second Company.

He did not feel pessimistic about it. Pessimism meant nothing. He was merely stating a fact, because the death of a single Hormagaunt truly meant nothing to the entire swarm.

Their kind was merely the most insignificant of all the swarm, born only to be used as cannon fodder. No matter what they faced, these Tyranids would surge forward as one, never afraid, never falling back, never retreating.

That was fine. So were we.

Volturno lowered the Bolter in his hands and began taking stock of what little he had left.

A Chainsword so old it was terrifying, its original paint scheme no longer even discernible. Its promethium fuel was running low as well. Volturno knew very well that, without fuel, this Chainsword could remain active for him to use for at most two standard Terran hours.

A bitter taste rose in his mouth. He remained unmoved, then continued his work.

An MK.5B Godwyn-pattern Bolter, in good working order. Two thirty-round magazines, one of them already more than half-empty, with only twelve rounds left.

In other words, he had only forty-two rounds left.

A combat knife, its grip very smooth, the anti-slip pattern already worn away.

Aside from these, his webbing was empty, and so was his belt. His personal grenades had been used up the moment they landed.

Volturno stood, slung the Bolter at his waist, and left the ruins that had sheltered him