25. Burned Out (IV)

After enduring the burning pain, Kharn decided to face death.

He had done this many times before, but this time was different; this time, the deaths he faced were all those of his brothers.

He gripped his Chainaxe and charged down the dark corridor into the burning cannon deck, where his brothers fought alongside the enemy, turning the world into a bloody mud.

Kharn immediately joined in, but he would never allow himself to get stained with the bloody mud. In fact, quite the opposite, his goal was to get all his brothers out of there.

He charged into the fray, his Chainaxe slicing into an enemy's neck from the side. The enemy howled and fell to the ground, still trying to attack, but he would have no more chances. Kharn stepped on his chest, picked up Boltgun from the ground, aimed it at the enemy's chest, and pulled the trigger, firing three shots. The grenades completely destroyed his heart and the rest of his flesh.

In an instant, the filthy phantom vanished, and the dead man belonging to the War Hounds lay on the ground, his eyes wide open, staring at the brother who had killed him with his own hands.

Kharn memorized his face and continued his charge.

The burning pain still protected his sanity, allowing Kharn to ignore everything and continue forward. Five minutes later, he killed the last enemy with his axe; the latter's body fell to the ground, flashing back to its former form.

Gasping for breath, Kharn turned around and shouted to his battered brothers, "I'm Kharn from the Eighth Company! Come to me!"

"Kharn?"

A man stepped forward; it was Baron Benson of the First Company. He nodded expressionlessly to Kharn: "The First Company has elected me as their company commander now, Kharn. What are you doing back here? We went through so much trouble to get you out of there, and you're back now?"

"I don't know," Kharn roared. "But I'm going to the bridge, are you coming?"

"That's where we retreated," said another man, a member of the Third Company, Kharn could recognize from the insignia on his shoulder armor, but he couldn't identify him.

That mutilated face didn't match anyone in Kharn's memory. His nose and most of the flesh on his face were gone, his only remaining eye was swollen, and the last bits of his helmet gleamed on his neck guard.

The man noticed his gaze, nodded, and gave a brief self-introduction. "Haren Kosen."

"What happened to your face?" Kharn now knew who he was.

"We were ambushed," Haren Kosen mumbled.

He couldn't speak clearly; his broken jaw wobbled, and the fact that he was alive was a miracle. "But I killed that bastard."

"Why go to the bridge?" asked Baron Benson, the company commander of the First Company.

He stared intently at Kharn, whose left hand had vanished completely below the elbow, leaving only the twisted remains of his armor. Fiber cables, ceramic bones, and broken artificial muscles hung from the charred wound, a horrifying sight, like some cruel joke.

Kharn pursed his lips.

"I can't say why," he said softly. "Because I don't know why myself. I don't know who he is, or why I was able to come back, but I need to go to the bridge."

"You must give us a reason that is Kharn enough," Baron Benson said.

The other War Hounds slowly approached, all wounded. The most common expression on their faces wasn't seriousness, but a terrifying bewilderment. The surroundings were littered with corpses, all belonging to the War Hounds. They had killed the enemy, but those who had fallen were their own brothers, their War Hounds.

"I have no reason to give!" Kharn said angrily. "I don't know what happened, but I'm standing here, Captain Barron, I'm going to the bridge!"

"It's full of their men," Haren Kosen said thoughtfully, his voice heavy with unease. "My company commander died there. And three platoons from the Fifth Company."

"Why should we?" Baron Benson stepped forward aggressively. "You won't explain why you came back, nor will you tell us what you're going to do on the bridge. Why should we believe you and go to the bridge with you?"

Kharn fell silent. He didn't know how to explain the nightmarish, brief journey to his brothers, nor how to describe the man from the Eighth Legion he had met, or what he looked like at the end.

That skeletal appearance.

Kharn slowly clenched his right fist, and the burning pain returned, churning within him and becoming a force that sustained him as he accepted the gaze of the War Hounds.

Kharn of the Eighth Company of the War Hounds raised his head and spoke in an extremely soft voice that didn't belong to him.

"Because I must fight," he said calmly. "The Emperor saw us fighting bloody battles on the Saefus Heights, and after the war, he named us after the white hunting dogs bred by the Yeshk. We are the Emperor's hunting dogs, so I must go back to fight. War Hounds never yield, never retreat."

"How are you going to win?" Baron Benson stared intently at him. "Tell me, Kharn, how are you going to win?"

"We don't need to win," Kharn said. "We just need to resist."

"Rebel against whom?"

"Something trying to turn us into its slaves," Kharn said.

He seemed to have entered a doorway, behind which lay boundless courage and composure. He gazed at each of his brothers and saw the red collars that were about to take shape around their necks.

"But He will not succeed, for we are the War Hounds, and our Primarch was a gladiator who was once a slave, yet he always resisted and never yielded. So we too will resist, and we will not yield."

"How did you know?" Baron Benson asked. He didn't laugh, but he wanted to because he found Kharn's words absurd. But he didn't; he didn't laugh because he wanted to believe Kharn.

His eyes sparkled.

"Because I saw him; he was very tall, a company commander."

Kharn nodded to him, telling a lie—a lie he was willing to believe—calm and composed, his heart filled with determination.

"Are you coming? Head to the bridge, let's fight together."

He looked at his brothers and found that the terrible bewilderment had faded.

Baron Benson finally laughed, a low, guttural laugh.

"Alright," he said. "Then let's go, Kharn, lead us in rebellion."

The company commander roared in anger.

"War Hounds! Charge towards death!"

--

Eight minutes earlier, Roboute Guilliman and Angron defied the opposition of the entire ship and rammed the seemingly cursed forequarters of the HMS Firm Resolve with Boarding Torpedo.

Marius Gage even threatened his Primarch as they entered the torpedo boarding bay, swearing that if Roboute Guilliman didn't allow them to board, he would report it to Tarasha Euten.

Roboute Guilliman ignored him.

He felt sorry for his legion, but he had to fight alongside his brothers. This was a battle he would be haunted by guilt for the rest of his life if he missed it, and he knew perfectly well that Karyl Lohars' words were not a lie.

If he says that only two people can participate in this boarding maneuver, then there can only be two people participating.

Now, they walked silently between the corpses of the War Hounds and the dark corridor. Roboute Guilliman was fully armed, while Angron carried only a two-handed greatsword, leaping Displacer Field across its blade.

As he walked in silence, Roboute Guilliman felt that his brother was probably bleeding. Angron wasn't actually injured, but that's what Roboute Guilliman thought.

He could see the change in his brother.

From the moment Angron witnessed the first War Hounds's body severed at the waist, a hardened and cold focus appeared on his face. The Butcher's Nails was still trying to affect Angron, but his brother ignored it with a terrible resolve.

They continued forward, treading through corridors thick with black dust, past the corpses of War Hounds. Angron's face remained expressionless, but he gazed intently at every face, at every corpse that still had a head.

He would stop between walks, turn over the corpses whose faces he couldn't see, and then gently put them down.

A deep sadness welled up in Roboute Guilliman's heart. He had never imagined that his brother would rekindle the connection between him and his offspring at this time. The first meeting between a Primarch and his offspring should have been a beautiful sight.

But what does this mean?

Roboute Guilliman clenched his teeth silently, the Hand of Dominion humming as the Sincere Short Sword Radiance in his right hand.

The corridors were quiet, almost too quiet. They heard no sounds of battle; the entire ship was deathly silent. Roboute Guilliman and his brother walked through one long corridor after another, seeing countless skull decorations along the way. Angron's expression grew increasingly calm until it reached a certain point.

Then, he slowly began to speak.

"Do you think it's a good idea to use my talents here, Roboute?"

"I won't try to persuade you," Roboute Guilliman said. "Though I'd like to, I won't."

Angron laughed, closed his eyes, and began to tremble violently. Roboute Guilliman stared at his brother, saying nothing. He was protecting him, standing beside him, alertly sensing every corner of the darkness.

Blood began to seep from Angron's mouth, nose, eyes, and ears. He let out that broken, muffled groan again, sending chills down the spines of those who heard it. A full minute later, he finally opened his eyes.

"Come with me." He wiped the blood from his face and said this to his brother, then started running. Roboute Guilliman didn't ask him why, but ran with him.

--

Somewhere, in some dark place, beyond the reach of flames, a fleeting glimpse of golden light.

Inside was a skeleton, its chest filled with burning Embers, flesh and blood mangled, power and authority surging between its bones, and a chilling blue light shining in its empty eye sockets.

He did not go behind the Veil, but drifted away following an anchor left by authority.

Live on, Karyl Lohars, the covenant between us has not yet burned out.

The skeleton did not answer; it could no longer answer.

One more chapter.