Farewell to the War Hounds Once More

Sevatar pulled his hand out of the Orks's abdomen.

The creature's body twitched at his movement, but he ignored its seemingly zombie-like behavior and simply crushed its head with his foot. Then, he began to fight with his left and right hands.

The twelve-hour battle had caused the muscles in his right hand to tighten instinctively. Each finger felt as if it were one with the handle of the chainsaw. He clenched his fingers and heard a faint, fine creaking sound.

It's as if my bones have rusted.

He chuckled at the idea, a slightly chilling laugh echoing across the battlefield. However, not everyone enjoyed hearing such laughter—a head flew from a short distance away and landed right at his feet.

Sevatar looked down and saw an Orks head missing its jaw and half its face.

He lifted his foot and crushed it, then shrugged. "Are you a brat, Karen? Throwing something like this at me?"

"Dear Captain, I'm not throwing it at you, I'm using its ugly, green head to remind you that we should go back," a hoarse voice said over the comms. "Honestly, don't you think it looks a bit like you?"

"Verbal attacks on officers are punishable," Sevatar replied with a forced smile. "Besides, of course I know we should go back. You big-headed Orks."

Karen O'Fionn couldn't help but swear at Nostramo.

Two hours later, they returned to the so-called "camp" in a truck. But if given the choice, Sevatar would have preferred to spend the night on the battlefield.

The feeling and comfort of sitting in the truck were completely out of the question. Everyone had to tuck their knees and weapons in and endure two hours of bumpy travel in a ridiculous sitting posture to reach their destination.

Shaking his neck, Sevatar jumped off the truck. The truck, provided by locals, bore slogans once graffiti by the resistance. "Kill the Orks! Those Orks bastards deserve to eat Grox shit!"

Vulgar, but very imaginative.

He smiled again and casually removed his helmet. A patrol of local soldiers walked past him, giving them a salute.

A few children in the nearby refugee camp were peeking in their direction. Sevatar made a grimacing face at them, eliciting a satisfied scream. The children ran off, and he sniffed the air, inadvertently catching the aroma of food.

The setting sun gradually slid down overhead, the sky a hazy pink, with the last vestiges of orange-yellow light filtering through the clouds. Sevatar gazed at these rays, his lips barely moving as he silently bid farewell to the sun.

He carried his helmet under his arm and a chainsaw in his other hand, trudging through the muddy ground deeper into the camp. The ticking of instruments and cables lay scattered on the ground, echoing incessantly from the makeshift tents.

The uniformed Auxilia busily moved between the equipment rooms carrying cans of food. They needed to eat, but they also needed to take care of these precious communication devices.

Sevatar carefully avoided them and went into another tent. There weren't many instruments here, but they were quite large. In fact, they were unusually large compared to the communication equipment.

"Instructor—" Sevatar raised his helmet and gave a perfunctory salute. "--The Orks clearing operation at the third position is complete."

There are many instructors within Midnight Blade, and new recruits can use this title to refer to many people. However, if only this word is used, it can only represent one person within Night Lords.

Karyl Lohars.

The pale giant nodded slightly in response.

His skeletal, grotesque armor was covered in mottled bloodstains, almost completely obscuring the white and black. Sevatar glanced subtly at the black cloak behind the instructor, which silently lifted a corner, as if greeting him.

"Stop looking, Sevatar." Karyl smiled slightly. "It's a picky eater; it won't eat Orks blood. You've known that for a while now."

The corner of the cloak that had been lifted slumped down limply.

"Did you just get back too?" Sevatar asked, forcing his gaze to the instruments—he didn't want to draw the cloak's attention again.

Compared to others, he was often inexplicably provoked by this cloak, each time in a strange way. Watching it express emotions as if it were a living thing, Sevatar always felt an itch down his spine.

"Pretty much, I got back about ten minutes earlier than you," Karyl said. "However, we don't have much time left."

Sevatar curled his lip.

The Primarch is eight years old—no, three years have passed since the Eighth Legion officially joined the Great Crusade.

Three years is enough time to change many things. It allows the newly formed Eighth Legion to make its mark within the Imperium and increases the total number of its members to over 56,000. This is not a huge number, but for the Night Lords, it is more than enough.

Over the course of three years, they reclaimed planet after planet at a rate that drove officials in the Administratum and the Ministry of Departmento Munitorum to the brink of baldness.

The Night Lords don't need to think about many things. They don't crave complete recapture like the Ultramarines, nor do they pursue kill-to-loss ratios like the modified Iron Warriors. They only need efficiency.

Coincidentally, the Night Lords' greatest strengths lie in tactics and efficiency; no planet can withstand their terrifying style of operation.

Currently, the entire legion has been divided into three expeditionary fleets.

A hunting squad led by Karyl Lohars, whose members are either recruits or lone individuals.

One Primarch himself, consists of veterans and equipped with the best weapons and equipment; they are responsible for some of the tougher challenges.

The last one was led by Company Commander Van Cleef, with half veterans and half new recruits. The company was mixed with the hunting squad, and they often fought alongside other legions. Rumor has it that Van Cleef is currently preparing a book that details his experience in cooperating with various legions.

War takes many forms. Sometimes it's suppressing rebellions. Sometimes it's a mass invasion, creating nightmares to frighten powerful figures on some planet. And now, it's fighting Orks on a planet that has sent out a distress signal.

This planet, named Brasius I, is located in the Segmentum Pacificus. It was once an Agri World, but now it has become the base camp for the Orks' revelry.

When the Night Lords received the distress signal and found it, it was already in ruins. Nevertheless, the locals did not give up the fight; they fought tenaciously.

This was unusual and filled Sevatar with respect for these people—yes, his way of showing respect was by scaring the local children.

However, their distress signal was certainly not received by only their legion.

"Don't make that face." Karyl shook his head with amusement. "Our strength isn't fighting Xenos, and a force of thirteen thousand men certainly can't wipe them out completely. Handing this over to a legion more adept at head-on combat is beneficial for both of us."

"I just feel that this constant traveling, coming and going, has a really weird feeling," Sevatar couldn't help but complain. "Is this what the Great Crusade is all about? Getting on ships, getting off ships, going from one planet to another?"

"What else?" A hoarse voice suddenly came from among the massive instruments, sounding almost like two pieces of broken glass rubbing against each other.

"Jago Sevatarion, what else do you think the Great Crusade is?"

Sevatar cautiously remained silent, glancing at their instructor. The latter, however, seemed somewhat helpless. "Angron, I introduced him to you beforehand not so you could scare him."

"I don't think he was scared at all." The voice laughed, and then a figure appeared between the instruments, composed of faint blue dots.

Despite the abstract description, his image was incredibly clear. Every detail was so real that Sevatar struggled to suppress his shock and keep his voice calm.

He gave the holographic projection an Aquila Salute, bowed his head, and greeted it, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Angron."

"."

The hologram was silent for a moment, then turned its head, its steel-like braids dancing in the air. This giant among giants looked at Karyl with a reproachful expression. "Haven't you introduced me to him yet?"

Karyl smiled and shook his head.

"Alright. Hey, look over here, Jago Sevatarion."

Sevatar did as he was told, and the giant looked at him seriously and pointed at him with his finger. It was somewhat vulgar and rude, but it had a strange kind of affability.

"I don't like being called 'sir' or having any form of honorific added after my name. Please remember that, okay? I hope our collaboration will proceed smoothly."

Cooperate?

Sevatar's expression quickly turned strange. He looked at Karyl again, only to find that the cloak was greeting him again—this time, it was waving like waves.

The first squad leader's lips twitched involuntarily, while his instructor sighed.

"Yes, the Midnight Blade's second expedition will be collaborating with the War Hounds."

Karyl tapped his shoulder with his fingers to quiet the cloak, then shook his head.

"But this isn't the typical form of cooperation. We'll discuss the specifics once the War Hounds arrive."

"I heard you fought to a draw with Sigismund of the Imperial Fists, Jago Sevatarion." The hologram looked at Sevatar, smiling with interest. "I have someone here who's very interested in you."

For some reason, Sevatar suddenly felt a chill.

One more chapter.