A Not-So-Successful Boarding Action

The deck shook violently, and the intense flashes from the explosions illuminated the entire artillery position as if it were daytime. Weapon arrays were destroyed one after another, and cries of agony and screams echoed throughout the ship.

Gazing at this scene and listening to the screams, Captain Lazar Hamon of the New Hope picked up his Laspistol with trembling hands, unsure whether to shoot himself or the fleeing crew.

He desperately wanted to yell at them, "Where can you run? They're everywhere! You might as well stick together and fight one last time!"

But he can't do it; he's breaking down.

It started with the trembling of his fingers, then progressed to a coherent thought. Every part of his body that had once been perfectly at his command was now crumbling bit by bit; fear had completely taken control of him.

He looked down frantically at the Dataslate in his hand, flipping through the ship's overall status, his retina completely filled with flashing red warnings.

The armory has been destroyed, as has the power generation core. The life support system is still operational, but the four relay stations designed around it have all fallen.

The plasma cannons, Heavy Bolter, and laser destroyers that were placed there seemed to have never existed; they had completely lost contact. The soldiers and officers in charge of them didn't even give a report or explanation; they simply died along with the positions they were responsible for.

Moreover, all the important locations on his ship that he could name—the forge at the bow, the connecting road, the lower decks, the engine room—had now fallen.

The entire ship was displayed in a frenzied red on the Dataslate, with constant warnings. Lazar Harmon, in despair, picked up his Laspistol and finally made up his mind to commit suicide.

He thought, "I absolutely cannot let them catch me." That's what he thought, and that's what he tried, but he couldn't succeed. In a violent jolt, his Laspistol fell to the ground and immediately slid away.

Lazar Hamon's eyes widened, and he screamed in despair, but he couldn't stay conscious. An explosion followed by a violent flash came, and the last artillery position on the New Hope was completely lost.

He didn't know how much time had passed when he slowly woke up. He didn't feel any pain, only a wave of dizziness. He turned his neck to observe the new world before him and saw burning corpses and fragments of roadblocks used to block his way. He mumbled incoherently, trying to sit up.

He spent several minutes doing this, but didn't notice his legs until a voice rang in his ear, reminding him.

"Save your energy," the voice whispered. "You can cry, repent, despair. But you can't sit up anymore."

What's the meaning?

Lazar Hamon looked up in bewilderment and saw a skull face reflected in the firelight. Blood covered its body, and a giant clad in a somber midnight blue armor stared coldly at him through scarlet spectacles, holding several heads in his hand.

"You deserve to die," the giant said. "Lie down."

Lazar Hamon did as he was told.

He finally felt the pain. In his last moments before dying, he saw a pair of leather boots in the distance, stained with blood, with half a severed leg stuck in one of them. The boots looked familiar; they seemed to be his.

Sevatar slowly released his grip, letting the head fall from his hands. He turned and walked to the other porthole amidst the crackling flames. The high-strength glass had not been destroyed in the explosion and remained intact.

Through the porthole, Sevatar witnessed a battle in deep space, slow and graceful, like a pas de deux. The Tredesia and four Strike Cruiser passed each other, ruthlessly cutting through several other ships anchored in orbit around Cappadocia.

They tried to resist, but the resistance was futile. The deadly light spears would shatter their Void Shield first, and then the ship itself. They would be sliced to pieces, dying silently in space.

Are all deaths this quiet? Sevatar fell into deep thought.

Unfortunately, it didn't last long.

"This is Bellros von Sharp, and this is my log. I'm currently accompanying a Midnight Blade hunting squad on a boarding maneuver. A total of seventeen squads are involved in this boarding operation."

"In the past forty-seven minutes, they have completely dismantled the resistance organized on the Dauntless-class light cruiser, the New Hope, using extremely bloody methods. The Night Lords' style is completely different from when they were carrying out recapture missions. I haven't seen a single traitor survive; everyone I see is dead."

"Their dying screams echoed continuously in the communications of the ships that had been taken over; this must have been a very effective psychological tactic. Ambushes and massacres were everywhere, and the traitors failed to mount any effective counter-offensive. At least from what I've seen so far, no one could survive the Night Lords' brutal onslaught."

Sevatar let out a slow, low sigh.

He turned around.

"Do you really have to document all of this during the boarding process?" he asked irritably, a surge of anger rising within him.

"Of course, esteemed Captain Sevatarion!"

Bellros von Sharp excitedly brandished his short shotgun and answered Sevatar's question in a high-spirited tone. His bulletproof armor and trouser legs were stained with blood, and the amount and shape of the blood were not something that could be easily obtained.

Sevatar narrowed his eyes slightly behind his goggles, and shook his head imperceptibly. "Now you do know how to address me with respect."

"Haven't I always been so polite?" the gray-haired man laughed loudly. "But I must admit, I was indeed emotional a few times during our conversation, and I apologize for that!"

"No need for apologies. And stop using honorifics; you've ruined the coating on my Power Armour."

"Yes, yes—" Bellros von Sharp nodded readily. "Then, may I ask you, as the captain, a few questions?"

Sevatar sighed again.

"The mission is over." He tried to remain calm and slowed his speech. "So, you can ask as many questions as you want."

Bellros laughed again, seemingly oblivious to the underlying threat in Sevatar's words. He lowered his head with great interest and adjusted the recording equipment hanging around his neck. Only then did he speak.

Why didn't the Midnight Blade destroy the New Hope along with it? Is it because you all want to salvage it?

"No, we don't need any more light cruisers," Sevatar said coldly. "The reason we boarded it was simply to set an example."

"We will launch a surprise attack on Cappadocia in a few hours. Every death on this ship will make our attack more effective. Traitors' lives are worthless, but it's better to let their blood flow in the vacuum than let it go to waste."

"A very poetic description!" Bellros exclaimed. "Thank you, Captain Sevatarion. So, how will you all get back later? I mean, back to the Tredesia."

"A shuttle." Sevatar rolled his eyes behind his helmet. "Otherwise, how do you think we're going to get back? Launch the Boarding Torpedo again on the spot?"

"So, what about the ship? What will become of the New Hope?"

"It will be reduced to slag wandering in a vacuum by a single salvo."

"I see!" Bellros nodded in sudden understanding. He lowered his head and continued fiddling with the recording device. Sevatar observed him discreetly, sensing a subtle sense of unease at that very moment.

In the past few days, Bellros von Sharp has introduced himself to everyone he meets, calling himself a poet, writer, painter, photographer, and musician. Undoubtedly, these titles are self-proclaimed, and he certainly behaves like a show-off idiot.

But at this very moment, this boastful and self-aggrandizing man stood amidst flames and corpses, his expression calm, devoid of any emotion he should have displayed. His fingers, manipulating the instrument, didn't even tremble; their steadiness was astonishing.

Sevatar narrowed his eyes again and spoke after a few seconds.

"You asked me two questions, Mr. Bellros," he said in a low, hoarse voice, turning off the voice-changing function of the breathing grille. "Then, may I ask you two questions as well?"

Bellros von Sharp looked up, seemingly surprised. He raised his hand, adjusted his glasses, and replied, "Of course!"

What happened to the blood on you?

"Oh, this—" The Remembrancers smiled slightly, patting the short shotgun slung over his shoulder by a rope. "—I also killed a few traitors."

Didn't my squad protect you?

"Of course they do, otherwise how would I have found you? It's just that I personally don't like being constantly protected, Captain Sevatarion."

Bellros von Sharp laughed again, and although his words still carried a sour tone, they were no longer funny.

"Look, we've gotten to where we are today thanks to the Emperor, yet these traitors shamelessly rebel against the Imperium. As a citizen of the Imperium, I cannot stand by and watch these people act freely."

"I also feel a surge of righteous indignation, Captain Sevatarion," the gray-haired Remembrancers said.

Sevatar was silent for a moment, then gestured to him, ending the conversation. He turned away and continued observing the battle in the vacuum, saying nothing more.

Half an hour later, they returned to the Tredesia via the shuttle.

One more chapter.