The Truth of War (II)

The front line—this word is cold, precise, and ruthless.

It represents something inextricably linked to death, and now, Sevatar walks here with their only Remembrancers. The rebels retreat from the city's foundry, which serves as the boundary.

They tried to organize a counter-offensive, but they couldn't do it without the cover of heavy vehicles.

The city's armories and barracks were key tactical targets from the beginning. The Night Lords, who landed from the first wave of drop pods, destroyed or disabled all of the rebels' valuable assets as soon as they landed.

Without their cover, engaging in urban warfare with the Astartes would be tantamount to suicide.

After that, it was a simple and direct process of gradual attrition. Like a wild beast chasing its wounded prey, the Night Lords would not stop until they had completely severed its throat.

"How is it?" Sevatar asked in a casual tone.

He had already turned off the voice-changing function of the breathing grille, yet his voice still reached Bellros's ears clearly amidst the continuous gunfire.

Frankly, the sound was so low it didn't sound human; it was more like thunder. The voices of the Astartes are all like that; you can tell immediately that they are not sounds humans could produce.

But they are, after all, human beings.

"Excuse me for being a little offensive," the Remembrancers, scratching his head with his finger as he took pictures.

Although he seemed somewhat hesitant, he spoke without the slightest hesitation.

"While I believe the rebels in Cappadocia would rather die in a hail of bombs and artillery fire than face you again, isn't this kind of urban warfare rather inefficient? Surely this planet has more than one city?"

After saying this, he put down the heavy camera, looked up at his guide, and tried to observe Sevatar's current mood through the obstruction of armor and goggles, but he got nothing.

Apart from Jago Sevatarion's calm, almost indifferent breathing, Bellros came up empty-handed, having gained nothing.

"Indeed." After a moment of silence, Sevatar spoke. He sounded like he agreed, but Bellros knew that such agreement would inevitably be followed by a "but."

"But efficiency is not the primary concern."

As the Remembrancers thought.

"You see, Mr. Bellros, there are many kinds of people in this world. There are fools like you who followed me to the front lines to get shot, and there are utterly incompetent idiots like the Governor of Cappadocia."

Sevatar spoke, her voice softened, becoming as gentle as a whisper in the night breeze. The brutal firing of the Boltgun still lingered in their ears, like background music or the background noise of a communication channel.

Hearing this sound, Bellros inexplicably recalled a rainy night on Terra many years ago.

At that moment, lightning flashed and thunder roared, a violent storm raged, and torrential rain poured down from the sky. But the voice of the man clad in golden armor resounded clearly in their ears; he stood with them.

Side by side.

The Remembrancers smiled wistfully. Sevatar took in the whole scene but made no comment, simply continuing his narration.

"He recently sent us a request to surrender, and after being rejected, he went on a tirade over the call channel. He believed that our refusal to accept his surrender was an insult to his name and family."

"He's a complete idiot," Sevatar said, sparing no insult. "Yet, how can such a man so easily incite countless peaceful civilians and loyal soldiers to become traitors in just a few years? Isn't that ridiculous?"

Bellros's smile gradually shifted from nostalgia to appreciation.

"Captain Sevatarion, what exactly are you trying to say?" he asked, his eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses straight and sharp, carrying something Sevatar had wanted to see all along.

"After his request was denied, we broadcast a message to the rebels. Interspersed among the screams and wails of their comrades, we broadcast this message only once. It was very simple, just one sentence."

Beneath their helmets, the Nostramo people smiled cruelly.

"The governor of Cappadocia, Tors Rasbayar, spent years winning people over and weaving lies. He used threats, bribery, and incitement to smear the people of Cappadocia with an indelible stain."

"I wonder, can all his efforts over the past few years, and his foolish, life-risking ambition, compare to a single, casual remark from us? You say we are Mercy, but that's not true, Mr. Bellros. Everyone has a natural inclination to use violence, and we—"

He raised his hand and tapped his crimson glasses. "--To control it, to unleash it freely upon certain inhuman beings. In other words, you will soon witness our cruelty."

"I'll wait and see," Bellros said expectantly.

He gripped his camera tightly, his posture suggesting he was about to pull the trigger.

--

Karyl slowly tightened his right hand, and an iron chain extended from his arm guard, stretching dozens of meters forward.

It hung in mid-air, one end held in his hand, the other firmly tied around someone's neck. This person had a broken kneecap and his arm was tied behind his back.

He struggled to walk in the darkness, occasionally sobbing and whimpering. Only then would the iron chain around his neck loosen slightly, saving him from the agony of suffocation.

Sometimes, clinging to a sliver of hope, he would call out to his companions in the darkness, hoping they would help him. But his companions remained unmoved; they did not help him, they dared not help him anymore.

In reality, they only dare to do one thing now—to cover their mouths tightly in the dark and not make a sound.

Inside the dark power plant, Karyl smiled silently.

Have you finally learned your lesson? Have you finally realized that making a sound could lead to your death?

He hummed a song softly and began to walk, making no attempt to muffle his voice. The silent power plant was then filled with the heavy, relentless footsteps of a second person, accompanied by the clanging of steel.

He hummed a song as he strolled through the blood-soaked corridor, past the power plant with its severed limbs, and finally arrived at the basement.

Darkness could not impede his senses; Karyl could clearly "see" forty-three rebels, armed and waiting in despair, right behind the basement door.

And what about that poor victim?

He turned his head silently, gently raised his right index finger, and tapped it on the chain.

A muffled groan of pain immediately came from nearby; the victim had fallen after being struck. But Karyl didn't let him go. Six people had already been bound by this chain before him; what right did he have to escape?

In the darkness, the skeleton casually tugged at its right hand, beginning to draw the crying victim toward it—or rather, to pull it.

He drew closer, and his cries grew louder. All of this was clearly visible to the rebels behind the basement door.

After all, besides them, where else could there be any other living people inside the power plant?

Karyl took a deep breath and detected the scent of fear in it, which was growing stronger and stronger.

He smiled, then lowered his head, his eyes flashing with a chilling blue light at just the right moment.

The victim was dragged along by an irresistible force, crashing into countless objects along the way, leaving him covered in wounds. His existing injuries were also taking their toll, and theoretically, he should no longer have the strength to let out any more screams.

Yes, that's how it should be in theory.

But the "reason" doesn't include a skeleton that nearly wiped out all the soldiers stationed in the power plant in just twenty-five minutes.

It also doesn't include the skeleton's cold gaze.

The victim screamed, and the next second, his head exploded, blood splattering everywhere, and the chains fell to the ground. Karyl pulled on his arm again, making it writhe across the ground like a venomous snake.

It wobbled, crawled, and slowly made its way to the basement door. It was a heavy, black metal door with a biometric lock.

But what does this have to do with an iron chain?

Karyl walked silently to the door, and the chains began to tremble. Their material began to soften, becoming eerily like mud.

A few seconds later, it silently arrived behind the door. The person controlling it chuckled very clearly, raised their left hand, and politely knocked twice on the door.

There was no response from inside the door—except for the iron chain.

Slowly, through some means, the gate rose. The rebels stared blankly at the scene, not understanding why the gate had suddenly opened by itself. The screams and knocking sounds were still close at hand, lingering in their ears.

They gripped their guns tightly, their nerves stretched to the limit. And at that moment, two points of blue light suddenly shone in the darkness, illuminating a skull face.

"Hi," Karyl said. "Good afternoon."

Gunfire erupted.

Five minutes later, he emerged from the power plant wearing armor without a trace of blood. Shen had been waiting for a long time; he wasn't wearing a helmet, and his expression was somewhat complicated.

"What's wrong?" Karyl asked, feigning ignorance.

"You're right again," Shen said, pursing his lips. "We investigated the civilians near the power plant, and with a little conversational skill, they admitted that the rebels inside the power plant have indeed been engaged in shady dealings. They've taken almost everything—organs, people, addictive substances—and even thoughtfully started a loan business."

Karyl smiled as expected, "Such a familiar method and style. It seems people are all interconnected to some extent."

Shen sighed.

"I'd like to know, how come you always guess right?" the young Night Lords asked with a hint of complaint. "You didn't even do any research beforehand."

"It's just a little experience," Karyl said calmly.

He looked up, gazing thoughtfully at the blood-red sky.

Released on a schedule; Chapter Two will be updated after I wake up.