The Olympia Uprising (2)
War is a kind of...
What kind of thing is it?
Sevatar his answer, his hands moving with increasing speed. He swung his chainsaw wildly, easily severing several ugly heads. The veterans of the First Company followed behind him, silently firing their weapons.
Each bomb or plasma strike killed one or more Orks; suppressive fire is a timeless battlefield strategy. Three minutes and twenty-one seconds later, they cleared the corridor and began planting Melta Bomb.
According to Dantioch, the attack was launched at night, or more precisely, at 3:00 AM local time on planet 5132.
As the Iron Warriors and their heavy armored vehicles crushed the Orks' corpses and bombarded the fortress, the Night Lords infiltrated the fortress itself through various means.
Sevatar and his First Company platoon parachuted in through a gap created by bombing. Night Lords and Raven Guard often cooperated and learned from each other, which was common sense. At least, Sevatar learned many alternative ways to use jetpacks.
He leaned against the wall, neatly draping his chainsaw over his shoulder. Don't get me wrong, he wasn't doing this because a Techmarine was in his unit.
"Sergeant." Murrendavian, a combat comrade who had served for seventy-three years, walked towards him. He was wearing a set of Mk II Power Armour, which was now relatively rare in Night Lords, and his hands were painted scarlet.
"What is it, brother?" Sevatar responded with a surprisingly mild tone.
Murrendavian made a gesture, silently indicating that the Melta Bomb had been placed.
Sevatar nodded, intending to order a withdrawal and then detonate the weapon, but stopped himself due to the tremors coming from the ground—he quickly grabbed his chainsaw and ran towards the direction from which the tremors were coming from at the end of the corridor, as nimble as a wild beast.
Murrendavian and the others had already raised their guns, and seconds later, the flames of the explosives and the forest blue of the plasma suddenly illuminated the dark and narrow interior of the fortress.
A massive Orks was illuminated by them; it had a menacing steel jaw and a body so strong it seemed to be the very embodiment of muscle. It roared and charged at the Night Lords, brandishing a crude Chainsword that served as its hands.
Behind it were more Orks of smaller stature, and some Orks gnomes wielding ridiculous tools. This thing swung its weapons haphazardly and ran clumsily, yet it managed to block or dodge every bullet that came its way.
Sevatar frowned, his hands, which had been poised to wield the chainsaw, now took a different turn. A third of a second later, he deftly tossed three Frag Grenade.
The gunfire abruptly ceased. The Night Lords turned around and, without hesitation, began running swiftly back the way they had come. Five seconds later, Sevatar, whose back was to the Orks, heard a series of deafening explosions.
His lips twitched again beneath his helmet, a fleeting smile before flames swept over him.
At 5:25 a. m., they captured the fortress, and at 7:31 a. m., all the Orks on the planet were completely wiped out.
Efficiency is always very important.
--
Carrying a bowl of nutritious porridge, Sevatar returned to his room.
The place wasn't large, and the decor was simple. The walls were a somber, pale white. To the left of the entrance, a pile of letters lay in the corner, some from Alastor Rorschach of the Raven Guard, others from Terra, containing words of praise and commendation for him.
Sevatar hardly ever looked at these things, but he didn't choose to just throw them around either. He piled them up, planning to look at them all when he had some free time—or burn them all.
In the corner to the right were two metal mannequins, a habit he had developed over the course of eighteen years. During that time, Karyl Lohars had completely disappeared from the training grounds, so Sevatar simply set up two training mannequins in his room.
After all, aside from occasionally bullying new recruits or beating up other brothers who offended him, he had little motivation to go to the training ground anymore. Although their instructors had returned, the habit had already been formed, so Sevatar didn't remove them.
Aside from these, the room contained only a table and chairs, and a bed. It was so simple that it didn't seem like a room a sergeant should have. It was also very different from his previous quarters, just like the USS Tredesia.
Over the years, the Tredesia has changed. She remains beautiful, but her armor plating and firepower have more than doubled. The old captain jokingly calls it a betrayal of her design, while Sevatar prefers to simply call it an "upgrade."
It's just an upgrade, nothing special.
He went to his iron table and began to eat the meat-flavored porridge without any emotion, making a crunching sound as he chewed. He had already taken off his Power Armour, but his current attire was somewhat incongruous with the identity of the Astartes.
He was shirtless, the joints of his Black Carapace gleaming with a dull light. However, some other scars were perhaps more noticeable than those.
Sevatar finished the steaming bowl of nutritious porridge in a few minutes. He glanced at the special spoon, decided not to waste it, and ate it as well.
The rich flavor of the nutritious porridge, mixed with the slightly hard, bone-like texture of the spoon, gathered in his mouth, finally causing him to lean back in his chair and let out a satisfied sigh.
A few minutes later, there was a knock on his door.
Sevatar stretched his neck and shoulders, and slowly stood up. He opened the door and, unsurprisingly, saw the Remembrancers, Bellros von Sharp.
This middle-aged man with graying hair had spent nearly fifty years with the Night Lords. He had aged visibly, but not drastically. Perhaps it was due to life-extending surgery, or perhaps something else—in any case, Sevatar didn't care much.
Bellros von Sharp was one of the few Remembrancers who could mingle with the Night Lords, and for that reason alone, he wouldn't ask any more questions.
Not to mention.
"Good evening, Sergeant Sevatarion Leon!" The Remembrancers strode past Sevatar and into his room. "Look what I've brought you!"
He waved his right hand, and a thick book covered in brass and gray metal gleamed in his hand. Sevatar casually pressed the close button, letting the door shut, and then tore a training shirt off a metal training dummy beside him and put it on.
He casually asked, "What is it?"
"My sixth collection of accounts has been published!" the Remembrancers exclaimed with a laugh. "Look at the binding! I did it myself, isn't it?"
"Are you going to use it to beat someone up or something?" Sevatar glanced at him, rubbed the back of his neck, leaned back, and rested against the metal dummy.
It struggled to bear its weight, letting out an awkward groan where it connected to the ground.
"It's so thick, and you can still lift it with one hand?" Sevatar chuckled and shook his head. "An ordinary Remembrancers, huh?"
"It's lighter than a sword," Bellros shrugged. "Would you like to see it?"
"No, I don't want to. Thank you for the suggestion." Sevatar shook her head decisively. "Besides, I hope not many people buy this collection of your accounts."
Bellros frowned. "How could you say such a thing, Captain Sevatarion? My book is about you as the main character!"
"Really? Haha, thank you so much. Otherwise, why would I say something like that?"
Sevatar chuckled lightly, devoid of any emotion. His expression wasn't exactly unpleasant, but it certainly wasn't friendly at all.
"At the end of your last book, you wrote a whole bunch of unsubstantiated comments about Sigismund. Do you know how long those words made me the laughingstock?" Sevatar asked bluntly.
"Laughing?!" Bellros exclaimed in shock. "But what I wrote—"
"--"A worthy opponent, "The clash of swords has made me progress and elevate myself. Every second of my battle with him has allowed me to glimpse the gates to greater heights." Listen to what you've written—does it sound like he would say such things?
"So you did read my previous book?" The Remembrancers laughed happily, instantly casting aside his previous emotions. However, he quickly began to correct Sevatar's words, which made the latter roll her eyes involuntarily.
"Alright, Sergeant, while I'm not exactly an honest person, I won't write lies into my records. Remember the seven months I was away from you?"
Sevatar nodded expressionlessly, a bad feeling flashing through his mind.
"I went to the Imperial Fists fleet during those seven months and interviewed Captain Sigismund himself. He was such a good man, telling me the whole story of your battle. Oh, and Sergeant Sevatarion, he wants to fight you again."
Sevatar's lips twitched. He remained silent for a few seconds before stepping off the dummy. It swayed and hissed, the metal's discontent so palpable, just like the sinister expression on the First Company sergeant's face at that moment.
"Hmm, thanks for reminding me. If you hadn't pointed it out, I wouldn't have known he wanted to fight me again. Thank you so much."
"You're welcome, Sergeant Sevatarion Leon." Bellros bowed seemingly sincerely and left Sevatar's room, leaving the metal-wrapped book on his desk.
Sevatar glanced at it and decided not to look at it for at least two weeks; he had plenty of time.
For him, the journey back to Nostramo was always pleasant, especially this time with the Iron Warriors.
Their homeworld, Olympia, is located in the eastern part of the Ultima Segmentum, quite close to the Ghoul Stars. Therefore, you could say that these two expeditionary fleets were returning together on the way, while Sevatar actually had other considerations.
He thought that if Bellros gave the book to someone else, he could at least lay low on the Iron Warriors' ship. Surely Bellros's account couldn't possibly be circulating among their cousins?
--Of course, this is assuming nothing unexpected happens along the way.
There's probably one more chapter? I'll grab a bite to eat first.