Blood of Calth (II, 6k)

004. M31, Calth Ground, Plains Naird City.

Ollanius Persson – or as the Servitor Graft put it, soldier Persson, or to put it simply, Ollanius Persson – whatever the case, he was being swept away by the torrent.

The only thing that could stop him from being swept away by the endless waves was a broken fence he was clutching tightly in his hand. He was almost suffocating; the water level was still rising, rising above his chin, making everything damp and wet.

To make matters worse, the water was scalding hot, the kind of hot enough to burn your skin.

What, you want to know the reason?

It's actually very simple.

About five minutes ago, Ollanius Persson was working in his field. He was a farmer, at least for now.

He was once Imperial Army, and his eighteen years of service earned him the fertile land he now occupies in Calth. He has done a good job, growing flowers in the summer for the ladies of high society to enjoy, and growing flax in the off-season to provide raw materials for Calth's textile industry.

His neighbors, partly mocking his Catholic faith, called him "Pious Ollanius Persson," while his fellow Servitor, Graft, always called him Soldier Persson.

He lived a good, peaceful life, with friends, neighbors, and a group of believers who went to church together on Sundays. Ollanius Persson was content with his life until five minutes ago.

He straightened up from the ground and looked at the sky. He saw many ships flying by, almost filling up his area. He recognized the troop transports and supply ships, and he also recognized some other large vessels, but he didn't say anything.

This wasn't escapism; after all, he knew he was still an Imperial Army, as evidenced by the old Lasgun hanging on his fireplace at home.

Ollanius Persson stood in his field, watching the boats. Then, suddenly, things changed.

First came a blinding flash of light, followed by a raging inferno that spread across the entire sky. Clouds and blue skies vanished instantly, the flames turning the sky into a veritable hellscape.

Ollanius Persson instinctively wanted to find cover—he already knew what it was: a ship exploding in orbit, but he had never seen anything of this scale.

He spent half a minute looking for cover, but failed. There were flax trees all around him; where could he hide? Then a fierce wind swept in, as hot as hellfire, showing no mercy.

Then came a shooting star falling from the sky. To my shame, Ollanius Persson didn't realize what it was until it was almost hitting the ground, and by then it was too late.

It fell to the ground; it was larger than the house; it was a piece of track, and it landed beside the land of Ollanius Persson, falling into a plain. The earth trembled, and the frenzied shockwave knocked down everyone who tried to stand.

Ollanius Persson lay on the ground, clutching his head, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw his linen being torn to Embers by the surging blast of air. Then came a shower of dust and rocks, followed by rain.

To be more precise, it was the impact of orbital debris on the ground that propelled the Naird River, which flows beside the plain, into the sky.

A whole river.

A whole fucking river.

At that moment, Ollanius Persson knew that he was probably done for. He was knocked senseless and almost swept away. If it weren't for the fence, he would probably be lying somewhere else by now.

But now is not the time to relax; he can clearly sense that the fence in his hands is deforming.

At that moment, the devout Ollanius Persson began to pray incessantly to his God, hoping that the damned fence would follow the fine craftsmanship of Calth and not bend—but to no avail, the fence still bent, and he was swept away.

Either God didn't hear him, or the fence wasn't originally from Calth, he thought.

He choked on water and began to be carried wherever the water wanted to go. He thought it was over and even began to pray that he wouldn't be swept too far away, but suddenly, the earth trembled again.

One, two, three, and more— Ollanius Persson seized an opportunity, coughing as he poked his head out of the river, and saw a dense rain of fire falling from the sky, each piece a fragment, each more destructive than a missile.

The scene was even more terrifying than the Astartes drop pods raining down from the sky. There weren't that many drop pods, and they wouldn't land in the cities and farmlands of loyal residents. A few minutes, or maybe a dozen minutes later, Ollanius Persson was swept to the ground by the river.

The two men carried him to shallower water. He opened his eyes, disoriented and bleeding from his head, and instinctively sat up.

Then he saw the body.

There were at least ten million bodies—he didn't know if he was going crazy, but there were so many, at least eight million if not ten million. Some were floating in the river, some were lying on the bank, and some were buried in debris and ruins.

He watched all this, and suddenly his hearing returned, followed by a continuous stream of screams and cries. The two men pinned him to the ground, and one of them tore a soaking wet piece of cloth from his own body and used it to tie up Ollanius Persson's still bleeding left hand.

They were shouting something, but he wasn't paying attention.

"Mercy God," Ollanius Persson murmured to himself as he lay on the ground. "Have mercy on us."

God did not respond; instead, another fragment answered him. It fell in the nearby Naird City, striking something like a power plant or reactor, causing the earth to tremble again, this time accompanied by towering flames.

"Hell, I am in a hell," thought Ollanius Persson.

The question is, who created hell?

--

004. M31, Calth, Weapon Array Control Center.

Server Master Urkhahurst collapsed to the ground, along with his colleagues. He wasn't dead yet, but he was close; the massive data surge from the destruction of the weapon array exceeded the limits that he and his comrades could handle.

His brain was charred, not from overheating, but from being burned—the only reason he wasn't dead was because he happened to temporarily leave his mental space at the moment the data surge arrived, thus avoiding direct impact.

His colleagues, however, had their minds, along with the mechanical structure, turned into boiling blood and molten iron.

But he was dying. He couldn't possibly survive. He was just a servant; his devotion to Omnissiah wasn't deep enough. He couldn't possibly survive such a blow.

But why? Why did this happen? Faced with this question, server engineer Urk Hachst proposed a binary encoding conjecture.

Attack.

Roboute Guilliman must be informed.

But how could he tell the Primarch?

Five seconds later, fueled by a surge of adrenaline, Urkhahurst decided to re-enter the mind space to achieve his goal.

He failed because the mind space had been destroyed. The main servers that constituted it were probably completely destroyed in orbit, with no backup servers remaining. He had no way to enter the mind space, and he had no way to inform Roboute Guilliman about it.

A third of a second later, the server administrator Urkhahurst thought he might be crying.

But this was not the end, because the data obfuscation arrived. It gleamed, a sinister amber light flashing in Urkhahurst's binary data vision, and it drifted toward the servermaster.

The mental space had been completely destroyed, which should have been impossible. Urkhahurst thought he might be going mad—until he heard the voice of that broken code.

No, it wasn't a sound, it was a chant.

"The Way of the Eightfold," it sang.

The servant Urkhahurst let out a scream.

--

004. M31, Calth Orbit, Macragge's Honour.

"I only want results," Roboute Guilliman said to the crew before him. "Do everything you can, try to restart power, shields, restore communications to the ground. Don't tell me there's a problem here or there, I don't care. Zedorov!"

He roared at the other end of the bridge, calling out the name of the captain of the Macragge's Honour. The captain immediately responded from the chaotic crowd.

"What command, Primarch?" he asked.

"Abandon reconnecting weapon arrays, abandon restoring communications to the starport, activate ship communications, and issue orders to all ships still capable of fighting."

"Understood, Primarch."

"Tell them we're in the middle of a war, not one I wanted to start, but it has begun, so we only need to do one thing. Get them off course, regroup, and prepare to retaliate. Every Word Bearers ship that breaks through Mandeville Point must be destroyed without exception. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."

"Understood, Primarch."

"Gage! Marius Gage!" Roboute Guilliman roared in the other direction again.

Some had never seen him like this before, but they felt no fear or dread. Everyone knew the reason for his anger and could see the crumbling Calth Starport and its weapon arrays in the distance, as well as the burning ships.

They lost their power source and would crash, but they were still within orbit. So most of the people on board didn't even have the courage to think about what would happen once they crashed.

But Roboute Guilliman had it; he was never lacking in courage.

At that moment, his courage was almost frightening.

"I'm here, Primarch!" Marius Gage charged from the other end of the bridge, the First Chapter Master's face a blank stare, yearning to be ignited.

"You—" Roboute Guilliman's words were interrupted by a sudden noise, and he quickly turned to look at the screen of the Cogitator Array.

The data on the ship showed that something was firing at the Macragge's Honour, followed by a tremor in the ship and a commotion among the crowd—those unfortunate guesses had now come true.

The attacks by the Word Bearers were premeditated; they even dared to fire on the Macragge's Honour. People stood frozen in shock, speechless for a moment, staring at the data stream before them.

"Yes, it's an attack," Roboute Guilliman said. His voice echoed throughout the bridge. "Just as you think, it's an attack."

"So let's abandon those hidden hopes. They want us dead, and they want Calth dead. Therefore, there is no retreat in this war. We win, or we die, understand?"

The next second, the bridge became noisy again.

Roboute Guilliman turned and grabbed his First Chapter Master: "Take the men down and regroup, Gage."

But you--

"--I'm not important," Roboute Guilliman said. "You just take people down, a thousand is enough. Once you reach the ground, you must rebuild the communications system immediately. I need to see the disaster report as soon as possible, but organizing manpower for rescue can wait."

"I've deployed thirty Chapter on the surface of Calth, and their situation remains unknown. The most critical issue is that they are completely unaware of the current situation. The Word Bearers won't give up so easily; they will definitely find a way to reach the surface of Calth."

"So you have to go down and tell them what happened, tell them that I didn't inform them beforehand for all sorts of damned reasons, and tell them who the enemy is, Gage."

He raised his hand and placed it on Gage's shoulder.

"You will become the shield of Calth," he said, looking into Gage's eyes. "You, all of you, we—we will all become the shield of Calth, and we will slaughter these bastards without exception."

"Yes, Primarch."

"Gage."

"Primarch?"

Roboute Guilliman looked at him, his short, pale blonde hair, streaked with white, turned completely gray in the afterglow of the explosion at Calth Dockyard. He suddenly smiled slightly, a smile that was neither gentle nor benevolent, and could hardly be called a smile at all.

"You know we'll win, right? Hmm? Just like last time, we'll win, right?"

"Yes, we will win, Primarch," Marius Gage said Dreadnought, his tone more like a declaration than a reply.

--

004. M31, Calth Ground, Imperial Army Assembly Point, Rude Province.

"Assemble! Assemble!" Herlock of the Numinas 61st Company roared out the order.

Fire rained down from the sky, and the ground trembled violently. Just two minutes earlier, his scouts had told him that a battleship might fall from the sky and crash nearby—all bad news, the only good news being that he was still alive.

He didn't die.

Those bastards tried to ambush him, to kill him and pile him up with seven other poor souls to become corpses, but they failed because Sergeant Herlock had a Plasma Pistol.

Plasma—he used to swear by the fire in his drunken stupor that he would marry it. Now it seems he really should have.

"Fire!" he shouted again, but to little avail.

The chaos began twenty minutes earlier, and even the most well-trained soldiers couldn't quickly find their commander and regroup in that disorienting time. At this moment, he had fewer than eighty men with him.

But that doesn't matter; they're still fighting, and that's enough.

The crimson energy beam from the light gun shot out, piercing through the group of pale barbarians. They fell, and their companions, singing wildly, ran over their corpses.

This was so absurd that even Herlock himself couldn't help but laugh—singing? At a time like this, they still wanted to sing?

He cursed as he charged at them, gun in his left hand and saber in his right.

The first man tried to pierce his stomach with a spear but failed; Herlock then chopped off his head.

The second man stabbed him from the side with a dagger, but he melted his upper body with plasma. The third man was pierced by his soldiers' light guns, then the fourth, and the fifth.

What ended this impromptu close-quarters combat was a shockwave; a fragment or something larger fell from the sky and crashed nearby. Herlock lay on the ground, seeing a pair of fanatical eyes.

One of those primitive people fell on him—or flew over and fell on him, it didn't matter, either his ribs and back were in excruciating pain.

The tremors continued, the massive explosion deafening everyone, yet this guy still wanted to kill him. He seemed inhuman, completely unaffected; the fanaticism in his eyes was utterly repulsive. Staring into those eyes, Herlock laughed.

Good, good, excellent, you fucking bastard, you dog!

The sergeant resolutely reached out and grabbed the man's neck, his thumbs crossed and pressed down hard, crushing the man's Adam's apple. He groaned and rolled to the other side. Herlock was very disappointed; he had wanted to watch him die.

He wondered if these bastards would still be so fanatical as death approached, but he quickly forgot his regret as the tremors ceased.

The sergeant forced himself to get up and shouted the assembly order again.

This time it was even worse; only sixteen people answered his call, and at least half of them were unarmed. Herlock himself was in the same predicament; his plasma and saber were gone, and his uniform was stained with blood.

He could barely distinguish which were his own and which were the enemy's. It didn't matter; it made no difference anyway.

He began searching for weapons, rallying his troops, and killing the enemy. Half an hour later, the Numinas 61st Company had grown to 542 men, more than half of whom had guns, and the other half had knives.

They began clearing the battlefield, preparing to retake the army assembly point in Rude Province. Once they reached the garage or underground armory and got their tanks or armored vehicles, these primitive men would have no chance of winning.

Really?

Six minutes later, Herlock realized something was wrong: the primitive people had vanished. Apart from the corpses they left behind, there was hardly a single living person to be seen.

This defied all common sense; their bloodlust during the battle suggested that this group couldn't possibly have retreated so easily. Five minutes later, his scouts ran to tell him that they had discovered the primitive people performing a sacrifice in the army assembly building.

"What the hell?!" Herlock roared. "What did you say?!"

"Sacrifice! They're performing a sacrifice! They've moved some stones and wood to block up the breach on the first floor, and I saw through the cracks that they were dismembering our wounded! The ground is covered in blood-drawn patterns, and they're even singing!" His scout roared back.

This is how hearing-impaired people communicate. Their way of talking amidst the flames-reddened sky of Calth, standing on the ruins, is so absurd, so comical, it's almost laughable.

Herlock showed no sign of a smile.

He issued the order, roaring across the ruins for his soldiers to follow him and kill all those bastards. Three minutes later, they stormed to the entrance of the first floor of the Rude Province Army Assembly Building.

It was both lucky and unlucky. It lost all the floors above the ground floor, but the ground floor stubbornly remained. The armored doors stood ridiculously on either side of the ceilingless wall, with a gap in the wall that the primitive people had blocked from the inside with stones.

Herlock leaned closer and, sure enough, saw through the crack the scene the scout had described. Blood was everywhere, skin and muscle were torn apart, and the heart had been pulled out and placed on the ground. Eight-pointed star markings were everywhere, drawn in blood, and primitive people were kneeling and worshipping among them.

He could even faintly hear their singing.

Sergeant Herlock was furious. He ordered his soldiers to blow up the wall with grenades. The soldiers of the 61st Company did as they were told. The wall was blown open, and they rushed in and killed all the primitive people. None of them resisted; some even laughed as they died.

The soldier was furious and confused; he couldn't understand why they were doing this—until the huge eight-pointed star markings began to light up and the blood began to boil.

A group of Astartes emerged—undoubtedly Astartes, there was no mistake. They wore crimson armor, their visors cold and menacing.

Herlock ordered his troops to open fire, but to no avail; his men were slaughtered. He himself was the last to die. An Astartes seized him and removed his helmet so that he could see his face.

Herlock of the Numinas 61st Company roared and cursed, using all his strength.

"You are very brave," the man praised. "For this, I will reward you."

What reward?

A minute later, the man emerged from the shattered first floor. Herlock of the Numinas 61st Company, his hands and feet severed and his face peeled off, roared furiously atop their raised eight-pointed star banner, having received his reward.

He would scream in pain, but more often he would roar.

"You all should die, you traitors!"

He kept screaming like that until he died. He wasn't brave; he was just fearless.

--

004. M31, Calth, Soul of Night.

"We're turning towards Calth Night," Van Cleef said. "We must stay away from the main battlefront; our firepower and escort fleet are useless in a major battle like this."

"And then?" Fer Zalost asked.

"Land, kill—what else?" Carl Drazok laughed mockingly. "Killing in the dark, isn't that what we do best?"

"No, you didn't understand his question, Karl," said Company Commander Dar Vanolarus.

"Fer asked about what to do on Lord Roboute Guilliman's side; we must inform him of this matter. This level of naval warfare, along with the electromagnetic storm generated by the explosion at the Calth dock, will make communication between the ground and orbit a pipe dream."

"I was just laughing at him. Do you think I'm stupid, Dahl?" Carl de la Soc asked, annoyed.

"No, it wasn't there just now."

Van Cleef ignored their mutual taunts; he simply looked at Fer and nodded at him.

"I understand." Fer Zalost returned a slight nod. "I'll try using psionic communication."

They currently have no idea what awaits them on the ground in Calth.

I'll update this chapter first, and write the rest after I wake up from my nap.