31. Blood of Calth (III, 9k)

004. M31, Calth Ground, Hell.

Van Cleef had read a book about eleven years ago, written by a pastor. At the end of the book, she posed a question. For that question, she died, at the hands of a rioting mob of believers. But she seemed to have no regrets.

The question is, what exactly is the difference between gods and demons?

Van Cleef didn't have an answer then, but he does now.

Gods can do evil at will and go unpunished.

Van Cleef raised his right hand and used his Chainsword to dismember a so-called "Word Bearers Auxilia" man with an eight-pointed star etched on his forehead. Eight human heads were wrapped around his waist, none of them as pale, thin, and filthy as him.

They were once residents of Calth, and now they are nothing but eight unseeing heads.

Fire was still raining down from the sky. To be fair, it would be inaccurate to call the night face of Calth at this time a "night face," because the firelight illuminated everything.

The wreckage of the starport, fragments of warships, and much more kept falling from the sky, Van Cleef was certain that the continental plates of Calth would shift as a result of this disaster.

Thinking of these things, he charged forward and killed more traitors. Corpses and burning flames were everywhere; these traitors treated everyone equally, killing Imperial Army and civilians alike.

Most of the corpses were piled up and marked with bloody eight-pointed star patterns. Some were nailed to walls or telephone poles, their intestines cut open and their internal organs completely gone.

The Night Lords were once a brutal legion, but they never wielded their blades against the common people of the Imperium.

Realizing this, Van Cleef couldn't help but chuckle.

Over the communications channel, his adjutant asked softly, "What triggered your terrible sense of humor, platoon leader?"

"I just suddenly realized we're probably going to kill a lot of animals," Van Cleef replied as he ran. "And that makes me happy."

"You should understand that this is blasphemy, shouldn't you?" Mollez asked again. "These things—corpses, sacrifices, and missing entrails and cannibalized bodies—I don't think this is a war, Company Commander."

"If it's not war, then what is it?"

"Hell," Mollez said solemnly. "A living hell, forged by the damned Word Bearers. Just a few hours ago it might have been paradise, offering a life of luxury unimaginable to most of the Imperium's inhabitants, but now it is nothing but hell."

"Let's just call it Calth, by its official name," Van Cleef shook his head, ending the conversation.

Flames soared into the sky, Night Lords' sinister armor flickered in and out of view amidst the dancing flames. The city was now nothing but ruins, fire rained down from the sky, and no vehicles were fit for use at this time.

That's fine, anyway, they've never really liked driving tanks and armored vehicles. After advancing for twenty-five minutes along the predetermined route, a detachment of the First Company of the Eighth Army Corps successfully arrived at the communications center in Kospro.

It was a tall building—though not so tall now, of course—where blasphemous human skin banners, replacing the symbols of the Imperium and the Ultramarines, fluttered restlessly in the corpse-strewn plaza.

Van Cleef took a deep breath to calm himself. Two minutes later, they stormed into the communications center from all sides, and five minutes later, they had emptied it.

The Techmarine began attempting to restart the ground communications network. After the thirty-fifth attempt, Calth's instruments detected a communications signal. It was captured and connected to the Webway. Amidst the intense electromagnetic interference, Van Cleef finally heard a voice from Ultramarines.

"This is Remas Ventanus, commander of the Fourth Company Ultramarines. Who accessed Prolo City's communications center? I warn you, if you're a traitor, I'll rip you apart!"

"I don't think we are," Van Cleef told him, sending him an identification code. "This is Van Cleef, Midnight Blade Company Commander."

"What did you say?!" the person roared over the unstable communication channel in an overloaded voice. "Who? How could you—"

"--No time for further explanation, Ventanus. The Webway is still unstable. I hope you received the identification code I sent. Until then, I'll keep it brief. We came from Nostramo, but I cannot tell you the specific reason at this time."

Van Cleef paused for a moment to make his next words sound more credible, "We brought four large cities, with 35,000 people landing on the ground. We landed in Prolo City on the surface of Calth forty minutes ago, and we are advancing and assisting you in rebuilding the communications network on the Calth surface."

There was a moment of silence on the communication channel; for a time, almost all that could be heard was the intense background noise caused by the electrical current, but Remas Ventanus persevered.

"You have over 30,000 men, that's good, at least much better than my situation, Company Commander Van Cleef. I only have 421 Ultramarines and 317 Secutarii, and we're near our assembly point in Rude Province. I must warn you, the Word Bearers have somehow reached the surface of Calth, you must be careful of them! They—"

The other end of the voice call suddenly fell silent.

"--What about them?" Van Cleef pressed, knowing it was cruel, but he believed Ventanus would pull through.

"They're different now, Company Commander Van Cleef," Ventanus said, taking a deep breath. "I don't know what's changed in them, but they look like fucking monsters now."

"I understand. Could you send a map of Calth over the Webway? I need to know how far Rude Province is from us. I'll send the Fourth Company to support you."

"I'll try my best, but if the data transmission fails, you can head southwest from Prolo City. There's a river there; just follow it upstream. I hope the river is still there."

"Understood, keep fighting, Ventanus."

"You too, thank you, Company Commander Van Cleef."

No need.

Van Cleef hung up the communication and looked at the Techmarine.

"Continue trying to rebuild the communications network, and send people to repair the equipment. I want to use Pro as a base to try to build a communications network that is feasible for a short time. Once the communications network is barely usable, immediately send the Legion's internal communications channel code to Ventanus so that he can connect to our communications network."

"Understood, Company Commander."

"Mollez!"

"I'm here, Company Commander." His adjutant stepped forward and handed him a combat dagger.

Van Cleef took it from him and tucked it into his belt. "You take a thousand men to garrison Prolo City, I'll catch up with Xianni and head towards Rude Province with them. Who's leading the Fourth Company detachment that's advancing the fastest right now?"

Mollez lowered his head and moved some data on the Dataslate in his hand. "It's Shen."

"Very good. Send him the approximate coordinates of Rude Province and tell him to get to the assembly point in Rude Province as quickly as possible. Where is Angron Tey?"

"He is operating with Sevatarion Leon's squad."

Van Cleef shook his head. "Tell him about the Word Bearers, and also tell Sevatarion I want him to keep a close eye on the Aurelian's Sons."

"Understood, Company Commander," Mollez said. "I hope I only have to repeat this one sentence to you tonight."

Van Cleef smiled silently inside his helmet.

You can hope all you want, Mollez, but I'll hope for something else. He thought.

--

004. M31, Calth Ground, Leptis Numinus.

Marius Gage led his troops into the old governor's palace, a place he had never been before, and now wished he could smash through the walls and enter the palace's underground.

Calth needs to rebuild the communication network, but most of the equipment and network were damaged in the previous disaster. Those that were spared also need to be restarted on a large scale due to the strong electromagnetic waves, in order to eliminate the impact of the obsolete codes.

This place is different. The old governor's palace has two old, complete communication systems stored in its basement, which are completely shut down during disasters. He must restart them and put these old machines back into service.

As long as the terrestrial communication network can be rebuilt, Gage is absolutely confident of victory. This is not a so-called preemptive declaration, but a fact rationally deduced from facts and data— Calth will win, they will win, and those Word Bearers will die.

They will all die.

He rushed down the emergency staircase, where a man in the blue and white uniform of a safety supervisor met him. His face was covered in soot, and one of his arms was missing, but he could still speak fairly clearly.

"Sir, we need energy. We don't have enough electricity. All six power plants in the city have been bombed and destroyed. The underground backup power system is activated, but it can only support our defense system and basic life support systems. To restart those two systems, we need more electricity!"

"Tell me how to do it." Gage stopped and said calmly. "Don't tell me about the prerequisites or how difficult this is; just tell me the location and the objective."

"Okay, okay." The man paused for two seconds before remembering what to do. He led Gage to a Cogitator array, which was clearly operating at overload, the heat emanating from it turning the cooling pipes a deep red.

The security supervisor awkwardly tapped on the Cogitator's screen with his only remaining left hand. A few seconds later, accompanied by a strong sense of lag and stuttering, a map appeared.

The security supervisor raised his hand, pointing to several nodes highlighted on the screen. "You remember the underground cave network in Calth, right? Look at these places. We originally planned to turn these areas into new residential areas, so we installed a full set of automated power generation equipment in them."

"How many sets do you need?" Gage asked, remaining calm.

"One set is enough!" The safety officer held up one finger, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "Just one set, sir!"

"Okay," Gage said. "I'll bring three sets back."

He turned and left, and five hundred people followed him into the distance.

--

004. M31, Calth Ground, Naird City.

Ollanius Persson clenched his fist and struck a traitor on the head. The man swayed slightly, nothing more, but that was enough.

He seized the opportunity to tackle the man to the ground. Something nearby caused an explosion, followed by a series of loud bangs. Ollanius Persson then grabbed the man by the throat and only let go when the man died.

The wind howled all around, and the scene inside the city wasn't necessarily better than outside. After dealing with the guy, he stood up, turned around, and picked up the gun that had been dropped during the sudden attack.

This is the Radiant Type IV Lasgun, improved by the Veridian Forge. It features a folding stock, a stable barrel, is lightweight yet sturdy, and even comes with a detachable bayonet—it's incredibly useful.

These were originally weapons prepared for Orks by various army assemblies, but now they are being used on humans.

Wait, are they even human anymore?

Ollanius Persson stopped and looked down at the bastard he had just strangled. His skin was pale, his ribs were protruding, and his features showed obvious signs of atavism. A deep eight-pointed star was etched on his forehead, revealing the bone, and his chest was covered with freshly peeled human skin.

Humans?

"Pious Ollanius Persson" closed his eyes, his cheek twitching slightly. He gripped his gun and left, walking into the thick fog. The explosions continued, yet a dense fog had risen over the city, chilling him to the bone.

This was clearly not normal, but he didn't care much. He carefully walked back along the wall, carrying his gun, and after climbing over two collapsed walls, he entered the basement of a tavern.

There were four people waiting for him: two soldiers and two civilians. The two civilians were locals from Nerrid; one was an accountant, and the other was a tailor.

The two soldiers were from the Numinas 61st Company. They had escaped from the army assembly point and had been pleading with Ollanius Persson and them to go back to their commander to regroup the troops.

"How is it?" asked Soldier Ralth, who stood at the basement doorway carrying an entrenching tool and inquired in a low voice.

"It's a complete mess outside," Ollanius Persson told him. "There's something falling from the sky, but I don't see a single plane that belongs to us in the air. And there's fog in the city."

"Fog?" Soldier Tarson repeated doubtfully. "What's so strange about fog?"

"I hope they're nothing special," said Ollanius Persson. "If they're just ordinary fog, then we're in luck, but unfortunately that's unlikely."

"I don't understand what you mean by fog, but it's probably dangerous outside," said Soldier Ralth. "That means we should go back to find my superior, Sergeant Herlock. I vaguely heard him issuing the assembly order on the other side of the river when I was swept away by the current."

He waved his arms, trying to appear excited. "The Numinas 61st Company will regroup, and we'll wipe out all these bastards, Ollanius Persson. Do you know my commander, Herlock? He's a brave man; he'll lead us to kill the enemy."

Ollanius Persson did not answer the question; he simply sat down wearily against the wall of the tavern's basement, the silver cross on his chest gleaming.

Sergeant Herlock, good luck.

He looked down at the cross, reached out and grasped it, and began to pray once more.

Dust fell from above as the tremors shook the ground, and muffled explosions, like thunder, echoed from nearby. Soldiers Ralth and Tarson chattered in hushed tones about their vision of returning to the Army assembly point.

They had gone mad, but they didn't think they had. The accountant and the tailor clung to each other, a man and a woman, fear spreading across their faces.

Ollanius Persson, on the other hand, began to grit his teeth.

Damn it, God.

He raised his hand, bringing the cross close to his eyes.

If you hear this, please tell me what's going on.

--

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

Roboute Guilliman walked into his lounge on the bridge.

He had just finished a commanding battle, in Macragge's Honour destroyed three Word Bearers cruisers. It sounded like a great victory, but unfortunately, he wasn't really that concerned about it.

For Roboute Guilliman at this moment, only killing the thing that possessed Lorgar Aurelian's body with his own hands could quell his anger.

Apart from that, everything else is merely an appetizer before the main course.

The Macragge's Honour is readjusting its course to return to the front lines. The orbits and starry sky near Calth have been thoroughly affected by the war, and war is everywhere in the cosmos, thus giving rise to a rather counterintuitive theory.

In a battle between warships, the higher the intensity and the more chaotic the situation, the more time you have to think.

Every step these behemoths took in the dark vacuum required time: restarting their propulsion engines, turning, deactivating a Void Shield somewhere to absorb damage, launching a charge, activating their Macro-cannon.

Time, time, time.

Time ticked by, and four hours and fifty-one minutes had passed since the war officially began; soon it would be five hours. What could one do in five hours?

Capable of having a Legiones Astartes cleanse the surface of a planet, capable of killing countless loyalists fighting for the Imperium in a sudden attack, capable of causing millions, tens of millions, hundreds of millions, or even billions of people to perish in an explosion.

Five hours is enough to break Roboute Guilliman's heart.

He stood in the lounge, arms outstretched, as his Servitor helped him change into his Power Armour. Before him lay a mirror, a gift from Tarasha Euten after one of his triumphant returns.

A full-length mirror, large enough to contain the Primarch, was incredibly large and luxurious. The person in the mirror looked exhausted, his eyes staring blankly ahead, unfocused.

A few minutes later, the Servitor finished putting on his armor. The Power Armour itself began to hum, and that familiar heaviness returned. He waved for the Servitor to leave and stood in front of the full-length mirror.

His expression was so cold and unwavering, without the slightest fluctuation.

Half a minute later, Roboute Guilliman emerged from the lounge, a sword at his waist. Captain Zedorov told him that Macragge's Honour had received a communication request from the Loyalty's Law.

From Lorgar Aurelian.

Roboute Guilliman stepped onto the holographic projection platform. A flash of white light, signifying the establishment of communication, disappeared, and electromagnetic signals began to surge in the air. The light refracted to form an image, Lorgar Aurelian appeared amidst its surge.

He wore scarlet armor, his face shrouded in shadow. His eyes gleamed in the Shadow like two torches.

"I will kill you," Roboute Guilliman said first. "Not Lorgar, but you. Do you understand? No matter who you are, no matter what you are, I will tear you apart, I will turn every bone in your body to ashes."

Lorgar Aurelian laughed. "Do you know who you sound like right now? I have to admit, this soft, whispered tone reminds me of Konrad Curze Curze."

"Is this all you're capable of? Mentioning my brother's name to me with such malice, is this all you're good for?"

"I have many other options, but what I want to do most right now is talk to you," Lorgar said sincerely, his face still shrouded in shadow, the torch burning brightly like a vortex.

I do not accept your surrender.

"No, listen to me, Roboute. Your little Imperium is located on the frontier of our world, and you've always liked to stay here and run it. Sometimes I think you're just a child, playing with glass jewels in a sandcastle—childish and pathetic. I've expressed this view before; you should remember the Perfect City, right?"

A doubt arose in Roboute Guilliman's mind—did this thing contain Lorgar's memories?

"I am him," the man said with a smile. "Can't you tell? Look closely, what's the difference between me and him? I am him, I am all of him."

You are nothing but a liar.

Lorgar burst into laughter.

"Fine, liar." He shook his head. "Is this the conclusion you've finally reached? Is this your angry retaliatory act against me? Liar? You should have worse language, Roboute?"

Roboute Guilliman stared at him coldly, without uttering a word.

"But that doesn't matter. I just want you to hear the truth. I know what you'll call us to your children and crew. You'll call us traitors, faithless traitors, but that's not the truth. Do you know who the first traitor was, Roboute? It was the Emperor. He was the first to betray us."

Lorgar's tone finally changed, from gentle and cheerful to full of anger, and even her voice became hoarse.

His image lunged at Roboute Guilliman, and the Primarch heard a burst of gunfire—he knew what his guards were doing; they were on guard against the Shadow of Lorgar Aurelian, instinctively thinking that the Shadow could harm their Primarch.

This is what the Primarch do.

"A lie," Roboute Guilliman said.

"No, I didn't. If you saw what I saw with your own eyes, you would know I didn't. Horus saw it too. Are you going to call him a fraud as well? Hmm? Wolf God, Warmaster, are you going to treat him as a fraud as well?"

"A lie." Roboute Guilliman looked down at him.

"This is not a lie." Lorgar gritted his teeth and forced the words out.

"What your father told you was a lie, the Emperor instilled in you was a lie. How many contradictory things did he do, huh? He refused to let anyone call him a god, yet he allowed me to preach. He told us we were his sons, and what did he do? Where are our two brothers, Roboute?"

"Lies." Roboute Guilliman sneered. "Continue, Lorgar, everything you've said is a lie."

Lorgar's shoulders trembled, and after a few seconds, he also let out a cold laugh. He took a few steps back, carefully observed the commander of the Thirteenth Legion, and then smiled again.

The mantra holder roared in a hoarse voice.

"You think you're a wise man, a prophet, but you'll eventually find yourself the most foolish of all! Horus will rise, he will drag the Emperor from his Throne, cleanse the lies, and baptize the galaxy with fire! And you and your world will die, Roboute Guilliman, every single one of the Five Hundred Worlds will become a corpse!"

"Anyone can talk big," Roboute Guilliman said. "Besides, there are only two of you."

"Two?"

Lorgar's face contorted strangely, and he chuckled, a laugh that was utterly bizarre. He had just been roaring, but now he was laughing so hard he was doubled over, completely manic, that it was physically uncomfortable to watch.

He laughed wildly, and the light that made up his body began to change, to change drastically, as if something was about to break free from it— Roboute Guilliman was sure he wasn't mistaken, but at that moment, time seemed to stand still for a second, and the world was plunged into darkness.

The holographic projection platform and Lorgar's bizarre, maniacal laughter gradually faded into the distance, and a sinister deep blue slowly unfolded before his eyes.

Roboute Guilliman recognized him immediately.

"Fer? Fer Zalost of the Eighth Legion?"

"Sir," Fer bowed to him, helmetless, blood streaming from his seven orifices, his eyes burning. "I've finally made contact with you."

"What's going on? Where are you?" Roboute Guilliman asked, his composure at that moment utterly baffling.

This detached rationality was completely at odds with the rage in his heart; it was as if he had suddenly become two people. One was responsible for stirring up the Vengeance fury in his chest, while the other was responsible for rationally and calmly conversing with Fer Zalost.

"I am on the orbit of Calth Night, my lord. We intended to help you, but we are not here in a large force, and even if we joined the naval battle, we would not be of much help to you. So we went to the surface of Calth to help your offspring rebuild the ground communication network."

"How many people? How many of you are fighting for Calth?"

"Thirty-five thousand people, my lord."

Where is Konrad Curze?

"Our lord is still in Nostramo."

"Turn back."

Without the slightest hesitation, Roboute Guilliman said, his voice sounding almost like a command. He had been arrogant and defiant when he spoke to Lorgar just now, but now he was hunched over, pale, and his voice hoarse.

"Set sail and immediately return to Nostramo, Fer. Tell my brother I thank him, and tell your brothers I thank them as well, but you must go back and warn him, tell him—"

"--I'm afraid I can't do that, sir," Fer interrupted him, taking a deep breath. "But there's no need to. We're here on Konrad Curze Curze's orders."

"What?" Roboute Guilliman was stunned. "His orders? He knew about this?"

"It's just a guess, sir, just a guess." Fer took another deep breath, and more blood began to flow from his seven orifices.

"My Primarch has never been an optimist; he's extremely pessimistic about everything. And he also possesses a cursed talent, which might explain things. But that's not your primary concern right now. I'm about to say something you need to remember."

"You say it." Roboute Guilliman clenched his fists, remaining calm.

"In one minute, this place will collapse, and a horde of Daemon —supernatural creatures, monsters, entities that devour human flesh—will appear on your bridge. They can be damaged by Chainsword and explosives. Lorgar Aurelian's second communication was a trap; something followed the signal. I should have notified you sooner, but someone is stopping me."

Fer's speech became faster and faster, his face grew paler and paler, turning into a terrifying, almost transparent color, and his eyes were turning to ash.

"Kill them, sir," said Fer. "Kill them all."

The darkness vanished, and light rushed in. The world before Roboute Guilliman's eyes began to slow down; this was not due to his own ability, but rather Fer Zalost providing him with some kind of final assistance.

He saw a holographic projection platform, and a monster emerging from the projection of Lorgar Aurelian, a pitch-black nightmare.

Its eyes were dim yet reflected light, its skin was boiling, its bones were growing; its mere existence had already begun to harm Roboute Guilliman's eyes.

Roboute Guilliman gripped his sword.

The world has returned to normal.

The thing started laughing maniacally, and the light behind it was still distorting.

"Roboute Guilliman--!" it roared.

"Die." Roboute Guilliman drew his sword.

--

004. M31, Calth Ground, Rude Province Plain.

"Fire," Shen said.

His squad responded immediately, and a deadly barrage of fire began to fell the charging Cultists like wheat. But they weren't Shen's concern. He raised his head, maintaining his firing rate while observing the dissipating thick fog.

Sure enough, a few seconds later, the Word Bearers, who had absorbed the first wave of firepower from the Cultists, launched their attack.

Shen smiled cruelly. The heavy firepower that had been prepared all along finally revealed its fangs at this moment, and the Word Bearers began to fall—or were blasted into pieces of scarlet flesh, which flew everywhere.

Unfortunately, this was not the end. More Word Bearers emerged from the thick fog, raising their guns to return fire and chanting evil words loudly behind the corpses.

Shen squinted.

He belonged to the Fourth Company, and his squad had a thousand men. Judging from the current battlefield situation, he estimated that the number of Word Bearers was about twice theirs. But that didn't matter; Night Lords were always used to fighting outnumbered.

"Scatter," he commanded. "Prepare for the hunt."

The barrage of fire vanished in an instant, and a thousand blades disappeared without a trace. The Word Bearers cautiously traversed the ravaged plain, their first death occurring somewhere beside a crater created by an explosion.

Shen pierced the latter's heart with his Power Sword and twisted his wrist, causing devastating consequences. Starting with him, the Word Bearers began to be attacked continuously, but they were not fools and quickly regrouped.

The leading commander began to hurl insults at Konrad Curze Curze and Nostramo, his voice echoing through the thick fog.

Shen smiled dismissively.

"They dare not mention him, how laughable," he murmured softly into the voice channel. "End the hunt, prepare for the raid, wipe them all out."

Once again, his orders were carried out completely.

The Night Lords leaped from the thick fog that once belonged to the Word Bearers, approaching them with high speed and unpredictable movements. The Chainsword began to roar angrily, and the unique slashing sounds of various melee weapons echoed in the bloody winds of the plains outside Rude Province.

In the blink of an eye, the melee began. Shen charged at one of the Word Bearers, but the man tried to resist but to no avail. He couldn't keep track of Shen's direction and could only watch helplessly as the man's sword sliced across his neck.

The sounds of killing were everywhere, and Shen rushed toward his next target. The man was alert and knew to use explosives to seal off the space around him.

Shen then leaped into the air and charged towards him. The latter raised his weapon, intending to take the attack head-on, but Shen raised his gun mid-air.

Ten minutes later, they had killed all the traitors.

"Rest here and tally the casualties," Shen said. "I also need the enemy's. Prepare Phosphex; burn them all before we leave."

"Understood," said the squad's deputy leader, giving his answer three minutes later.

Night Lords suffered 121 casualties and 31 minor injuries. The Word Bearers lost over 2,200 men; considering the numbers, the sacrifices for this victory were entirely acceptable. The Apothecary began collecting Gene-seed, and Shen issued another order.

"Who wants to swear an oath?" he asked gently.

Six minutes later, they set off again, their hands covered in blood.

The remains of their brothers were buried, and the Gene-seed and weapons were taken away. The corpses of the enemies were being burned, crackling like a song. The Night Lords mark was engraved on their commander's helmet and erected on a flagpole.

--

004. M31, Calth Orbit, Soul of Night.

Fer Zalost opened his eyes abruptly, and his adjutant, Adebiman Basley, rushed forward with two medical officers, pinned him to the ground, and began administering medical treatment. To their surprise, this time, Fer did not scream.

"You succeeded?" Adebiman asked doubtfully.

"Yes," Fer answered incoherently, blood still flowing from his seven orifices, his eyes now completely gray. Adebiman held out his hand and waved it in front of him. Fer chuckled, "I can still fucking see, Adebiman."

"You can still see that?"

"Don't ask me, I don't know why. I should be blind, but I'm not. Help me up."

The medical officers helped him up, Fer began to gasp for breath, blood dripping from his mouth like waves—a truly horrifying sight.

"Listen, listen carefully, listen to me—" With the help of the medic, Fer managed to stand. "—Pass the word, prepare for battle. Something's coming, chasing after me. They'll come from the bridge or anywhere else they can, to tell everyone to get ready."

"And what about you?" Adebiman asked.

"Do I look like I can't fight?!" Fer roared at him. "In the name of the Night Lords, fucking give me my sword!"

9k, update complete.

I recommend a promising young novel, 40k words. "Starting with a Dog. What if Perturabo became a Border Collie?"