37. Blood of Calth (IX, 5k)
004. M31, Calth, Macragge's Honour. ⑥⑨ⓢⓗⓤⓧ.⃝ⓒⓞⓜ
In his entire life, Fer Zalost had never been in such agony. Rage burned within him, his blood was boiling, and Fer could even taste the bitterness of ashes.
He knew where that flavor came from.
He gripped his sword and charged toward a horde of howling Daemon, which appeared as surging darkness, their hideous heads adorned with countless crimson eyes of the horribly deceased. As the blade sliced through them, flames engulfed those eyes, setting them ablaze. The Daemon screamed in agony, but Fer paid them no heed.
He had no time for these filthy evils. In another place, he might have gladly tasted their despair, but not now. He had more pressing matters to attend to.
Moreover, it has to be fast.
We must do this before he completely crosses that line.
Fer gripped his Power Sword and, like Ghost, floated away from the melting corpses of the dog-headed Daemon. His movement and speed completely overturned humanity's understanding of the word "movement."
He can appear in two places simultaneously in a second and swing his sword down at the same time, causing flames to fall on another group of evil creatures. He can also pass through burning wreckage without paying any price, leaving a burning trail in the air with each movement.
These were not hallucinations, but rather traces of something truly real, for which even the air seemed to be burning. Incorrect readings began appearing on the eyepieces of all the Astartes present, indicating that the air was decreasing, dissipating, and the temperature was plummeting.
In the blink of an eye, the main bridge of the Macragge's Honour suddenly transformed from a terrifying shadow realm filled with evil spirits into a completely different scene.
Black flames burned everywhere, every bolt screamed in terror, and cables writhed and trembled like living things. Electric currents and minor explosions shot out from the wreckage of destroyed equipment, and even the dust in the air seemed to be burning.
Fer Zalost ran toward the holographic projection table.
He finally arrived here. The light around him was still distorted, and countless ghosts were spying on their world from behind these lights. Some of them had already been granted permission to come, so they rushed into the light and eventually succeeded in reaching the world of the living through the blood of the innocent.
Fer swung his sword, killing a group of them. Cracks began to appear on his pale face, from which ashes floated upside down and danced in the air. His eyes burned fiercely, and a darker emotion than anger surged deep within his burning eye sockets.
Looking at the light, Fer suddenly roared—he heard it, a sound that Roboute Guilliman couldn't hear, that Lorgar Aurelian couldn't hear, that even the dead themselves couldn't hear. But he heard it.
He heard the screams of every dead man as Calth Spaceport crumbled, and every whisper on the surface of Calth. Some were bewildered, unaware of the impending doom, while others were driven to madness, their furious cries drawing the listener into a state of profound empathy.
That's why they were able to get here, that's the reason.
Death! Death! They must die! They must pay the price! Vengeance! I must Vengeance the unjustly killed! I must slaughter everyone involved! Everyone must die! I will offer fifty million heads as a sacrifice!
--No!
Fer suddenly woke up.
He dared not hesitate any longer and immediately raised the sword in his hand high.
At this moment, the molecules that constitute the essence of this Power Sword have undergone a fundamental change. The disintegration force field has disappeared, replaced by pitch-black flames. The inscriptions on the sword have begun to deform, carving out words of hatred in a script incomprehensible to humans.
Its guard was elongated, becoming more menacing, resembling a pair of horns. The same was true of the blade; serrations that shouldn't be on Power Sword inexplicably appeared, each one like a scarlet gem.
The next second, Fer roared and swung his sword down.
No Daemon on the Macragge's Honour could stop him at this moment, not even Daemon could stand before this sword. Before its blade even touched them, they began to burn.
In a fraction of a second, or ten million years later, the sword pierced deep into the holographic projection platform.
The world stood still, time stopped flowing, and all eyes were drawn to it. Roboute Guilliman was no exception, and he saw it more clearly than anyone else.
Through the distorted light, he could see vast swarms of waiting Daemon, and a figure standing among them— Lorgar Aurelian.
The real Lorgar Aurelian.
He is shedding tears of blood.
In the stagnant world, the furnace within Roboute Guilliman's chest began to rage. He took a step forward, instinctively trying to call out, but Lorgar had vanished. Demons shrouded him, leaving only darkness and pain.
The chaotic Chaos within the Warp surged forth, attempting to enter reality through the opening created by the holographic projection platform, only to be blocked by a sword.
To be precise, he was blocked from the outside by someone.
Roboute Guilliman looked at Fer Zalost, who was kneeling on the ground, his body covered in cracks from which countless ashes hung upside down.
Lord Macragge's pupils contracted, and he instinctively spoke, "Apothecary!"
His voice echoed smoothly through the bridge, and the world returned to normal.
Gunshots rang out, Roboute Guilliman rushed to Fer Zalost's side. The latter knelt quietly on one knee, his hands already free of the sword. Seemingly sensing Roboute Guilliman's arrival, Fer slowly raised his head.
His appearance at that moment horrified even the Primarch.
His eye sockets were charred black, with ominous, burning lines flickering around them. Where his eyes should have been, two tiny flames danced. Fer's skin was no longer pale, but had turned a deathly white, like the color of ashes, and was full of cracks, like ceramic about to shatter.
"The sun," Fer began with difficulty, his voice shifting between hoarseness and heaviness. "My lord, the sun."
"I don't have time for anything about the sun right now— Apothecary!" Roboute Guilliman roared, turning to the other end of the bridge. "I need Apothecary here!"
"I will not die, sir." Fer slowly stopped him. "At least not today. Death has left its mark on me, but today is not the day it will tear my throat. But you must beware of the sun, sir."
What's wrong with the sun?
Two seconds later, Roboute Guilliman got his answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a blinding flash of light, like a supernova explosion—and when he turned to look, he realized it really was an exploding star.
The sun in the Veridian System is exploding.
But this was not the end; it was only the beginning. A shiver ran down Roboute Guilliman's spine, and the flames in the furnace within his chest finally subsided. At the same time, Fer Zalost's voice, which sounded as if it were about to shatter, slowly rose.
"They've transformed it," said the Third Company Captain of Night Lords. "It's a dark art, a sacrifice, a way to create more horrific carnage in our world. They want to artificially create a nightmare, a storm, that separates Terra from us, sir. That's what they're doing."
As he watched the sun expand, Roboute Guilliman fell silent for a moment.
What should I do?
Amidst bombs, blades, Daemon, and the intense flashes of the sun, Roboute Guilliman asked in a low voice.
"Kill," Fer answered resolutely. "That's the only way. We'll fight our way back to Terra."
--
004. M31, Calth, 22 kilometers east of the army assembly point in Rude Province.
Sevatar scrambled to his feet from a corpse and shoved aside another Word Bearers lunging at him with his shoulder. He was thankful that the creature's body hadn't deformed from its Power Armour; the latter fell to the ground, its Boltgun already raised.
Oh no. Don't even think about it.
Exhausted, Sevatar kicked the gun out of the Word Bearers's hand and then kicked him hard in the forehead. The man's neck made a dull thud and twisted at an awkward angle. The torrential rain lashed down, slapping his face repeatedly.
→
Sevatar stood there, slightly lost in thought. He had intended to admire the mess he had made, and then taunt the corpse a couple of times, such as. "The most important thing in battle is to maintain your balance, cousin, don't forget that."
But he failed, as two explosive shells struck his shoulder armor.
Sevatar immediately sprang into action, rushing back to the corpse and pulling his chainsaw from its chest. Dark blood gushed from the wound, and the flesh that made up the body hissed, crumbled, and melted away, but Sevatar paid no heed.
He stared intently into the forest, where the thick fog dissipated, leaving it pitch black. His observation yielded a result after a few seconds—no result.
The attackers were not in the woods.
Following his instincts, Sevatar tilted his head back.
"Die--!"
Something roared and leaped down from above him, its corrosive, blood-red saliva gushing from its grotesque, insect-like mandibles. Sevatar couldn't dodge in time and was knocked to the ground, the saliva immediately beginning to pierce through his thick breastplate.
Sevatar tried to fight back, but in the next few seconds, all he could hear was the cracking of Ceramite and the dull thud of his own bones. He also tasted blood—his own.
The thing stopped swinging, laughed maniacally, and lifted him up. Sevatar squinted and saw a raised, scarlet claw. Human hand bones and Daemon flesh were fused together, filled with Ceramite armor, making it look extremely bizarre.
If nothing unexpected happens, this thing will shatter his head into several pieces in half a second.
The Nostramo sighed, and ignoring the pain, nimbly raised his right hand, and the accident happened.
The roar of the chainsaw flashed by, and an arm that was still human-sized fell to the ground. Sevatar immediately rolled away from where he stood.
Xianni's voice echoed in his mind, tinged with mockery.
See, Jago, that's why I've always told you to hold your weapon tightly on the battlefield, even if your fingers are broken, make sure the weapon is in your hand. Isn't my advice effective? Will you still leave your weapon on the ground or among other people's corpses in the future?
Yes, yes, I heard you, you nagging old man. After all these years, why can your voice still mock me at this time?
Xianni from Terra did not answer; of course he did not answer, for he was now far away on the other side of Calth.
Half a second later, Sevatar stood up from the ground, bleeding, but the attacker had vanished again. The sight of the severed arm looked horrifying, but Sevatar knew in his heart that to these creatures, such an injury was not even a minor one.
He began to move cautiously, deliberately panting heavily to appear extremely weak. His opponents fell for it; they always did this—not very cautious, not very clever, and they had the means to do so.
Sevatar raised his hand, using the spinning monomolecular saw blade of his chainsaw to block an incoming claw. The bones that made up the creature began to shatter, fragments flying everywhere, while its owner burst into laughter, the sounds overlapping as if two people were talking.
"We know you, Jago Sevatarion," he said in a low, malicious voice. "We want to taste your flesh and blood, to see if you're any different from your brothers. We'll eat your face, just as we eat the faces of others."
"So you're a face-eating worm?" Sevatar asked, swallowing a mouthful of blood. "So you're a worm, huh? No wonder you're so ugly. Hey, but I have a question: why do you call yourself 'we'? Even Ogryn wouldn't call himself that."
The Word Bearers, who was no different from Daemon, laughed and pounced on him. Sevatar sighed and instinctively turned his head to dodge the attack, while calculating the probability of killing this opponent without using psionic powers.
He had used his psychic powers far too many times today, and each time, he could sense a certain change.
It's like undergoing surgery without anesthesia; you can clearly feel your flesh being replaced by something foreign, but it doesn't reject you. In fact, your body loves it.
This was the strangest part; he really disliked this feeling.
He retreated while brandishing his weapon to block the attack.
The broken bones were still aching, and the breastplate had been turned into a piece of metal riddled with holes by the corrosive saliva. However, he had stopped bleeding. Whether it was due to his self-healing ability or something else, Sevatar didn't bother to think about it.
He retreated more than ten steps, while his enemy relentlessly pursued him, slashing his claws and spewing acidic saliva. Sevatar successfully dodged them all, but unfortunately, this did not mean he had the upper hand, as his opponent's attacks were becoming increasingly rapid.
"Are you ever going to stop? "Sevatar thought angrily. "Even that monster Sigismund couldn't be faster than you, what are you anyway?"
"We'll take your head back as proof!" his opponent roared. "Jago Sevatarion, your death is nigh!"
"Shut up, you face-eating worm who's even dumber Ogryn!" Sevatar roared back, a flash of blue light in his eyes, and the grass instantly froze.
Dark frost surged from the air, instantly freezing the Word Bearers's legs, rendering him immobile, and even beginning to spread upwards. Sevatar immediately rushed towards him, his chainsaw already raised high.
His opponent immediately thought of a way to break the deadlock. He swung his claws, about to cut off his own legs to break free—he had already walked with the darkness, and he could fully recover from such an injury, but he was ultimately a little too slow.
Or rather, Sevatar is faster than him.
Damn it, Sigismund, now I'm faster than you, what am I?
A head flew high into the air and was severed in two by a chainsaw in the pouring rain. The headless corpse of the Word Bearers stood there blankly for a moment, then began to boil.
The armor that had fused with flesh and blood, and the exposed, ugly bones, all turned into a bloody pulp in that instant. In just a few seconds, the corpse hissed and melted completely, leaving only some broken bones in place.
Sevatar slumped down, panting heavily. This time, it wasn't feigned; it was genuine exhaustion.
This is the third Huaiyan he has murdered. No, that's not right. According to them, these people are "Blessed Sons." They are not the kind of opponents that ordinary Word Bearers can kill in a few moves. These people, or things, are dozens of times more difficult to deal with.
What blessing? I think it's more like a curse.
Sevatar spat a mouthful of blood-tinged saliva onto the broken bones, and his legs trembled as he stood up from the ground.
Two hours of guerrilla warfare shouldn't have weakened an Astartes to this extent, but he had another battle to fight besides the guerrilla warfare. This kind of thing happens every time he uses psionic powers.
He stepped into the thick fog, panting. He could hear the firing of Boltgun, which meant that there must be other people fighting in the forest besides him.
Fifteen minutes later, he found the Aurelian's Sons fighting the Word Bearers in an open area. Night Lords was fighting alongside them; it was hard to say who had fewer people, but the enemy certainly outnumbered them.
The crimson ocean was colliding with them, and the Aurelian's Sons and the Night Lords were nothing more than reefs submerged by the sea. Moreover, at least four of the Blessed Sons among the Word Bearers were wreaking havoc. Their movements were completely unpredictable, and every attack caused casualties.
Seeing this, Sevatar sighed again. He plunged the chainsaw blade deep into the soil, blade down, and it's hard to say whether he considered the following scenario when he did it.
Bang! A Techmarine and a large force of Night Lords suddenly appeared behind him, cursing him for not taking care of his weapons, and used heavy firepower to send the damned Word Bearers to the sky.
Okay, he had thought about it. But he also knew it was impossible.
In the torrential rain, Sevatar's eyes began to glow. He bent over in agony, the psionic Radiance in his eyes rapidly shifting to a deeper color. Seconds later, with a barely audible roar, a bolt of lightning pierced the dark clouds and descended upon the Word Bearers.
One more chapter.