71 Extinction's End (III)

Dantioch felt a wave of nausea that shouldn't have come. He got up from the ground and tasted an unusual sourness on his tongue. But he didn't have time to find the cause of the sourness; the Warsmith had more important things to do now.

He gripped his Warhammer, and just then, a strange roar rang out in front of him. Dantioch looked up and saw a nauseating, dark green mist.

The steel that made up the ship's deck was covered by a thick carpet of fungi, beneath which hundreds and thousands of eerie Shadow swirled. Dantioch squinted and glanced at the real-time tactical map displayed in the upper left of his eyepiece.

It updates battlefield information every five minutes, allowing him to clearly see the specific deployment of the Iron Blood and the Legion.

He switched to the observation mode of the tactical map, entered the command interface, and quickly sent a rally order to the troops around him. After doing this, the Warsmith began to update the battle report.

He first reported his suspicions to Perturabo, the Trident Council, and all the Warsmith, as well as the terrifying regenerative abilities displayed by the enemy he had killed. Coincidentally, others encountered the same thing.

After a series of close exchanges, Perturabo immediately ordered the deployment of heavy firepower— Phosphex flamethrowers always delivered a devastating blow to enemies with exceptional healing abilities.

Furthermore, if Dantioch's speculation is true, the flames could at least somewhat contain any potential sources of infection.

The Warsmith gripped his Warhammer with a worried expression and began to advance with his men.

As they entered the deep green mist, the life support systems in their Power Armour immediately began to sound alarms.

First came the abnormal readings, followed by a barrage of warnings. The air was thick with various deadly infectious diseases, and the humidity was extremely high. The ground was soft and damp due to the fungal carpet, making it as difficult to walk through as if in a swamp.

The eerie Shadow revealed themselves at that moment; they were soldiers of an infantry regiment—at least they used to be. Dantioch could find evidence for his guess from the insignia on their uniforms and the style of their helmets.

But they are not anymore; now, they are a group of rotting zombies.

Flesh and blood kept falling from their bodies, and maggots and flies swarmed around them, feasting on them. Worse still, some of them even looked alive, and Dantioch could even hear them pleading for release in their delirious state.

With the Emperor above us, what are we truly facing?

"Fire!" he commanded. "Don't get close, send them to their final rest with explosives!"

His decision proved to be correct; the bodies of those swaying zombies were simply massive sources of infection, and what gushed from their shattered bodies was not blood, but rather a pus-filled fluid tinged with crimson.

The readings rose abnormally again, Dantioch was certain that if he dared to remove his helmet, he would be infected instantly—this was not speculation, but a gut feeling.

Common diseases pose no threat to Astartes' immune system, but these airborne viruses and bacteria definitely can.

"Avoid the corpses and continue forward." He issued the order again and reported his observations and speculations.

Perturabo responded almost immediately, the Lord of Iron's voice sounding completely flat. "Well done, Dantioch. Stay alert. Are you going to the fourteenth deck?"

"Yes, Primarch," Dantioch said. "The tactical map shows a large group of enemies invading there."

"I will mobilize manpower to support you. I need you to establish a defense center on the fourteenth deck and control the surrounding area."

"Understood, Primarch."

"Steel generates power," Perturabo murmured, and temporarily disconnected from his private communication connection with Dantioch.

The Warsmith silently completed the sentence in his heart.

Strength begets will, will begets faith, faith begets glory, and glory begets steel.

Iron Within, Iron Without.

He strode across the fungal carpet and hurried toward the fourteenth deck.

The arched corridor used for passage was now covered with a dim, dark green that looked like plants, yet was also covered with a great deal of flesh and blood. Some soldiers were bound inside, their bodies mostly fused with the plants, forming some kind of horrible seedbed, and swarms of flies buzzed in the humid air.

The Warsmith were almost nauseated by it, and the communications within the ranks were filled with insults. The soldiers of the Fourth Legion were completely unable to control their emotions.

War was their duty, but this thing went beyond the scope of war. The physical nausea and the psychological chill merged into one, and if it weren't for Astartes, they probably would have lost all reason.

At that moment, a group of traitors spotted them at the end of the corridor and began firing on them.

Ironically, Dantioch actually felt a sliver of relief—at least the use of explosives in the attack was still within his comprehension. It was far more irrational than the Astartes using their teeth as spines, or the soldiers turned into plant beds.

Regardless, these traitors still need the bombs to fight.

Without a word, Dantioch's shieldbearers immediately raised their shields. They were already in the lead position, and their heavy Storm Shield blocked all the incoming explosives.

The traitors' first wave of attacks failed, inflicting no casualties. Dantioch immediately began organizing a counterattack and slowly advanced.

He absolutely did not want his troops to engage in any form of close combat with these traitors unless absolutely necessary.

Heavy Bolter and plasma began to roar incessantly, and the traitors, having no chance to resist, immediately began to retreat in disarray. This is the consequence of you joining a group of well-prepared Iron Warriors.

Dantioch was very satisfied with the results, but it wasn't enough. Stepping on the fungal carpet, his troops continued their advance until the last traitor died, and only then did the gunfire cease.

The Warsmith glanced back at the creeping fungus behind him, his expression turning grim—the flagship's current state was a disgrace.

He reported the issue of the fungal carpet again and requested a small team, fully equipped with Phosphex flamethrowers and Meltagun, to clear the area. Dantioch didn't understand how the fungal carpet formed, but he didn't need to find out.

"It's better to burn this thing that clearly violates the Imperial Truth, "the Warsmith thought with utter disgust.

Filled with cold rage, he gave the order to continue to the fourteenth deck. Behind them, the fungal carpet began to spread slowly like a living thing, and flies buzzed as they flew into the cracks of the deck.

--

"Continue reporting," Perturabo said. "I've reduced the tactical map update time to once every thirty seconds. The server is under unprecedented pressure, so please stay in touch with me, understand, Forrix?"

"I understand, Primarch," the Citybreaker replied, as the constant roar of various firearms echoed from his side, almost forming a background noise.

He was fighting around the engine room of the Iron Blood, alongside seventeen Warsmith, including Baal Phall of the Trident Council.

The Lord of Iron temporarily withdrew from communication and began refreshing the tactical map. The deep red representing the enemy flickered continuously against the gray background, indicating a very critical situation.

The attack by the Terminus Est caused the Steelblood to shift hundreds of kilometers off course, and the immense impact caused most of the ship's instruments to briefly malfunction. Typhus's attack was clearly well-prepared, or perhaps he was simply very lucky.

The damned ship of his crashed right at the rear of the Iron Blood's main bridge, incredibly close to the engine room. Perturabo had to shift his manpower heavily in that direction, and at the same time, the intelligence reported back by the first wave of combatants made him frown deeply.

Fungal mats and flies—enemies that are almost impossible to kill. Undoubtedly, this is not a matter of ordinary warfare; it is not an enemy that can be easily categorized. He didn't understand what they were facing, only a feeling that was incredibly strong.

He is about to face a tough battle.

Therefore, Perturabo issued an order to the rest of his fleet via ship-to-ship communications: do not approach, do not provide support, continue fighting.

His orders were met with obedience, confusion, worry, and a small number of outright objections.

The Lord of Iron had to spend a few extra seconds explaining his reasons to his opponents. He didn't feel it was a waste of time, but his mood became slightly strange.

At this moment, his main bridge was filled with chaotic and noisy sounds.

Servitor were distributing gas masks to the crew, while some Techmarine and Mechanicum technicians were studying the Cogitator arrays that had not yet recovered from the outage. The few working wet components were being pushed to their limits, processing, calculating, and running massive amounts of code.

Perturabo observed them for a moment and came to a conclusion—he didn't need to speak yet; although the main bridge appeared chaotic, it was actually orderly within the chaos.

He lowered his head and began to update the tactical map, review the legion's intelligence summary, process various information across multiple channels, and distribute it to all officers.

Intelligence is the lifeblood of war, a fact Perturabo understood long ago. An army capable of real-time communication is entirely different from an army that relies on messengers to deliver orders.

He processed various messages and soon noticed one that caught his eye. The message came from the Warsmith Barabbas Dantioch, marked as [Creeping Fungus]. Perturabo clicked on it, and the first sentence that greeted him made the Primarch frown.

Seconds later, he issued a new command through the control console. At his instruction, the Iron Blood's air circulation system began to change, switching from self-circulation mode to venting mode.

The foul air began to be expelled little by little, which should have been a good thing, but few people noticed the flies.

They flew around buzzing, their mouthparts wriggling, eagerly entering the air circulation system, where they were mechanically pulverized.

Besides.