Echoes of the 77 Dead (4k)

The bridge of the Iron Blood had never been so quiet. In the past, there had at least been a kind of orderly noise here. But now, there was no sound at all.

Even the painful gasps were gone; the fungal carpet had vanished, burned clean by some inappropriate flame—a truly challenging test of cognition and reason.

It took Perturabo several minutes to process everything.

He gripped his Warhammer in one hand and manipulated the screens on the command platform with the other. Only a few screens were still lit, but that was enough for him to achieve his goal. After a brief conversation with Vulkan and Mortarion, he left.

The warship's wide corridors were now filled only with corpses. The bodies of crew members who had died of illness or Iron Warriors were piled up, filling the entire long corridor; everyone had fallen on the path forward.

Now, all that remains of activity here is the still-floating dust; even the flies and maggots have vanished.

The Lord of Iron strode past the astonishing horde of corpses, seemingly oblivious to their presence.

He entered the unlocked door of the auxiliary bridge through a hidden passage. His biometric code and his specially made identification lock verified his identity, and the door slowly opened. Inside, it remained silent and undisturbed.

About twenty crew members died beside the beeping array of Cogitator, and two Iron Warriors collapsed nearby, one already dead, the other still alive.

Perturabo approached the still-living person and slowly knelt down on one knee.

"Vitru Khao." He uttered his name, without the slightest wavering. "You will die."

"Yes," a member of the Fourth Legion replied reluctantly.

His eyes were almost melted, and his reactions were sluggish to a degree unbecoming of Astartes. It took half a minute after Perturabo called his name for Vitruvus Káo to use his remaining hearing to orient the Primarch.

His chest, which had been almost completely still, began to heave violently without the slightest hesitation, as if he had been gathering strength for this moment.

Thus, in the following passage, Vitru Kho of the 146th Iron Warriors completed his summary of the Primarch's battle reports without the slightest pause.

"We have placed the entire ship under martial law, but the engine room has fallen. The ship's communication channels have been destroyed, and we have been unable to contact the company commander and other Warsmith since then. The number of survivors on board is unknown; the only certainty is that the traitors are still continuing their attack."

"We managed to complete the overall ship status check via the Cogitator array on the auxiliary bridge. All engines are offline, and the Void Shield is out of energy and cannot be activated. Eleven of the ship's gun emplacements are still operational; perhaps there are still people resisting there."

"I understand. Well done, Vitru," Perturabo said softly. "You have performed your duty admirably, clad in iron armor, Iron Within, Iron Without."

The Iron Warriors slowly widened his completely melted eyes, and a murky liquid, neither like blood nor tears, slid down his dirty cheeks.

He nodded.

Perturabo slowly stood up.

He put the Warhammer down temporarily, leaning it against the dead man. There were black bloodstains and several handprints on the wall, which the Warhammer conveniently concealed.

The Lord of Iron gave himself no time to recover; he strode toward the Cogitator array and began attempting to repair the ship's communications.

The matter did not go smoothly; less than five minutes into the operation, Perturabo realized that he could not restore communications under the circumstances.

We need to find another way.

Remaining calm and holding this conclusion in mind, the Lord of Iron turned around and returned to the command platform on the auxiliary bridge. He pulled a neural cable from inside his armor and inserted it into the command platform through an external interface.

A massive stream of data, so corrupted it was almost completely unusable, swept past his eyes, but Perturabo ignored it all and began to roam the world of data with lightning speed, piecing things together.

A dozen seconds later, he finally gathered the data and created a port that could be used temporarily. Through it, Perturabo was able to temporarily change the function of the command console and immediately update his tactical map.

He now had complete control over the area inside the Iron Blood that could still be detected. A soft green light illuminated Perturabo's face, causing him to slowly open his eyes.

He glanced at the map, then walked over to Vitru, picked up his Warhammer, turned around, and strode away from the auxiliary bridge.

With all the engines offline, many doors inside the Iron Blood can no longer be opened by normal means. Fortunately, destruction is always easier than construction.

Moreover, not all doors are automatic; there will always be a few reliable mechanical doors waiting for him somewhere. However, moving on foot is still too slow inside a warship that is twenty kilometers long and full of twists and turns.

It took Perturabo twelve minutes and forty-six seconds to reach his first destination. He destroyed two walls and a half-destroyed door with his Warhammer, thus entering a bloody battle.

This is the fourth artillery position, where the battle is between the Iron Warriors and a traitor from the Death Guard. The enemy clearly has the upper hand and is almost victorious, but the Lord of Iron has arrived.

Thus, in the blink of an eye, what seemed like victory turned into a complete rout.

In just a few rounds, Perturabo had the traitors decimated.

The body, modified and proliferated by the disease, could not remain intact under the Warhammer. This time, the Primarch's immune system firmly kept out the putrid air and those ubiquitous viruses.

The Lord of Iron didn't even use the portable weapon platform installed inside his armor; he simply swung his Warhammer and wiped them all out.

The entire process was devoid of any intention to vent anger; every movement was executed with precision, speed, and absolute ruthlessness. Never before had he been so extreme and awe-inspiring.

"Narik Dregul." Having killed the last one, Perturabo turned around, his Warhammer still dripping blood, and called out the name of the commander of the remaining force. "How many men do you have left?"

"Twenty-six, Primarch," the person whose name was called answered with difficulty.

How are you feeling physically?

"We're almost all running a fever." Narik Dregul quickly got into the swing of things, answering questions clearly as if he'd never been sick. "There's also varying degrees of dizziness and weakness, but we can still fight, and we're gradually getting better."

Perturabo didn't answer immediately; he simply stared intently at Narik Dregur. His gaze was peculiar, unlike that of the Lord of Iron. Narik Dregur was stunned; it was the Primarch's voice that brought him back to his senses.

"Very good." The commander of the Fourth Legion nodded slightly, then turned around. "Keep it up, follow me. We need to regroup and abandon ship."

"Abandon ship?" Narik Dregur and the warriors behind him were taken aback. "Primarch, I beg you for an explanation."

"The Iron Blood has been corrupted. These corpses and the diseases that shouldn't be present on you are the best evidence." Perturabo stopped in his tracks, surprisingly agreeing with him.

His actions did not have a calming effect; instead, they made the remaining warriors even more confused and panicked—what situation required an explanation from the Lord of Iron?

He hates explanations the most.

Perturabo could see their reactions, but he ignored them and continued his story.

"Moreover, its engines have completely failed. Repairing the engines and getting it moving again under these circumstances is virtually impossible. We must abandon ship and transfer to another warship that can serve as our flagship. Although we have never fought a war like this before, this war still needs us."

He turned his head slightly, and the pale white Radiance of the temporary emergency light could only illuminate half of the Primarch's face. His expression was very calm, but it looked strange because of the light.

"This war, and many wars to come, will require our help."

Perturabo slowly uttered his last words.

"And within the Imperium, who else but the Iron Warriors can shoulder this great responsibility? Only we can be called Iron, only we can resist the flames that will soon scorch the entire galaxy. We will accept its forging and tempering, we will become the very annihilation of humanity's enemies."

"That's the explanation you wanted, Narik Dregul. I'm done."

The Lord of Iron finished his explanation, abruptly turned his head, picked up his Warhammer, and strode into the darkness.

"Clad in iron armor, Iron Within, Iron Without!" Narik Dregur roared, immediately following his Primarch, with the other twenty-five close behind.

--

Hatred is a bitter form of depravity, yet it is a path one willingly chooses to tread.

Unlike ordinary emotions, hatred is the most extreme emotion of humans or any other intelligent species. It is colder than anger, more fervent than desire, and far surpasses the madness that love can reach.

It can turn a long-time coward into a ruthless butcher in a single moment, or cause lovers to turn against each other, siblings to kill each other, and parents and children to turn against each other.

In essence, it is distorted. But it is also indispensable. However, what happens to a person who is exposed to such an extreme emotion for a long time?

Karyl forced himself to open his eyes little by little, returning to the real world.

Deep within Terra, in a cave carved out of the earth, the frigid air trembled, welcoming his return. Laerhe, quiet and obedient, draped itself over him, offering protection he didn't need, yet which it insisted on providing.

Finally, he began to breathe again. As he did so, the blade of a spear appeared in the dark cave, gleaming with a golden Radiance, as intense as flames in the sky.

Constantine Valdor thrust his weapon forward without looking to the side, striking precisely the area not concealed by the shadows. Golden light shimmered faintly beneath his armor.

Laerhe was furious and grabbed the Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal by the neck, intending to end his life, but Karyl grabbed him and pulled him back.

The shadow retreated resentfully into the gaps in his armor, and it seemed unlikely that it would emerge anytime soon.

Thank you.

Karyl ignored it; he was hoping it would be quiet for a while. He looked at Constantine Valdor and solemnly expressed his gratitude to the Grand Marshal of the Adeptus Custodes.

"Thank you so much for waiting for me here, Constantine."

"It's just my duty, no need for thanks." The Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal nodded calmly, showing no emotional reaction to what had just happened.

He sheathed his spear and looked down at it. The weapon, which had once gleamed, now appeared much dimmer. After careful observation, the Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal drew a conclusion.

It can only evoke your memory once at most.

"That's enough," Karyl replied with a smile. "To achieve such a level of skill from a mere spare part is something I never expected. It seems he truly is the world's best craftsman when he has the time."

Constantine Valdor's lips twitched slightly.

"Yes," he admitted. "That's true, my lord. But you should know better than I that memories carry humanity. How much longer can you continue to act so recklessly, Karyl Lohars?"

"Until I've finished all of this."

Constantine Valdor remained silent.

Although he was ordered by the Emperor to wait here, he did feel a surge of curiosity when he received the order—he rarely felt curious, and most of the time, he only needed anger and calmness.

The latter was the weapon he always used, while the former was a flawed outburst. He wouldn't let himself fall into anger unless absolutely necessary. Curiosity, on the other hand, was a weapon that Constantine rarely allowed himself to be curious, as it was a convenient tool for his lord.

But he couldn't help but be curious; the matter was simply too unbelievable. Even someone as broken as him couldn't help but feel a thirst for knowledge.

"Why?" he suddenly asked earnestly.

Such a sudden and abrupt ending should have raised questions, but after a moment's thought, Karyl provided an answer.

"Because I want to." He slowly sat down, returning to the stone chair, his smile unchanged. "Perhaps foolish, perhaps incomprehensible, but it's simply because I want to do it. Of course, if you insist on a reasonable explanation..."

He pondered for a moment, then made a gesture.

"I've been in the dark for too long." Karyl's smile faded as he slowly put on the mask. A flash of anger flickered across his face where it met the mask. Constantine stared at him intently, his expression shifting from calm to solemn.

He began to wait for his final words.

"I know all too well what it feels like to be in the dark. No one should have to endure it; it's terrifying, worse than death. And now I happen to possess a flame that can dispel the darkness. How can you expect me to resist using it?"

Smiling, Karyl lowered his hand; the mask had completely replaced his shattered face.

Constantine Valdor bowed silently, then turned and left.

Only one update today. I need to adjust my thinking and write the rest of the plot. I feel like I haven't been in great shape lately, and my writing has been a bit off.