82 Burning of Five Hundred Worlds (I)

Lorgar Aurelian once said that he would burn every one of the Five Hundred Worlds.

Ionid Hill thought he was talking nonsense.

The company commander of the 135th Ultramarines stretched out his arm from behind cover and unleashed a barrage of fire on the stinking bastards.

The explosive round was propelled, spiraling out of the chamber with a burst of flame. The muzzle should have risen, but thanks to its excellent design and Hill's deliberate control, it didn't move an inch. He didn't stop until he had emptied an entire magazine, then retreated behind cover.

The other combat comrades in the company immediately stepped up, making the rain of death never stop.

But it's a hybrid.

Hill was somewhat surprised by his own description of them in his mind, yet he couldn't help but let out a cold laugh inside his helmet because of the vulgar yet unexpectedly accurate words.

Yes, a bastard.

What word could be more fitting to describe the so-called Auxilia of the Word Bearers?

Tattoos etched on his forehead, draped in human skin, wielding filthy daggers and weapons. Neither human nor ghost, forever emerging from the chilling, piercing mist. Obsessed with every possible killing, shouting blasphemous prayers.

However, besides the fact that they were bastards, Ionid Hill knew something else.

In other words, the more of these bastards die, the stronger the thing that will emerge from their corpses will be. This is practically a blasphemous law of nature that you cannot change, resist, or refuse; you can only accept it.

So that's how it is. The Word Bearers release them at the very beginning of each battle. These people might be cult members they've recruited from some remote world, or they might be civilians they've captured and brainwashed along the way. It doesn't matter.

Because they would strap bombs to their bodies, shouting fanatical slogans as they charged at every Ultramarines or Midnight Blade they could see, without the slightest hesitation.

Sure, you can kill them, and do so as effortlessly as slaughtering livestock. You can hack them with a knife, dismember them, turn them into pieces and charred remains with bombs or flamethrowers, smash their heads with your fists, run them over with tank tracks, or blast them to pieces with railguns. And then they'll come back.

They will return, in another way, in a way that completely contradicts the Imperial Truth.

Their mutilated bodies or bones would swell up, the blood that had seeped into the soil would begin to glow eerily, and the eight-pointed star tattoos on their bodies would hiss. Then, Daemon would be born from their corpses.

The Daemon, Ionid Hill, sighed in despair. "Imperial Truth, where are you?"

Regardless of the lament, he had indeed witnessed this scene hundreds of times, so he and his company did not take advantage of the heavy casualties among the bastards to rush out of their cover and advance forward.

Since Calth left, Hill's past knowledge and experience of war are being rapidly forgotten. He throws himself wholeheartedly into this new war, eagerly absorbing the blood-stained experiences and lessons, and summarizing new theoretical models and empirical knowledge from them.

Such keen awareness of war might not be a good thing; it only reveals some of his flawed nature. But at this moment, who would care? Roboute Guilliman even wanted Hill to come to the Macragge's Honour after each battle to give him a personal report.

Hill sighed and continued his wait.

His eyepiece reflected the vibrant, colorful sky, seemingly beautiful, yet representing a blasphemous storm that could not be looked at directly. Every now and then, blinding flashes would erupt from the farthest reaches of this sky, each flash representing an explosion on the orbit.

After waiting, the soldiers of the 135th Company finally heard the sound they had been waiting for a few minutes later. It was a teeth-grinding crunching sound, as if someone were rubbing two pieces of metal together.

Hill lowered his head, and the readings on his goggles began to change rapidly. The temperature plummeted, and frost and ice appeared in the corners of the battlefield, but the flames still burned, crackling. Behind the bunker where Hill and his company were located, a low, faint humming sound spread, followed by a cloud of mist.

The demonic tide is coming.

Emerging from the mist, each Daemon was as eerie as a nightmare; sometimes they were Shadow, sometimes a Shadow entwined in darkness, sometimes canine beasts with fangs. They had no fixed form, yet all were incredibly bloodthirsty.

Hill calmly raised his gun and pulled the trigger; facing such a number of enemies, he didn't need to aim. At the same time, he issued orders through the tactical channel.

Thus, on the flanks of the battlefield, the heavy firepower units, which had been waiting for a long time, began to unleash their fury. Giant metallic Shadow swooped down from the sky, and Storm Eagle and their pilots dropped every bomb they carried with extreme killing fervor.

Flames soared into the sky, waves of heat rolled in, accompanied by a horrifying stench. This was the smell of Daemon flesh, enough to render any breathing grilles or defensive measures useless. Hill smelled it again, but felt no relief whatsoever.

He knew this did not signify victory.

It took them a full six hours and forty-two minutes, until it was almost dark, before they finally killed every single Daemon.

--

"Tell Sevatar I want him to take that ship within three hours." Xianni frowned and solemnly conveyed his order—or rather, demand—to a Servitor.

"I want to see every Word Bearers on that cruiser killed before the ground war ends, their heads stacked up. No, I was joking."

He relaxed his furrowed brows and casually patted the Servitor on the shoulder. "Don't tell him that, that kid might actually do it."

The Servitor looked at him in confusion and staggered away. A few minutes later, Xianni received a voice message on his communication channel.

"Understood," Jago Sevatarion said hoarsely. "I will cut off the heads of every Word Bearers and arrange them in the shape of your name, Xianni from Terra."

Xianni squinted, sent a message filled with Terra slang, and left the boarding deck of the Soul of Night to begin a series of complex but necessary procedures.

First came the standard checks of the Power Armour and weapons, conducted by two Techmarine who were quite unfriendly to Xianni and Sevatar. Then came the medical examination by the medic; although the Power Armour didn't need to be removed, the whole process was still quite a test of patience.

Xianni considered himself to have a good temper, so he endured it until the medic from the Third Company mocked him for the fifth time before he finally snapped.

"Are you ever going to stop?!"

"Don't make a scene, dear unarmed combat champion." The medic smiled slightly at him. "I wasn't the one who fractured your left wrist, but I really do want to ask, how exactly did you fracture your wrist while using the power claw? It doesn't require your wrist to bear any weight."

"Is it any of your business if I occasionally turn off the disintegration field to kill people?!"

"Um"

The physician pondered for a moment, then shook his head, his expression somewhat intriguing.

"This is not within my jurisdiction, but have you reported this to the Techmarine? Do they know you've violated the weapons use regulations again? The power claw is a Power Weapon, Champion. If you really enjoy the feel of a solid blade cutting through enemy flesh, why not use Chainsword?"

"."

Xianni wisely kept his mouth shut and chose to remain silent.

Several minutes later, the medical officer finally let him go.

As for his fractured wrist, neither he nor the physician actually considered it a serious matter. Seconds after the fracture, Xianni had already straightened his crooked wrist himself. It would likely heal in a few hours.

With a gloomy face, he made his way up to the bridge of the Soul of Night, where his company commander, Van Cleef, had been waiting for him for some time.

Outside the massive eight portholes directly in front of the bridge, the aftershocks of several warships' explosions were still slowly spreading, illuminating the entire bridge as if it were being directly hit by the sun. Although this did not stop the crew of the Soul of Night from continuing their work, some Nostramo crew members had been forced to put on sunglasses.

Looking directly at bright light is extremely painful for the Nostramo people, and can cause blindness lasting for weeks or even complete blindness.

Xianni walked through a group of crew members carrying documents and past four Servitor repairing a Cogitator array before finally crossing the busy bridge and arriving behind Van Cleef.

The company commander, with his back to him, tossed a Dataslate over without turning his head. It displayed an order directly from Roboute Guilliman.

"Another meeting?" Xianni sighed deeply after reading it. "Spare me."

"You don't have to go," Van Cleef said casually. "I don't care if you miss this post-war meeting, Xianni, since you can't offer any advice anyway. All the other officers are speaking enthusiastically, except for you, and Sevatarion Leon. You two, mentor and apprentice, always prefer to maintain a precious silence."

"Mollez can go in my place," Xianni suggested, feigning ignorance. "He's the best talker."

He's already gone for you three times.

"So what's wrong with going again?"

Van Cleef finally turned around; his high cheekbones, thin lips, and sinister eyes made his gaze appear extremely dangerous. And Xianni knew in his heart that his company commander was indeed extremely dangerous.

"Alright." The Eighth Legion's five-time consecutive unarmed combat champion sighed. "I'll go."

"Not only that," Van Cleef said. "I also need you to be prepared to speak; I have a tactical plan that's not convenient for me to propose myself."

One more chapter, and I'd also like to recommend this book.