Burning of Five Hundred Worlds (V)

You think this is the end, don't you?

You think that burning every world is the end, the end of crime, but human imagination has no limit.★★It's funny, in terms of killing, we really have no end.

Ultimately, perhaps it's because the human body is too fragile that the methods of killing suddenly proliferated: poison gas, bombing, burying alive, or forcing them to kill each other. Even the Astartes could be wounded by blades. What use are blades and armor then?

We have the protection of the gods.

"Yeah," Sevatar said. "But I fucking have this."

He pulled the trigger, Boltgun burst into a brilliant, bright flame in the dimly lit cabin.

One of the Word Bearers staggered back a few steps, blood gushing from his tattered armor, but he was not dead. His face still bore a pure and primal evil as the Chainsword whistled as it slashed toward him.

Sevatar dodged to the side, simultaneously throwing his empty Boltgun, causing his enemy to stumble again. That one step was enough for him.

Roaring, the First Reserve delivered a vicious kick that twisted the Word Bearers's left knee, followed by a punch that landed precisely on his jaw. The bone cracked with a crisp sound, but he was still not satisfied. After punching the Chainsword away, he grabbed the loosely drooping jaw with both hands.

"Crack--!"

Blood splattered out, and Sevatar gave a satisfied, cold laugh. His helmet was covered in blood, even the visors were blurred, gleaming with a dim red light.

The Word Bearers waved his hands, trying to get rid of him, but not only did he fail, he also incurred greater suffering.

Grasping the chin, Sevatar began to beat its master with it, again and again, the dull thuds echoing continuously. He continued beating until the Word Bearers's head was completely deformed, swollen like a crushed fruit before he stopped.

"Go on," Sevatar released his grip, letting the bits of flesh and meat from his chin slide out of his gauntlet.

He turned around and picked up his Boltgun and chainsaw as if talking to himself.

"Go on, you bastard, keep spouting your theories about torture and divine protection."

He changed to a new magazine and stepped over the corpse.

"Where are your gods?" he asked with a forced smile, staring into the darkness. "Call them out, won't you?"

The corpse did not answer, nor could it, but there were many living Word Bearers on the ship. Half a minute later, he killed the three Word Bearers who tried to answer.

They were the forty-eighth, forty-ninth, and fiftieth, respectively. Their armor was extremely dirty and clearly lacked maintenance; it was a waste to put an MK3 on them.

Sweating profusely yet laughing maniacally, Sevatar dismembered them with his chainsaw, then immediately hurled a string of grenades. The narrow space was instantly filled with explosions and heatwaves, limbs flying everywhere, and a dozen or so slaves or Word Bearers Auxilia screamed as they rushed out of the flames.

Unfortunately, after braving the flames and traversing the forbidden zone of death, what they saw first was a sinister mask painted in the shape of a skull, and two red lights flashing in the darkness.

Sevatar gently pressed the start button on the chainsaw, and it seemed to be having a manic episode, the saw teeth spinning and the motor laughing maniacally.

The carnage has returned.

Sevatar didn't waste time on this group, but he did give his chainsaw a taste of its own medicine, letting each blade savor the blood of the traitors' depravity and blasphemy.

If this weapon truly Machine Spirit, it would surely forgive him for planting it in the ground all these days.

Of course, maybe not, but who cares?

Panting, Sevatar continued to approach the fourth engine room of the Battle Barge.

The Word Bearers' attack occurred approximately two hours ago. They emerged from an asteroid belt and launched an attack on the combined fleet of the Eighth Legion and Thirteenth Legion. The radar should have issued a warning, but the Word Bearers possessed Warp magic.

Yeah, they have everything. Except courage.

A bunch of cowards.

Sevatar was content to insult his enemy in his mind, but his hands didn't slow down at all. He ran along, leaving a little gift at every corner.

If any pursuers or fools try to pass through the traps he left behind, they will experience a barrage of explosions, and the Ceramite will be unable to protect them—just as Konrad Curze Curze put it.

Unfortunately, the galaxy is full of things that can easily destroy Ceramite, as the Lord of Blades said, and we happen to be mostly wearing Ceramite.

Sevatar laughed gleefully as he pulled the trigger, smashing the security lock on a heavy door, followed by several more slashes.

This didn't align with the principles of infiltration, but Sevatar didn't care about principles right now. The chilling psionic energy had faded from his body, and it didn't feel good.

Over the past forty-two days, he had grown accustomed to the convenience of psychic powers and the illusion of omnipotence they brought him, finding it much harder to accept loss than to accept gain.

He was lost in thought, his mind as chaotic as the environment of the Word Bearers' ship, and the Word Bearers responded to him—half a squad of traitors rushed out from around the corner of the corridor, the leader carrying a Phosphex flamethrower.

Sevatar raised an eyebrow, turned around, smashed through the door, and rushed into the engine room.

His communications channel was constantly ringing with urging and inquiries, most of which came from Mollez, the adjutant of the First Company. Clearly, the adjutant in charge of the operation was not entirely satisfied with his solo mission—but that was no big deal.

This is just a phase of dissatisfaction; there's still some time before it reaches the point of punishment. As long as he finishes his tasks, that's fine.

Sevatar raised his Boltgun and aimed at the array of Cogitator in the engine room, even in the mood to hum a tune. It was a nameless ballad from Nostramo, low, drawn-out, and somber, born of a legendary Vengeance spirit.

Sevatar loved the tune, but he rarely sang it. The song was good, but his voice wasn't.

Smiling, he pulled the trigger.

Seconds later, the roars of the Word Bearers were approaching from outside the door, but he calmly walked behind the broken door, quietly raised his chainsaw, and continued humming the ballad in his mind.

Flames had begun to spread inside the engine room, and the piercing alarm mingled with the unconscious wails of the Cogitator Array, making the sound even more unpleasant. Yet, Sevatar remained calm. He coldly held up his chainsaw, waiting.

Half a second later, flames shot straight in from the broken door.

"If you don't want to come out, then die in there, you rat hiding in the dark!" someone shouted from outside. "You'll die with the engine! I'll kill you first, then I'll kill every single one of your brothers!"

Sevatar narrowed his eyes and sighed silently. He was disappointed by the sudden return of the Word Bearers' intelligence and missed his own psionic powers.

If his talent hadn't been sealed away, then this half-squad's enemies would be nothing more than a thought away. He could freeze them with ease, then rush over and chop each one to pieces with his chainsaw.

Or, to be more straightforward, simply roast them alive, armor and all, with lightning, leaving them screaming or convulsing inside.

He has many ways to extricate himself from his current predicament, but all of these methods require one prerequisite: psychic power.

But he doesn't have psionic powers now.

Sevatar blinked, intending to try another way to break the deadlock, but then heard a discordant noise.

A dozen seconds later, a deafening explosion rang out, and smoke and dust billowed outside the gate.

What used to be the iron door to the engine room is now a deep pit. Broken cables are releasing electricity, and high-temperature steam is gushing out of the shattered pipes. Some mutilated flesh and blood hang from the ceiling or the floor, hissing.

The corpses of the Word Bearers had transformed into a more primitive form, resembling a dark red, repulsive mixture of bone fragments and armor shards.

Sevatar clicked his tongue, jumped over the crater, and left the engine room. But before he could even regain his footing, he was punched hard and knocked to the ground.

Mollez reached out and pulled him up, removed his helmet, and then threw another punch. This time it landed squarely on his nose, drawing blood and tears.

A physiological reaction caused Sevatar to stumble back a step, clutching his broken nose, looking quite disheveled. The adjutant gave him a cold look and then handed the helmet to a Night Lords standing behind him.

"Hello, great hero," the adjutant greeted gently. "How does it feel to abandon your brothers and battle plans to become a lone hero?"

"I didn't abandon them, I just changed the battle plan," Sevatar mumbled. "Didn't you see? I uploaded it to—"

"--Yes, yes, I saw it, Sevatarion, you idiot." Mollez interrupted him impatiently, shoving him against the wall and straightening his nose.

Sevatar remained silent, obediently allowing him to inflict more pain.

"You know you deserve this, don't you?" Mollez asked.

"Yes." Sevatar nodded. "It won't happen again, I promise."

"It doesn't matter." The adjutant forced a smile. "Everyone loses control sometimes, especially us. We'll all completely lose control someday, so it's really nothing."

He turned and walked away, Sevatar immediately caught up with him. A helmet was thrown at him, which he caught and hung on his belt.

"I'm serious," Sevatar said.

"Whatever, Sevatarion." Mollez glanced at him calmly.

"I learned something very early on: war can change everything, but it can't change a person's character. Take our company commander, for example. After all these years, has his rigidity and seriousness ever faded? Or take Xianni, who's always pushing his luck, and then there's you."

What's wrong with me?

"You'll be tormented forever," the adjutant chuckled sarcastically.

"Your reason always tells you what's right, but sometimes your emotions will ask you to go down a path completely opposite to reason, and then there's your damned chatter."

"Going against the grain is always pleasurable, and that's why you'll continue to suffer like this, Sevatarion. So I don't believe your bullshit that there won't be a next time. Once it happens, it will happen again, and once it happens, it will happen a third time."

Sevatar silently and cautiously expressed her objection. It was a very gentle head shake, which, of course, did not escape Mollez's eyes.

The adjutant glanced at him with slight displeasure, then casually drew his Boltgun and fired three shots at a Word Bearers corpse on the ground: two from the heart and one from the brain. Blood and flesh splattered everywhere, and he stopped and crouched down.

"I don't like lecturing," he said coldly. "So, let's get down to business. Come here, Sevatarion."

The first reserve officer approached with his head down and eyes lowered.

"Look." Mollez held up a finger, pointing with disgust at a mass of dark flesh. "That's his brain, at least it used to be. What kind of brain is black, Sevatarion?"

"Traitor."

"Only half right." Mollez put away the Boltgun, hung it back on his thigh, and then reached for his combat dagger.

He used the tip of his blade to pry up the mass of flesh, while the Night Lords methodically carried out their cleanup in the darkness—yes, if you ask, they would carry out a policy of complete annihilation on every Word Bearers.

"Only a completely corrupted traitor could do this," the lieutenant whispered. "The corruption of the Warp is a gradual process, at least in most cases. It's like a spring drizzle; you only realize it's coming when you feel its coolness on your neck, and by then, it's too late."

"Your words actually sound somewhat poetic," Sevatar said in surprise.

The adjutant sighed in annoyance, "What did I just say?"

You said the erosion of Warp is like a spring drizzle.

"No, I'd say your mouth sometimes really deserves to be cursed," Mollez said coldly.

"The Word Bearers can fob themselves off with their so-called 'divine blessing' theory, but we all know what things in the Warp look like. But even a premature baby born from the crossbreeding of an Ogryn and an Orks wouldn't be uglier than those things; they're horribly ugly."

Are you going off-topic?

Mollez laughed in exasperation, and swiftly thrust the dagger at Sevatar. The latter raised his hands, wisely keeping his mouth shut.

"Their corruption is deepening, Sevatarion," Mollez said. "And the Word Bearers see this as a blessing; they are fanatical believers to begin with, so now think about what a group of fanatical believers might do to please a god?"

He brandished the dagger again, and the gleaming tip showed the mass of flesh slowly sliding off.

There's one more chapter.

The late update was due to unforeseen circumstances; the author was hit by an electric scooter while going downstairs to pick up a package.