102 Burning of Five Hundred Worlds (12, 3k)
Roboute Guilliman struggled to define his current mood, barely able to find a suitable word to describe it. His vocabulary was so limited that it even reminded him of the day Conno died.
At that time, he was also unable to say anything, only knowing to keep reading Conno's manuscript. With his superhuman memory, he memorized the entire manuscript in just a few minutes, but still couldn't find a single word to describe his emotions.
So he began mechanically reciting those words, but when Tarasha Euten came to him after finishing her work, Roboute Guilliman could only tell her four words.
"I'm not doing well," that was all. That was the only sentence he said to Euten that day.
So, what about now? Is it still the same now?
"Am I really that bad?" Roboute Guilliman asked himself, muttering to himself. No one answered his question, because most people were busy cleaning up the battlefield.
The intense, bright light unique to Phosphex flames burned fiercely in the man-made pit, as transport vehicles relentlessly passed by, their tracks grinding against the muddy ground stained with filth and blood, making everything even worse.
The Ultramarines were clearly mourning, yet they couldn't stop their work. The contaminated corpses of local residents were being cremated, while those who had miraculously survived watched in trembling fear.
Acrid acid rain was falling from the sky, dripping into the eyes of a baby. She and her parents were nailed to a statue—a statue of Roboute Guilliman, erected spontaneously by the locals to commemorate his achievements.
He had once liberated this place, transforming it into one of the prosperous and fertile Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar. And now? Roboute Guilliman asked himself, asked himself with a piercing pain—and now?
He looked up, letting the acid rain slide down his face.
Not far away, Jago Sevatarion of the Midnight Blade was interrogating a Word Bearers whose hands and feet had been cut off, using extremely bloody methods.
The Word Bearers's skin was cut open, its thin layers lying like cicada wings along the edge of the open armor, while the internal organs and bones were neatly arranged on the other side, not yet completely rendered useless, not yet destroyed.
Roboute Guilliman even saw him gently plucking a delicate nerve in the traitor's right shinbone with the blade, a touch so light it was unbelievable. Like a tavern poet strumming a lyre. His blade was his finger, and the lyre was the lament of Word Bearers.
His posture was so elegant, like an artist sorting through the tools at his disposal. Yet, this artist felt no pride or love for his art, only disgust and endless coldness.
But
Roboute Guilliman smiled—a cruel smile rarely seen in the world. Even if Tarasha Euten were standing right in front of him, she probably wouldn't recognize who this blood-soaked, deathly-white-haired man was.
He walked over with satisfaction, took a step, and began to head in that direction. The drizzle brought the sorrow of the Word Bearers, which made him feel incredibly content and lighten his steps, so that the traitor, who was trapped in great pain, would not notice his arrival.
Sevatar saw him clearly, but her hands didn't stop moving; instead, she became even more focused.
He wiped his face with his free left hand, his dark eyes revealing no emotion.
The Nostramo people have a natural advantage in putting on a stern face. Their eyes can perfectly conceal most emotions, but the faint, cold smile on Sevatar's face still betrayed his current mood.
"Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock." He twisted his wrist again, using the tip of the knife to prick the nerve, causing it to tremble incessantly on the traitor's leg bone. The sound was soft, the trilled 'r' sound unruly and absurd.
"Have you thought it through? Time is slipping away, traitor, just like your life. However, you can choose to speak up and end this unprecedented suffering sooner. Of course, you can also be foolish and endure it to the very end. It's all up to you, traitor."
With a sneer, Sevatar bent down, bringing his face close to the peeled-off mask, and pretended to listen intently. He heard a faint breathing sound and some kind of hissing sound brewing in a throat.
Night Lords narrowed his eyes, raised his head, and spoke to Roboute Guilliman.
"He seems intent on enduring until death, Lord Roboute Guilliman."
"Is that so?" Roboute Guilliman asked expressionlessly.
"That's about it." Sevatar lowered his head, and the tip of the knife finally severed the tormented nerve.
The Word Bearers trembled violently, and its still-warm internal organs fell into its chest cavity with the tremor.
Sevatar clicked his tongue in disappointment, then sheathed his blade, stood at attention and saluted Roboute Guilliman before leaving.
He knew what a person looking to vent their anger usually looked like, and besides, Roboute Guilliman had no intention of hiding his emotions.
He slowly disappeared into the rain. Roboute Guilliman knew what he was going to do— the Night Lords would try to use their unique vision to filter out who could survive and who had to be executed.
→
This process was anything but pleasant, and they refused to allow any Ultramarines to participate.
In Van Cleef's words, this was "a small protection for your reason; we don't want you involved in such cruel decisions. Cruel things should be done by cruel people, like us." Roboute Guilliman had no objection to this; he was even somewhat grateful.
He understood the special duty of the Midnight Blade, and all the mystery surrounding this group had a reason. He knew that if they had a choice, they probably would never have acquired this power equivalent to judgment.
Roboute Guilliman approached the Word Bearers, bent down, and stared intently into those eyelidless eyes.
"Look at me." The Primarch growled, a beast-like growl emanating from his throat. "Beware this face, Word Bearers. I will not be the one to kill you, for your blood is unworthy to stain my blade."
He smiled with satisfaction, Word Bearers's eyes began to move, blood vessels pulsating in his gray pupils.
"But you will die in this acid rain, a worthless and dishonorable death. Lorgar Aurelian will despise you—I mean the real Lorgar Aurelian, not the imposter you are now following."
Roboute Guilliman knew that his outburst would only fuel his anger, but what other choice did he have? He couldn't remain rational all the time; he had to do something less than honorable to regain a greater sense of dignity.
But the Word Bearers stared intently at him, and Roboute Guilliman could see his thoughts—nothing more than sacrificing himself, yearning for the Daemon's arrival.
"You can't do it." Roboute Guilliman smiled with an unprecedented sardonicness. "What you obtained from the Warp has already been taken, and not by begging. They still stand tall, heads held high, while you have already knelt, groveling."
The Word Bearers opened his mouth, his tongue writhing inside his blood-filled oral cavity. Roboute Guilliman watched with satisfaction as he struggled, and after several seconds, the man lying on the ground, half-dead, uttered three words from his mangled mouth.
You lost.
Then he died.
I lost?
Roboute Guilliman stared at his corpse for a long time before slowly closing his eyes. The acid rain dripped coldly, failing to burn the Primarch's skin, only bringing a strange tingling sensation.
Yes, as that traitor said, Roboute Guilliman lost, and lost miserably. He did indeed wipe out the Word Bearers on this planet, utterly annihilating them in less than four hours, but what was the point?
This place has been destroyed, and the main force of the Word Bearers has long since left, heading towards other worlds.
However, losing doesn't mean you can't win.
Roboute Guilliman opened his eyes and took out a Dataslate from his waist. He flicked his fingers and grabbed a theoretical model from the floating projection. He then zoomed in on it until it expanded to cover the entire Ultramar star map.
The model matched perfectly with a galaxy located in the southern sector, whose capital was Andermung, a relatively obscure peripheral world, but still considered a capital.
And now, if his five-day, sleepless calculations have not gone wrong, then the Word Bearers are here.
At least the vast majority are here.
Roboute Guilliman had already given orders to clear every planet along their route to Andermung. The filth left by the Word Bearers had been completely wiped away, and the Phosphex flames had devoured everything, including the polluted ecosystems.
The path before the Combined Fleet is clear; no one can stop their Vengeance now.
It had been forty-seven days. Roboute Guilliman had calculated it perfectly—it had been forty-seven days since he left Calth, yet Calth's Ghost still haunted him. For so many days, he had been looking for an opportunity to pay tribute to them, and now he had finally found it.
"My lord." Marius Gage approached slowly, panting.
He certainly didn't come to find Roboute Guilliman on a whim. In fact, the First Chapter Master had been silently observing their Primarch somewhere on the battlefield.
He saw the theoretical calculation model that Roboute Guilliman had presented, and that's when he realized that the moment everyone had been waiting for had arrived.
The Chapter Master, his temples graying, looked at his Primarch with a weary yet invigorated expression. The Primarch lowered his hand and gave Marius Gage a not-so-gentle smile in response.
"Issue the order: all troops return to the ships," Roboute Guilliman said. "The target is Andermung, the enemy is the Word Bearers, and the objective is to exterminate them all, leaving no one alive."
His voice began to echo through the Combined Fleet's communication channels, like thunder, like war drums.
Finally finished writing! It was so tiring. I fell asleep while writing around 1 AM. If I hadn't woken up from the cold, I probably would have slept in my chair until tomorrow. Haha. This chapter is 3k words, the previous two chapters were 4k and 3.5k words respectively. I should have updated 11k words today, so I only owe 500 words. Okay, time for bed.