Burning of Five Hundred Worlds (Seventeen)

If you don't know where the enemy is, just fire in any direction. Wasting bullets is better than standing still and waiting to die. An incompetent brute is always better than a cowardly idiot.

This is an old proverb, and it's undoubtedly extreme. But, on a few occasions, it really does work.

As for Dantioch, he knew where the enemy was, so he had to fire into the sky, even if it was inefficient.

A swarm of screaming insect Daemon was wreaking havoc in the sky. They were not large in size, but their numbers were enormous. Intense flames were reflected in their repulsive compound eyes, and the most lethal Salamanders were temporarily unable to deal with them.

The warriors of Nocturne, together with their company commander, were blocking the starting point of the demonic tide. Phosphex flames seemed to erupt endlessly in the deepest part of the black mist, accompanied by their impassioned battle roars.

The Death Guard followed closely behind, and in the cold, thick fog, Garro and his brothers fought with frenzied ferocity against a dozen or so abnormally strong minotaur Daemon.

The agony of losing their Primarch finally found an outlet at this moment. These people, who were once obedient and disciplined, now fought like madmen, engaging in a bloody battle with no intention of retreating. They no longer obeyed orders, and only the simplest wish remained in their hearts.

The Iron Warriors and Ultramarines fought side by side, their discipline highly similar, creating a synergy greater than the sum of its parts. On the outermost edge of the battle line, they sealed off any monsters that had slipped through, and ventured deep into the fog to support the others.

With such concerted efforts, the demonic tide was unable to advance an inch for a time, and was firmly locked here by their flesh and blood.

Tarasha Euten had already gone to take refuge ahead of everyone else. No one wanted her to stay here, and the housekeeper herself understood this. As soon as the battle began, she moved into the underground shelter under the protection of Forrix and a small squad of the Victrix Guard.

Dantioch was very relieved that they had made preparations to escort her away in advance. Now that they were free, they could finally unleash their full power. No one wanted the lady to get hurt in the slightest.

"Sky!" Dantioch shouted, and fired immediately. He didn't need to say anything more; the Ultramarines would understand his meaning from those few words.

Sure enough, before Dantioch and his brothers' gunfire had even subsided, several Ultramarines' grenades were thrown up. The Iron Warriors tacitly shifted their fire, and explosive grenades followed closely behind.

The next instant, a burst of intense flames erupted from the ceiling of the hall, shattering the stained glass windows and sending countless insect corpses raining down. Most were already charred, with only a few still twitching, which Dantioch had already crushed under his foot.

He initially thought these insects were the same ones he had encountered before, but looking at the corpses, he realized that they were probably not the same as what he had seen before.

This Daemon is like a combination of a dragonfly and sharp claws; while equally ferocious, it lacks that repulsive quality. Does this mean that there are actually many kinds of Daemon?

This incident struck Dantioch as utterly absurd, yet he did not cease his killing spree.

He lowered his gun, gripped the hammer with both hands, and engaged a small group of Daemon that had broken through the Death Guard's lines. Their distance and speed of approach meant he could no longer aim; he had to close the distance immediately.

These Daemon were entirely crimson, their skin gleaming with rising patterns, as bright as lava. Dantioch swung his hammer and killed the first Daemon, and then he could not stop.

The instant the hammer smashed that hideous head, he heard a mournful roar that seemed to come from the eternal darkness.

In an instant, amidst the blood splattering from the killing and the satisfaction of desire, all the emotions burning in his heart were transformed into a pure indignation, a primal and simple hatred.

Why should it be my brothers, my cousins, who die, and not you? Why should Lord Mortarion have to lose his life to protect us? Why did you betray us?

No, the reason doesn't matter anymore, you don't deserve to live.

Reason and perception were cast aside at this moment; the desire for Vengeance had never surged so intensely, and he could not suppress it at all.

"Today is today, "Dantioch thought furiously. "Today is today. There's no need to wait any longer. He will seek Vengeance —for his dead brothers, for his dead cousins, for the dead Primarch Mortarion!"

He roared and swung his Warhammer, advancing in carnage, breaking flesh and bones, with his brothers and cousins close behind. Everyone seemed to have gone mad at that moment. Discipline was abandoned, as were tactics; only broken roars that didn't form sentences could be heard on the communication channel.

They were like people mired in a quagmire, a group of fanatical blind men completely unable to calm down, only concerned with waving their arms and killing to the death. The blood of Daemon or their own gradually splattered on the ground, and the fog began to grow thicker and thicker.

This is the scene that greeted Perturabo and his reinforcements when they arrived.

The Lord of Iron's expression quickly turned cruel. He issued orders for his troops to be stationed along the hall while simultaneously trying to search for those who still had their senses through the communication channels.

He received only a few replies; the rest were roars, making communication impossible. This scene made his throat tighten, and a terrible suspicion arose in his mind.

No, that's impossible. He's in Terra. There's still a chance.

Taking a deep breath, Perturabo quickly switched communication channels and contacted Vulkan, who told him bad news in a very serious tone.

"I have received many eyewitness reports from those Word Bearers; they seem to have somehow reached the surface of Macragge."

"Then proceed according to the original plan," the Lord of Iron said coldly. "Now that they're already inside the city, begin the third phase of the plan immediately. Activate the first line of defense; you know what to do, Vulkan. If necessary, I suggest you halt the evacuation of civilians."

"."

"Do you understand, Vulkan?"

"I will do my best," the Lord of Drakes replied in a low voice, without directly answering Perturabo's request "if necessary."

The Lord of Iron snorted coldly, as if he had anticipated this.

"I understand your reluctance. In short, don't put yourself in danger. This battle will likely last a long time, and if you die, the front will have an irreparable weakness unless you can get back up as soon as you fall. If you can't, we'll have to pay for your death with many more lives."

Vulkan smile, "Why are you making so many demands of me lately, brother?"

"Because I have high expectations of you," Perturabo said calmly. "Don't die, or I will hold you accountable."

He hung up the call, switched channels again, and set up a broadcast that repeats every thirty seconds.

His icy voice began to echo continuously in the channel, and the number of responders increased, but it was still pitifully small compared to the total number of the garrison. The demonic tide showed no signs of dissipating, and the fog even began to thicken.

Perturabo looked up at the shattered ceiling. Through the blasted hole, he glimpsed the sky over Macragge. The gloomy, dark color, combined with the heavy, unpleasant clouds, made the viewer's heart feel heavy.

Finally, the Lord of Iron lost all patience.

"You bunch of idiots!" he roared, clearly enraged, but then he strolled into the thick fog.

His reason was not affected; on the contrary, the cold sensation made him even clearer.

In the fog, he began trying to wake everyone—it wouldn't be easy, but he had to. Otherwise, how could he hold this precarious line of defense with a bunch of raving lunatics?

The defenders' strength was ultimately limited; they had long since moved beyond the stage of using human lives as mere numbers in the war. Karyl Lohars's fists might have caused pain, but what pain could compare to the pain he himself had swallowed?

Admitting a mistake takes only a day, but its impact is profound enough to change the fate of countless people.

Never before has Perturabo been so aware of the responsibility he carries, and never before has he felt so fulfilled.

In a daze, he smelled the fragrance of tulips.

"I was born for this," he thought. "What use is steel if it doesn't bear heavy responsibilities? I am much harder than that damned rock."

Clad in steel armor, with a heart of iron, nothing can break him.

--

Vulkan took a deep breath. The wind howled and wailed across the ground, carrying with it the sounds of battle. This was supposed to be the clarion call of war, but it was mixed with the filthy stench unique to the Warp. Clearly, the Word Bearers were up to their damned old tricks again.

However, the city of Macragge boasts numerous wide roads, providing excellent conditions for the Ultramarines' heavy vehicle attacks. Although the Word Bearers' assault was overwhelming, tanks and armored vehicles from various military camps had already set out.

Even if they can summon Daemon, so what?

In essence, given enough firepower, even Daemon is nothing more than a pile of minced meat.

Moreover, the allied defenders were deeply wary of the attack from the very beginning. All these factors combined should have made Vulkan optimistic about the future course of the battle—yes, he should have been.

However, the Lord of Drakes knew in his heart that things would not end so simply.

There may be many reasons, perhaps even thousands. Vulkan could easily write a book analyzing why he had this premonition, but if he had to choose the most important reason, he would say it was that Lorgar Aurelian had not appeared.

The Primarch of the Word Bearers would never miss such an opportunity to personally descend upon Macragge and wreak havoc.

So where are you, Lorgar?

Wielding his Warhammer, the Lord of Drakes strode forward and joined the battle.

Update complete. This chapter is 3k words long. I owe 1k words, which I'll pay back when I wake up.