108 Burning of Five Hundred Worlds (18, 5k)

The Warhammer crashed down, the steel mercilessly smashing through the stinking fur and flesh, the bones refusing to succumb, shattering completely under the weight of the steel. 😲🏆 ☝🐨 The Daemon let out a low growl and collapsed to the ground, motionless.

A wisp of smoke rose from its corpse, but Perturabo ignored it, coldly trampling over it as he raised his hands high. A monster with a bull's head appeared before him in the next instant.

Its crimson skin was etched with corrupted patterns that flickered with its breath, and a skull ornament, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, was wrapped around its neck. It was strong and dangerous; few could rival the Primarch in size.

But the Lord of Iron still paid it little attention. He simply swung the Warhammer down, gripping the tail with his right hand and letting his left hand slide naturally down the handle. His power surged forth without reservation with this attack, causing the air to tremble like a volcanic eruption.

The Daemon roared and tried to dodge, but a shower of fire struck its eyes. The explosives cruelly shattered its face, flesh and blood engulfed in flames, and in that instant, its fate was sealed.

A mangled head flew off, along with half a spine. Perturabo calmly sheathed his weapon, but didn't stop. The Warhammer whistled as it rotated his wrist, slamming into another hunting dog that was trying to ambush him.

It immediately convulsed and sank into the ground, its entire body split in two by the Warhammer.

"Move closer to me," Perturabo said.

His voice was utterly calm, as if he were completely indifferent to the bloody and gleeful slaughter—and that was indeed the case.

"I'm trying, Primarch." Dantioch's hoarse voice came through the communication channel; the Warsmith sounded as if he had been seriously ill.

More voices followed, coming from the channel. There were Ultramarines, Salamanders, and Death Guard. Their voices were either extremely weak or so fanatical that every word seemed to bleed.

And this is probably just the most insignificant effect, the Lord of Iron thought ruthlessly.

If the Veil of reality continues to be torn apart, if this spiral of hatred continues to spread, what will become of things? Once the targets of Vengeance are slaughtered or vanished, who will the crazed Vengeance turn their blades upon next?

"Your attempt can only be described as futile, Dantioch," Perturabo said. "You're still affected by that emotion, as are you— the Ultramarines, the Salamanders, the Death Guard."

"It's laughable that you're all blinded by hatred. So many renowned warriors are behaving like rookie recruits, so easily abandoning discipline and tactics."

"I'm sorry, Primarch," the Warsmith said with difficulty. "I'm approaching you."

The others remained undeniably silent, shame spreading through the channel; they all knew what they had done— Perturabo's accusations were entirely correct and far from insulting.

In fact, if they were to evaluate this matter themselves, the language they would use would probably be a thousand times more intense than that of the Lord of Iron.

"Try to eliminate your emotions," Perturabo offered his help as he continued toward the Death Guard.

He remained focused, utterly focused. He could even wade through a knee-deep river of blood while simultaneously monitoring the current battlefield situation through the neural connections within his armor.

"Try to treat this as necessary work, part of saving the world, rather than a gratifying Vengeance journey. The dead don't need your help to Vengeance them."

He smashed through the mist, stepped over the shattered corpses of Daemon and Astartes, and finally arrived before the Death Guard. There were quite a few of them, and they were fighting side by side with their company commander Garro.

For an ordinary commander, this would be good news, but for Perturabo, it only made his expression grow colder.

They were facing together a colossal Daemon, its body enormous, resembling a giant worm, but its joints and limbs were composed of an endless number of human hands.

It moves and attacks using these hands. Black mist lingers and spreads behind it. Terrifying ripples, detached from the mundane world, slowly spread within it, adding more chilling evidence of the Daemon's existence.

For example, its enormous body, comparable to a tank, and the human face stitched onto its deformed body.

Their screams were really loud.

Perturabo calmly raised his left hand; the dangling Boltgun finally came in handy. Although it wasn't as powerful as his original double-row parallel precision Boltgun, it was sufficient.

He pulled the trigger, emptying the magazine. Twenty-four explosive rounds spun out of the chamber one after another, hitting the Daemon the Death Guard were facing. But they didn't cause any real damage. Seeing this, the Lord of Iron immediately changed his mind.

He began to stride forward, and finally, one of the Death Guard noticed him—and the man looked extremely surprised, as if he had never received a communications broadcast from the Lord of Iron before.

Garro quickly spotted him as well. The combat company commander gritted his teeth, but had no chance to speak. He was at the forefront of the battle and couldn't spare any hands to do anything else. The Daemon's body might be so large as to be clumsy, but its hands were anything but.

They are guided by nerve-like bright red veins, allowing them to remain stationary or suddenly launch attacks, making it difficult to predict their intentions. More importantly, they are virtually endless.

For example, at this moment, Garro had clearly used his greatsword to cut down dozens of pale hands with a single strike, achieving remarkable results, but in the next second, he was forced to defend himself with his sword held horizontally by even more attackers.

Amidst the screams of the human faces, those hands excitedly grasped his greatsword, their fingers striking the steel relentlessly. The disintegrating force field reduced their flesh to nothingness, but to no avail; their sheer number rendered ordinary weapons completely ineffective.

Perturabo took in the whole scene. He narrowed his eyes and approached the enormous Daemon from the side. Some of the thousands of faces saw him, their eyelids cut off, staring intently at the Lord of Iron, shrieking.

Perturabo announced his arrival with a series of violent explosions, also serving as a warning to the noisy faces.

His threatening display caused the Daemon's bulky body to tremble briefly; clearly, even something as terrifying as it was could not remain unmoved by the explosion of twelve Melta Grenade strung together.

Perturabo gave a cold laugh, and his long stride turned into a rapid sprint. The Death Guard immediately realized his tactical intentions, and for some reason, they were able to think for a brief moment after Perturabo's arrival.

So, under Garro's leadership, they began to redouble their efforts to draw the Daemon's attention. The tactical objective might have been easily achieved, but winning the battle was by no means easy.

The Lord of Iron charged toward the Daemon, but didn't even bother to lift his Warhammer. He knew that ordinary attacks were nothing more than a tickle to something of this size, and unless he used heavy weapons or had sufficient firepower, he would have to find some risky ways to win.

Amidst the screams of the human-faced Daemon, Perturabo charged into the black mist behind it.

No one knows what he did, but in the midst of a series of violent explosions as loud as lightning, Garro discovered that the Daemon's body was rapidly shrinking like a deflated balloon.

Before long, it changed from the size of a tank to the size of a motorboat.

It's still not small, but

The Death Guard raised their weapons in unison.

Amidst the screams of thousands of human faces, they dismembered it. Blood splattered, and Perturabo finally emerged from the black mist.

Garro, carrying her weapon, approached him, head bowed, and her first words were an apology. "I'm so sorry, sir."

"Don't humiliate him any further," Perturabo replied coldly, his words quite blunt, yet leaving the Death Guard speechless.

"Losing your temper once is enough. I don't want to hear about you losing control again. My brother Mortarion fought to the death, always with a clear goal."

"He hasn't lost the reason upon which humanity depends for survival, so you certainly shouldn't. Surrendering to death is easy; it's an end to everything, freeing you from further torment. But you are the offspring of the Lord of Death, understand? Don't say I have too high expectations of you."

→

He walked past them.

"Now follow me," Perturabo said firmly. "The Salamanders are still fighting; they need reinforcements."

--

"Kneel before the gods and beg for their mercy!" roared a Word Bearers, pointing his still-blood-stained sword at a group of civilians.

Their protector had fallen, his body mangled, his Power Armour riddled with holes, yet a trembling shadow began to rise from the land drenched in his blood.

The sky was dark, except for the fires lit by the Word Bearers, which shone brightly throughout the city. Something sinister stirred within the mist. The Chainsword in the Word Bearers's hand seemed to transcend the realm of a weapon; it had become one with his body.

Dark power surged across his pale face; he came burning with Vengeance, yet his foundation was built on falsehood. He raised his sword, and from the darkness behind him, several crimson lasers shot forth.

Their attacks struck his already warping armor to no avail, doing nothing to stop the Word Bearers from writhing and slaughtering.

By the time Bono of the Macragge Defence Force 12th Regiment charged in with his soldiers, all the civilians were dead. The Word Bearers was still laughing, his voice filled with almost manic excitement.

Bono could only let out a furious roar; cursing or swearing were superfluous. His face was like a vortex, endless hatred engulfing his thoughts.

The Word Bearers turned around, his sword flashing, and with a single strike, he beheaded a dozen loyal soldiers. He noticed the sergeant's expression and his smile widened.

"Don't thank me, mortal, this is what you deserve."

He laughed gleefully as he charged into the guards like a tiger among sheep, beginning a massacre, even slowing down to prolong the bloodshed.

His thirst for killing and Vengeance was satisfied, filling him with joy. All Macragge should die, and the Word Bearers would rebuild a new, Perfect City here, a truly Perfect City.

It no longer worships false gods; it was built for a true deity.

The killing continued, and he deliberately left the sergeant until last; killing officers was always a pleasure for him. Besides, enough blood had already been shed here.

Ultramarines, civilians, protectors of the defense forces, the innocent, the brave—the bloodshed has been enough, and he will sacrifice them all to the darkness. The gods will grant him more power, more blessings, and he will use that power to commit even more murder.

Such a wonderful cycle! The Word Bearers couldn't help but burst into laughter.

The sergeant stared at him with bloodshot eyes, firing repeatedly from the new light gun from the Veridian Forge. The Word Bearers, however, did not dodge and strode towards him. His mutated armor was now capable of ignoring attacks of this level.

The sergeant, with his last vestiges of reason, realized this. He threw down his gun, drew his combat dagger from his waist, and charged at the Word Bearers with a furious roar, only to have his knee shattered halfway there.

The Word Bearers lifted him up, but the sergeant ignored the pain and frantically swung his dagger, leaving many wounds on the Word Bearers's face.

His enemies watched him with interest, assessing the depth of his hatred. A few seconds later, he threw the sergeant to the ground.

"Not enough, mortal." He shook his head regretfully. "Compared to us, your hatred is far from enough—"

"--Bang!"

Like a lightning strike or a cannon shot, a Warhammer tore through the mist, hurtling in and sending the Word Bearers flying. A tall figure, filled with boundless rage, walked silently, followed by a torrent of steel.

The Ultramarines and Salamanders fought side by side, the fog dissipating with their arrival and revealing the killing machines behind them—tank cannons roared, assault boats sped past, crushing ruins and charging straight ahead.

The Word Bearers laughed again, blood and froth spilling from the corner of his mouth, mixed with fragments of internal organs. Vulkan silently walked over, placed one hand on the counterweight at the end of the Warhammer, and began to press down.

The sudden surge of power caused the Word Bearers to let out a rapid, muffled groan, and his body sank abruptly. Dust billowed from the ruins of the destroyed city beneath him, creating a small but noticeable crater.

"Where is Lorgar?" the Lord of Drakes asked.

"You"

The Word Bearers gasped for breath, uttering only one word. The next moment, Vulkan crushed his skull with his foot; he could tell this man wouldn't give him an answer.

He picked up his Warhammer and turned to leave. Blood began to flow from the Word Bearers's corpse; there shouldn't have been so much blood flowing from his flattened armor and body. Then, a sudden mist rose from the ground and enveloped his body.

A faint chewing sound came from the darkness. Vulkan turned his head expressionlessly, raised his hands, and took a step forward. Pure violence unfolded in his body—like Thunder descending, like a raging god. His immense strength made the ground tremble for a moment.

Smoke and dust billowed, but this was not the end, for the corpse of the Word Bearers continued to deform. Vulkan picked up his hammer and began to strike again.

This was not the first time he had dealt with these beasts who could cause trouble even after death; he didn't care about their Warp magic. For the Lord of Drakes, if he could kill them once, he could kill them a second and a third time.

He would kill until they were all dead, and he would not stop until then. But the monsters in the darkness always came in packs, and ripples came from the mist as several huge beasts roared and charged out, their shadows looming behind them.

A barrage of bombs immediately descended, Astartes turned their guns to prepare for this sudden encounter. They were already used to it; in just half an hour since the start of the battle, they had seen it all.

Macragge is now engulfed in war; gunboats clash with avian Daemon in the skies, while titans fight against the Word Bearers' dark titans to the south of the city. Tanks against tanks, armies against armies.

Ground weapon platforms continued firing, each explosion shaking the mountains. Some artillery fire struck the tracks, while others crashed to the ground. The once beautiful scene was now nothing but dust, blood, and corpses.

Realizing this caused the Ultramarines immense pain, but it also activated the primal instincts hidden deep within their genes. It was a boundless rage, inhuman, cold, and originating from their Gene-Father.

This kind of rage has been displayed in countless people in the past, and no one has been able to control it, because it is powerful enough to destroy everything.

And there's one thing you need to know.

Before they became known as "Ultramarines," the Ultramarines were called the War-Born.

Roboute Guilliman changed them with his charisma and spiritual strength, and Macragge played a crucial role in that. And now?

They were transformed by a brief period of peace and beauty, becoming embodiments of justice for hope and ideals.

Now, all of that is gone. Now, all that remains in Macragge is war.

And so the War-Born returned.

Vulkan watched helplessly as it unfolded; he was powerless to change or stop it. That's war—you either grow stronger or lose your humanity. There's no other way.

The Lord of Drakes silently raised his Warhammer and plunged into another carnage. Unbeknownst to him, a ship that should not have been there was leaping out of Mandeville Point above Macragge's orbit.

It was not a giant warship; it didn't even have a single Word Bearers on board. Its crew consisted entirely of fallen mortals. As Macragge's orbital weapon platform targeted the ship and was about to unleash its deadly beams, they were still kneeling in devout worship.

They were sacrifices, and their purpose was singular.

Call.

In the Warp, Lorgar Aurelian laughed happily; he now looked very different from before.

Through the vast ocean of the Warp, he gazed at his brothers. A few seconds later, a brilliant light began to illuminate the surface of his enormous body.

He arrived at Macragge through the sacrifices of tens of thousands of devout believers.

There's another chapter, also 5k.