130 Terra (IX)
La Endymion abruptly stopped swinging his twin swords. 😾🐺 ൠ✌ One of the swords should have pierced the Daemon's throat, and the other his chest, but he stopped.
There's no longer any need to wield the sword.
A raging inferno suddenly erupted from behind the stunned Daemon. It was golden, rising like the sun, but it dispelled the mist and darkness almost instantly.
The Daemon began to scream—calamity!
They roared incessantly, as if they were being dismembered.
La silently lowered his sword, and unsurprisingly heard his lord's voice. It was always the same; he would greet each Adeptus Custodes at the start of a war and speak with them individually.
Withdraw from the Webway and station troops at the entrance. Constantine will tell you what to do.
+Lord!+
The time has come, La. You had another destiny, but you need not suffer this hardship again.
His lord's voice came from the depths of the Webway, cold and ruthless. But he continued to explain, and that was enough.
Go and kill. The depths of the Webway are crumbling; even I don't know how it will shatter, but we can still hold onto this last piece, hope remains. Go and sweep away the evil for me, Ra.
"Yes, my lord."
The tribune Ra Endymion answered in a low voice, sheathed his two swords, turned and began to run, just as he had always, just as everyone else had.
This valiant army, which had silently stormed into the Webway hours earlier to rescue the Master of Mankind, will now retreat to the gates to await a triumphant return.
Some were filled with doubt and worry, while others remained as calm as the cold iron of the abyss, completely unconcerned by the Daemon's screams. The golden-armored guards were the most numerous, and in fact, every one of them knew what was happening.
For the first time ever, the raging Machine Spirit within the Titan fell silent. Priests and Servitor followed closely behind, chanting in their binary language. The Sisters of Silence turned and left with tears in their eyes. The roar of hovercraft, armored vehicles, motorcycles, and other vehicles was unprecedentedly synchronized.
The Ten Thousand ran at the very back. They had a tacit understanding and knew what they should and shouldn't do, but they also had a little selfishness.
At least for this moment, at least in this instant, they possessed this insignificant selfish desire—they wanted to witness the power of their lord.
The Emperor granted permission.
Then they saw it.
Millions of Daemon, like melting wax figures, surged around them, turning the once nightmarish and ferocious Undead into pools of crumbling, dissolving blood in endless agony and cowering.
There was no way to resist; resistance meant death, but giving up would only hasten death. The most powerful beings among them could roar in fury, barking blasphemous words and cursing the lord of the Adeptus Custodes as fragments of the evil god's power.
The flames seemed to offer no answer, merely scorching each Daemon, turning them into blood and wisps of smoke—then, suddenly, the color of the flames changed completely.
The gold turned into a raging inferno of pitch black, with a dark red base, as murky as blood. Black snow began to drift within the Webway, a gale picked up, accompanied by thunder. The ground transformed into a sticky swamp, as black as an extinguished sun.
Countless wronged souls extended their claws from within, carrying these fragments of the evil god to a world belonging only to the unjustly deceased.
Now, even the powerful began to lose their arrogance. They understood what this meant; no one knew better than them what this extreme power, also originating from Chaos, signified.
But it was too late.
They came here thinking they could feast and vent every extreme emotion that belonged to them, but they were wrong. There is no food for them in the Webway now, no living people to kill or torture.
Only slaughter, only Vengeance.
The wailing began to change; in the fierce wind, the roars and curses of calamity were gradually replaced by another sound, a stiff one. In the burning flames, the dead slowly rose to their feet.
Skeletons melted, armor shattered, and some lost half their bodies or limbs, which were then replaced by flames. Others were headless corpses whose heads had been bitten off by Daemon, but they could still fight, as the raging flames recreated their former appearance, vividly revealing their original form.
One after another, angry faces wreathed in flames, one after another, the faces of the dead bearing grotesque smiles, even Servitor and civilians were among them.
Vengeance is fair; it gives everyone a chance.
But this was not the end, nor even the beginning. The golden flames returned, and countless phantoms burst forth from them, their forms solidifying in mere seconds, their bodies burning with the psychic fire unique to the Emperor.
The Ten Thousand, Astartes, Auxilia, Servitor, Civilians, Tech-Priest, and Flames of Fury and Gold mingled together as the hateful Vengeance and Loyalists laughed loudly.
Those who died in the Adeptus Custodes were all clad in golden flames, their spears like the blazing sun in the sky. They charged forward without hesitation, crushing corpses and venturing deep into the Webway to meet their lord.
The Emperor's Children wave their banners, having once fought alongside their fathers, now fight side by side once more. Their armor, no longer ornate, has melted and turned charred, but their blades are sharper than ever before, and with each strike, carnage is born.
The War Hounds and their gladiator units worked together seamlessly as always. The Nuceria stood with their brothers and sisters, who came from the mountains, from the snowfields, from the forests, who had fought for injustice, for liberation, and now only for humanity and for Vengeance.
At this moment, they are in Terra, in a land ravaged by demons, yet they remain brave and loyal.
Beside them were the Raven Guard's deadly assassins, who, even in death, could vanish into the shadows, carrying out brutal raids amidst the burning flames. Every time their claws were extended, it was a killing blow; putrid Ethereal flesh splattered onto their jet-black armor, yet left not a trace of filth.
The Ultramarines, slaughtered freely on the flanks. They came from Calth or from other worlds of their home planet. They had nothing to say; they had said all they needed to say. All that remained was to kill. They had failed to defend their home, but they still allowed Terra a moment of peace.
Beside them stood the Iron Warriors and Death Guard, the Steel Hammer and the Death Scythe marching side by side, ruthlessly slaughtering humanity's enemies. The two legions had rarely fought side by side in the past, but now their coordination was terrifying; the Steel Hammer would strike first, and the Death Scythe would immediately follow, descending upon them.
The Auxilia followed closely behind. A soldier, his face peeled off and his hands and feet replaced by black flames, waved his company's flag and led the undead to catch up with the Astartes. Their steps were light, as if they were carrying nothing.
The Salamanders charged ahead, their deadly Phosphex flamethrowers now gone without a trace; a single glance from them could ignite flames. The Sons of Vulkan's dark green armor was now charred black, yet their dragon scales still gleamed.
The priests and Servitor of the Mechanicum followed them, and even those Servitor who did not have language modules installed began to speak human language, shouting the name of Omnissiah and the cry of Vengeance.
Looking around, almost everyone was armed and wearing armor, except for the civilians—but don't assume they would stop there.
If you have no weapons, use your fists. If your fists cannot defeat your enemy, use your teeth.
Savage, primitive, and brutal—aren't these the weapons humans would use in a primitive era?
Before spears and stone axes were invented, humans used these to protect themselves. Now that there's no need for any so-called civilization or morality, let's regress.
To regress to a barbaric age, to an era where a few savages dared to chase herds of wild beasts. To regress to an era where everything feared fire and humankind.
Upon seeing humans, they must run; otherwise, they will die. Their bodies will be devoured, their heads shaved clean as souvenirs, and their bones sharpened and crafted into weapons to kill even more of their kind.
That's just how it is; it can only be this way.
Run away. They grinned maliciously, just as they had back then.
They swarmed forward, pounced on the burning beasts, and, amidst their cries of agony, seized their burning bodies, biting and groping, or comically punching and kicking them.
The demons never imagined they would suffer such a great humiliation. Enraged, they tried to continue the slaughter, but the civilians seemed endless.
Kill one, and two more will pounce. Kill two, and four more will pounce. It never ends, and they never back down. Their Dreadnought even frightens the Daemon.
After all, having already died once, what was there to be afraid of? The hatred for his father, the hatred for his mother, the hatred for his children—these hatreds weighed heavily on his heart, turning into a pitch-black flame.
The flames told them that there was no need to be afraid.
In this evil war, civilians suffered the most casualties, yet they also returned in the largest numbers. Some were dressed in fine clothes, others in tattered cloth; some were covered in blood, others were covered in dust.
They used to all have names, but those names don't matter anymore. They are human beings, and they have only one goal.
Vengeance.
A sacred, righteous, sweet, and exhilarating Vengeance.
Harboring boundless hatred and enduring torment, he returned from the world of the dead, standing in a waist-deep sea of blood, bare-handed before the beast of the evil god—
"Come on!"
A man shouted, his voice broken to the point of almost barking.
He seized a Daemon and tackled it to the ground. The creature, desperate for survival, pierced his chest, struggled to its feet, and tried to escape. The man laughed heartily, chased after it, and caught the Daemon tightly, both being carried away by the black flames.
Standing beside him were two mothers, one weeping and the other laughing maniacally.
But neither the weeping nor the laughing let go. They held a hunting dog in their hands, which tried to escape but was forcefully gagged by the mothers, unable to move, and could only watch helplessly as the flames burned it.
Behind them, a boy dressed in a nobleman's robe smashed the head of a rotting corpse with all his might, his face a mixture of crying and laughing.
Two Combat Servitor followed closely behind the boy, their chests bearing the mark of Calth. These Servitor, who should not have any self-awareness, were now roaring furiously, their ashen skin wreathed in flickering flames of rage.
They may have been death row inmates or mindless clones in the past, but now they have everything; at least, they possess everything that should be a human being.
Joy, anger, sorrow, happiness—and most importantly, the thing that makes us human.
Unity.
You killed one of us, and you must pay. Pay tenfold, a hundredfold, and if that's not enough, continue until the anger in my chest subsides.
Such a Dreadnought spectacle should be rare, yet it is unfolding repeatedly across the battlefield. Can it be called a miracle? Probably not, because what is happening in these ancient ruins is not a miracle, but merely an outpouring of anger, a natural consequence.
Humans can go mad.
When you push them to the limit, they will go crazy. Adrenaline surges, anger rises, eyes turn bloodshot—and then they resort to violence.
So what about this war? Some might call it a war of justice or righteousness, or even a holy war.
But ultimately, it was nothing more than a Vengeance.
To avenge one's parents, one's children, one's home, and all those who have shed blood—it is only natural and just that.
Meanwhile, the depths of the Webway Destiny continued to crumble. The ancient creations built by the Eldar were now shattered into pieces, along with the blood and sweat of the Mechanicum, turning to ashes.
Only a few labyrinthine twists and turns remain, making the battlefield crowded, while Daemon rush toward the shattered depths.
They had to escape; only by escaping could they get away from this horrific sight—they had never known fear before, but now they did. And so this feeling was immediately etched into their hearts.
The most cunning of these beasts attempted to escape through the mist, overconfidently using their own kind as bait to return to the place where they first entered the labyrinth, and from there back into the Chaos storm.
But they had no chance, for their kind were already waiting there in the mist.
The leader of the demons was formerly known as Fer Zalost, but is now a gigantic humanoid Daemon with two ferocious horns on its head.
His skin was deathly pale, his armor twisted and clung tightly to his current body. Ashes hung upside down, each one a terrifying bullet ready to be fired.
Bat wings, adorned with sharp blades, stretched menacingly on either side of his back. His eyes resembled two black holes, and dark red, fine lines bloomed quietly on his once-shattered face, like blood-red flowers.
Facing the horde of demons, he gave a silent, cold laugh, followed by his signature soft whisper. The Mourning Bird began to announce their own demise.
"Nowhere to escape."
"Come and meet your death."
--
Malcador suddenly opened his eyes.
He knew that one of his plans had succeeded. He felt a chilling joy—he almost wanted to go and laugh at the evil gods behind the Veil.
They persecuted the loyal and virtuous, sacrificed the world, devised countless schemes, and schemed relentlessly. But what could they achieve?
You are nothing but parasites hiding in the Warp. Four shady things, trying to extinguish humanity's hope with a bunch of filthy, undead, so-called Daemon, so-called fragments of evil gods?
Inside the Imperial Palace, the Sigillites smiled silently.
Outside the Imperial Palace, a fierce wind howled, the earth churned, and glaciers formed. Everyone could sense that something was happening right here, on this sacred Terra.
I woke up early and couldn't fall back asleep, so I'll write a 4K chapter to make up for yesterday's, and then write the rest after I wake up.
Please leave your comments; they are very important to me.
I also recommend three books: Shadow of the Holy Tomb, The Ironbreaker and the Immortal Steel, and The Recapture of Fabius. They're all works by the renowned translator, so you can check them out if you're interested. That's all for now; the author is going to catch up on sleep.