Interlude 131: The Survivors (I)

A single, jet-black snowflake fell from the sky and landed on Akurduana's shoulder armor. The chief swordsman, however, paid no heed to its presence and strode forward.

In fact, he didn't care about many things—like this snow, or other snow, or gales and lightning.

So, what does he care about?

The chief swordsman stepped indifferently over a corpse, a single, unremarkable snowflake grazing his shoulder and landing in the dead man's eye.

The deceased's eyes were swollen and cloudy, bloodshot, and blood flowed from his nose. His face still bore an expression of pain. His breastplate was broken, and half of the tattered Imperial Aquila stood tall, yet it could not stop the passing of its owner.

Symbols are ultimately just symbols; they can't truly offer any protection. Perhaps occasionally, they might, but now is not the time for that "occasionally."

His gruesome state testified to the brutal battle he endured before his death, but none of that mattered anymore. A single snowflake began to melt in the eye of the fallen soldier, then more snowflakes, seemingly endless, fell from the sky.

Within seconds, he and countless other corpses around him were buried by the blizzard. Among them were pilgrims and many civilians. Only a few wrecked Land Raider stubbornly protruded their cannons from the snow, belching black smoke.

So, what about Akurduana, who stepped over him? Was he fighting against the instigator, battling to the death against the perpetrator of this tragedy?

Not at the moment.

Moreover, Akurduana wouldn't actually refer to this as a battle.

He gently twirled his twin blades and stepped alone into a thick, dark mist. In the past eight hours, Akurduana had seen countless similar black mists, within which lurking shadows and greedy surging demonic tides.

He was familiar with them; he knew perfectly well what their appearance represented—slaughter, nothing more.

The slaughter of civilians, the slaughter of soldiers, the slaughter of Astartes— countless similar or different bloody deaths are unfolding across Terra, and the perpetrators cannot even be named. They come in all shapes and sizes, some ugly, some disgusting, some simply beyond the realm of reason.

In the past eight hours, Akurduana has seen far too many of "them". To put it more humorously, he would say he's being driven mad by their ugliness.

He had seen them in the Hive City, in some underground shelter, and among the mangled corpses of men, women, and children.

He had thought he would become numb, but judging from the current situation, that is not the case.

He still thought of the dead, and of their eyes. In silence, Akurduana miraculously deduced how the massacre had taken place.

The first wave of victims should have been the devout pilgrims, but the killing was deliberately slowed down by these Daemons. What was their purpose? He had no answer for the time being, and the arriving defense forces probably had no answer either.

Fortunately, they no longer needed any answers; they were already dead, right behind the pilgrims.

A blurry vision appeared before Akurduana's eyes; he saw blood and corpses—but this scene lasted for less than half a second before the dead were completely buried by the endless blizzard.

Was their resistance and fighting meaningful? No one could answer that, after all, they hadn't saved a single pilgrim, nor had they inflicted any significant casualties on the demonic tide.

But they sent out a distress signal before they died, Akurduana received the message.

Correction: Only Akurduana received the message.

So, this was a one-man show of support. Does that sound ridiculous? The answer is yes, but he still came; he had to come.

Eight hours have passed since the start of the war, but there is still no sign of Terra's communications being restored.

Akurduana had opened his communications to all channels when he set off to fight, and so far only a few areas have managed to repair the equipment and maintain basic communications, allowing him to receive messages.

He had tried to establish basic communication with them. He succeeded a few times, very luckily, but the luck was short-lived, and these communication connections did not last long.

They often only manage to exchange a few words amidst intense interference before losing contact.

Akurduana is a different person now than he used to be, but he hasn't abandoned his tactical skills. He still understands just how dire the situation is in Terra —communications, information, and intelligence are the lifeblood of the army. 🐲💞 🐙ඏ

Without them, an army can only fight independently, and fighting independently is fatal for an army.

But that's all they can do for now.

Wandering through the black mist, the Emperor's Children's chief swordsman ended his thoughts. Strange roars, intense and rapid, reached his ears, as if they had already detected his arrival.

Akurduana, however, remained unmoved, for a stronger voice was echoing in his ears.

The sound was a death scream, filled with despair and hatred.

"We need reinforcements!" the voice roared. "Repeat! We need reinforcements!"

But where are you, soldiers? Akurduana thought. You didn't even tell those who might receive this distress signal your coordinates, location, landmarks, or anything like that.

How can you expect them to come and save us?

He laughed because of a gust of wind that was both threatening and foul-smelling.

"It's alright," Akurduana said softly. "At least I heard your voices, I came."

--Yes, he did not receive the distress call through a communication device.

Darkness descended, and in the foul-smelling wind, a ferocious and enormous beast opened its blood-red maw. The attack was so sudden, so swift. The wind had barely begun to blow when the attacker arrived.

The fanged mouth was inches from Akurduana's head; he could even see the structure of the creature's mouth clearly through his eyepiece.

Interlocking fangs spiraled within the fleshy mouth, strewn with severed limbs. Where the esophagus should have been, a distorted human face appeared. The face was so grotesque that Akurduana couldn't even guess its gender.

He squinted, took a step back unhurriedly, and at the same time swung his left hand sharply.

As if lightning flashed, the boning knife smoothly sliced into the beast's lower jaw from bottom to top, exiting through the upper jaw. Blood splattered, and it roared, ignoring the pain, and began to relentlessly pursue the prey.

Akurduana retreated steadily, each step perfectly executed, just enough to evade its bites. The Daemon, however, did not give up and continued its pursuit, seemingly unaware of what it meant to have an enemy that could so easily evade its attacks.

Or perhaps it has something else to rely on.

The chase lasted for five seconds, and after the second second, its hideous wound had already healed.

The chief swordsman naturally saw this. He smiled knowingly, then suddenly gripped his twin swords tightly, and a dark, bloody light burst forth from beneath his arm armor.

Black flames began to burn fiercely on the twin blades, and only then did the beast realize that it was chasing something. It roared with a hint of fear and tried to turn and leave, but it was too late.

"Nowhere to run," Akurduana whispered affectionately to it.

In the next three seconds, the blade's strikes rained down like a storm.

Akurduana swung his saber with exhilarating abandon, a hidden, vengeful desire for Vengeance blossoming within him. He knew he was acting as an agent, but how could he be without resentment?

He laughed, and his laughter echoed through the darkness, making the firelight burn even brighter.

When the flashing blades subsided, the previously enormous Daemon was now torn apart, its flesh and bones separated, a hideous human face struggling amidst the steaming blood and flesh, while Akurduana stepped on it.

He didn't rush to exert force, but slowly raised his hands, the two swords crossing above his head, gently colliding and making a cold, sharp sound.

He calmly surveyed his surroundings, and only after a few seconds did he suddenly bring the blade down.

Blood splattered all around, splashing into ripples in the darkness, and countless Daemon roared as they revealed themselves.

They certainly knew what the man before them was now, and what he would become—but he wasn't yet; he still had value in being killed. Malice began to surge in the darkness: greed, a thirst for blood, a desire for advancement.

Akurduana could naturally sense their thoughts. The Daemon appearances that he couldn't understand in the past were no longer a riddle like a wordless book to him, nor were they something he couldn't do as he was asked to paint.

The chief swordsman slowly twisted his neck and raised his hands again, as if making an invitation. The Daemon accepted the invitation, and thus the bloody battle began.

Roars, howls, maniacal laughter—all of this was shrouded in a thick fog, and no one could see what lay behind it.

Twenty-five minutes later, Akurduana finally limped out of the fog.

His armor was covered in wounds, his helmet was half broken, and his face was covered in blood. He walked into the snow, soaking wet, steam rising from his body, and black blood continued to drip endlessly.

Akurduana staggered and fell to the ground, his blood-stained saber resting securely in its sheath. He turned his head to the side, his hands sinking deep into the snow.

How many did he kill? He asked himself, and then came up with a number.

Thirty-three. No, it's thirty-four, if you include the very first one.

It may not sound like much, but this number actually far exceeds his previous limits.

Supporting himself on the snow, Akurduana managed to roll over onto his back, gazing at the gloomy sky. His injuries were healing rapidly, and this was no accident.

He could clearly perceive the price he was paying, and the limit that existed in his heart like a warning—if he exceeded that limit, he would probably become a different kind of being.

But

He exhaled a breath of air tinged with the stench of blood and slowly rose from the ground. His arm armor shattered once more with the movement, turning to ashes that floated upside down into the sky, their color as somber as the clouds.

Akurduana looked down at his hands, or more precisely, at the names on them.

During the fight just now, he deliberately did not call out to them.

"Next time," he thought.

He began to walk again, and his figure quickly disappeared into the wind and snow, leaving no trace of his presence, like a Ghost.

And he was by no means the only one. At this moment, on the land of Terra, there were six hundred and twenty-three Ghost like him wandering aimlessly, their ears filled with the murmurs of the dead.

For the rest of their lives, as long as they had a breath left, they would never have a day of peace.

There's also a 4k chapter.

In addition, the interlude story depicts the reactions of all parties throughout the Battle of Terra, and I will do my best to describe everyone's experiences and changes. Of course, this will not prevent me from returning to the main storyline of Terra.