133 Terra (10)
The Webway is burning. 🍬☠ Claws 🐟♠
Repeat, it is burning— the Emperor's creation, the magnificent spectacle built by the Mechanicum with painstaking effort and countless drops of blood and sweat, following closely behind Omnissiah, is burning and collapsing. Years of hard work, countless expectations, now all turned to ashes.
And all of this was brought into full view.
The tribunal slowly clenched his fists, the hellish firelight illuminating his armor. He stood silently before the massive, greyish-white entrance to the Webway, swords in hand.
Warning lights flashed overhead, and it was noisy, but it had to be noisy. Tens of thousands of machines in the hall were gradually overloaded, and electric arcs were raging on the towering, solid walls, which were as solid as cliffs.
The pristine white marble inevitably bore the marks of scorching and numerous deep craters. The flag still fluttered, but how much longer could it?
He looked up at the dome of the Throne room, where bright incandescent light was slowly streaming down, making his mouth dry and his weapons tremble. He then turned to look at the trembling machines and easily found the reason for their breakdown.
The energy transmission pipes and converters could not withstand the power surging from within the Webway, and thus failed in their duty. But no one blamed them—not the priests, not the workers, and not Ra either.
At this very moment, they are bearing a force they cannot withstand, not psychic energy, but another kind of power, a terrifying power far more chilling and cruel than psychic energy.
As the designer, his lord did not design this responsibility for them. Some might question why the Emperor couldn't see this, but Ra would say that no one can fully foresee the future.
Even his lord wouldn't do it.
Predicting the future is like climbing a cliff with your bare hands. Every stone you step on looks very stable, but if you want to know the outcome, you can only put your full weight on it to test the waters.
La silently raised his twin swords, ready for battle. The flames were growing ever brighter; he understood what this meant, and the outcome was predictable. ✊🍟 ✌♧
In just a few dozen seconds, scalding mist, transformed into a crimson torrent by the flames, surged wildly from the entrance to the Webway passage, instantly engulfing the loyalists.
The entire sacred Throne Room was now filled with the roars of beasts and the whispers of Daemon. Before this day, they knew no fear; now they do.
Generally speaking, a creature has only two reactions when faced with fear: to flee or to resist. While still inside the Webway, Ra witnessed the first reaction; he and the others now face the second.
Ironically, the Daemon are trying to buy themselves a chance to survive.
The thought stung Ra's mind; he didn't believe they were worthy of the noble word "life," and the anger that followed made him roar as well.
The mist surged in like a tsunami, wave after wave, while the Titan's roar rose once more, as if foreshadowing something. The Fire Wasps did not stray far from this place; not a single Machine Spirit was willing to leave this battlefield at this moment.
They started it, and the various heavy firepowers that the Mechanicum had prepared in advance began to wreak havoc, like a sacred yet cruel hymn.
Incendiary cannons, ion cannons, and precision-engineered Vengeance bombs—using the best and most reliable friend-or-foe identification systems, they precisely struck the beasts attempting to break free of the Throne.
Fire rained down relentlessly, echoing through the mist and even diminishing the darkness that should have obscured the light. Most Daemon were unable to withstand such firepower, dying and annihilating one after another, their corpses not dissipating as they had in the Webway Destiny.
The putrid, foul-smelling Ethereal flesh began to boil on the ground. The slaughter had only just begun when a sea of blood appeared within the Throne room. But this was only the beginning; more and more ferocious beasts rose Second Company from the sea of blood.
Their figures were ferocious, clad in armor, and wielding sharp blades, resembling another army. With their appearance, a bloodthirsty desire began to spread among everyone.
Even if it is just an insignificant slave worker, at this moment, his assigned responsibilities are blurred in the chaos of data that comes from nowhere. 😲♧ ♖☞They no longer deliver ammunition to the artillery, but charge forward, raising their iron arms towards the enemy.
La, standing on the front lines, saw it all clearly. He seemed to see a terrifying spiral from which no one could escape. Its intensity was gradually increasing, and its range was constantly expanding. A chilling thought rushed into his mind—an explanation from the Sigillites, Malcador.
+The power of Chaos is indiscriminate, Ra. We turned Terra into an altar to summon a god, and this is the price we must pay.+
+Support?+
The tribunal coldly retorted and received an answer that was not much different from what he had expected.
"Keep going." said the Sigillites.
"We will fight to the last man," La replied firmly.
There's no need to be so pessimistic. His Majesty is fighting alongside the gods. The number of Daemon who manage to escape the Webway won't be many, and the power they can utilize is limited.
Malcador's words carried a chilling calm, and his voice gradually faded after those words. The chill dissipated, and La returned to the blood-soaked reality.
He suppressed the bloodlust surging within him and began issuing orders for the army to assemble. He knew very well that the "not many" in the Sigillites's words did not mean the battle would be easy—he understood this, but not many would answer the order.
To be precise, it's not that they don't want to respond, but that they are unable to respond.
The so-called "not too many" Daemon have already flooded every corner of the Throne room, with loyalists and Daemon dying silently every second. Everywhere is a horrifying battle; they are the reefs, being washed by the sea of Daemon.
He tightened his grip on his two swords and began to provide support. He would never sit idly by and wait to die—but another question lingered in his mind.
Why is Constantine Valdor still nowhere to be seen?
The first group to receive La's help and join his ranks was a Secutarii. There were only a hundred or so of them, and they were covered in wounds. Their once indestructible mechanical structures had been worn down, and biochemical fluids were seeping from the implants and the remaining flesh connecting them.
However, this did not stop them from continuing to fight. Ra did not ask about their condition; he knew they did not need such an insult.
No member of the Mechanicum could tolerate the tarnishing of the Glory of the Omnissiah before their eyes. Ra was no exception, harboring the same hatred in his heart.
The Throne room is proof of his lord's ambition and ideals; it was supposed to be a great undertaking that could support humanity's march towards the light. Even though its internal mechanisms are now mostly broken down, how can Daemon be allowed to run rampant here?
He hacked and slashed with cold-blooded rationality, his bloodlust suppressed and never resurfacing, as if someone were helping him. La knew who was helping him; he thanked them, but he no longer knew if that person could still hear him.
He hoped he could hear him.
With this thought in mind, he drew his twin swords, and once again, these cruel weapons born for slaughter gloriously fulfilled the mission they were forged to serve. Their master resolutely plunged the twin swords into the head of a Daemon.
That thing should be dead—at least that's how Ra thought. It wasn't the first time he'd killed these undead; he knew even they would die from decapitation. But this thing wasn't, or rather, it didn't die immediately.
It was still staring at La with those scarlet eyes, its pinpoint pupils filled only with madness and bloodlust, devoid of any fear.
It should be afraid.
La stared into its eyes, but a strange, maniacal laugh filled with bloodlust reached her ears.
The tribunal gritted his teeth, a deeper hatred beginning to surge within him—it was you again, you vile beings who called yourselves gods.
He twisted his wrist, pulling the twin swords apart, cruelly severing the Daemon's head. Its flesh and blood fell to the ground, adding to the endless sea of blood.
He drew his sword and looked around. Everyone within his sight was churning in a sea of blood, especially his comrades. The Adeptus Custodes, clad in golden armor, naturally stood at the forefront, facing the Daemon army that had risen from the sea of blood.
Staring at them, La felt a sharp pain in his vision, which spread all the way to the back of his head, as if two people were trying to saw open his brain with cold, rusty handsaws.
In the midst of excruciating pain, his thoughts soared to a higher level—but this was not a good thing, for he saw a mad eye floating in the middle of this sea of blood, staring at all the battles within the Throne room.
Ra stared at it, and it seemed to sense it, returning a focused gaze. The tribunal's eyes widened, and the bloodlust that had been suppressed in his chest suddenly surged up, breaking free from his restraints.
The twin swords, which had been held tightly in their hands, calmly awaiting the next killing, now began to tremble—they were not merely craving the blood of Daemon.
No, he must not let that happen. He gritted his teeth and began to struggle to control that desire, starting a brutal tug-of-war, and he was by no means alone.
A thunderous sword cry rang out from behind him, carrying with it boundless fury. A sword flashed across his cheek, appearing from the void faster than anything else—it glowed and pierced deeply into his eye.
The sea of blood paused for a brief moment. Then, a light as if it were the end of the world erupted from the sword, the sea of blood roared, and towering waves surged.
La heard the voice of the eye's owner with perfect accuracy, but the echo after the roar still made him vomit a mouthful of blood.
In his dazed state after the injury, he felt someone gently patting his shoulder, a gesture that was both comforting and imposingly serene.
The tribunal turned around abruptly, but he only saw Constantine Valdor.
The Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal held a spear in his left hand, but his right hand was empty, emitting blue smoke. His armor had melted away, turning him and his arm into a charcoal-black color.
Constantine nodded to him.
"He's figured it out," said the Adeptus Custodes Marshal. "Let's begin to secure victory for him."
He pulled it behind his helmet and let out a loud laugh.
One more chapter.