135 Terra (XII)

Sigismund was trudging through waist-deep blood.😲♧  ♖☞

It was truly a boundless sea of blood, with severed limbs floating and sinking within it. He waved his hand to push away a few drifting heads, but his foot kicked something heavy; judging by its weight, it must have been fragments of armor.

Astartes once died here.

Sigismund bent down, reached in for a moment, and grabbed a bright yellow shard. He glanced at it, then released it and continued on his way. He was very careful with each step, making sure he didn't suddenly trip over it.

The chains clanged against each other on his wrists with a dull thud. He slowly made his way to a door. The door was very tall, so it wasn't much obscured by the sea of blood; only the lower half was covered, and that was all.

Sigismund can still clearly see the huge relief depicting the Emperor wielding his sword to behead his enemies, along with the heavy sword and shield decorations.

From this perspective, the traditions inherited from ancient Terra continue to this day, and every corner of the Imperial Palace must be majestic, magnificent, and sacred.

In the past, secular kings went to great lengths to achieve this, simply to enhance their own air of superiority and to instill a sense of awe in those who came to see them.

The Emperor doesn't need these things. He wasn't molded into an invincible king by gold; he is the Master of Mankind, and gold merely exists to complement him. The architects' designs likely stemmed from their own understanding.

In the eyes of the public, the Emperor should be noble, surrounded by gold, silver and agate, their faces shining like gods.

Is that really the case? Sigismund had no answer, only recalling the calm voice in that speech.

He began to observe the still imposing door, part of which was stained with blood, just like the rest of the Imperial Palace.

This enormous wonder has now become a complete battlefield, covered in blood, and some places have unfortunately been completely submerged in blood, becoming forbidden zones that cannot be entered.

Sigismund slowly moved his gaze to the top of the door and, unsurprisingly, saw an emergency button—not exactly a good design, but the architect had done it anyway.

He or she placed a button on top of a twelve-meter-high gate as a backup measure in case the energy transmission pipeline malfunctions and the main gate urgently needs to be opened.

Who do you want to press this button? A Titan? Sigismund thought to himself.

If he could, it wouldn't be a problem, but he doesn't have any Titans with him right now.

The Titans are fighting on the other side of the Imperial Palace.

The divine machines have poured out in droves, battling wave after wave of Daemon that seem to be coming like a tsunami. Their numbers appear endless, but the Titans are clearly unconcerned, simply unleashing destruction to protect the glory of the Omnissiah.

But that was three hours ago; Sigismund was already far away from the Titan Legion.

He received orders from Rogal Dorn to come to the aid of the Imperial Palace, accompanied by a force of five hundred Imperial Fists. The forces on the main battlefield were already stretched thin—no, perhaps that's not the right way to put it.

At this moment, the entire Terra is a frontal battlefield.

Five hundred men would not normally be considered a large number for reinforcements, but now they have become a hard-won and precious resource.

In a hoarse, intermittently pausing communication, Rogal Dorn told Sigismund that he was going to the Astronomican Hall in the Imperial Palace to reinforce the garrison there.

The Radiance of the Astronomican must never be extinguished, nor even the slightest wavering.

Sigismund understood this, so as soon as he received the order, he went to the rendezvous point and headed with the team toward the Fortress of Despair in the Himalaya Mountains —so, in principle, he shouldn't be alone now.

Why? What is the reason?

If Sigismund could answer, he would take a map and draw a simple, straight upward line on the impenetrable map of Fortress. 🌷♡  🍔👌

He will have the person who asked the question walk along the line they came from, and then the answer will appear on its own.

He was the only one left among the reinforcements.

The Imperial Fists warriors who died along the way can attest to this, as can the empty Boltgun, the broken Chainsword, and the mountains of corpses and seas of blood that flooded the corridors.

However, if Sigismund himself hadn't said it, probably no one would have believed that a force of five hundred could fight their way from the bottom to the top of the Fortress of Despair. But it was true; they did it—and the price was obvious.

Simply by observing Sigismund at this moment, one can easily understand the price to pay.

The missing helmet, the dented breastplate, the hole pierced in the left shoulder armor, the empty belt, and the blood-stained greatsword he held in his hand.

Undoubtedly, this was a feat, a miracle. But that's all. Any person of sound mind can understand that a lone reinforcement is of no help on any battlefield.

But that doesn't matter. If we can't reach the support point, at least we can die on the way.

Sigismund bent down and began groping in the sea of blood. After searching for a while, he finally found a fragment of suitable weight. He scooped it up, and a severed hand, still encased in Iron Hands, appeared before him, clutching a Boltgun.

Sigismund took the Boltgun out of his hand and checked the magazine. Seventeen rounds left, good. He expressionlessly and with his hands still damp, hung the Boltgun on his belt and began to slowly pry open his already stiff fingers.

The entire process was slow and extremely patient. Only when the blood-stained, bright yellow severed hand had become a proper fist did he slowly raise it.

A Shadow whizzed past and slammed heavily onto the emergency stop button atop the door a second later.

The button, deliberately placed on the Aquila's chest, was recessed, and heavy sounds of hinges and mechanical gears began to emanate from inside the door, accompanied by hot steam escaping from both sides of the door.

The sea of blood began to boil, but Sigismund remained unmoved. He brushed the blood-stained stray hairs from his forehead, looked at the fist that happened to be stuck on the button, and surprisingly smiled.

Two minutes later, the door opened, revealing complete darkness. The sea of blood slid inward naturally, exposing the hidden remains of corpses, armor, weapons, and other items, which piled up on the ground, gleaming in the darkness.

Sigismund didn't look at them; he simply picked up his sword and walked inside.

He didn't choose to hold the gun in his hand, firstly because there weren't many bullets, and secondly because the war had already been going on for fourteen hours, during which time countless combat experiences against the Daemon had already been passed on to the soldiers.

In their blood-soaked account, they came to the conclusion that swords were better than guns—strange, counterintuitive, but true.

Explosive bombs might stagger those Daemons, killing the weaker ones instantly. But if you want to truly wreak havoc and have any potential impact on the battlefield, you must use swords, axes, or any melee weapon.

The chainsaw could easily tear through the flesh of those things, and the disintegrating force field could effortlessly sever their thick skin and the bones beneath.

It's ironic that brute force and barbarity are more effective at destroying these vile things than the progress brought by civilization.

However, this is not always the case, for example, when gunboats bombard, when Titans fire their cannons, or when the Mechanicum meticulously manufacture various tanks and giant cannons.

When a stream of radiation and a plasma cloud with a diameter exceeding three meters strikes a Daemon, it can no longer be called Daemon; it can only be described as a cloud of ashes or minced flesh.

But Sigismund now only had a sword and himself. So he chose to use the sword first, and he began to walk alone in the dark. As it turned out, his vigilance and preparation were correct.

The first attacker arrived quickly; he was at least three meters tall, with bulging muscles, two horns on his head, and could even speak human language.

"Blood for the Blood God!"

It roared as it charged, its eyes glowing bloodshot in the darkness. ☺🐯 💲🐉 Instead of launching a sneak attack, it chose to first announce its arrival with a roar before launching its attack.

This wasn't the first time Sigismund had fought these Daemons who called upon the name of the Khorne. He didn't know what kind of god the damned Khorne they spoke of was, but he knew exactly how to kill these creatures.

A fierce gust of wind swept in, and a giant axe came crashing down on Sigismund. Without blinking, the company commander took two steps back, dodging the vicious blow. He couldn't possibly contend with this thing; agility was clearly the better option.

The Daemon growled and began its pursuit, its blood-stained plate armor clanging as it moved. It unleashed three slashes in quick succession: a straight cut, a sweeping slash, and finally a treacherous surprise attack from below.

Sigismund dodged them all, without even using his sword to clash with the thing's axe.

He played very cunningly, and this was not his achievement alone.

The Daemon stopped what it was doing, holding its axe in both hands, and glared angrily at Sigismund in the darkness.

"Coward!" it spat out with disdain. "Running away, dodging, just like a rat!"

Sigismund remained completely unmoved by the insult, but suddenly stepped forward, and with a flick of his wrist, thrust the greatsword out. The Daemon had anticipated this attack, and it laughed excitedly.

Judging from its posture, it seemed to intend to take Sigismund's thrust head-on, trading injury for death. Its giant axe was already raised high, but at that moment, the blade of the Imperial Fists suddenly retracted.

The giant axe slashed down, and a blood-red light blazed in the Daemon's eyes—it had realized it was a trap, but it was too late.

The old power has vanished, and the new power has yet to emerge. No matter how strong it is, it is still ultimately a humanoid creature, and there are naturally gaps between each attack that can be exploited.

Sigismund stared coldly at it, then swung his greatsword in a wide arc, bringing it down with deadly force, sending a head flying high into the air. Blood gushed out, splattering all over Sigismund.

And this was just the beginning. More things in the darkness began to notice his presence, or rather, were drawn to him by the smell of blood on him.

Every gaze held a hidden greed; they craved his flesh and blood, and his soul. Sigismund remained calm—if you want it, then take it.

He raised his sword with both hands and lightly twirled it in the darkness. The demons immediately rushed out and surrounded him. Most of them were muscular and strong. Strangely, they did not swarm him and kill him.

Sigismund felt a sense of absurdity. He gleaned some clues from their encirclement and their hammering of the breastplate with weapons or fists, and a guess formed in his mind—they wanted to have a one-on-one duel with him.

Does this make sense? Would these Daemon really do such a thing?

A question flashed through his mind, but Sigismund quickly dismissed it. He had no time to think about it, for his enemy was already standing before him.

The first Daemon to emerge from the horde, like Sigismund, wielded a greatsword. It appeared excited, clearly pleased with the honor of its opening battle.

It was about four meters tall, wearing studded soft armor, with layers of metal cascading down its left shoulder, gleaming silver. Its face was ferocious, but what it did next was not barbaric at all.

It growled, raising its sword slightly to obscure half its face. Sigismund narrowed his eyes and responded to the Daemon with the same courtesy.

He still found it absurd, but he wouldn't shirk the etiquette of this battle. He was intimately familiar with it, and to put it somewhat proudly, there couldn't be another Astartes in the galaxy who could match his experience in this matter.

The Daemon chuckled deeply, its breath sending up plumes of hot, bloody mist. The surroundings were no longer dark; the blood-red light in the Daemon' eyes illuminated the battlefield.

They howled, urging the two sides to fight with curses or encouragement. This environment was virtually indistinguishable from that in cages or dueling pits—the same frenzied atmosphere, the same one-on-one combat, the same...

Sigismund jolted awake—what was he thinking?

This was not a fair fight waged by Astartes against his cousin, intended to determine the victor in skill, strength, and courage. This was a true battle to the death, and his enemy was Daemon.

He warily raised his sword and launched the first attack.

The Daemon began with a thrust, followed closely by a slash. He swung his blade approvingly, and the brutal weapon, stained with blood and with serrated, curved blades, ignored the disintegrating force field, easily disrupting Sigismund's first attack with the power of the Daemon.

Not only that, it even forced him to lose his balance slightly. The Daemon, of course, did not let this opportunity pass; he immediately raised his greatsword and then brought it down fiercely, aiming for Sigismund's head.

The company commander of the Imperial Fists was already on guard. In battle, it was only natural to attack the enemy's weaknesses. He sheathed his sword and raised it to defend.

Two parries, one dodge. As he spun around, the shouts of the demons grew increasingly frenzied, almost turning into a dizzying, deafening noise, filled with madness.

"Kill it, Imperial Fists!" a Daemon roared behind him. "Go and claim your honor! Warriors should be tempered and elevated in blood! Your sword will be sharper with its blood!"

It did not lie.

In the sixth round, Sigismund slashed the Daemon's sword-wielding right hand, and blood gushed across the sword, which was crackling with electricity, the sound continuous like the incessant drumming of war.

His enemy was enraged and charged forward with a roar, hands raised high, intending to forcefully exchange injury for injury, or even life for life. Sigismund, of course, could not accept such an exchange; he thrust his sword upwards with his other hand while immediately retreating.

He completed his counterattack and dodge in the same second, a superhuman skill that only a seasoned veteran could achieve—blood splattered again, the Daemon's studded soft armor was instantly sliced open by this cautious slash that shouldn't have been very powerful.

Sigismund was briefly bewildered by his own victory.

How could this be? Their armor is incredibly tough; it may look unassuming, but it's far more effective than Ceramite. How could he have cut through it so easily?

However, this was not the end. The demon took two steps back and covered his abdomen with his hands. The organs whose specific function could not be seen were sliding down the gaps between his claws. It lowered its head and glanced at them, and a look of boredom flashed across its ferocious face.

The next second, it actually ripped out all its internal organs and threw them on the ground.

The demons roared in response, the stench of blood intensified, the ground boiled, and the blood transformed into shimmering lava.

The Daemon chuckled darkly; it was near death, yet the will to fight still burned in its eyes. Sigismund silently raised his sword, no longer dodging, but charging towards it.

Blades clashed, the first strike ending in a clash between weapons. Sigismund whirled around, the blade slicing across the Daemon's spine in an elegant arc.

Slowed by its injuries, it couldn't dodge in time and lost its life. Its massive body crashed to the ground, blood gushing out, the Ethereal flesh hissing as it quickly turned into minced meat and bones.

The demons roared again, praising him with fanaticism and engaging in a savage brawl to choose their next opponent. Throughout this, many Daemon even continued to chant Sigismund's name.

How did they learn my name?

The company commander gripped his sword warily, completely bewildered by the situation. He had intended to think it over, but the onlookers didn't give him the chance; a second Daemon immediately stepped forward.

This one uses a sword and shield. The shield is huge, with a metal protrusion in the center and bone fragments along the edges for support. The one-handed sword is clearly a heavy slashing weapon.

It was almost as if it were done on purpose, deliberately leaving me no room to think.

Such a thought flashed through his mind, but he was powerless to grasp it. The battle had already begun, and Sigismund instantly entered a state of combat, single-minded and focused solely on the existence of the enemy.

He fought the Daemon for a full four minutes, finally ending its life with a sneak attack followed by a stab.

Sigismund stood there, sword in hand, breathing heavily, calming the heat rising in his chest, preparing for the next battle.

He was prepared for a fierce battle, confident of victory—unaware that the stench of blood around him was growing ever stronger.

It was even more terrifying than the mountain of corpses and sea of blood he had been in not long ago.

The Daemon's roars were now so intense, as if they came from time immemorial, their restlessness and frenzy obscuring everything Sigismund could perceive. He could only hear their roars and cheers, and therefore, he was completely oblivious to the subtle sounds coming from the distant darkness.

The Daemon noticed, but they didn't care, as long as the battle could continue. However, those rushing towards them from the darkness clearly didn't think that way; their purpose was to wipe out the demons.

This wasn't the first time they had stormed out of the Astronomican Hall and launched a counter-offensive towards the outer fortress. They didn't have many men left, but this was only after receiving reinforcements.

Fortunately, the support brought not only ammunition supplies and more loyal and reliable Secutarii, but also a small steel torrent of more than a dozen Predator Tank and assault armored vehicles, which mingled together and rushed toward the scene from behind the assault boats.

The cannons, not yet fully cooled, opened fire, and the machine guns, large enough to snap Astartes in half, spat fire, viciously tearing through the flesh of the demons. They turned around angrily and began to collide head-on with the army.

Sigismund, who was in the midst of battle, was completely unaware of this.

He continued to wield his sword, each movement faster and more powerful than the last—he had come here on a mission, but now he had forgotten it and was mired in the quagmire of war.

The blood spilled on the ground began to accumulate endlessly due to death, gradually forming streams amidst the roars of the demons and the cries of the loyalists. Countless fanatics with sickly faces mingled with the Daemon, brandishing their weapons and silently chanting the name of the Khorne.

The land they inhabited was filled with endless bones, and the army that clashed head-on with this force was not some sacred heavenly army—in fact, quite the opposite.

Most of them were not even fully formed; boiling rage replaced their missing bodies, driving them to pounce on their enemies with endless hatred. Their general was a huge, crimson, blurry soul with a ferocious face, as if ready to devour anyone.

Sigismund knew nothing of these things, but he didn't need to know, because the flames had already pushed back into reality.

It rose from the sea of blood, accompanied by a bone-chilling cold. A thunderbolt suddenly struck, and jet-black lightning leaped from the sea of blood, turning one of the Daemon Sigismund was facing into charred remains. Its momentum was not diminished, and it instantly pounced in front of Sigismund.

The Imperial Fists's eyes widened suddenly, and he instinctively tried to raise his sword to block and dodge, but the lightning ignored him and instantly passed by him, piercing the chest of a golden-armored giant.

"For unification!" the man roared, brandishing his greatsword and beginning to slaughter the remaining Daemon with absolute cruelty.

The Secutarii and priests followed closely behind, while the Auxilia, seated in assault boats, provided support with bursts of fire. Some of them were clearly unfamiliar with the fighting, and it was obvious that they had been civilians not long ago.

Sigismund was stunned.

What was I just doing? he asked himself. Why did I fight them? No, why did I get caught up in that battle? I came here to—

"--Company Commander Sigismund," a voice said. "Nice to meet you."

The Imperial Fists looked up silently, yet with a deep sense of shame, and saw a familiar face.

"Sol Tavitz," he said softly, extending his right hand to firmly grasp the Aquila on the other's arm. "It's a pleasure to meet you too."

Update complete, this chapter is 6.3k words long.

There might be one more chapter? Not sure, not recommended to wait. 15,000 words tomorrow, consider it a gift for the Emperor's Ascension Day.