136 Terra (13)

Someone is sharpening a knife. 🐍♠ 🍓👺

Slow, focused, and meticulous. The sharpening sound was continuous and rhythmic. This almost made one question the sharpener's intentions—was he truly honing a weapon, or was he trying to create a strange melody through this sharpening process?

The sound would be noisy to an ordinary person, but to Sigismund, it was quite pleasant.

Pleasant noise.

The song forced him to look up from his reverie. The warrior in blood-stained gold armor was sitting on the ground not far away, holding a piece of metal he had found somewhere, which he was using to forge a grotesque short sword.

The knife was not a common style; its blade was very wide, yet its curves conveyed a bloody and cruel quality. The tip was polished to a high shine, and an agate stone was inlaid in the guard, with what appeared to be a lightning bolt symbol in the center.

"Thunder," Sol Tavitz said beside him. "His name is Thunder."

"That sounds more like a code name," Sigismund said. "But it certainly suits someone who fights like him."

It couldn't be more perfect—besides, a bolt of lightning had indeed struck him in the chest.

Sigismund lowered his head again.

The bloody scene reflected in the river of blood, the enormous scarlet Shadow, and the lightning bolt...

They swept through his mind like a storm, but he couldn't grasp any of them, and could only let them swirl in his brain, creating more and bigger questions.

Finally, Sigismund could no longer bear it and threw them all over his head. He chose to stand up and talk to Sol Tavitz, as reinforcements—even if only one person—he should know the details of the army he would die with.

This is what he should be doing right now, not sitting on a rock contemplating the supernatural visions from the Warp. Those things are far beyond the comprehension of reason, and he doesn't want to think about them anymore.

"Are you free?" he asked Tavitz.

The Emperor's Children seemed unsurprised by his question, merely chuckling at the clumsy opening. Sigismund shook his head silently, a similar urge to smile welling up within him—and indeed, he should; how could he not have time?

Most of the Fortress of Despair had been occupied by Daemon, who had retreated to the edge of the Astronomican Hall. This long and narrow passage was ideal for heavy firepower defense. Now, all that was needed was to wait for the enemy to arrive.

"What do you want to ask?" Tavitz said.

A Servitor swayed past him, its pale face no longer displaying its former dullness, but instead a strange, grimacing expression.

Anger, but a flawed kind of anger—it doesn't understand where this emotion comes from, or why it disrupts its data processing capabilities.

In fact, its rudimentary processing capabilities are insufficient to even comprehend what anger truly is. From the very beginning of their design and manufacture, the Tech-Priest did not endow them with particularly advanced comprehension abilities.

Sigismund watched it carry the ammunition past until it was completely out of sight before asking a question.

How are you doing?

Tavitz was startled for a moment, and quickly understood who the "you" in Sigismund's words were referring to.🐝👤 🎉🐟

"I thought you'd ask about the current situation," he replied softly. "We're not doing well, and in fact, you shouldn't be asking me. I know nothing about my legion right now."

"Know nothing?"

"I am the only Emperor's Children here, Sigismund." With a slight smile, Tavitz shook his head. "We have 526 Secutarii, 12 Tech-Priest, 965 Defenders, and two Astartes. One of them is you, and the other is me."

"And him?" Sigismund frowned, pointing to Thunder.

"He isn't," Sol Tavitz said. "Besides, you'd better not treat him like an Astartes; he doesn't like that."

This statement silenced Sigismund for a long time, but the Emperor's Children did not end there. He began to recount how they had gradually lost the entire Fortress of Despair under the attack of the Daemon. The entire narrative was calm and ruthless, devoid of any emotion.

He didn't even show the slightest regret for the loss of his comrades. However, his fists were always clenched tightly together.

The passageway was narrow, dark, and deep, with faint sounds coming from behind them. Outside, a strong wind howled, creating a low and strange echo within the passageway.

Occasionally, a particularly loud sound would rang out, perhaps the Titans were enraged, or perhaps some airship had landed on the top of the Fortress of Despair —the defense system was still operational, and any Daemon or airships passing by would be targeted.

If the driver is unlucky enough not to be authorized to pass through here and cannot provide an authorization code, he will be stopped.

Sigismund hoped this wouldn't happen. He listened silently to Tavitz's story, gradually realizing just how profound the changes in the Emperor's Children had been, and what they had gone through.

They endured fourteen hours in hell, which is why Astartes was completely wiped out. That's why Tavec only recognized two of the priests and one officer from the defense force—because all the familiar faces were dead.

They escaped this hell and went to another hell.

Reinforcements arrived in droves, carrying Malcador's psionic powers or edicts, risking their lives to reach the outskirts of Terra. The Fortress of Despair was vast and hollow, a mountain range concealing a nightmare within, where all who attempted to traverse it would witness the fangs of the monsters.

However, in essence, the reinforcements did achieve their purpose in coming here—the moment they stepped into this nightmare, they attracted the Daemon's attention.

In this way, even if they cannot reach the Astronomican Hall at the top of the mountain, they can still distract the Daemon.

"So, in a sense, that's what Malcador's goal was," the Emperor's Children said, summarizing with a troubled expression.

Sigismund nodded, indicating that he understood. He was about to ask again, but Tavitz had something else to say. Once again, he was interrupted.

"They know about this."

Sigismund was slightly taken aback.

The Emperor's Children laughed.

"They know," he repeated. "Malcador didn't hide it; he made it clear from the start, just as he told you—we came here to die, Sigismund.ᄃӨM. Even if we can't hold out, we'll die here."

"But."

"Death is not the end."

A deep voice broke their conversation. Thunder sat on the ground, holding a menacing blade, glaring at them. Noticing their glances back, Thunder chuckled and simply stood up.

He sheathed his sword and strode over, head held high. Pride was palpable, and his face, still stained with blood, was filled with a smile that seemed to come from nowhere.

"You think death can stop these people, Sol Tavitz?" He spread his arms and looked around with an air of enjoyment.

"Look at them, wounded and covered in dust, short of ammunition, unable to even contact the outside world—but does that stop them from standing here and continuing to fight? Put away that nonsense of pity, Emperor's Children. You are Vindicators, and you are by no means a weakling who knows nothing of war."

Sigismund frowned. He wanted to say something; he disliked Thunder's arrogant attitude. However, he didn't get a chance to speak. A loud bang rang out from the other end of the tunnel, and the brave scouts began shouting warnings.

"They're here!"

War descends once more, and a dark fog descends. Sigismund raises his sword and, amidst Thunder laughter, dons a scavenged Imperial Fists helmet.

"Defeat or die!" Thunder roared. "Defeat after death!"

--

The seventeenth hour.

Malcador counted the days, turning himself into a machine.

He stood atop a broken glacier, the howling winds raging past, yet he remained unmoved, his robes not even fluttering. He still gripped his scepter, its golden tip long since extinguished, now glowing with a cold, eerie blue fire, its psionic light flickering eternally.

A sharp, piercing whistling sound came from above his head—the sound of gunboats passing by. They were on their way to carry out an air raid, targeting the northeast corner of the Imperial Palace, a magnificent and imposing complex city that was now destined for destruction.

Malcador knew what was going to happen: bombardment and shelling would destroy the place and its Daemon. The exquisitely carved stone would turn to dust along with the steel in the hellish heat, and so would the entire city.

This was just the beginning. To eliminate any future troubles and alleviate the pressure on the defending troops, Rogal Dorn issued an order thirty-three minutes earlier.

He ordered the gunboats to use scorched earth tactics; he wanted more than just bombing, he wanted fire— Phosphex fire, lethal doses, all of it.

Malcador could almost foresee the scene: flames dozens of stories high would completely engulf the area and continue to burn.

All the hard work of our predecessors has turned to ashes.

In the makeshift command center where the order was issued, no one was more heartbroken than Rogal Dorn. Malcador felt sorry for him, and for everyone.

The Sigillites is using his psychic powers with unprecedented force, his perception encompassing all of Terra. This is dangerous, and therefore must be done by him; in the current situation, no one is more suitable for this position than him.

Terra's bureaucratic and communications systems have collapsed and are virtually impossible to rebuild. No one can inspect equipment or troubleshoot channels while participating in the war, so he is the only one who can shoulder this heavy responsibility.

Seventeen hours into the war, countless messages have traveled through Malcador's mind to all corners of Terra. The foundation upon which this Imperium rests is crumbling, and the Sigillites has chosen to become its very foundation.

He will stay here until the war ends and they are victorious.

He opened his eyes and saw a different scene. It was caught by his intuition as soon as it happened, and a sharp pain forced him to turn his gaze away.

He saw the Astropathic Court, the burning Astropathic Court, and the Black Sentinels Psyker.

They were once highly trained and absolutely loyal, but now they were the ones who had to be executed. Malcador, eyes wide open, continued to venture deeper into the City of Vision. A fierce wind, carrying black snow, swept against his face, melting into his withered white hair and aged features.

Amidst the burning ruins and endless death, someone quickly noticed his undisguised, intense psychic light. A thought connected with him, panting and exhausted.

+We've been hacked, sir, I'm so sorry.+

This isn't your fault; He's naturally adept at scheming and plotting.

Malcador looked away and began contacting the surviving Psyker who hadn't mutated, as well as the commander of the Black Sentinels, one by one.

"Destroy the city of sight and retreat to the Imperial Palace," he commanded. He said nothing more, and the sight immediately receded.

He no longer had any energy left.

However, the tragedy at the Astropathic Court was within his expectations— Tzeentch had stolen a portion of Terra's time, and the current situation wasn't chaotic enough for them; of course, he would want to add fuel to the fire.

For some people, or for some things, it is not enough to simply set the world ablaze; the flames must burn bright enough to illuminate the night before they are satisfied.

In a mere second, the Sigillites's thoughts raced, directly contacting three mid-level officers of the Solar Auxilia —positions that had not been held by them forty-six minutes earlier.

Malcador revealed his identity and began dispatching them to support the Black Sentinels and the Psyker of the Astropathic Court.

The Psyker survived Tzeentch's deliberate mutation need no further concern. Terra is now an altar; as long as they harbor hatred, they will not be tainted by Tzeentch's power.

Each of them was a well-trained Psyker, and such a force could greatly alleviate the pressure on the eastern front of the Imperial Palace.

But what about the southern route? What about Hive City? What about Starport? What about the whole of Terra?

Malcador ignored all of that and simply began to deal with the real problems that lay before him that needed to be solved.

He mobilized reinforcements, supported the front lines, and handled communications on the orbital platform—his thoughts soared higher and higher, eventually forming a peculiar perspective that was both within Terra and overlooking it from space, as if split in two.

Malcador remained unmoved, and this wasn't the first time he'd done this.

He turned and looked at Mars. The flames erupting there did not surprise him; the rebellion on Mars was entirely expected. Therefore, the rebels would first have to face a group of well-prepared and furious Omnissiah believers.

Unless they win, they cannot interfere with the situation in Terra.

He then glanced at the Phalanx and the Emperor's Dream not far away. These two ships had already moved away from Terra's near-Earth orbit as planned. They had more pressing missions, and the fleet followed closely behind, painfully ignoring the burning Terra.

Malcador looked up at the distant stars, towards the edge of the Sol System. His thoughts began to wander, and his field of vision began to move rapidly, the stars turning into hazy starlight, vanishing in an instant like mist.

In the blink of an eye, he arrived at the first line of defense of the Sol System, where war was also breaking out.

The enemies are the Word Bearers, the Sons of Horus, and the Cultists they capture and brainwash along the way, or crippled Astartes temporarily modified to serve as cannon fodder. The quality of the combat troops is appallingly poor, but they don't need to get into close combat.

For what stole Horus Lupercal's skin now possesses a terrifying fleet unlike any other.

Powerful warships bearing glorious names are sailing from the farthest reaches of the Sol System toward this place, with the leading ship being none other than the Vengeful Spirit has become incredibly sinister.

They would pass through line after line of defense along the way, where the guards already knew what they had to do. Their objective had shifted from victory to delay, to postpone the enemy at all costs and slow down their arrival in Terra.

If we can delay it long enough, everything can be turned around.

But what about them? What will they do?

Malcador had no answer to this, and simply turned his gaze back to Terra. Limited by his body, he couldn't maintain this state for long.

He turned his gaze to the Throne Room, where the Adeptus Custodes were still fighting, having not had a moment's respite since the start of the war.

Constantine Valdor, the commander of the Ten Thousand, was the most exhausted among them, but this exhaustion was not mental, but physical.

While their bodies, meticulously modified by the Emperor, were powerful, they still could not withstand the power of their lord—or rather, could not bear the cost of banishing a god.

Losing an arm was the least he could afford to pay.

+ Malcador.+

The Sigillites seal sighed helplessly, picking up where Constantine left off. The Sisters of Silence seemed to have no effect on him whatsoever—his helplessness at this moment stemmed entirely from Constantine's keen perception.

What is it?

The fire is still raging inside the Webway. What is the situation of the Lord and Karyl Lohars?

+You've asked a good question, Constantine. I'm sorry, I cannot answer it.+

Why?

Because I don't know either.

Malcador thus distanced himself from the thoughts of the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes —but he did not truly leave the Throne Room. Amidst the distorted and cacophonous sounds caused by psychic energy, the Sigillites transformed into a streak of light and entered the depths of the Webway.

The flames raged, Daemon remained endless. The Daemon that appeared here were among the most unfortunate of the endless evil spirits of the Warp; they did not truly want to come, but were forced to.

Unlike their kind elsewhere in Terra, they cannot enjoy the thrill of battle or taste the sweetness of blood here. All they can find here is Judgment and destruction.

And the person Malcador is looking for is right here.

He called softly.

+Your Majesty+

This chapter is 5,000 words long. There are two more chapters to go, bringing the total to 15,000 words today.