139 Terra (XV)

Rogal Dorn's fingers were trembling.

The commotion was not easily noticed, because most people would not have the courage to examine the rocks closely—but they were indeed trembling, and not because of the report that Major Ibn of the 21st Infantry Regiment of Terra had just given him.

The major was a middle-aged man with gray hair and a face full of wrinkles, bearing the marks of excessive aging.

He had retreated from the front lines because the 21st Infantry Regiment was now practically defunct. A once 30,000-strong mechanized infantry regiment was now reduced to less than 4,000 men, a truly humiliating defeat.

What kind of courage would an ordinary commander need to bear the shame and humiliation that would follow?

Dorn has a concrete answer—the Major himself.

The major showed neither of those emotions, not at all. He seemed like a mannequin made of plastic, steel, bloodstained cloth, and dust. You couldn't see a trace of the emotions a loser should have on that aged face.

Only peace.

He arrived at the command post and began to prepare the battle report as requested by Rogal Dorn. He recounted every detail without missing a single one, and the entire process took less than six minutes. From the army's departure, encounter with the enemy, tactical deployment, to the defeat, it was all done in one smooth motion.

He neither denied the failure nor showed any frustration or unease, as if he knew perfectly well that Rogal Dorn would not blame him for it.

And that is indeed the case.

"Well done," said Stubborn Stone, almost praising them. "You held the line."

"It's nothing, sir," the major said. "It's completely worthless."

He fell silent, saying nothing more. His neatly trimmed mustache perfectly concealed the trembling of his lips, making his denial of the praise even more believable.

Dorn didn't say anything more, but suddenly asked a slightly strange question.

"Did you hear that, Major?"

"What?"

"The sound of the wind. 🌷🍧 🐊♨," Dorn said briefly.

He frowned and left his tactical table. A clear expression of emotion finally surfaced on the major's face.

The command room was still noisy, and almost no one paid attention to Wan Shi's actions; they didn't have the extra energy. In this vast underground cavern, everyone was deeply mired in the quagmire of war, unable to stop.

That's how war is, especially wars like this—even Perturabo or Roboute Guilliman wouldn't be immune to it here.

They too will be dragged into this unprecedented and horrific war, and their superhuman will and intelligence will only add to the terrifying pull. They will be mired in the mire because they can deduce something very simple from the turbulent flow of data in documents, reports, Dataslate, and tactical tables with just a glance.

The Terra front is in complete disarray.

Cold, ruthless, that's the truth.

The Titan Legion could not stop them.

The Adeptus Custodes could not stop it.

The Sisters of Silence could not stop it.

There was no stopping the loyal soldiers who were willing to step into hell one after another.

The civilians, who had lived peaceful lives with weapons in hand, were forced to the battlefield and were powerless to stop it.

Even the pilgrims who devoutly recite prayers, their bodies engulfed in flames of anger, and who would rather die than abandon their faith, cannot be stopped.

The Imperial Fists could not stop it, the Iron Hands could not stop it, and even the Emperor's Children, already burned to death by the flames of Vengeance and reduced to servants of the unjustly deceased, was powerless to stop it.

So, what about the Primarch? Is there a way for the great demigods, one of the Imperium's most revered Primarch?

The answer is no. Ferrus Manus was deep in the river of blood, his hands completely stained with flesh and blood, and he felt more exhausted than ever before. For a moment, he looked around, but he did not see his brothers, only an overwhelming sea of corpses.

Fulgrim of Chemos has been completely consumed by the desire for Vengeance. He will return, but now he is nothing more than a raging beast. ඏ🍧 ☺👮 He has distanced himself from everyone, fighting Daemon alone in the black mist.

Rogal Dorn was equally exhausted. Twenty-four hours—only twenty-four hours since the start of the war. A Terra Day, which in the past wouldn't even be enough for a legion to make a thorough deployment, had left him truly feeling utterly drained.

He had to deal with too many things. Every second he had to think about thousands of possible tactics and tens of thousands of different possibilities. He was sending people to their deaths, and it had been like this since the start of the war. Every single person was just a number, a meaningless number assigned to a coordinate system.

He didn't even have much time to look at the name of a support unit commander. He simply sent them to their deaths, to face death, to buy time.

Go to the wilderness, to the underground caves, to the dark depths of the Hive City, to the magnificent Imperial Palace now consumed by war—and die, die silently and namelessly.

They might die in bombings, from disease, from the clutches of Daemon, or be tortured to the very end. The meaning of fighting to the end is sacrifice, facing death head-on, yet no one will remember their names.

There was no glory, no commemoration, and no medals to be posthumously awarded.

There was nothing but death, nothing but death.

Rogal Dorn had these thoughts in mind—but he didn't say a word, even when the major pressed him for answers.

He walked to the door of the command room, before most of the people inside the underground command room could even react. Hinges began to turn, gears meshed, and the mechanical activity from the ancient past was being faithfully propelled by two Servitor.

The door slowly opened, and only then, with the cold wind blowing, did the people in the command room realize that Dorn had left his tactical table.

They were all elites, highly capable, and possessed an incomprehensible willpower—but that only sustained them as they fought here, making futile attempts amidst death orders and inevitable defeat.

Their willpower did not allow them to understand Rogal Dorn's departure.

"My lord!" someone called out immediately, their voice almost mournful. "Where are you going?"

"The time has come!" someone shouted fanatically, drawing Bolt Pistol from his waist. "Kill! Kill in the name of the Emperor! My comrades! We will Vengeance!"

Dorn ignored them.

A cold wind blew as he stepped out of the command room. The ground and overhead trembled, the roar of artillery was incessant, but the howling wind grew increasingly violent, almost completely swallowing their sounds.

But Dorn still heard the faint call.

He walked up into a long corridor fixed by solid metal, wide enough for two Warhound-class Titans to pass side by side. He didn't use elevators or similar structures; sometimes, the simpler the better.

Officers and servants followed closely behind him. As they climbed, some were drenched in sweat, some stood motionless in the cold wind, and others, pale-faced, gripped their weapons tightly, which were already drawn or had their safety engaged.

They have courage, but that's not enough.

Dorn stopped and stood before a pile of ruins.

Ruins and ruins were insufficient to describe the desolation here. Phosphex flames roared, and the corpses of Daemon nailed to the ground were decomposing and melting. Two soldiers, screaming and laughing maniacally, charged across the blood-soaked snow towards the enemy of humanity.

They were resigned to death, yet their eyes burned with fury. The towering city walls were now reduced to mere bricks, where men hung, awaiting their demise. Blood flowed freely, bodies were mangled, and flesh was charred.

The officers remained silent, a deathly stillness spreading through them. They had entered the command center after the start of the war, and they had anticipated the intensity of the battle outside—even if they weren't aware of it, the incessant bombings would serve as a constant reminder.

Now, for the first time, they are witnessing this horrifying sight with their own eyes. Only then do they realize that no matter how much you anticipate or prepare yourself mentally, it's simply not enough.

"Sir," the major approached uneasily, "Do you have any orders?"

Dorn didn't answer, but suddenly raised his hand, signaling him to be quiet. He frowned, his eyes fixed intently on a patch of snow stained red with blood. Though he was staring, there was no focus—he was listening.

The thought flashed through the major's mind. But, listen to what?

Driven by this question, he too began to listen. Unfortunately, his hearing, ravaged by gunfire, artillery fire, and incessant roars, rendered him barely able to hear even the wind, let alone the faint sounds a Primarch could detect.

But he doesn't actually need to listen.

Yes, they didn't need to listen, because the voice didn't come from somewhere, but rang out directly—in the hearts of everyone.

What is it?

The major waited, drenched in sweat. Then, he heard a clap of thunder. This thunder didn't resound in the sky, nor did it even exist in the real world. It was an illusory thunder; what did it represent?

Only a very few people can understand this.

However, if someone were to be looking at any clock that could tell time, or any tool that could tell them the exact time, they would notice something.

It is now the twenty-fifth hour.

It was the twenty-fifth hour since the start of the Terra War, a twenty-fifth hour of utter exhaustion, depletion of ammunition and supplies, and heavy casualties. And this thunderclap arrived with such precision, not a second earlier than the twenty-fifth hour.

It is like a messenger, representing a terrifying, ancient bell. With bones as its base and blood smeared on its surface, the angry and sorrowful skeletal fingers of the unjustly killed point directly at every number on the bell.

The second hand, the minute hand, the hour hand—tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Quietly, they all return to their places. Time is merciless, but it is also fair; it flows, and it will always flow.

Until now.

Thunder roared.

The blizzard stopped, the cold wind finally subsided, and the dark clouds that had obscured the sky suddenly dispersed, leaving behind a tinge of Embers, like burning paper.

A scarlet, complete crown quietly appeared, even more dazzling than the sun.

Rogal Dorn slowly closed his eyes.

"Attack," he said. "This is the final order."

There's one more chapter, I'll try to finish it as soon as possible. Sorry for the slow update today.