141 Terra (16)

Sol Tavitz brandished his sword. ♤🐍 😾♬

His arm muscles had become stiff and couldn't recover; there was no time for them to heal. This had a significant impact on his fighting skills.

In the past, he could point the sword tip in any direction he wanted, spinning, cutting, stabbing, and slashing at will. But now, he was like a clumsy lumberjack, swinging his sword as if he were chopping wood.

If you don't believe me, just look at him now. His muscles are stiff, his wrists are clenched, and his fingers are forcefully binding his weapon, turning it into a prison.

Bones, flesh, and metal—one, two, three, four, five.

Five fingers.

They were firmly resting on the sword hilt, becoming an acquired form of imprisonment, confining the sword to his hand.

Only beginners make this mistake.

Beginners like to grip the sword with all their might, regardless of the consequences. They swing with all their might every time, regardless of whether they need to turn, preferring wide, sweeping strokes, emphasizing offense over defense, and power over footwork.

Just like Sol Tavec now.

He was no novice. He was a seasoned warrior, yet he was so clumsy. Shame welled up in his heart, and there was nothing he could do but continue to swing his sword, drenched in sweat.

His hair was soaked with blood and sweat time and time again, and he was covered in wounds. Fortunately, he was still fighting.

He felled a humanoid Daemon, clumsily chopping it to pieces like wood, then, using his legs and twisting his waist, he spun the Power Sword around once.

Blue arcs of electricity danced stubbornly on the sword, slicing something that tried to ambush him from behind in two, and Tavitz fell to the ground. He lost his balance and fell face down into the filthy sea of blood.

For a brief moment, he didn't want to get up again. But he did stand up once more, his face and armor covered in blood.

The original purple-gold paint job was no longer recognizable; blood was everywhere, dried, fresh, and semi-dried—everything looked blood red.

He stumbled a few steps through the sea of blood, looking around but seeing nothing that could be called a "front line".

Things are no longer the same as they used to be.

Just hours ago, they could organize offensives, lines of defense, counter-attacks, and even dig trenches and set traps. Now they are just a pack of beasts, essentially no different from them.

Perhaps there still are.

The Emperor's Children raised his sword once more—he didn't know if it would be the last time.

Something shattered the darkness and rushed toward him. No, perhaps "rushed" isn't the right word; "rolled" would be more accurate. It rolled awkwardly past many corpses and finally came to a stop not far from Tavitz.

He stared at it, and after a while realized he shouldn't have called it that. He lowered his hand, the movement bringing another wave of numb pain. He ran over and pulled the man up.

"Thunder," he said.

"Hmm." The person dyed scarlet nodded. "Hello, Tavec."

Are you crazy?

Not yet.

A patch of chilling white split open from a mass of blood, Thunder grinned; his teeth were still white, almost excessively so—Tavetz saw him licking them, perhaps explaining why the blood hadn't tainted them. 🐚🐠 ☞🐧

"Me too," Tavitz said.

He lied.

"Oh, don't give me that, kid."

Thunder hugged him affectionately. Just a few hours ago, they were only slightly acquainted, but now they were sworn brothers.

"Do you think I don't know what you're hiding? Take a deep breath, this is nothing. Fuck, they want to kill us all so they can run to Astronomican and shit and pee, but we'll drown them all in their own shit and pee before that happens."

Shockingly crude. Tavitz thought. Perhaps this was his true nature?

"No, no," Thunder said. "I just think now is a good time to spout nonsense and curse loudly."

"That's true," Tavitz said. "Damn it."

Thunder released his grip, bent down, and began rummaging through the pile of corpses. Miraculously, he pulled out his sword, as limbs and severed bodies fell to the ground, and his greatsword emerged from among them.

Thunder laughed again and roared into the misty darkness.

Sigismund!

A furious roar echoed from the darkness.

Thunder roared and charged in, sword in hand, with Tavitz close behind, but he kept his mouth shut and remained silent.

He was so tired that he felt like he was already dead. He was startled by this thought.

"I can't die yet," he told himself. "At least not now. I must live now."

They rushed into the darkness and the first thing they saw was the Imperial Fists fighting a bloody battle—or perhaps "fighting a bloody battle" wouldn't be the right word, because he looked like a monster born from blood.

He smashed one Daemon to pieces, then, with undivided concentration, twisted his wrist and deftly killed another. Tavitz felt a pang of envy: Why wasn't he as exhausted as I was?

This envy dissipated when he saw Sigismund's eyes.

"Sigismund!" Thunder shouted again.

Wild and unrestrained, a group of Daemon saw him like that. Some things came straight down from the sky, but Thunder didn't even look at them. He simply swung his sword casually and shattered them all.

The ground surged, and a group of long, serpentine creatures coiled and rose up, ready to seize the moment before Thunder retracted his sword and bite off his throat. Tavitz saw this and preemptively killed them again, this time by chopping wood.

Thunder began to laugh, mocking.

The Emperor's Children roared at him, "Stop laughing!"

Sigismund was still roaring in the distance.

"I'm sorry, it was my fault," Thunder said as he started running.

He ran toward the Daemon, just as the Daemon ran toward him.

Thunder was a good fighter; in fact, he was perhaps the best "fighter" Tavitz had ever seen—a pure fighter, without a trace of impurity. He was the embodiment of pure fury and fighting skill, possessing an enviable focus.

Once the battle began, he had only one thought: to disembowel and decapitate his enemies. Tavitz would never admit that he was inspired by this attitude; he would never say it.

"Charge, Thunder!" he shouted.

"Shut up!" Thunder said.

They began to engage the enemy.

The first Daemon to die was a fat, green thing. Tavitz had neither the time nor the inclination to name them, but he did notice that these things had color.

This is a bizarre joke. The monsters that rushed out of the Warp have color on them. Could it be that they can see what each other looks like in the dark?

But anyway, it died. Thunder beheaded it.

The second Daemon to die was a creature with a rat's head and twelve eyes. It was indeed not much different from a rat, hunched over, trying to ambush from behind.

Tavitz chopped it up; he wished he had a stove so he could actually throw the firewood in and burn it.

They charged and killed their way through, finally reaching Sigismund. However, the Imperial Fists had already finished his slaughter, and Thunder and Tavitz had drawn the attention of many Daemons, giving Sigismund a chance to catch his breath and regain his energy.

He finished what he was supposed to do seventeen seconds before they arrived and was now leaning on his sword, panting heavily.

"You've finished all the work," Thunder complained.

Sigismund remained silent.

"But we won," Tavitz said. "At least this time."

"The lines have broken; we need to regroup our troops," Sigismund said.

He remained calmly detached, surrounded by corpses, even though he and his companions were in waist-deep pools of blood. He was able to offer advice and judgment with equanimity.

"We must unite all available manpower, even a single Servitor," he continued. "That way, while we charge, he can fire from behind."

"And then?" Thunder asked.

"Then he can kill at least one Daemon."

Sigismund drew his sword from the blood and the corpse.

"Then he can prove he didn't betray the Emperor, nor all those who died. He will gain recognition, even as Servitor. I've read ancient Terra myths; they say there's a place for the souls of warriors called Valhalla. I want him to gain recognition and become one of the Heroes."

Tavitz stared at him for a dozen seconds, then he realized that Sigismund had gone mad too.

Calmness is just a facade; Sigismund has gone mad, like Thunder, like him—they've all gone mad.

That's why they could stand in waist-deep pools of blood, facing such a cruel reality: the war was lost, there was no one left to use, and the next wave of Daemon was fast approaching—the oppressive atmosphere in the air testified to this. And there were only three of them; the Astronomican would be tainted.

I feel I have failed my mission. Tavitz thought.

He felt an urge to cry. Finally.

"I think the Servitor who have survived to this day have already killed more than one Daemon, Sigismund," Thunder calmly retorted. "So they are already heroes, or, in your words, among the Heroic Spirits."

The Imperial Fists glanced at him.

"There are no soldiers available, are there?" he asked.

"Yes," Thunder said. "They're all dead. I saw it with my own eyes. There was something as tall as a Titan—"

He turned as if to find evidence for his words, to find a corpse as tall as a Titan. He didn't need to look; Tavitz could see it, lying not far behind them.

Sigismund stopped him.

"--I saw it," he said. "It broke through the lines, you killed it, but it also sent you flying. That blow shouldn't have made you stand up again, Thunder."

"But I got up," Thunder said. "Like Sol Tavitz, he was the first one of us to get up."

"I'm a fucking woodcutter," The Emperor's Children suddenly uttered a curse.

They looked at each other, puzzled by what she said.

Thunder burst into laughter, Sigismund's lips curled into a slight smile, but Tavitz remained unmoved.

In fact, he was very angry. He gripped his sword tightly and said, "Now, there are only three of us left."

"That's really bad news," Thunder said, a strange smile on his face. "It's unfortunate for them; we still have three people left."

"It's irrelevant." Sigismund nodded calmly to him, lowered his head, and began to tighten the chains on his wrists.

"We've done everything we could. We may not be able to hold this place, but at least we can die here. The dead have risen more than once, haven't they, Sol Tavitz? We can rise again after death, just like Thunder said—"

He raised his head, deactivated the field of view, and touched his forehead with the blade of his sword.

"--Victory after death."

"No, no, say this one." Thunder suddenly changed his tone, gently beginning to correct Sigismund. "For unity, let this be our final battle cry."

"What does it mean?" Tavitz asked. "I've been wanting to ask you this, Thunder. What does this slogan mean?"

"It's not a slogan, it's a belief," Thunder said. "The first person to shout it was your the Emperor, for the sake of unification. When those barbaric warlords were fighting their own battles, it was he who led us up from the dust and shouted these words."

"What do you mean by 'your the Emperor '?" asked the Imperial Fists.

"He was my lord, but he wasn't the Emperor back then, at least not the kind of the Emperor he is now," Thunder said with a smile. "I'll stop here. I heard a sound; did you hear it?"

They nodded.

Of course they can hear it.

The clicking sound had been echoing in their ears from the very beginning, like the second, minute, and hour hands of a clock moving together at the same time.

This shouldn't be the case. The second hand should move sixty times before it can move the minute hand once. The minute hand should then move sixty times before it can move the hour hand once.

Time has always run this way in Terra. One minute is sixty seconds, and one calendar hour is sixty minutes. But now, it has changed.

A second can become a minute, an hour can become countless seconds—time is flowing wildly, restless, with a continuous clicking sound.

Their heartbeats changed simultaneously, their rhythm shifting without warning. In the midst of this infinite, chaotic time, they looked into each other's eyes, and the same thunderclap reached their ears.

Then the darkness receded, the thick fog dissipated, and the top of the Astronomican Hall of the Fortress of Despair began to melt. The solid metal and materials could no longer be allowed to exist; the birth of a god should be witnessed by all.

If anyone were to take a look across the entirety of Terra at this moment, they would see that the dark clouds in the sky are ablaze, and the fighting on the ground has ceased entirely.

The Daemon vanished in the bloody light, dragged back into Chaos by the dead who suddenly emerged from the shadows. The living, however, stared blankly at the crimson crown that appeared in the sky, as if summoned by some unknown force.

This is not the end; it is merely the beginning.

"I think now is the time," Sol Tavec said.

"Now, which now?" Sigismund asked, making a rare joke.

"For unification!" Thunder roared.

Above them, a warship loomed, casting dark clouds over them.

--

Ferrus Manus raised his head from the pool of blood, and massive corpses collapsed behind him with a deafening roar.

He killed it, but he no longer cared. This wasn't the first time he'd fought a so-called behemoth, and he'd won every time.

That Daemon possessed immense strength and an incomprehensibly massive size. Yet it was merely a tool; it lacked any self-awareness. Perhaps it thought it did, but that was simply a lie.

Its purpose was to kill humans and offer them as sacrifices to please those vile gods. For this, it had large bones, strong tendons, and a heart that pounded like thunder. And this was part of the lie—the lie that Ferrus Manus exposed.

He killed it, and all the other Daemon.

His company commander stood beside him, Gabriel Santo's face already blurred. He already had a terrifying face, but now it was even more so, like something out of a folk tale. But he wasn't; he was the one who killed those things.

"Primarch," Gabriel Santo said. "We still haven't been able to contact Lord Fulgrim."

"I know."

"What I mean is, we called him and got through to his communicator, but he wouldn't respond."

"I'm afraid it's not that he doesn't want to, but that he can't. So," Ferrus turned and asked, "Is he fighting?"

"Yes, Primarch." Gabriel Santo nodded. "He's fighting to the death."

Ferrus Manus gave a cold smile.

"Then that's enough. He didn't let me down by finding him that armor, and that's enough."

"I remember, you've had that armor finished for a long time."

"It was brought here, Gabriel. Don't contradict me now."

"I'm afraid I won't have another chance," Gabriel Santo shrugged. "After all—"

Ferrus shook his head, interrupting him in the approaching shadows.

"--I know."

He knew for certain, for the immense shadow had already descended. A colossal warship, billowing black smoke, descended from the sky, like a demon bursting forth from hell. It was ablaze, and steel and flames created a strange, fusion.

Ferrus Manus looked up at the ship, and with the Primarch's extraordinary vision, he saw everything clearly.

For example, the eerie figurehead, the eight-pointed star markings on the hull, and the dense inscriptions covering the entire ship. Every word seems to have been carved by a blade.

Vengeance.

The ship is the Vengeful Spirit, and it is now crashing headlong into Terra. Its hull is ablaze from the friction, and it blots out the sky, visible to everyone. Its prow resembles a sinister, black-robed Ghost, with a scarlet crown atop its head.

At the fifth minute of the twenty-fifth hour, the Vengeful Spirit fell to Terra.

It became part of Terra.

The one who thought himself Horus Lupercal laughed loudly in his royal court.

The Emperor raised his hand.

"Kill it," he commanded, pleaded, and growled in anguish, blood spilling from his throat. "Kill it, you must kill it."

The deity nodded indifferently.